Page 11 of That Last Carolina Summer

“Many birds like starlings sing in notes too high for the human ear to hear. This means there are bird conversations all around us that we are deaf to. I think there are a lot of people like this, too, existing in a different frequency so that they can hear what others choose not to.”

Excerpt from the blog The Thing with Feathers

Celeste

TIME IS A slippery thing, escaping from our fingers no matter how tightly we grasp it.

I am seventy-five years old, and I have only recently reconciled myself to this unalterable fact.

My grandson, Liam, tells me that I’m trying to freeze time by displaying photographs of Julie around my house where she never ages beyond eighteen years.

That the constant reminders prevent me from accepting that she is gone.

Like I can forget. My granddaughter left the house one day and never came back, leaving no trace of where she went.

It’s been almost two decades and neither the police nor the private detectives I’ve hired have turned up a single clue.

People are convinced she ran away, which I might be tempted to believe if I didn’t understand Julie as well as I do.

I raised her, after all. Which is how I know that she would never have left me or her brother without saying goodbye.

I’ve been locked in a stalemate between reality and make-believe ever since.

I know that there is a ninety-nine percent chance that Julie is no longer alive.

But until I have proof, I’m pretending that she’s somewhere else, living a life she chooses not to share with us.

It’s the lie I have to tell myself to help get me out of bed each morning.

“Gran!” My great-grandson, Will, crashed through the kitchen door at a fast run, followed by his father, who caught hold of the door before it could slam against the wall.

I’d always loved Will’s exuberance and was secretly glad that at age ten it hadn’t diminished.

He was a vexation to his teachers while still managing to be their favorite student, no doubt owing to his mischievous smile that never outshone his innate kindness.

This winning combination seemed to run in the male members of the Simmonds family—on my husband’s side—passed down from a long line of seamen who captivated women as surely as they commanded the sea.

Will planted a loud kiss on my cheek, something I treasured since I knew those days of outward shows of affection were numbered.

I’d already noticed that he didn’t hug or kiss me when his friends were around, which I understood.

I’d gone through this while raising his father, so at least I knew the hiatus would be temporary.

“What did you catch for dinner?” I asked, resisting the urge to ruffle his tawny hair like I’d done when he was smaller. Now he was quickly catching up, and soon I’d have to reach up, which didn’t seem right at all.

“Trout,” Will said. “They’re all huge, and I caught two out of three. The smallest one Dad caught.”

“You sure about that, son?” Liam asked as he dropped a line of three fish into the sink. To me, he said, “I’ll clean them if you’ll fry them.”

“ How about I do both so the two of you can go get cleaned up?” As much as I loved my grandson and great-grandson, the smell of the trout mixed with sweat and what I liked to call eau de boy threatened to ruin my appetite.

Liam slid off his Gamecocks baseball hat and swiped his forehead with his arm. “Good plan. I’ll make the salad. Need green stuff to offset the fried stuff.”

“Spoken like a true doctor,” I said as I took his place at the sink and turned on the faucet.

“Eww,” Will moaned. “How about macaroni and cheese instead? That’s a vegetable, right?”

“Not quite,” Liam said as he gently steered Will out of the kitchen. “But nice try.”

After supper, Will gravitated to the living room to play on the Xbox he kept at my house when he visited. The dishes had been washed and dried, and Liam and I sat on the porch swing on the screened back deck of my small cottage.

The growing popularity of the Lowcountry was one of the reasons we never had trouble finding tenants for my cottage.

I’d moved away after Liam went to college, leaving behind empty rooms and the unresolved disappearance of his sister.

But just like others with saltwater running through their veins, I couldn’t stay away for long.

Despite the new construction and condos now surrounding me, I planned to live here until I died, the scent of the saltwater marsh my last conscious memory.

“Was it a productive day?” he asked, indicating my folded easel and large sketch pad leaning against the wall by the kitchen door.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” I said. “But I did run into somebody interesting while running errands.”

“Interesting how?”

“ Annie and I were walking past Gala Bakery when we were recognized by a girl from one of the art classes where I volunteer.” At the mention of her name, Annie lifted her head from where she was napping on the swing between Liam and me.

