Page 29 of That Last Carolina Summer

“And one more thing.” He returned to the passenger side of the truck and pulled out a laundry basket filled with folded clothes, which he placed on top of the cooler. “Celeste thought your mother might appreciate clean clothes.”

“That was nice of her. Thank you for bringing them.” He was still holding his beer bottle, clearly waiting for an invitation to join me. Not wanting to appear any ruder, I said, “Why don’t you join me for a beer? And then I can help you bring everything inside.”

Lifting the bottom of his T-shirt, he twisted off the cap and took a swig. “Mind if I sit? Unless you have other plans.”

“Sure.” I sat down next to him. “I’d planned to take my mother clubbing, but since you’re here I guess we’ll stay put.”

He smiled, and I found myself wishing I could see his eyes up close like I had that first time, to see if they were as beautiful as I remembered. I turned away and took a long drink from my bottle, feeling the old dream inching closer.

I held the cold bottle against my cheek.

“I’m so exhausted and I should be in bed, but I can’t find the energy to go upstairs.

My mother keeps asking if my father has called to let us know when he’ll be home for supper or accusing me of taking her rings.

My head hurts from trying to reason with her. ”

“Then don’t.” His voice was soft and low, and I wondered if he used that as his bedside manner voice or just when he was alone at night with a woman. Both thoughts made me flush with embarrassment to be thinking of my mother’s doctor like that.

“Just tell her what she wants to hear,” he continued.

“That feels a lot like lying.”

“You’re not alone in that mindset. Most, if not all, caretakers struggle with that one. My rule of thumb is in choosing your words or actions to seek to reduce distress and promote well-being or happiness. Just be prepared to experience a lot of trial and error.”

I drained the rest of my beer. “My sister needs to hear this. I’m scared to leave her alone with our mother when I go back to Oregon.”

He stood and grabbed two more bottles and opened them both. “Have you thought about hiring someone for your mother?”

“I have, but I have no idea where to start looking or if my mother wouldn’t flip out at having a stranger in her house. Not to mention the pushback I’d get from Addie, who I think actually believes that Mother will get better.”

“That’s rough,” he said.

“Yep. It is.”

I turned to look at him. “You were really great with my mother and Addie at your office, by the way. Have you always been good with understanding family relationships, or did you learn how to navigate dysfunction in medical school?”

He grunted. “I think I learned most about relationships from my grandmother, but I wouldn’t say I’m good at it. I’m divorced, remember.”

“Whose fault was it?” My directness surprised me. Maybe it was the confessional quality of the darkness that emboldened me.

“Both, in equal measure. At least at first. I was working too hard and never home, assuming my wife understood what was needed to establish a private practice and that I was doing it for our family.”

“She didn’t?”

He lifted his beer to his mouth and took a long drink.

“Apparently not. On the day she asked me for a divorce, she informed me that she and Will would be moving in with her personal trainer. I was too stunned to fight back. And I felt guilty, too, for letting it happen. The fact that I have visitation with Will is because of my grandmother shaking some sense into me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me, too.”

We sat in silence, nursing our beers and watching the neighbor’s porch lights flip off one by one. Somewhere in the shadows of the marsh, the melancholy whistle of a chuck-will’s-widow called out into the darkness.

Liam turned toward the sound. “I’ve been hearing that every summer since I was a boy, but I have no idea what it is.

My dad used to tell me it was the ghost of a fisherman’s wife who haunted the docks at night looking for boys to drown.

I think that was his way to keep me out of the water at night. ”

I smiled. “Did it work?”

“For a while. Until I discovered girls and I decided it was worth taking the chance.”

The bird’s plaintive call came again, this time closer. “I hate to be the one to call your father a liar, but that’s a chuck-will’s-widow, a member of the nightjar family and related to the whippoorwill and just as ugly.”

“Is that why it only comes out at night?”

I laughed out loud. “Probably. They’re colored to blend in to the dirt and leaves so they’re basically shades of brown, with short necks and flat heads. They’ve also got enormous mouths, which they use to eat the occasional songbird whole.”

“I think I like the idea of the bloodthirsty ghost better.”

“At least the nightjars only kill for survival instead of killing for vengeance like your ghost. The bird world is a strange one, although one that makes a lot more sense than ours, hence my fascination. Remind me sometime to tell you about bird siblicide.”

“Can’t wait,” he said, then tilted back his bottle. “That would be a good subject for your blog.”

“You’ve read my blog?”

“Celeste told me about it, so I had to check it out. I’m a devoted reader now. I’ve learned a lot and not just about birds. So, thank you.”

I smiled to myself. “You’re welcome.” I found myself sinking back into my chair and relaxing for the first time in days.

