Page 3 of That Last Carolina Summer

I stared in the mirror, my eyes round dark smudges staring back at me like some nameless monster.

I pictured my beautiful mother, her hair and makeup always perfect, even first thing in the morning.

Addie looked just like her. I was as different in coloring as I was in temperament from our mother.

I’d been happy to relinquish all maternal affections to my older sister.

“It can’t be as bad as it seems.” I wasn’t certain if I was trying to reassure Addie or myself.

“You know she’s always dieting—that can affect her cognitive abilities.

After school ends, I can come home for a week or so to help out.

But I already have plans for the summer.

And I’ve been asked to cover one of the summer classes, which I agreed to because I could use the money. Someone has to pay my mortgage.”

The dig had been intentional. After a brief foray into broadcast journalism following college, Addie had returned to our parents’ house unemployed, pregnant, and single for what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement.

Ten years later, she was still there. Addie had never remained employed for long, which meant I was pretty sure she didn’t pay for rent or food, and she definitely didn’t pay for Ophelia’s tuition.

Addie’s voice rose a notch. “She’s your mother, too.”

The words came out before I could hold them back. “But you’re her favorite.”

She sucked in her breath, meaning I had hit my mark.

“Don’t be childish, Phoebe. I’m asking for your help with our mother.

You’re acting like your stupid job is more important than she is.

You’ve always been that way, acting like Mother is an afterthought.

No wonder I’m her favorite. I at least give her love and attention, two things you don’t seem capable of. ”

I felt chastised and angry. Everything she’d said had a grain of truth embedded inside vague inaccuracies that I didn’t have the time to unearth right then. “Look, Addie,” I said with a conciliatory tone. “School’s out in a couple of weeks—”

“Adeline!” Mother’s voice came through the phone, accompanied by pounding.

“Open this door right this minute or I’m going to get your father.

” She never raised her voice, even when Addie had failed so spectacularly or when my dog, Bailey, had eaten her prized heirloom roses.

She didn’t need to. The threat of our father was enough to make us repent. Except he’d been dead for years.

I squeezed my phone, the edges digging into my palm, and listened to my sister’s tight, shallow breaths.

“I. Can’t. Handle. This.” Addie’s voice rose to a shrill scream.

I held the phone away from my ear and clenched my eyes shut, trying to block out the unwelcome reminder of my childhood, the feeling of helplessness and resentment knotted together and impossible to untangle.

Ever since I could remember, checking out had been Adeline’s method of handling all negative emotions and events.

It focused all the attention on her as people stumbled over themselves trying to figure out how to fix whatever might be bothering her.

I’d grown to believe that this was a flaw of beautiful people: they didn’t need to be clever or funny or emotionally grounded to survive. The rest of us had to forage for what genetic scraps had been left behind, and sometimes we found what we needed to survive and sometimes even to flourish.

The call ended. I waited for Addie to call back, to tell me she was sorry she’d overreacted, that of course she’d take care of things and we could discuss when I visited after school ended.

And then I could feel that she had everything under control and didn’t need my help.

My extraneous existence as the younger sister had been one of the reasons why I’d fled across the country to Oregon. Just not the biggest reason.

But she didn’t call back, and a growing unease about my mother and what might be going on with her took up residence in my head.

I quickly showered and dressed before returning to the kitchen.

Despite not being hungry, I grabbed a granola bar to sustain me through first period with a classroom full of students.

I stood at the sink to eat, looking out the large picture window, the one selling point to the 1970s duplex.

It framed a view of the distant Cascade Mountains surrounding my adopted home of Bend, Oregon, where I’d escaped as soon as I had my masters.

Teaching eighth-grade science had been my first job offer, and I took it for the main reason that it was far enough away from South Carolina.

Away from where I was known as the girl who’d been struck by lightning and left with scars I couldn’t hide.

The Deschutes River that flowed through Bend bore no resemblance to the waterways of the Lowcountry, the sights and scents of the high desert as foreign to me as the moon.

I’d hoped in time I’d forget the fragrant wax myrtles or the call of the night herons over the marsh and the smell of the pluff mud at low tide.

Nine years later, I was still pretending that I was better here, that the shapes of mountains nudging the gray skies were an adequate substitute for the flat horizon of watery savannas, that I didn’t miss the wraithlike arms of Spanish moss that was as cold-intolerant as I seemed to be.

I’d hoped to grow to love the smell of snow before it fell.

And I had. But all my new experiences were like a borrowed coat: offering warmth but with pockets empty of the small treasures from past seasons.

A goldfinch landed on the feeder hanging on the high branch of a western juniper.

It was the same feeder I’d made for Aunt Sassy, the wooden sides and roof faded and warped from too many South Carolina summers.

I’d replaced parts and repainted it over the years, and it had come with me to college and grad school, and then across the country.

I always forgot to fill it, and then felt bad when a bird landed on it and regarded me with judgment like the goldfinch was doing now.

I squinted, recalling what Sassy had told me about goldfinches. They mated for life, shared nesting duties, and migrated together, side by side. They were happy, chatty birds and usually congregated in what was called a charm . But this bird was by itself, watching me through the window.

I pulled out the bag of seed from a cabinet and took it outside. The yellow bird flew to a higher branch but continued to keep a watchful eye while I poured out the remaining contents from the bag.

Wild birds always reminded me of the remarkable woman who loved nature even though she couldn’t hear the croaking frogs or singing birds or anything else the rest of us took for granted.

I don’t know what it was Aunt Sassy heard when we stood in the backyard near sunset and watched the wrens and sparrows sweeping down from the dusky sky to feed, but from the rapt look on her face, I imagined it was a full symphony orchestra playing Mozart or Rachmaninoff or the soundtrack from some huge blockbuster film.

She knew how to make the smallest things important and beautiful.

I still felt guilt at the memory of pretending to be bored listening to Sassy’s bird stories, careful not to be noticed showing an interest by my sister or her friends.

It didn’t help that I’d been named after a bird.

Unlike the name Adeline, Phoebe appears nowhere on our family tree.

My father told me that an eastern phoebe had perched on a tree branch outside Mother’s hospital window after I was born, and she loved its bright, two-pitched song.

But Adeline said the name was given to me because of Mother’s disappointment at having another girl, so she had named me after the little bird of unremarkable coloring with its plump body and large head because it reminded her of me.

I never asked my mother which was true, mostly because I was afraid of her answer.

I crumpled up the empty seed bag and waited for the little yellow bird to return to the feeder, recalling something my aunt had told me about how the appearance of a goldfinch is meant as an encouragement to travel to new places, to let people see your beauty and the true you.

An unexpected wave of grief blew through me, and I found myself wishing, just for a moment, that I could believe it was my aunt’s soul sending me a message that my mother would be okay and that I would know what to do if she wasn’t.

But the goldfinch remained on his perch out of my reach until he fluttered his wings and flew away.