Vanishing Time

Part One

Every grin don’t mean smile.

Gullah proverb

One

Besa Saka

Abundance

12:10 PM Thursday, August 14

Cama Truesdale was removing a heart when Beethoven’s Fifth trumpeted forth. Resting on the metal table beside his keys, Jake’s phone looked so familiar it was all she could do not to reach over and answer the call. She forced her attention back to the matter at hand, lifted the heart-shaped cookie cutter from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and deftly ejected its contents.

The table had been Jake’s before they were married, was hers now they were divorced. She disliked it and the matching chairs, which were unyielding and cold, eye-catching but tolerable only if you didn’t have to sit in one long, the concept more compelling than the reality like so much in life. Her mother had tried to teach her this: not always to trust what she saw.

It had been twenty-four years since the car crash that killed both her parents, and Cama still grieved the skewed arithmetic of her family: three minus two had left so much less than one. She inserted the cookie cutter into the bread and excised another heart.

On the second round of Beethoven’s Fifth, Cama marched across the kitchen and flung open the Sub-Zero refrigerator, pulled out milk for Tate and iced chai tea for herself, her mouth watering at the anticipation of the sweet, caffeinated beverage that she chose to think of as a health drink. She made a mental note to buy a smaller refrigerator. What the heck, why not renovate the whole kitchen? Substitute warm cherry wood and bright brass knobs for the unadorned black cupboards. Install counters the color of sand to replace the cold, gray granite. Move on, as her friend Ellie kept telling her. Beethoven announced the caller a third time. What else could she change, she wondered, trying to distract herself. A cat! Tate had been begging her for a pet ever since his hamster died. Jake was allergic to cats. Perfect. She pictured one with lots of fur, soft and fat with six toes on each paw, sitting in the windowsill, providing color, curves, warmth, and blessed imperfection.

When Beethoven tolled a fourth time, Cama checked caller ID: Sam Harper, the man who was taking Jake and their son Tate fishing the following week. Sam and Jake had met at a law conference in Charlotte, North Carolina the previous spring. They’d spent one afternoon in the hotel bar, swapping fishing stories, while most of their fellow conferees played golf. As Jake told it, Sam had invited him to go out on his boat for a few days after the conference and then to return for a longer trip when the bass were running. This would be that trip.

Cama had pressed Jake for details about Sam, but he’d had few to offer. Sam lived south of Myrtle Beach. They’d both attended Duke as undergraduates, although Sam had graduated ten years earlier than Jake. He was not married. Children? Jake wasn’t sure, but didn’t think so.

Standing in her kitchen with her ex-husband’s cell phone beckoning, she felt a rising resentment toward this man, Sam Harper, for including Tate in the trip. To be fair, Jake had been the one to suggest it, and then, to seal the deal, had mentioned the trip to Tate before checking with Cama. Tate’s eyes had filled with tears when she gave an immediate and emphatic no. The tears had spilled over and run down her son’s cheeks. She’d tried to ignore them. There was no way she was going to let her little boy go off alone with his father. No way.

Jake had worked most evenings and weekends, or so he’d told her. In fact he’d been sleeping with a junior partner and so had spent little time alone with their son. A whole week alone with him was out of the question. And certainly a whole week in coastal South Carolina. Jake of all people should have understood that, what with Cama’s painful history there.

But Jake had worked on her for two days, and she’d finally relented, never giving up hope that something would derail the trip. Maybe this call was that something. Hello? she said, and put the phone on speaker.

Ah… There was a long pause. I’m trying to reach Jake Truesdale. The voice was deep and held a pronounced drawl that sent Cama back to her childhood. She placed the heart-shaped cookie cutter over Tate’s sandwich and incised another heart. Jake will be right in. Or I could give him a message, if that’s easier. She gathered the crusts. He wouldn’t eat them, and she considered them the best part. She was about to press for information—had something come up to cancel the trip?—or at least learn a bit more about this Sam Harper, when Jake and Tate entered. Cama nodded toward the phone. Sam Harper, she said

Jake raised a questioning eyebrow as he picked up his phone and took it off speaker. Tate lunged for a sandwich. Peanut butter and orange marmalade: his favorite. Would Jake remember what Tate liked to eat?

Hands, she said.

Tate dashed to the sink, turned on the tap, and waved his hands under the stream of cold water.

Soap. He pumped some into his palms and rubbed, while Cama watched and listened to Jake’s side of the conversation.

