“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”
I light the stove and start to stir, the skillet hissing and the kitchen starting to fill with the scent of salt and herbs as I pour the creamy mixture onto the hot surface, batting away the steam. I almost don’t hear the soft approach of footsteps padding across the landing, the creak of the floorboards as an invisible weight shifts away from the hall and into the kitchen. The arrival of a new voice, light and sweet like frothed milk.
“My darlings.”
I turn around and take in the sight of my mother leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching us. She looks like an angel in her white robe, the gauzy material delicate and thin. I can see the outline of her legs and hips; the gentle slope of her stomach as she walks across the windows, light shining through.
“You two are getting so grown,” she says, opening the windows to let in a breeze before striding over to the table and taking a seat next to Margaret. She rests her head in her hand, her hair a mess of thick, brown curls cascading over her shoulders, and I can see dried remnants of the always-there paint peeking out from behind the sleeve of her robe: royal blue and emerald green and blood red. A rainbow of birthmarks that never really leave. “I wish you could stay my babies forever.”
She puts her hand on Margaret’s cheek, rubbing her skin with the back of her thumb, and smiles, looking at us in a dreamy kind of bewilderment. Like she almost can’t believe we’re real.
“Have you named her yet?” she asks, gesturing to Margaret’s doll, her fingers absentmindedly twisting through her hair.
“Ellie,” Margaret says, tilting her head. “Like Eloise.”
Mom is still, quiet, her fingers stuck in the strands.
“Eloise,” she repeats.
Then Margaret smiles, nods, and the silence is broken again by her lullaby—“And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring”—followed by a burst of my mother’s laughter, high-pitched and fragile, like shattering glass.
CHAPTER NINE
NOW
I hop into my car and drive downtown, gliding into a parking spot along Chippewa Square. The early March air is crisp and clean, and I decide to stroll without direction until the vigil starts, walking past the fragrant azalea gardens and a tarnished brass statue of General James Oglethorpe looking down on us all. Walking the squares always gives me a sense of peace, a sense of calm, which I know I’ll need tonight. Eventually, I find myself on Abercorn, on the outskirts of Colonial Park Cemetery, staring through the giant stone archway topped with that big bronze bird.
There are over ten thousand headstones in that cemetery, a useless piece of trivia I learned on my first day at The Grit. I look to the left—the office, my old office, is only a few blocks north, closer to the river. I used to be able to see it every day: the Savannah River, winding in the distance through those gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows as I sat at my desk, tapping out articles.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
I remember looking up at Kasey, my tour guide and mentor. She was a lifestyle reporter, too, two years my senior and tasked with greeting me at the front door on my first day of work. I remember thinking everything about her was perfect that day, the surrealism of my dream come true painting everything in a warm, white glow: her blond ringlet curls and the way her talon fingernails tapped against a glass coffee mug filled with a latte dispensed from the office coffee maker. I tried to keep up with her heels clicking against the floor, a restored hardwood, as she gave me the official tour.
“Sorry, what?”
“Ghosts,” she repeated. “Savannah is supposed to be haunted. The most haunted city in America, in fact. Even this very building has a ghost story or two.”
I looked around, the modern office looking the exact opposite of a haunted house.
“Sometimes, people say they can feel a cold little shiver go down the back of their spine when they’re the last one to leave at night.”
“Oh.” I laughed, unsure if she was kidding. Judging by her expression, she wasn’t. “No, actually. I don’t think I do.”
And that was the truth, sort of. I didn’t believe in ghosts—not the traditional kind, anyway, the kind they show in the movies—but my mother used to tell us stories about something else, something harder to explain. She used to tell us that all those little experiences you could never put your finger on—a tickle on the back of your neck, a nagging feeling that you were forgetting something, that creeping sense of déjà vu that flared up when you visited someplace new—were other souls trying to send you a message. Living or dead, it didn’t matter. Just other souls. I never thought of it as being haunted, exactly. Just gently reminded. A peaceful prodding that there was something that needed to be remembered. Something important. Margaret and I used to try it sometimes, squeezing our eyes shut and attempting to will each other to sneak into the other’s bedroom at night or grab a cookie out of the kitchen pantry.