“Anyone I should know?”

“I shouldn’t think so. But you’ll remember her aunt, I’m sure. Phoebe Manigault.”

Liam stopped moving the swing with a jerk. “Really. Now, that’s a name I haven’t thought about in a while.”

“She lives in Oregon and teaches eighth-grade science. From what I could tell, she doesn’t visit often.”

He nodded slowly, his foot bracing the swing so it couldn’t move. A sticky breeze blew through the screen, cooling the perspiration on my face. The name Phoebe Manigault alone had brought back a flood of bad memories I wanted to leave behind in the past where they belonged.

“Did she recognize your last name?”

I shook my head. “No. She wouldn’t have. I changed our last name from your father’s name to my maiden name after we first met the Manigaults when she was too young to remember. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d never heard of us.”

“But surely she remembers the lawsuit.”

“I don’t think so. Her father dropped the lawsuit against you, and he didn’t seem the type to share the sordid details of his job with his family, especially a nine-year-old daughter. Phoebe and I walked and talked for a long while and not once did it appear she knew of my connection to you.”

“Her sister might. She and Julie were the same age. We were definitely not in the same social group—Phoebe and her sister went to Ashley Hall, I think—but we all knew each other just from hanging out with the same people during our summers.”

I nodded slowly, my clasped hands suddenly cold and clammy. “I wanted to ask her if she still has her premonitions.”

“ Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

“Thank goodness.”

“But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about asking.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “No good can come from dredging up the past, Gran. Julie’s gone. I thought you’d accepted it and moved on.”

“I have. It’s just that...” I measured my words. “I’m planning to be here for a long time, but before I leave this earth, I need to know where she is. There’s always the chance, no matter how small, that she’s still alive.”

Liam leaned forward, planting his elbows on his legs, his face bowed beneath steepled fingers. This was an argument that was as endless as the rivers and creeks that surrounded us.

“Please, Gran. Let it go. You’re only going to get hurt again.”

I turned to him, his eyes the same shade as mine.

“What if Will went missing? Wouldn’t you comb the ends of the earth looking for him?

Julie is my granddaughter. I raised the two of you since you were small.

I’ve been the only parent either one of you remembers, your only advocate.

If I give up, who is left to keep hoping? ”

Will threw open the back door. “Can I have dessert now?” His pleading eyes were impossible to resist. His mother, living in Nevada with her new husband and his two kids, didn’t allow sugar in her house.

Which meant I made sure Will had his fill while spending summers with us.

He’d reached that sweet spot where he was still mostly little boy with none of the prepubescent attitude, his limbs long and bony and his appetite endless.

I took my job as grandmother seriously, and I tried my best to fatten him up before returning him to his mother.

Eager to end my conversation with Liam, I stood. “Absolutely. I made your favorite, coconut cake. And I’ll wrap some up for you and your daddy to take home for later.”

“Yay,” he said, before heading back into the kitchen. He held open the door for me, just like his father had taught him.

I felt Liam watching me as I entered the kitchen but didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to ask another question just as much as I didn’t want to answer.

The following day, I sat on a bench with Annie at my feet near the end of the Pitt Street pedestrian bridge an hour before sunset, waiting for Phoebe and Ophelia.

I’d waited until after noon before calling Phoebe, half hoping that she would be doing something else or wouldn’t answer the phone at all.

She picked up on the second ring, almost as if she’d been waiting for me to call.

Ophelia spotted us first and began running toward us, her eyes on Annie, whose tail wagged in recognition.

Ophelia was easier to read than her aunt, her expression and her beautiful brown eyes behind her too-large glasses broadcasting her emotions.

This was in direct contrast to Phoebe, whose face remained closed to the casual observer, like a person who’d grown used to her feelings being disregarded.

During our walk the previous day, I noticed that she rarely let down her defenses.

I’d seen it twice: when she mentioned her job as a teacher, and when she spoke to her niece.

I doubted she was aware of how much of herself she gave away to those of us who were interested in getting to know her better.