Damn. That’s too bad, Jake said. And then, Don’t worry about it. There was a longish silence as he listened. Tate was now listening as well, a worried expression forming.

Are you sure? ’Cause we could just reschedule.

Tate slumped against the sink as water streamed out of the tap behind him. Cama watched her son’s eyes grow serious and his lower lip disappear beneath his upper. He was trying very hard not to cry. At the same time, her world was brightening with the sense that Sam was calling off the trip. Love could be a cunning, selfish thing.

That’s really nice of you, Sam. Any chance your client will change his mind? He gave Tate a thumbs-up and a wink. Tate sat down at the table and began to work on a sandwich, nibbling around the edges, shrinking the heart by degrees, as Cama felt her own heart constrict.

Okay, then we’ll stop by your office for the key tomorrow, Jake said, and scribbled an address on a slip of paper. He said goodbye, hung up, and made a show of tucking his phone, wallet, and keys into his pocket, not glancing in Cama’s direction, saying nothing about the conversation he obviously hadn’t wanted her to witness. Payback.

Well? she asked, annoyed with his little charade.

Don’t you think seven’s a little old for that? Jake asked, indicating the heart-shaped sandwiches on Tate’s plate.

He’s six. What’s up?

I’m almost seven, Tate said, looking from one parent to the other. Are we going?

You bet. Just you and me, spud.

Sam’s not going? But it’s his boat. Resentment toward Sam took root. Her resentment for Jake was in full bloom.

He has to be in court next week, a title dispute. He told me about it at the SLA conference last year. Showed me the property when I was down there. Beachfront. A local developer wants it, been after it for years. Funny name… Why… something. Whydah. He opened the refrigerator, scanned the contents. No beer?

No. There’s iced chai.

Jake poured himself a glass.

And he has to handle the case this week? she asked. It can’t wait one week?

He took a long swallow, grimaced. God, that’s sweet. How do you drink this crap?

Cama glared at him and shifted her eyes to Tate, wordlessly signaling for Jake not to swear in front of him.

That land’s worth millions, he said.

Money. Naturally. I can see why you two get on so well.

Need I remind you that legal fees paid for this place?

Hardly. I was thinking of having that engraved on your headstone.

He studied her over the rim of his glass. That will no longer be your responsibility. Fortunately for me.

She kept her expression neutral and met his gaze. I don’t like this, Jake. You don’t know the boat. Don’t know the area… She could have gone on, played the South Carolina card. The crash had happened somewhat south of where he and Tate would be, but still. He’d call it a cheap shot and say her fears were irrational, and he’d be right on both counts. The simple truth was she didn’t want to be parted from Tate for a whole week. Here was that skewed math again: one plus two never making three.

Have a little faith, Cama, he said, and poured his drink down the drain.

3:20 PM

Cama and Tate stood on the edge of Walden Pond, gazing out at a small flock of Canada geese huddled in the middle. They would start south soon in honking, uneven chevrons, a migration Cama always envied as the sun slunk ever lower in the fall sky. By winter, it seemed to lose its will to rise at all over the cheerless white, gray, and brown landscape. Although it had been years since she’d left her childhood home in South Carolina, she still remembered the sultry air, sweet with the scent of gardenia, magnolia, and jessamine. White Head, Massachusetts, where she’d gone to live after the accident, always smelled to Cama of wet wool and cedar and seemed perpetually muffled in fog.

Tate held up a recently hatched snapping turtle, its head and legs tucked tight within its shell.

I won’t hurt you, he said softly. Come out. Tate looked up at his mother, and Cama knew what was coming. Can I take him home?

She studied his earnest little face. Tate’s skin had little of the dark pigment she inherited from her mother. He got her curls, but his were not as tightly coiled, nor as dark. Cama’s complexion, the color of light coffee, puzzled strangers when they met her. She’d watch them try to work it out: Hispanic? Pacific Islander? Swarthy Mediterranean? Although she was dark enough to puzzle strangers, she was light enough to pass for white, which is what her aunt and uncle, Jeanne and Reed Davis, had her do when she went to live with them in White Head after her parents were killed. She’d resented their request; she’d liked the black half of her heritage. They said they had their reasons, although they wouldn’t tell her what they were. It will be easier for you, was all Uncle Reed would say. Cama, then only ten years old, had been in no position to protest.

