Chapter Twenty-Three

Mamaw awoke slowly. She pried open an eye, yawned, then gathered her wits after the long, trembling night. Suddenly remembering, Mamaw turned to look at the pillow beside her.

Lucille was gone.

Of course she was, she thought with a weary sigh. Lucille no doubt sneaked out at the first sign of the storm’s abatement. She did love her own bed.

The sliding door to her former sitting room, Harper’s room now, was open. Supporting herself on one elbow, Mamaw craned her neck and peeked in. She saw that the bed had not been slept in. She’d heard the girls chatting like magpies in the other room until she’d fallen asleep. She wondered how late they’d stayed up. She hoped it had been one of those all-night bonding experiences that would stay with them long after the summer had passed, keeping them close despite the distance between them.

The house was silent. Mamaw slipped into her pink silk robe and slippers, then went into her bathroom and took her time with her toiletries, washing her face and brushing her teeth, adding moisturizer and running a comb through her hair. She opened the window and felt the breeze, carrying with it the scent of pluff mud and an earthy sweetness from the storm.

She slipped into underwear, a pair of soft pants, and a tunic, then went out into the living room, relishing the sight of sunlight pouring in through the windows. Peering out, she surveyed the storm’s damage. She was especially anxious about the ancient live oak tree that dominated the front yard. Those giant limbs hanging over the house were always a worry. She smiled with relief, seeing that once again the old tree had weathered the strong winds. Good ol’ tree, she thought with affection.

It would be a good day, she thought with a light step as she made her way into the kitchen. The clock chimed eight times. So late? Strange that the house was still so quiet. She busied herself measuring coffee grinds into the machine and water into the teakettle. Then she put two pieces of whole grain bread into the toaster. Humming a nameless tune, Mamaw pulled out the floral tray that was Lucille’s favorite and set out a Limoges floral china bowl, matching teacup and saucer, and silver. She put the kettle on the stove and hurried out the front door to collect the newspaper. The pavers were soaked through and the scattered leaves of trees and shrubs littered the ground like dead soldiers after a war. There was cleanup to be done later in the day, she thought. As she glanced at the cottage, all was quiet. She was glad Lucille was still asleep.

The kettle was whistling when she returned to the kitchen and the rich aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. She poured herself a cup, then set about preparing Lucille’s breakfast. She ate so little these days, Mamaw had to tempt her with her favorite foods and a nice presentation. If she served her several small meals a day, Lucille ate more. Mamaw didn’t want her to lose any more weight. She plucked the hot toast from the toaster and, skipping the butter that bothered Lucille’s stomach, slathered a thick coating of her favorite blackberry jam over the bread. Next she filled a bowl with blueberries, poured the tea, then arranged it all prettily on the tray. Lucille, for all her no-nonsense brashness, liked pretty things.

Humming again, she lifted the tray, steadying herself, feeling its weight. She might feel like a girl, but she had the strength of an old woman, she chided herself. Nonetheless, she moved on through the house, navigating doors, steps, pavers, and gravel to cross the driveway to Lucille’s cottage. She set the tray on the porch table, knocked as a courtesy, then opened the door.

“Lucille! It’s me!”

Picking up the tray, she walked into the cottage, humming the cheery tune. “Breakfast,” she called out as she made her way down the hall to Lucille’s bedroom. The drapes were drawn and the room held a strange crepuscular light.

She pushed open the bedroom door with her shoulder. “The storm is over and the sun . . .”

Mamaw stopped talking when she saw that Lucille was still asleep in her bed. Poor thing, she thought. She must be tuckered out after all the excitement of the night. Mamaw set the tray down on the bureau, relieved of the weight, and turned to approach the bed.

She stopped short. Suddenly, all her joy drained from her, replaced by a sudden sense of dread. In the shadowy light, Lucille lay on her back, her arms at her sides, her head tilted toward the windows. Mamaw felt her blood go cold. Lucille was not asleep. She appeared to be looking out at the morning sun. Only Mamaw knew her eyes no longer saw.

Mamaw’s heart beat like a trapped bird’s as she stepped closer to the bed. She hesitatingly stretched out her arm and laid a hand on Lucille’s chest. There was no heartbeat. She lay still, her gaze vacant and empty. Mamaw moved to grasp Lucille’s hand. Her body was not yet cold. Despair immediately filled Mamaw.

Have I just missed her passing? If only I hadn’t dallied. If I’d hurried, if I’d woken just a little earlier . . . She was alone when she passed. With a choked cry, Mamaw brought Lucille’s hand to her mouth and kissed it, then held it close to her breast. I didn’t get to say good-bye.

After she had sat by Lucille’s bedside for some time, alternating between crying heaving tears and staring blankly at the shell that had housed her dearest friend, Mamaw went out of the cottage. She paused at the threshold of the porch, leaning against the white pillar. She stared out at a world that, though in many ways was the same world she’d stared out at earlier that same morning, was now somehow all changed.

Lucille gone. She couldn’t grasp it. She knew Lucille was dying, realized the end would come—but not so soon. Not today. They’d spent the night talking. It still didn’t seem possible that they’d never talk again.

She brought her hand to her throat as her practical nature took stock. There were things to do, phone calls to make. She was, sadly, experienced in matters of death. She should go to the house and begin, she thought. But she couldn’t so much as move a muscle. All the energy she’d felt only a short while ago when she was rustling through the kitchen had fled, leaving her feeling so very old. Numb.

The weight of her deadened heart made her weary. She walked slowly to the rocking chair. Water had pooled in the seat. She was beyond caring. She eased into the seat, feeling the cold dampness through her silk gown.

Mamaw was no stranger to grief. There could be no grief worse than the death of one’s only child. Yet she’d survived. When Edward had passed a year after Parker, she thought she’d go mad. She didn’t believe she could continue. Or want to. It was Lucille who had nursed her back, who would not allow her to wallow. And again, she’d persevered.