Tears came to her eyes, and Dora wiped them away. She didn’t want to be emotional now, just honest.
“Being a mother is hard.” She took a long breath and exhaled. “Okay, I’m just going to say this. I’ve never said it before, at least not aloud.” She clenched the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I was brokenhearted when I got Nate’s diagnosis of autism. At the beginning I didn’t know how bad it was going to be, if he’d learn to speak, to communicate at all, even go to the bathroom. I was told I was being selfish, that I had to think about my child and not myself. I tried. I really did.” Dora swallowed hard, feeling the old emotions well up.
“But deep inside I grieved over the loss of the child I’d planned on having. The perfect child . . .” She shook her head. “I know that sounds awful. That’s why I could never talk to anyone about those feelings. Not even Cal.” She snorted. “Especially not Cal.”
Dora looked up to gauge her sisters’ reactions, sensitive to criticism or judgment in their eyes. Not finding any, she continued. “I’ve been on a long journey since then. I know now there is no such thing as a perfect child. I love Nate for who he is, just the way he is. I may have to teach him about emotional cues, but he’s had to teach me, too. Sure, I know it will always hurt when I visit my son at school and find him eating alone, or when he’s not invited to a birthday party. Or when I can’t take away his anguish when he’s trapped in the throes of a tantrum. But any mother feels this when she can’t make life perfect for her child.” She smiled tremulously and shrugged. “It’s not easy being a mother. But this is the part I want you to know. I’ll be thankful every day because I thought I’d never be able to have a child and now I have this amazing gift.”
Dora searched Carson’s face and saw the vulnerability in her eyes. She knew there was so much more she could say. She felt the words aching in her chest. But Carson was too fragile. Dora needed to tread softly.
“It’s not going to be easy, no matter what you decide. In either case, your life will never be the same.” She reached out and put her hand on Carson’s shoulder. “You’re my sister and I love you. Whatever you decide, I’ll be here for you.”
Carson leaned forward and slipped her arms around Dora.
“Thank you,” Carson said, with a tremulous whisper.
“I’m here, too,” Harper said, wrapping her slender arms around both her sisters.
Carson lay on her side, her hands tucked under her head and her eyes wide open. She’d been lying in bed, listening to the storm slowly dissipate as it moved off island. Outside the house, as well as inside, a temporary peace had been restored. She saw the first faint gray light of dawn through the slats of the shutters. She heard the dawn song of the birds in the surrounding trees, vigorously heralding the new day.
The dawn had always called to Carson. She rose from her bed and slipped a silk kimono over her underwear. Tying it at the waist, she walked out into the hallway, careful not to awaken her two sisters sleeping side by side on Dora’s bed. She’d heard them talking into the wee hours of the morning.
She opened the front door, cringing when it creaked loudly in the silence. Stepping outdoors, she was met immediately with the moist sweetness in the air that always followed summer storms. Raindrops lay heavy on the leaves of the oak tree, along the bark, and in puddles on the ground. A pearly mist hung over the island, and as she walked down the stairs she felt as though she were entering another world.
A noise caught her attention and she followed the sound, turning her head toward the cottage. She saw Lucille in her robe and slippers slowly climbing the stairs up to her front porch. Carson hurried across the cold gravel to Lucille’s side.
“Let me help you up the stairs,” she said, taking hold of Lucille’s arm. The old woman’s bones felt as light and hollow as a bird’s. They reached the porch and paused while Lucille caught her breath. Carson couldn’t remember ever seeing Lucille so winded and it scared her.
“I want to lie in my own bed,” Lucille told her.
“Of course. I’ll open the door for you and turn on a light. We don’t want you falling in the dark.”
“I could walk through my house with my eyes closed,” Lucille muttered, but she waited while Carson turned on the lights, then held open the door for her.
Carson followed Lucille into the cottage. All was as neat as a pin. The walls were painted stark white but the artwork covering the walls was alive with the vivid colors of popular African-American artists of Charleston. Everywhere she looked she saw signs of Lucille’s personality and handiwork—the sweetgrass baskets, the embroidered pillows, the knitted throw. It was easy to see that Lucille loved her cottage and was happy here.
Stepping into Lucille’s bedroom, however, Carson caught the stale scent of illness and medicine. She helped Lucille out of her robe and into the black iron bed. Lucille had shrunk in size, and her robustness had disappeared along with the pounds. She looked like a child with her dark eyes wide in her face, her gray hair frizzled around her head like a halo, engulfed in the brightly colored crazy quilt. Carson let her gaze flutter around the room, capturing Lucille’s robe lying across the small lady’s parlor chair, the large bouquet of summer flowers, and the bedside table filled with medicine bottles.
“There, that’s better,” Lucille muttered. “I like lying in my own bed. Under my own roof.” She blinked heavily several times, seemingly exhausted. Then her gaze sought out Carson, and finding her, Lucille smiled weakly and patted the mattress. “Come closer, child.”
Carson came to sit on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle Lucille. It was heart-wrenching to see Lucille so weak and frail. For her, Lucille had always been the strong, opinionated, unwavering pillar of support. This woman had raised her. She’d been a mother to her every bit as much as her grandmother had. Carson held her breath, trying in vain to stop the tears.
“Why you crying?” Lucille asked.
Carson sniffed and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she blurted.
“Must be something, ’cause you hardly never cry. Tell me.”
Carson didn’t want to tell her she was crying because she couldn’t bear to see her so weak, so sick. How she couldn’t imagine life without her. So instead she told her of the other source of her tears, knowing Lucille was probably the one person who would listen and not judge her.