She looked surprised by the question. “Darryl? Hell, no. Why would I see him? He knows better than to show his face around here.”
“He came back from California. He was playing music out there for the past five years. Anyway, he came by my place saying he wanted to get to know Lovie better.” She took a breath, realizing the magnitude of the moment. She held out the photograph for her mother. “That’s her,” she said “That’s my daughter. Your granddaughter. Her name is Olivia Sooner, but we call her Lovie.”
Her mother took the photograph and drew it close to her eyes, studying it. Toy braced herself for a torrent of accusations that she’d not brought her daughter to meet them, not once in all these years. So when her mother’s face softened, Toy was caught off guard.
“She’s the spittin’ image of you at that age.”
Toy was deeply moved. No one in the new life she’d carved for herself had known her when she was young. It was the kind of observation a young mother hoped to hear from her own mother. Toy brought her hand to her mouth. “Really?”
“She’s a pretty thing.” She handed the picture back to Toy. “You ought to bring her by.”
“Mama, Darryl took her!”
Her mother’s face screwed up in puzzlement. “What do you mean, he took her?”
“I was out of town and he took Lovie for the day. It was all arranged. But he never brought her back! He’s been gone for three days and we don’t know where he went. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you might’ve seen him, or heard something about him. Maybe his mother called you or…I don’t know. Something. I thought maybe even he’d dropped Lovie off with you.”
“No, I haven’t seen hide or hair of either of them. He wouldn’t likely come by here anyhow, knowing how we feel about him. Who was taking care of the child when you was out of town?”
“Cara, my friend.”
Her expression hardened again, so fast that Toy wasn’t sure she’d seen the softening in the first place. When she saw the flash of anger in her mother’s eyes, she felt herself reverting to the insecure teenager again.
“What business do you have leaving your child with friends when you’ve got family who’d take care of her? You should’ve left her with me.”
“No,” Toy blurted out, finding her strength. “I’d never leave my daughter with him.”
Her mother swiped her hand in the air with her lip curled in disgust. “You’re not going to start in on that again? He didn’t do nothin’. He swore on the bible he never touched you funny. You were just imagining it. Or lying. You never cared for Roy.”
The image of Roy’s hands on her breasts rose up in her mind and she shuddered, bringing up her palms and
backing away. “No. I’m not going to get into this. It’s not why I’m here.”
“Your father is a God-fearing man and he’d never do anything to hurt you or that child.”
“He’s
not
my father,” she screamed back.
Her mother appeared stunned by her outburst and, to Toy’s surprise, backed down a bit. “He’s the only father you have. And I’m your mother. You should’ve left that baby here with me, not some stranger. I never would’ve let anything bad happen to her.”
“Like you did with me?”
“You have no call to come here and say those things,” she said, very angry now. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
“Mama, I didn’t come to fight. I only came to see if you heard about my baby.”
“You came home because you’re in trouble again,” she said with a sneer. She waved her arm at her, shooing her away. “Go on, get out of here. You haven’t changed. You’re still in trouble. You’re always in trouble. Your kind always is.”
Toy sucked in her breath, turned and hurried to the door. Her mother followed her, shouting cruel things at her back as Toy fled the trailer. She slammed the door of her car shut and started the engine, eager to escape.
She looked back to see her mother standing in her housecoat on the front stoop, her face scowling while clutching the railing. It was, she knew, the last time she’d see her. Ever. As she pulled away her mother leaned over the railing and shouted, “It’s your fault your child is gone. Your own damn fault!”
Toy held Little Lovie’s T-shirt close to her breast as she drove. She desperately wanted to drive past these
lines of cheap strip malls and gas stations, straight back to the Isle of Palms where she felt safe.
But she had one more stop to make. One last hope for some clue to where her baby was. She clutched the slip of green fabric like a security blanket and pressed on.
This house wasn’t much bigger than her mother’s trailer but it was in a nicer neighborhood with paved streets lined with trees and sidewalks that crossed tended lawns. Though the houses were similar, each reflected the personality and care of the owner. A cement walkway, hugged by marigolds, led a tidy path as straight as an arrow to the front door of the beige vinyl-sided house. Toy stood at the front door, clutching her purse close. This door was freshly painted and the louvered glass sparkled. She peeked through but couldn’t see anything more than a wall.
The doorbell chimed and shortly afterwards a woman about the same age as her mother opened the door. She looked a lot like Darryl, small-boned and trim. Only her hair wasn’t dark brown like his but dyed a white blond. She took a lot better care of herself than her own mother did. Her face was madeup and she was dressed in bright green plaid shorts and a green polo shirt with a horse emblem.