I wanted him to stay almost as much as I needed him to leave.

I reached for another beer, not because I wanted another, but because if I got drunk enough, I’d have the courage to tell him to leave.

Or be oblivious enough not to dream when I finally fell asleep.

I turned toward him, his profile barely visible against the night sky.

“This is too little and too late, but thank you. For saving my life. I never got the chance to say thank you before. My parents shipped me off to my grandparents in Spartanburg for the rest of that summer, so I had no idea what my father was doing—not that I would have anyway, since I was only nine, but I was a pretty good eavesdropper back then. I’m sure I would have picked up on something.

” I pressed the dripping bottle against my cheek, my skin heated with embarrassment and shame.

“You’ll find this hard to believe, but I wanted to invite you and your family over for dinner one night to properly thank you, but my father said no.

He wouldn’t even tell me your name, saying that you were a summer visitor and had gone home. ”

“I know,” he said softly. “I didn’t see you leave your house for a while.” He drained his bottle. “And that’s also another story to save for later.”

The reflection of the moon winked from something hanging around his neck. I pointed at it with my bottle. “You still wear it.”

“I haven’t taken it off since my sister gave it to me. After she left, I told myself that if I kept wearing it she’d come back. I don’t believe that anymore, but old habits are hard to break.”

Too tired to form words, I just nodded then closed my eyes. The darkness swallowed me, and I imagined I could hear the sound of tires on wet asphalt. The loud splash of a car entering the water. My eyes shot open. “You should go now.”

“All right.” He didn’t sound offended or ask for an explanation. “Let me carry the cooler inside for you first. It’s really heavy.”

I wanted to argue and tell him that I was more than capable, but all I could do was nod.

I held the door open for him then followed him into the house, deciding to wait for him in the foyer.

A new sound crept through the darkness, behind the ticktock of the grandfather clock.

The chuck-will’s-widow cried again, sending a cold shiver over my body despite the oppressive heat inside the house.

Taking a step toward the staircase, I listened again, disoriented.

I imagined I heard the flapping of wings and wondered if the nightjar had found its way inside the house.

I took a cautious step onto the first stair tread, closing my eyes to hear better.

I heard it again, a mixture of babbling undecipherable words mixed with sobs, then started to run.

I found my mother standing in the middle of her darkened bedroom and clutching something to her chest. I flipped the light switch, forgetting that we didn’t have electricity.

“Mother?”

She turned toward me, and I recognized the silver frame of my father’s photograph that she kept on her nightstand next to her side of the bed. She’d been a widow for over a decade but still only slept on her side of the bed as if she believed he might return to her.

“I miss him.” Big, choking sobs shook her body, and I went to her, holding her tightly as if my small embrace might fill the enormous space my father had left behind.

“I know. We all do.”

“Addie?” she whispered.

“No, Mother. It’s me, Phoebe.”

“I’ve missed you, baby. You’ve been gone too long.”

I patted her back. “I know. But I’m here now.”

She pulled away abruptly. “It’s so hot. Why is it so hot in here?” She took a step toward the doorway, the forgotten frame slipping from her grasp. Shards of broken glass exploded as it hit the wood floor, peppering our legs.

Her piercing scream shattered the night. I grabbed my mother and pulled her away so she wouldn’t step in the broken glass with her bare feet. I half dragged, half walked her to the other side of the room.

“What are you doing? Let go of me! Wait until your father gets home!” She escaped my hold and rushed to the door, where she collided with Liam.

He’d brought the flashlight with him, and he trained the beam on us and then the floor. “Mrs. Manigault, it’s Dr. Fitch. Are you hurt?”

His voice managed to cut through her hysteria. “She broke it.” She pointed her finger in my direction. “She broke it,” she said again, louder.

Blood dripped down my calves, the open cuts stinging. “No, Mother, I didn’t. You dropped it, but it was an accident.” I knew from one of the booklets that I’d picked up at Liam’s office that this was not the right way to speak to someone with dementia, but I was way past the point of reason.

“Liar!” she screamed. “You are lying! Just wait until I tell your father.”

“My father is dead!” I roared, and the room fell silent except for my mother’s muffled sobs and the lonely calls of the nightjar outside the window. My anger evaporated, replaced with shame. “I’m so sorry...”

“You should go,” Liam said quietly. “I’ll stay here with your mother and get her cleaned up and ready for bed. I’ll let you know when I leave.”

I ran from the room, my feet sticky with my own blood as I fled to the front porch to grab the remaining beer bottles before retreating to the dock.

The moon glared down on me as the somnolent sounds of the night marsh closed around me and I tried to forget, if just for a little while, that I had screamed at my mother.

Or that she wouldn’t remember it in the morning. But I would.