She’d dutifully borne her secret through elementary and high school, but decided that when she got to college, should anyone ask, she’d tell them, My mother was black. My father white. She was curious to know how her life might change if she started to embrace that black side. Color wasn’t only skin-deep. Whole new aspects of Cama’s personality, ones that she’d hidden so deep and so well she feared they’d withered and died, would come to light and blossom. For she’d loved the slow cadence of her mother’s speech with its roots set deep in the Low Country of the Gullah, loved her stories about Ananse the spider, the wise tortoise, the trickster hare, and wily jackal. Had loved her unshakable belief in the hereafter, the spirit world. Her ghost stories.

No one asked. People seemed to prefer to make up their own minds about Cama’s coloring and hair. Maybe they were embarrassed. Or didn’t care. Jake knew, of course. And her best friend Ellie. But few others. The lie had become as much a part of Cama as the small scar on her forehead, the only visible reminder of the crash. Another aspect of her life about which no one knew the real story. In this case, not even Cama.

Do you think he’d be happy living in an apartment in the city? she asked Tate, as he stood before her, turtle in hand. They get pretty big.

Yes. Tate seemed clear on this point. I’ll get him a really big tank so he can, like, swim around and stuff.

He or she has friends here, brothers and sisters. Don’t you think she’ll miss them?

We can take them too. Tate stroked the turtle’s tiny shell. I want it badly. Ple-e-ease? I really miss my hamster.

No, Tate. She watched his lower jaw come out, his forehead crinkle. He was working up to a cry. He’s a wild turtle. He needs to stay in the wild. But I was thinking… we could adopt a cat. Would you like that?

Tate looked up, eyes wide. Let’s call her Bertha.

Bertha? Cama was startled, as always, to be reminded that this little person had his own mind, his own likes and dislikes. What if we get a boy?

He stroked the turtle’s shell a moment. Then Bert.

And that was that.

They placed the turtle back on the ground, where it scrambled toward the water.

After supper she and Tate snuggled in a lounge chair on the rooftop patio, identified constellations, and watched for shooting stars. They did this most evenings. On crisp winter nights, they bundled themselves in hats and layers of blankets. Tonight was mild with a soft breeze.

There’s Cassiopeia, Tate said.

What’s that? she asked, pointing to another.

Ursula Minor, he said.

Ursa, she corrected. And the very bright one at the end of its tail?

Polaris.

And only six! One day he’ll be a famous astronomer with his very own star. She pulled him close. You won’t have all these lights in South Carolina. You and Daddy will be able to see a lot more stars. The rivers there are so black, when you look into the water at night and the stars are out, it’s like having two skies. Every now and then an image like this, long forgotten, popped out unbidden, surprising her.

He was silent a moment, gazing heavenward, before he asked the question she’d been dreading, Why can’t you come too?

This is a guy trip, she said to him with enthusiasm she did not feel. You’ll have fun with Daddy. She hoped she sounded convincing. Tate was now the child of a broken home. Broken home—she hated that expression. As if she couldn’t provide a sound home for her son without his father present. As if she hadn’t been doing that all along.

But I’ll miss you. His hazel eyes with their gold flecks, like reflected stars, grew serious.

Too serious for six, she thought. I’ll miss you too. Tell you what, every night before bed you look up and find Polaris, and I’ll look up too, and it will be like we’re looking at it together.

Sing me that song.

She didn’t need to ask which one. She sang it to him every night, as her mother had done for her.

"Thula thul, thula mama, thula sana,

Thul'umam uzobuya, ekuseni.

Thula thul, thula mama, thula sana,

Thul'umam uzobuya, ekuseni."

If her mother had ever given her its meaning, Cama had long since forgotten.

They looked up just in time to see a star sprint across the sky, and Cama thought about that other shooting star, the one she’d seen heading straight for her parents’ windshield before the crash, and wondered.

Two

Mmere Dane

Change

Friday, August 15, 6:18 AM

Cama had been up since five and hadn’t fallen asleep until two. She’d made sandwiches for the trip and packed and repacked Tate’s duffel three times, adding another pair of socks, a book, a jacket.

Ready? Jake called from the doorway of the apartment. Let’s hustle, buddy.

Tate raced out of his room. Cama, ignoring Jake’s tapping foot, knelt down, and hugged her son. Remember to wear a hat, sunscreen, and a life jacket. How could she let him go? She couldn’t. Her heart hammered. This saying goodbye was even harder than she’d imagined.

He’ll be fine. Relax, Jake said. We’ve got to get going. I don’t want to miss our plane.

