Page 6 of That Last Carolina Summer

“I see.” My stomach grumbled as I realized how long it had been since I’d eaten.

I hoisted my bag and headed toward the brick walkway, noticing the peeling paint on the white picket fence that mimicked the railing on the second-floor balcony.

I stopped to look up at the house, pausing just in case my mother decided to come out and greet me.

The house had been built in 1902 by a ship captain before passing it to my family shortly afterward.

I’d always wanted to know the story behind the quick turnover, since as far as I knew we weren’t related to the sea captain.

I couldn’t help but wonder if there might be something unsavory to the story.

“Come on, Ophelia,” I said, climbing the porch steps.

The bottom one was wider than the top giving the deep front porch a regal feel and looked like the palace steps in a Cinderella movie.

When we were little girls, Addie used to pretend she was a princess walking up and down the steps while I played photographer, making her swing her hair and show off her dress.

But now the steps appeared sun-blistered and in need of sealing, the white round columns across the front in the same sad shape.

Somehow the neglect didn’t detract from the beauty of the house, with its pretty gabled window over the front door and the white clapboard siding that blushed in the fading light.

The color of the sky had started to shift, casting the walkway and porch into shadows.

It had always been a point of pride to my mother to make her house appear welcoming to friends and strangers alike by keeping it lit at night.

Yet as the supper hour approached, the outdoor lights were dark, and the ginger jar lamp in one of the front windows had not been turned on.

“I’m hungry,” Ophelia said.

“Me, too,” I said, forcing a smile to hide my unease. We stepped up onto the porch. “Maybe we can go out to eat.”

“We don’t have a car,” Ophelia said quietly.

“Doesn’t your mama have one?”

She shook her head. “Mama wrecked it, and it couldn’t be fixed.”

“Oh.” I put down my suitcase and opened the screen door then turned the tarnished brass knob of the front door.

I exhaled loudly when the door swung open, letting out the peculiarly comforting scent of wood polish, my mother’s rose potpourri, and mothballs.

Sometimes, when I’d dream of this place, I could smell the scent of home, and it always made me cry.

“Hello? Mother? It’s me, Phoebe.”

“What are you doing here?”

I jerked back, startled by the shrill voice that had come from the staircase.

As my eyes became accustomed to the darkened foyer, I made out the form of my mother standing on the bottom step and regarding me with narrowed eyes.

She wore a white nightgown, which meant she was already dressed for bed or had never put clothes on that morning.

I reached for the overhead light switch and flipped it on. “It’s me,” I said again. “Phoebe.”

At the continued look of confusion on her face, I added, “Your daughter.”

She straightened her back. “My daughter is Adeline. Who are you?”

I considered calling an Uber to take me back to the airport. There was something so lost and empty in my mother’s face, and it scared me. But I couldn’t turn my back on her no matter how tempting the idea. As if reading my thoughts, Ophelia moved to stand next to me.

“It’s your other daughter, Mimi. You gave me her bedroom, remember?”

My mother continued to watch me through narrowed eyes, confusion now replacing suspicion. She took a step down, and I saw that her feet were bare, chipped pink polish clinging to too-long toenails. Her usual smooth blunt cut was straggly and uneven, the unwashed blond strands dulled with gray.

This person was an impostor. My mother didn’t come down to breakfast without a full face of makeup and wearing heels.

She had standing appointments at both her hair and nail salon so that she never appeared less than perfect.

Elizabeth Manigault had always been someone to be admired and feared and in whose presence I never felt anything more than inadequate.

But she was still my mother, and this impostor was not an acceptable substitution.

“Mother,” I said, trying again, “it’s Phoebe. Your second daughter.”

Her face softened, her lips twitching before settling into a half grin. “You were supposed to be a boy.”

The familiar flare of old anger shot through me, and I welcomed it. I could handle the anger. I just had no idea how to handle someone who resembled my mother but who inspired pity.

“Yes,” I said. “But you got me instead.”

She pursed her lips, moving them back and forth as if checking her teeth. “I think I’m hungry,” she announced before stepping down into the foyer and walking toward the kitchen.

Ophelia widened her eyes and asked me, “Can you cook?”

I tugged on her hand and began following my mother. “Let’s just say I know how to use a microwave.”

“It’s not working.”

I stopped and took a deep breath. “No problem. I’ve got a cell phone. Do you like pizza?”

She gave me an enthusiastic nod. “Mimi doesn’t let me have it because she says it will make me fat.” She looked down at her feet. “But sometimes I eat it at my friend’s house.”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t say anything I’d regret and pulled my phone out of my pocket before handing it to my niece. “Please call your friend and ask her where her mom orders their pizzas. I’m going to step outside for a minute.”

I walked into the kitchen where my mother sat at the small table under the window with the golden glow of the lingering summer sun settling over her. Surprise bloomed on her face as she spotted me heading toward the back door. “Phoebe! What are you doing here?”

“I’ll be right back,” I said. I walked past her and pushed open the screen door before running down the porch steps to the dock.

I stood there sucking in the salt-tinged air and watched the sun drift farther past the horizon as I fought a rising panic.

I had finally come home. Except this was a home I no longer recognized.