Toy struck a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Duggans. It’s me, Toy. Do you remember me?”
Mrs. Duggans narrowed her eyes and her penciled-in brows furrowed. “Toy Sooner? Of course I know you.”
“I don’t mean to bother you but I need your help.”
Mrs. Duggans pursed her lips and moved her eyes in a way that made Toy think she was nervous.
“I won’t take but a minute.”
“All right. But just for a minute.” Reluctantly, she opened the screen door and stepped aside.
Toy entered the Duggans’s front room. It was painted a green near the same shade as Mrs. Duggans’s shirt. Even the carpet was the same green. The furniture was white wood but the cushions had that green in the swirls of paisley. Artificial flowers in milky white vases were on both sides of the sofa and more flowers curled along the white iron chandelier in the middle of the room. There was a funny smell in the house and Toy must have crinkled her nose because Mrs. Duggans said in an apologetic manner, “I’m cooking greens.”
“Oh.”
“Sit down, won’t you?”
Toy sat stiffly in one of the paisley chairs. After her disastrous encounter with her mother, Toy knew better than to start chit-chat.
“Mrs. Duggans, have you heard from Darryl?”
Mrs. Duggans sat in the chair opposite Toy and smoothed out the fabric of her shorts. “Why, Darryl’s been home for over two months now. You know that, Toy. He’s been at your place more often than mine. The only time he comes here is to eat or borrow money. I reckon some things don’t change. But I’m his mama and I’m glad to help him when I can. Last time he was here he kept talking on and on about you and your little girl. Little Lovie, right?”
“Yes ma’am. We just call her that. Her real name is Olivia.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
Toy opened her purse to retrieve the picture of Little Lovie and handed it to her. Mrs. Duggans took it then rose to walk to the table where her glasses lay on top of the newspaper. She put them on and looked at the picture for a long while.
“What a pretty child. She favors Darryl, doesn’t she?”
Toy raised her brows. She didn’t think she looked like Darryl at all, but she didn’t say that.
“He sure does love his little girl,” Mrs. Duggans said.
“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Duggans. He didn’t bring her back after their last outing. He’s been gone for three days.”
She slowly lowered the picture and frowned. “He hasn’t called you?”
Toy’s attention sharpened at her question. She shook her head. “I was out of town. But he called Cara. Brett talked to him but Darryl didn’t tell him anything, not where he was or why he’d done it. He just hung up. Mrs. Duggans, did he call you? Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t know anything,” she replied icily, returning the photograph to her. “Why would he call me?”
“I don’t know,” Toy replied, bringing her fingertips to her forehead. “I’m just grasping at straws. The police are trying to find him but we don’t have much to go on.”
“The police?” Mrs. Duggans asked, her voice rising in alarm. “The police are involved?”
“They have to be. We filed a missing person report. They’re calling it a kidnapping.”
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed, extremely agitated. She walked closer, wringing her hands. “Toy, what have you done? There was no need to involve the police. My son did not kidnap your child!”
“He’s had her for three days!”
“No one came to pick her up! He had to get to his job, is all!” she cried. Her eyes widened when she realized what she’d said.
Toy jumped up. “He
did
call you! You talked to him. Where is he?”
Mrs. Duggans retreated, shaking her head. “I can’t say.”
“You have to! If you know where he is you’ve got to tell me. Please!”
She backed away. Toy grabbed her hands and held them tight. “Where is my little girl?”
“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, looking into Toy’s eyes. She saw that Mrs. Duggans was truly upset. Yet she also saw that she knew something that she wasn’t telling.
“Tell me what you do know,” Toy replied, her voice hardening. “Tell me—or tell the police.”
“No! Don’t call the police.” Mrs. Duggans pulled back her hands and wrapped them around herself in a self-comforting gesture. She averted her gaze and spoke in a low voice. “He said he had to get to his job in…” She brought her trembling fingers to her lips. “Oh…Boone, or Brevard, or Baileyville. I don’t know where exactly, some town that begins with a B. Somewhere in North Carolina.”
“North Carolina? He crossed state lines?”
“He wasn’t kidnapping Lovie. Don’t you see that? He was just going to some job he had there. To play music. That’s not the kind of thing a man does when he’s kidnapping a child!”
“Then why doesn’t he bring her back?” Her voice was filled with anguish.
Mrs. Duggans brought her hand to her throat. “I don’t know. That fool child never did have any sense.”