I forgot Tigger, Tate said with alarm, broke free from her arms, and bounded back to his room for his stuffed tiger.

Spud, I think you’ve got enough stuff already, Jake called. Maybe we leave the tiger home?

He will not go to sleep without it, Cama said, worried that Jake didn’t know this. Seriously, you do not want to leave Tigger behind.

He nodded but seemed not to believe her.

I am not kidding—

Got it, Cam. Relax.

Get him to bed early. He likes—

I know what he likes. I’m his father. Remember?

Tate ran back, clutching the tiger, its fur hugged to a smooth nap, its once shiny eyes now holding the dull sheen of cataracts.

Ready, sailor? Jake asked, grabbing Tate’s duffel bag before heading down the hall to the elevator. Jesus, what’s in here?

Bye, Mommy.

Bye, sweetie. I love you. She pressed Tate to her once again, breathing in his familiar scent, still slightly sweet from last night’s bubble bath. Then Tate was squirming free and hurrying after his father. Cama followed. It was all happening too fast. Be careful, she said, unable to shake the feeling that she’d forgotten something.

We’ll call when we’re settled, Jake said, pushing the down button. Cama handed Tate his Red Sox cap as the elevator door began to close.

Remember to look for Polaris, Tate called as the door whispered shut and he disappeared from sight.

Then she was alone, her spirits descending floor-by-floor along with the elevator. She held onto the wall to stop herself from running for the stairs, feet clattering, around and around as she descended, heart pounding, then exploding out the back door, shouting, Wait, I’m coming with you!

They would turn and stare, Tate confused, Jake annoyed, at her standing on the sidewalk barefoot and still wearing her pajamas. So she remained rooted by the elevator as the hallway grew increasingly quiet and empty and then expanded in size. She shook off the feeling, chalking it up to sleep deprivation and the overactive imagination she’d been rightly accused of having all her life. It will get you in real trouble one of these days, her father had told her many times when she was young. The trouble was that Cama always felt certain her intuition was right. And just often enough, it was. Even her mother had cautioned Cama that she must learn to harness her imaginings.

The gray and black tones of the kitchen only heightened her bleak mood, so, after pouring coffee, she retreated to her office, which looked as though it had been annexed from another time. Her father’s hulking mahogany desk and chair, ergonomically wrong, yet utterly comfortable, stood against one wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Boston’s waterfront, from the shipyards of Charlestown to the harbor islands. She watched the early ferry from Hingham pull in. The few cars on the street below moved easily. She studied the traffic, trying to make out which one was Jake and Tate’s cab.

She sat down at the desk, which had arrived in White Head not long after Cama. Her father had been a civil rights lawyer. Instead of the computer now perched on the desk, his old Underwood had stood there. She pictured him hammering out briefs and memos. He liked to hear the words, he’d told her, to feel the keys hit the page. To see ink pressed onto paper. Indelible. Trustworthy. She ran her fingers over the indentations in the wood left by the typewriter’s four metal feet, and then slid open the top drawer. Vapors of lemon oil, dried ink, and desiccated eraser wafted up, carrying memories of her childhood, the first chapter of which had ended as Cama and her parents were driving back from her Nana Celestine’s funeral.

Nana Celestine’s house stood on an island that had never seemed like an island to Cama. Certainly not like the one in Island of the Blue Dolphins. Nana Celestine’s island, the island of her mother’s childhood in South Carolina’s Low Country, had only a slow, brown river dividing it from the mainland.

They’d been cruising along a back road, singing a Joni Mitchell song—that’s how Cama remembered it—when their windshield filled with blinding light, and Cama, seated in back, had watched, transfixed, as a shooting star headed their way. Do you see it? she’d been about to shout, when her father swore, something he never did, and swerved. The windshield bloomed with a thousand tiny cracks, and their car left the road, sailed airborne for a moment like a carnival ride, and hit a tree. She’d heard screams—possibly her own, possibly her parents’—before everything went black.

Her Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Reed encouraged Cama to leave what memories she had behind. Memories of the accident, of the shooting star (no one had believed her anyway) memories of Nana Celestine and her mother’s childhood village on that sea island. But for the next twenty-four years she carried them with her. Like old photos handled too much and exposed too long to the sun, they’d become so faded and worn, she could no longer tell which were memories and which her imaginings.

Cama had no photographs of her mother, but saw, in her mind, a woman nearly six feet tall, with wide cheekbones and skin a