say to me, just how much to tell me, and after all I’ve shared with him and confided in him, this burns me up, as in I can feel my ears and face catching fire. He opens his mouth and what I hear is, I’ve changed my mind about you. I just don’t like you anymore. What he actually says is, “Something came up. I couldn’t be here. But I’m here now.” His voice goes completely Southern, the way it does when he doesn’t want to get too serious. But there’s an edge to it. He’s here, but not here.
“If something came up, you could have found me or left a note or told someone to find me. You know what, not that it matters. I mean, you’re free to do whatever you want. It’s just rude to make someone wait around for you.”
“So let’s go now.”
I could tell him I have plans, try to make him jealous, but instead I’m honest: “I don’t want to.” And I go back inside and shut the door.
I stand against it, face and ears hot with anger and something else—the sting of betrayal, but not quite that strong. Disappointment, maybe. I feel let down. He’s letting me down by not telling me the truth about where he was. I wait for a good minute or two before looking out the window, and by that time he’s gone.
* * *
—
The museum sits on the water on the southwestern side of the island, a simple white building that was once used as an icehouse for Rosecroft. I can tell Mom is surprised to see me, but all she says is, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I step inside and suddenly I’ve gone hurtling back in time. The building itself is old, with worn, cracked walls made of tabby, a concrete mixture of lime and crushed oyster shells. The air is musty, as if the windows haven’t been opened in a hundred years, or however long this place has stood here. My mom locks the door behind us because the museum is only open on Fridays and Tuesdays or by appointment.
The glass cases hold mostly animal bones, an old tortoise shell, arrowheads of all sizes, and china and silver engraved with a B for Blackwood, among other things belonging to the family—a Bible, a guest book opened to a page covered in signatures, candlesticks, several pieces of jewelry. Framed photos and paintings of the more famous island residents line the walls, going all the way back to the Native Americans.
I follow Mom into the musty back room, which is smaller than the general store and stacked floor to ceiling with books and boxes and old peach crates. In that moment, I suddenly see what she’s been doing the past two weeks: the labeled file boxes, the papers in piles, marked by names and eras. It’s like all of the island—its years and years, its people—is right here. And this is one of the things that amaze me about my mom. She is bringing order to the history of this place, finding universal stories in the scraps. She has done this in fourteen days in the midst of her greatest heartbreak.
She says, “Before I got here, these papers were just sitting out on display, where anyone could pick them up and take them home. No one had ever bothered organizing them before now. Still no word from Tillie, though, and I’ve pretty much laid eyes on everything. I’m worried Claudine might have destroyed whatever existed, because otherwise it’s so strange. Like, who leaves nothing behind?”
I recognize the tone in her voice and the expression on her face. When a project catches hold of her, she is flushed and dusty and her eyes shine like quarters, and you can almost hear the crackling and popping of her brain, even when she’s doing something completely unrelated, like eating dinner or watching TV. When she’s deep in a project, a part of her is always in it, no matter what.
“You’re in the throes,” I say. Because that’s the way she’s always described it—like falling in love with someone for the first time. You’re swept away and it’s all you can think of, and you feel it everywhere, not just in your mind.
She holds up her hands like, I have no choice. She says, “I’m in the throes.”
I want to be in the throes too. I want a project like this that will fill every inch of me and float me