Chapter 31
Crossing the bridge to Edisto was becoming familiar. I was early, so I went to the other side of the island toward the coast.
I stepped out and looked at the grand houses, families relaxing, throwing balls for dogs and making sandcastles. Then I drove
back to the other side of the island. While both were beautiful, the contrast between the two was marked. One was a resort
area, and the other was clearly a working-class area. Mature live oak trees and magnolias didn’t change the fact that the
money was on the beach.
Where Gullah used to be.
I put in the address to the Edisto Family Church of God and drove there. Regina and her mother were approaching the door as
I parked. It wasn’t far from their house, so I assumed they walked.
This is perfect.
I entered and was greeted by Mrs. Porter, who identified herself as the pastor’s wife. She escorted me down the stairs to
a classroom where Regina, her mother, and an older man were sitting.
Regina greeted me, and her mother did also.
“Can I offer you water or tea?” Mrs. Porter asked.
I looked down at the two pitchers in the center of the table and heard the sugar in the tea call to me. I could use a pick-me-up.
“Tea, please,” I replied.
She poured while sliding a plate of cookies toward me. The tea was a welcome refreshment in the slightly warm room.
The pastor rushed in and took a seat. “I’m sorry for the delay.” He was not late. We were, in fact, early.
“I hope you all have had a chance to taste my wife’s award-winning tea. I’ve had the pleasure of drinking it for twenty-eight
years.” He smiled warmly at his wife, and she blushed like they were teenagers.
How sweet, I thought. Tender.
The pastor introduced me, then introduced his deacon before saying, “Miss Chambers has a proposal for us.” He looked at me.
“Miss Chambers, the floor is yours.”
I shared my idea and request to bring the literacy center’s program to the island twice a week as opposed to the students
coming to the center.
“Outreach to the children of Edisto,” Pastor Porter commented.
“I don’t want students missing out on what the center has to offer because of transportation issues. We have a beautiful building,
but if the students can’t access it, it doesn’t serve this part of the community.”
They agreed. There were smiles all around the table. “And I intend to add a reading program for students in first and second
grade. By third grade, the reading scores determine many educational outcomes for children. It’s an important milestone.”
“That is very generous, Miss Chambers.” Pastor Porter’s smile stretched across the width of his whole face.
“I must take this before the board, but I can tell you, we are advocates for our children’s education.
We are fond of the work that’s being done at the literacy center.
An extension site here would be a blessing. ”
Regina couldn’t stop smiling, and her mother’s face was bursting with gratitude.
“We want to serve the community,” I replied.
There was a brief, comfortable pause after I spoke.
Regina’s mother rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt as she did. “I don’t suppose oona need me fa the details. I should
get ready for the day.”
“I appreciate you coming,” Pastor Porter said.
Regina lingered a beat, turning back toward me. Our eyes met across the table, and I could see she was tucking this moment
away for later. Her mother followed her gaze, offering me a quiet nod, the kind that carried thanks and trust.
Then they were gone, the door closing behind them, leaving their gratitude humming in the room.
I finished my tea and set the glass down carefully, the small gesture earning a faint look of approval before curiosity took
over.
“Miss Chambers,” First Lady Porter asked, “are you from Edisto?”
I froze, wondering why she’d asked me that question. I couldn’t speak. I stumbled over my words. “I’m not. Not really. It’s
complicated.”
Pastor Porter’s face was curious. “What’s complicated about it? You’re Rebecca Chambers’s daughter?”
“Yes,” I said, disarmed. Pastor Porter looked to be about Beck’s age.
“How do you know my mother?”
“I went to school with Rebecca until she left,” he said. He smiled, but it faded quickly before he excused himself and left
the room with the deacon. Their excitement over the program was obvious as I heard them talking about which classrooms to
use.
I wanted to call behind him. Get him to tell me more. I looked at his wife, and her phone rang. She said, “I apologize. I have to take this call. It’s my mother, and I’m her caregiver.”
I nodded. “Of course.” But I didn’t mean either word. I wanted to yell, No, come back and tell me what you know about my family! Their escaping my questions was more of the tragedy of near misses I’d told Joy about. For some reason, I wasn’t supposed
to know the truth yet.
I waited a few minutes for Mrs. Porter or Pastor Porter, but I felt out of place sitting there, so I left the building. I
was sick to my stomach, heart aching. I would go back in after I took in some fresh air. I couldn’t breathe.
I was met outside by the deacon, whose name I recalled was Smith.
“I had no idea Rebecca was back in the area,” he said.
Again, I was slammed in the chest. “Yes, we live on James Island.”
“Really, James?” the deacon said. “How very nice.”
The words didn’t roll off his tongue like he thought it was nice, but still I replied, “We like it.” And then I asked, “How
did you know who I was?”
“Everybody my age and older remembers the Chambers family. I’m glad to hear she’s back in the Lowcountry. It’s home for her.
Coming home can be hard when you left wrong, and I think it’s hardest to forgive ourselves.”
I was trying to be respectful, but I wanted to say, “I know you’re not talking about my mother.”
He continued, “Memories are long, especially when it comes to land.”
This man was unaware that he was having a conversation with himself. “Land?” I shook my head.
“You don’t know,” he said flatly.
I shook my head again. “Know what?”
“I guess Rebecca hasn’t forgiven herself. I’m surprised she came back down here.”
“Deacon Smith, I think you need to explain yourself.”
“It’s your mother who needs to explain herself. You deserve to know. You ask her, or better yet,” he said, raising a finger
and shaking it at me. “Writers do research. There are plenty of archived stories at the library about the land scandal.”
“Land scandal?” Now I was starting to sound like a parrot, repeating everything he said.
“Edisto. Nineteen-ninety-one. Riley and Hiram Jones. Look it up.”
Deacon Smith walked to his car and got in, leaving me standing there wondering what I would learn about my parents’ past.