I had gotten on the road early, but there was no way I was driving eight hours straight. I couldn’t sit still that long. I planned to stop in Green’s Mill, Alabama, at a brand new bed and breakfast called the Delight of the South. The hotel’s newness did not guarantee I would have a dream-free night, but I had a backup plan. I dug around blindly in my purse for the sleeping pills Dr. O’Neal had prescribed me. I was glad I’d remembered them, but I hated taking them. I always woke up feeling stupid, and the pills did not completely stop the dreams from coming. If the dream was there, I would still remember flashes of it the next day. But with sleeping pills, the dreams, unremembered and unappreciated faded quickly and settled back into the darkness.
I remembered the first time I took something to sleep. I would wake up screaming; masses of slithering snakes struggled to choke and strangle me in my dream, all because my mother, in a daze of medication or occasionally alcohol, had climbed in the bed with me to sleep. I could feel her loneliness, her confusion, her anger as she snored. At times I felt sorry for her, but then the snakes came while she slept. And in the daylight hours, the softness was gone.
I had plundered my mother’s medicine cabinet and stolen one of her Valiums. “They always put her to sleep, so why not me?” my preteen self reasoned. I lingered on the memory, standing guiltily in front of that vanity mirror for a moment. I remembered thinking, “What would Jesus think about me stealing pills and doing drugs?” Hot tears had slid down my young face as I took the pill, choking it down without water.
Momma thought I was crazy, but the feeling was mutual. When I was about twelve, I’d tried to escape her cold indifference for a night by going to a neighbor’s sleepover. I had felt safe and warm snuggled up with my sunny, red-haired friend Virginia. That night, Ginny had dreamed of her stepfather slipping into her room, sliding into her bed, lifting her pajamas and...
I was seized by Ginny’s terror. I’d even felt her physical pain and woke up bathed in tears and blood. I had uncovered a tragic secret that would cost me a friendship. Even after Ginny’s stepdad was arrested, I heard nothing from her. The unexpected twist was getting my first period, which had both confused and offended me. And I had made another discovery—screaming woke me from the nightmares that I witness occasionally.
I had not come home to find a sympathetic, benevolent mother. The short version of the story was Momma told her insipid religious friends that “Carrie Jo was psychic,” and her prayer group tried to exorcise me. “Carrie Jo is full of the devil,” Momma cried to anyone who would listen.
Momma never could keep a secret, not even her own. And she had plenty of them, I thought with a defiance and bitterness that almost smothered me.
Eventually, I wised up and kept my mouth shut about the dreams. If Momma and I had not moved around so much when I was growing up, I probably would have put those dream “demons” to sleep a bit easier. Instead, I slept in a constantly changing environment that included trailers, cheap motels and run-down homes most of my life until I left for college.
I shook my head to snap out of my reverie. I hated thinking about the past, but it chased me so much. I searched for a talk radio channel just to give myself something else to think about.
* * *
At lunch, I carried the binder of notes I had collected into a diner named Sal’s and reread what I had been sent about my new project, Seven Sisters. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich but sacrificially ignored the fries that came with it. I felt fat in my white shorts. They were a size ten, and I didn’t want to move up to a twelve again. I had spent a lot of time walking the track near my home this past spring. I wasn’t a big health nut, but I did like walking outdoors and exploring new scenery.
I smoothed my hand over the glossy picture of Seven Sisters, examining the columned facade of the main house. The antebellum home, the brief read, was built in 1823 by a family who went bankrupt shortly after the work was completed. By 1825, the wealthy Cottonwoods had purchased the mansion, renaming it Seven Sisters. Looking back at me from the collection of papers was a young woman with big, dark eyes, wearing a full-skirted gown with lace trim. She was riveting.
From what I had gathered from multiple video conferences and emails with the owner’s attorney, the goal was to make Seven Sisters a sort of museum for visitors to Mobile, but the current owner had enough respect for the home’s history to want a proper catalogue of its antiques first. That earned them points in my book. Too many people forget the past—I never could; it wouldn’t allow me to.
I was the chief historian assigned to the project. I much preferred working alone, but that was impossible on a job this size. Luckily, my dearest friend and fellow historian, Mia, would be joining me soon. She had recommended me for the lead position, despite her own qualifications. She was one of the few people who knew about my “dream catching,” as she called it. She never stayed in one spot too long—she had spent a few months in Egypt, then travelled to the UK for a tour of medieval castles, and then lived in Paris with a friend for six months over a bakery. I loved her confidence, her zest for life and her ability to travel like a local.
Mia knew more about antebellum artifacts than anyone I knew, which was hilarious considering Egyptology was her first love. I hadn’t seen her since Christmas; I was excited to catch up on her latest adventures.
Right after college, I had worked on a few estate projects cataloging for an auction house. I was sad to see each antique sold off to the highest bidder. For a few months, I had possessed them, lovingly working to establish each item’s value and historical importance. How I cried when the Trevi figurine, “Genteel Boy on Rocking Horse,” sold at auction. The company had moved to Tennessee, and I had turned down an invitation to relocate with them. I’m not sure why.
I couldn’t wait to see what Seven Sisters and Mobile had in store for me. Comparable to Charleston, Mobile had its charms; at least that’s what the brochures told me. Coming so late in spring, I missed the city’s big Mardi Gras party, but I wasn’t much of a partier. I preferred studying the belongings of people who no longer walked the earth to drinking and dancing with its current residents.
I passed on a second glass of tea, as I didn’t want to make another stop before calling it a day at the Delight of the South, but I gave the waitress a big smile all the same. I had a soft spot for hard-working women, having been one for so long.
I tucked a defiant curl behind my ear and flipped through the brief again. I would be working with Ashland Stuart, the current owner. His attorney had mailed me his picture and a brief summary of his credentials. He was incredibly handsome, in a masculine, southern kind of way. (Too perfect. He must be short.) He had short, blond hair with expressive blue eyes and a slightly pink, kissable mouth. I knew I had been staring too long at the photo because the waitress (Susan, according to her pink nametag) said, “Wow! He your boyfriend?”
“Nope, just a business partner.” I smiled and flushed.
“Lucky girl.” She tossed her head slightly in the direction of an open kitchen window at a heavyset man sweating over a grill. “He’s my business partner.” I laughed along with her but decided that was my cue to leave. I paid the bill, gathered the paperwork and left a nice tip for Susan. After she caught me leering at the picture of a complete stranger, it felt like passing off hush money.
Naturally, I thought of William, and I welcomed the guilt that seemed to surround everything in our relationship—or whatever it was. While the car’s interior cooled off, I rang him back. His voicemail picked up, and I was so surprised that I stumbled over leaving a message.
“Hey, William, I’ll be in Green’s Mill soon. I’m doing fine, and the car is great. I wanted to say, I mean...I’ll try to call again when I get to my room. Okay? Okay, talk to you later. Oh, this is Carrie Jo.” Yep, that sounded dumb and guilty.