“Well,” Toy said, turning on her heel. “I can’t wait for him to come to his senses.”
“Toy, please! One day. Give him one day to call. If he calls me, I swear I’ll have him call you. One day, that’s all I ask. My boy might be impulsive, but he’s no criminal. You have to trust him.”
“Trust him?” She shook her head. “I’ll never trust him again.”
The rain that had threatened all morning began in fat drops on her windshield as Toy raced from North Charleston to the Isle of Palms police station. It was still falling three hours later when they sent her home. They were polite and had let her sit in the waiting room of the Town Hall while they followed up on the North Carolina lead. A nice woman who worked the phones brought her a cup of coffee and told her, “I just know they’re going to find your little girl now.”
Toy sat on the uncomfortable chair for hours with her hands clasped tight in prayer. At four o’clock the door of the Town Hall opened and her head darted up, hope shining in her eyes. When she saw Flo coming through the door, her heart sank. She’d been sure it would be the policeman and that nice lady, bringing in Lovie.
“I’ve come to bring you home,” Flo told her.
“I can’t go. I just know they’re going to find her. I’ve got to be here.”
“They know where you live. You’re not doing Lovie or anyone any good just sitting here.”
How could she tell her she didn’t want to go back to the beach house and see how empty it was without Little Lovie in it? “I’m okay. I want to stay here.”
“Honey, they’re closing up. You’ve got to go now.”
When she stood she felt light-headed, tottering on her feet. “I’m okay,” she said, regaining her balance. “I’m just dizzy from all the candy bars I’ve been eating from the vending machine.”
“Come on,” Flo said, taking her arm. “I’m taking you home.”
A
s the sun slowly descended in a gray sky, Toy grew increasingly restless. She couldn’t face the reality that another day was slipping away and another torturous night without Lovie was beginning. She paced the floor, going from room to room, wringing her hands and waiting for the phone to ring.
On the third pass through the house she grabbed a yellow slicker from the hook by the door and took off again for the beach. The rain had diminished to a fine mist and she could hear the storm waves thundering at the shoreline. Summer was over. She saw the changing of seasons in the yellowing of the sea grass and the dulling color of the trees. Everywhere she looked the landscape appeared gray and lackluster.
She climbed atop Miss Lovie’s dune and stood buffeted by the strong winds. The waves looked wild and tumultuous with white crests curling and crashing in all directions. The incoming tide sent foamy fingers scaling the dune and sending bits of froth into the air with each insistent gust of wind.
She remembered the last time she’d sat on this dune as
the waves crashed. Little Lovie had been with her, sitting on her lap. They’d thrilled to the ferocity of nature together.
Her eyes wildly scanned the empty horizon. I am a mother, she thought with anguish. I’m used to having my child with me. Without her, I’m done.
“Lovie!” she cried out. She filled her lungs and cried out again. “Lovie!”
The ocean’s roar seemed to mock her insignificance. She fell to her knees in the damp sand and wept great, heaving sobs.
Toy didn’t know how long she’d cried, but when she’d finished the sky had darkened to a leaden gray and her hair was wet from the mist and ocean spray. She felt exhausted and spent, at her lowest point. The cool wind pierced through her damp clothes and shivering, she brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She sat facing the sea.
Somewhere out there the turtle mothers were once again on their solitary journey. She imagined them swimming in the great current, their long, creamy flippers gracefully stroking the water. Their season’s nesting saga was completed. Their eggs had been laid, their scores of hatchlings—a new generation of loggerheads—had joined their species in the sea. The mother turtles had abandoned their nests, she knew. But they’d followed their maternal instincts and obeyed a far greater force.
Now the turtles had gone. Miss Lovie was gone. Little Lovie was gone. Only the slender hope that her daughter would return kept her from following the turtles into the sea.
A wave crashed against the dune, sending a cold spray
stinging her cheeks. Toy closed her eyes and heard her mother’s bitter accusations in her mind.
It’s your fault
. They battered at her soul as cruelly and with the same consistency as the fierce waves battered at the dune. She was defenseless against the onslaught of memories she’d kept at bay for years. Toy put her palms to her face, lowering her head to her knees. Shrouded in darkness the memories came alive.
She was thirteen and back in the trailer. She smelled again the mold in the walls, the grease from the kitchen and the noxious scent of spray starch. A rangy black cat slept on the sofa. Her mother was standing at the ironing board, dressed in gray sweatpants and a ratty old maroon Citadel sweatshirt she’d found at a flea market. Half a dozen men’s shirts hung from a metal rack beside her but the cloth bag on the floor wasn’t even half empty.
