Chapter 29
I was at Baptist Hill High School when the doors opened. I walked into the front office and was greeted by someone who I prayed
would help me. I figured they must rotate staff in the summer. I remembered my school did that when I was teaching.
She smiled and said, “Good morning. What can we do for you?”
I explained about my missed appointment and ended with “I’m hoping to see the media specialist today. I was promised by the
other secretary that something would be done for me.” I handed over my ID to let her know I was not going to be dismissed
today.
She squinted at it, then at me. “A note was left advising me you’d be in touch. Mrs. Hunter, our media specialist, has been
advised as well. I’ll call her for you.”
Relief from stress had never been so instant. I couldn’t believe how easy this was compared to last week’s disappointment.
A few minutes later, I followed Mrs. Hunter—short, friendly, with the kind of energy that made me think she’d never met a stranger—down a hallway that smelled faintly of floor wax and pencil shavings.
“I apologize for having to cancel our appointment. My mother fell and hurt herself. I had to travel to North Carolina to take
care of her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is she better?”
“Somewhat, but my sister is a retired teacher. She’s traveled from Atlanta to take over her care,” she said as we walked.
“You were looking for family?”
I nodded. “My father. My mother said he went to school here. I thought maybe I could find a picture of him. I’ve never had
one.”
She gave me a sympathetic glance. “We have most of the yearbooks going back to the fifties. Bugs and things have damaged a
few, but not the ones from the late eighties. They’re in good shape. What years do you need?”
“1986 through ’89 should do it.”
“Let’s see what we can find.” She turned the key and opened the door. Once inside the room, she flipped a switch that brought
in sharp LCD light that contrasted with the natural light filtering through the windows. She crossed to a low shelf, ran her
finger along a neat row of navy spines, and pulled four volumes free.
“Here we go. 1986 through 1989.” She placed them carefully on the table. “Take your time.”
My hands felt oddly clumsy as I opened the first book. I skipped through each grade level looking for a John Miller but didn’t
find one. I checked 1987, 1988, and 1989. No John Miller. I wanted to cry, but I fought it. Anger replaced hurt. I reopened
1986 and looked for Beck. I found her.
The yearbook was small, all of the volumes scant.
She was a sophomore. It was the only picture of her in the entire book.
In the photo, Beck looked almost shy. Her smile was polite, practiced—not forced, but guarded, like she wasn’t giving herself to the camera.
Her hair was straightened, parted slightly off-center, tucked behind one ear where a small gold hoop glinted.
She wore a cream-colored blouse with a lace collar, soft against her skin, but her eyes were what stood out.
They were deep, thoughtful, watchful. The kind of eyes that saw everything and chose carefully what to reveal. The eyes hadn’t changed.
I took a picture of Beck and then looked at the other Chambers children listed. There were quite a few.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Mrs. Hunter asked.
I looked up at her. I hadn’t even heard her come to my table. I reached up and wiped a tear.
“You didn’t,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Is there anyone you know who was teaching or working here forty years ago?” I wiped my face with the back of my hand and
then started rooting around in my bag for a tissue or a napkin. “I need to talk to them. I have to talk to someone who can
help me.”
Mrs. Hunter walked across the room, pulled a box of tissue from behind the desk, and gathered a few for me. “There’s Mrs.
Willow. She’s the home economics teacher. We can’t get her to retire. Bless her soul, she’s been teaching for fifty years.”
I perked up. “How can I get in touch with her?”
“If memory serves me correctly, she is in Texas with her great-grandchildren right now. We have a board in the office where
everyone shares their summer plans. I can double-check.”
I wiped my hands with the tissue and flipped the yearbook closed.
“You leave those there. We can go to the office to check.”
I followed Mrs. Hunter out of the library and back to the office.
She put on reading glasses and leaned closer to a corkboard on the wall.
Reading, she said, “Mrs. Ella Willow. Texas until Thursday.” She removed her glasses and rejoined me at the front desk.
“I can call her on Friday and see if she’ll talk to you. ”
I removed my business card and handed it to her. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you what it means to me.”
“I see oona cryin’. I know exactly what it must mean.” It was the first time she’d spoken Gullah. She smiled at me. “Mrs.
Willow remembers everything. She’s one of the old sages. She’ll have your answer.”
I closed my eyes, letting her promise sink into my heart. When I opened them, she was extending more tissue. “Wipe your eyes.
What you need will soon come.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking into her eyes. Thinking about her Gullah caused something to click, and a thought slipped into
my head. I held it. I needed to keep it until I was alone. I stumbled over words that had a double meaning. “It’s coming together
for me. I’m sure Mrs. Willow will help.”
When I walked out of the school, the sun was bright and merciless, bouncing off the hood of my car. I gripped the steering
wheel but didn’t start the engine right away. I just sat there, staring through the windshield at the flat expanse of road
ahead. The thought I’d held was processing, moving through my brain and my blood and my cells, putting a period behind what
had been a question ever since Joy told me about Tom Jones’s language.
Mrs. Baker had told me the Chambers children were Gullah. Beck grew up on Edisto Island. Tom Jones was Gullah.
“I am Gullah.”
The words landed inside me with the weight of something both ancient and undeniable.
Across that bridge was their land—my land.
Those tidal rivers and creeks had carried the sweat and songs of my ancestors.
They were enslaved there, freed there, and still, so much had been taken from them. From me. Taken in my family’s secret.
I did not understand, but Mrs. Willow would make it clear. I couldn’t wait to talk to her.