“Mama, I’m hungry.”
“Go git something to eat then.”
“There’s nothing to eat.” She’d already gone and looked in the fridge and found a canister of ground coffee, some bruised apples and several bottles of beer.
Her mama set down the iron and sprayed the shirt with the aerosol can. The mist tickled Toy’s nose in the steamy air.
“Then go get something from McDonalds.”
“I don’t have any money,” she replied in a teenage sulk.
Her mother tore her gaze from the television. “Then you’re out of luck. Go on, get out of my way. You’re bothering me.”
Hunger and frustration gnawed at her belly, making her reckless. “I’m hungry!” she screamed. “You’re my mother. Aren’t you supposed to feed me once in a while? I haven’t had anything to eat all day!”
Her mother’s face colored and contorted, and with a sudden move, she lashed out. Only this time she didn’t hit with her hand. Toy felt a fierce, white-hot burning on her flesh and lurched back, screaming. The cat leaped to disappear under the sofa. She continued screaming, hysterical, running around the room and collapsing in the corner, clasping her arm where the pointed edge of the iron was burned into her flesh.
Toy whimpered at the memory, still feeling the burn of insult that her mother could have done such a thing to her. How could any mother do that to her child? All her life she’d rationalized, even accepted as normal, that there were no meals on the table, that her clothes were dirty and smelled of body, that family shouted and swore at one another. But she’d always told herself that her mother loved her. That child’s faith got her through the tough days.
So when she was thirteen and her stepfather began bothering her, she was able to tell her mother. There’d been a fierce row when Roy came home, with broken furniture and bruises. In the morning her step father was gone. Toy had felt safe, believing for sure that her mother loved her.
But Roy came back a few weeks later. Her mother told her then if she lied about him again then
she’d
be the one to get kicked out. Toy started having more sleep-overs at her friends’ places and coming home whenever she wanted. When she found her mother didn’t care, she stayed out longer. At sixteen she met up with Darryl. He was older, had his own apartment and took good care of her, buying her meals, clothes, even CDs. He never let anyone say anything bad about her and with him she felt safe. When she found out she was pregnant it just made sense for her to move in with him. It didn’t seem her
mother even noticed. But she must’ve been mad because when Darryl had started smacking her around, Toy was afraid for the baby growing inside of her and ran home seeking shelter with her mother.
Toy tightened her grip around her knees and rocked, reliving the shame. Her mother had been no different that day than she had been today. She’d barred the door with her loathing and beaten her back with her words. She’d hurled insults at Toy that hit hard, knowing where to aim.
It had always been so, Toy could see that clearly now. Her mother had no maternal instincts. Quite simply, her mother did not love her.
Toy lay down on the dune, stretching out so she could place her cheek on the wet sand. The dune comforted her. It was like she was lying on Miss Lovie’s grave. She dug her fingers through the sand like a kitten pawing at its mother’s chest. One thing she felt sure of. If she’d stayed in that trailer or if she’d stayed with Darryl, she would have become someone very different than the woman she was today.
The Fates had been kind when they guided her to the path of another mother.
Miss Lovie had, without question, saved her. That gentle woman had changed her life, not with grand gestures but with simple consistencies. She’d taught her the simple tasks of cleaning her room, setting the table, preparing a meal, sewing on missing buttons. Miss Lovie had taught her to pay attention by paying attention to her. She had tended her own nest, faithfully and with kindness, as she had tended the turtle nests on the Isle of Palms for so many years. And when she died she’d passed on this pattern of consistent tending to Toy. Because of her influ
ence, Toy went to school, got a job, and most important, became the best mother to her daughter that she could be.
Toy pulled herself up to sit Indian style on the cool, damp sand. She brought her hands to her wet hair, pulling it back from her face and clutching a fistful at her neck.
But was that enough, Toy wondered?
What kind of a mother was she?
Did genetics win out? Was the tending instinct something that was learned? Or was it inherited, a toss of the dice on the X chromosome? How could she have been so careless a mother? she thought, berating herself. She’d been thousands of miles away, surfing and dancing carefree while her daughter was being kidnapped! She should have been home. She should have been paying attention. Did a good mother make such mistakes?
Her hands raked through her hair as she searched her memories for answers. She thought again of her mentor. Miss Lovie had been a good mother, but she had made mistakes, too. She had stayed in a loveless marriage and had been estranged from her daughter, Cara, for years. So perhaps good mothers did make mistakes. No one was perfect. But Cara and Miss Lovie had reconciled. They’d made peace before Miss Lovie passed on. The difference was, she knew, love and the act of forgiveness.
Toy shivered, feeling the wet cold clear to her bones. She felt unloved and unforgiven. Her head was heavy with her thoughts and the sky was darkening. There were no answers here.
The wind tugged and pushed at her in the dark, but she made her way over the twisting path more by instinct than sight. Ahead, soft yellow light flowed from the windows of the beach house. One foot after the other, she followed the light home.
Toy stepped into the shower and let the hot water warm her numb body. She changed into flannel pajamas and wrapped herself in a thick chenille robe. Then she checked, for the hundredth time, the telephone answering machine, hating the nasal recorded message that told her, “You have no messages.”
Drawn again to the photographs, she picked up the gray box and spread them on the floor. Kneeling beside them, she began picking through them once again. She’d diligently taken photos all summer. There were pictures of the tracks, nests, eggs and hatchlings. There were pictures of Cara, Emmi, Flo and herself, doing the typical duties of the turtle ladies. There were countless pictures of a bright and inquisitive Lovie involved in each phase of the nesting saga.
Toy felt a sudden sense of urgency and began putting the pictures into piles in chronological order. May June July August. September. Then she divided these into pictures of turtles and pictures of people, gathering them in a circle around her. She scooted closer, getting drawn into the stories. As she arranged the pictures, memories of the events came alive in her mind—words that were spoken, jokes shared, secrets revealed. Her hands worked quickly as the jumbled pile of memories was gradually arranged in some semblance of order. Hours sped by as the cool air of night settled around her. When she finished she stepped back and looked at the table, astonished.
There before her, in a neat succession of moments in time, was a beautiful, poignant, and revealing pattern. The succession of photographs created a story of one glorious summer on the Isle of Palms. It was a story of the nesting saga of the loggerheads. It was a story of duty.
It was a story of friendship. It was a story of a mother and daughter.
Looking at the images she saw that she was there when Lovie built the sandcastle. She was there when her daughter collected sea shells. She was there when her baby sat in her lap and thrilled to the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Just as she was there when Lovie was sick, and on her first day of school. She’d sewn her missing buttons, made her Halloween costume, cleaned her clothes, read her books, prepared her meals and served them on a clean table with a fork, a knife and a spoon. She’d kissed her soft sweet face every night before sleep.
“I was there…” she said aloud.
Toy brought her hands to her lips and tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision, turning the photographs into a kaleidoscope of color.
This
was her pattern of consistency. She may have made mistakes. She certainly was not perfect. But there in the series of images she found her answer.
Yes, she was a good mother.
It was very late when the front doorbell rang. Toy startled, dropping a photograph as she climbed to her feet. Opening the door, she found Ethan in the narrow halo of light. He wore a black slicker and his dark hair was plastered to his head, like he’d been walking in the mist for hours.
He didn’t wait to be asked in, but marched past her into the living room. When he got there he turned on his heel, his eyes blazing.
“I’m not going away,” he said. “I know you’re hurting. You think you don’t need anyone. You think you need to be strong, to do this on your own.
“But you’re wrong. It’s times like these that you do need people. People who care about you. People who love you.”
He paused, his mouth working. “I love you, Toy,” he blurted out. “I’m going to stay right here and get you through this. And when it’s over, when Little Lovie is back, then we can talk about the future. We have a lot to sort through. But goddamn it, Toy, don’t tell me to go away again. Because I won’t.” His mouth was set in a straight line and his fists were bunched like a pugilist’s ready for a fight.
Toy stood stunned to silence. She’d never heard Ethan sound like this before. She let the door slip shut behind her and quietly walked across the room to him.
He was watching her, his eyes burning with intensity from under dripping locks of hair, waiting for her response. She remembered that first day she’d brought Big Girl into the Aquarium. He’d been standing on the platform, his hair was dripping down his face as it was now. He’d heard her call and turned toward her.
And he was here now. She heard a click in her mind, the sound of a final tumbler of some complex combination falling into place. Gingerly she reached up to remove the wet slicker from his shoulders. He did not move to help her. She dropped the jacket on a nearby chair then reached up to stroke a damp lock from his forehead.
He looked into her eyes and his face relaxed. A half smile played at his lips. One familiar gesture evoked far more memories than words.
“Then don’t leave,” she said simply.
Something deep and abiding sparked in his dark eyes and his long arms slid around her waist, holding tight, not letting go.