The Summer I Learned to Dive

Chapter 3

Five hours later, I was in Greenville, South Carolina. Elizabeth hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear, “Good luck honey. They’re going to adore you.” She embraced me again and then let me go.

I watched her eagerly meet her daughter and granddaughter, they looked at me curiously. Her daughter asked her a question. Elizabeth said something to her and then smiled at me, waving goodbye. They appeared to be a loving family. She had offered to drive me to my grandparents but I told her no. I didn’t want to impose and I knew I needed to meet them on my own. I was unsure how they would react towards me and didn’t want my reunion with them to be witnessed by someone I had just met. I called another cab company and waited at the bus station watching people meet their loved ones wondering if my reunion with my grandparents would be the same. I wasn’t thrilled about riding in another cab, in fact I dreaded it. But there wasn’t any other way to get to where I was headed.

The cab arrived. It was old, like its driver, Herb. He spoke with a thick southern accent and his long, white mustache curled at the ends. He had a long drawl that made him a little difficult to understand. He chewed tobacco and spit into an empty Coke bottle every so often. I read him the return address that had been written on the envelope my grandparents sent.

“Graceville’s where I play bingo. I think I can gauge where that is,” he said and took my lone suitcase and placed it in the trunk. He opened the back door and closed it. Country music played on the radio. A Jesus Saves air freshener hung from the rear view mirror. Thankfully, this cab didn’t smell like onions. Instead it smelled like pipe tobacco and evergreens.

Herb was very chatty. He talked about anything, nothing of importance, nothing I could really understand. I barely said a word, only an “uh huh” or “yes” here and there, but that didn’t seem to bother him. I learned about the town of Graceville, when it had been established, and why it was called Graceville.

“John Brown and his wife Grace were the first inhabitants. He named the town after her,” he said and then spit into his Coke bottle.

He knew all sorts of facts about the upstate of South Carolina. A native, Herb had never lived anywhere else, and was proud of his heritage. “I gotta stop and get me some more chew, you mind?” He turned to face me, still driving. I would have normally been nervous that he wasn’t facing the road, but there wasn’t a car in sight, the road was empty.

“That’s fine,” I said trying to smile. What else could I say? He was driving the car.

We drove down Main Street which ran directly through the town. I felt like I had stepped back in time and entered the set of an old movie. A large white gazebo stood in the middle of the town’s square. Main Street was tree lined and full of red brick storefronts. The town was quaint and historic with a strong feeling of nostalgia. An old man sat in a rocking chair waving at us. It took me by surprise. I wasn’t accustomed to people being so friendly. I waved back at him and smiled. We drove further down the road, toward the town limits. Herb parked the cab in front of the RX, a local drugstore. I sat in the cab listening to the country music. It felt like hours. Herb had obviously stopped to chat with someone.

Needing to stretch, I got out of the cab and walked down the sidewalk toward the community pool. The pool could be seen from the main road. It was adjacent to the Graceville community center. A wrought iron fence surrounded it. The pool was full of children and adults. The summer heat must have made it a popular place to go. The cool water looked enticing. I wiped the sweat off of the back of my neck and watched as several children splashed each other. Their voices carried from a far distance. They were having the time of their lives. I envied them for their pure delight, for their ability to not have a care in the world. I watched as a very tan boy, who looked about my age, walked to the high dive, standing confidently at the top. One of the kids shouted something at him. He looked down at the kid and smiled and then he dove into the pool diving the most beautiful swan dive. He made it look so effortless and graceful. I couldn’t dive and so badly wanted to emulate what he had just done, to dive head first into the water without a fear in the world.

Herb shouted something to me forcing me to turn my head away from the boy and toward the cab. Herb motioned for me to come on. I walked toward him, ready to go.

“You can’t lollygag all day,” he said. I didn’t respond. It would have been a moot point to tell him that he had been the one “lollygagging.”

The ride to my grandparents’ house felt long and arduous. Nausea set in, thanks to the winding roads and the rollercoaster-like hills. The flat roads that I was accustomed to did not prepare me for the mountainous terrain that made my body forcefully swerve back and forth. Rolling the window down didn’t help ease the sickness. The car kept going in circles, up and down and up and down all over again. I felt like I was going nowhere. It didn’t help that Herb drove well above the speed limit, holding onto the steering wheel with one hand, spitting his dip into a bottle that he held with the other. I questioned to myself whether he even had a driver’s license. The faster he went, the more I moved. He had warned me that we were headed in the country and that some of the roads could be a bit rough. Rough as a description didn’t give it justice.

By the time I arrived, I was white as a ghost. My palms were sweaty. I felt as if I may vomit at any moment. I stepped out of the car, unable to stand. My legs shook. I bent over and dry heaved. He came over to me.

“You gonna make it?” he asked. He spit into his Coke bottle.

I shook my head and moved my lips giving a faint yes. I stood up and looked at my grandparents’ house for the first time. It was huge— a two-story farm house that appeared to have been built generations ago. The white paint was peeling and the shutters were a faded red, but it was still beautiful, like something I may see in a painting. On the porch, a swing swayed from the tepid breeze. The air was warm, but not as humid, not as intense as most of the summer days were in Tampa. The heat from the sun makes a direct bee line to Florida making it almost unbearable to be outside for more than an hour. The air felt cooler higher up and out of the foothills. The wind blew gently. This was the first time I had ever been in the mountains. I inhaled the aroma. It smelled sweet and pleasant like nature. There wasn’t a hint of smog or pollution, just pure air untouched by industry. To my left, I saw a garden full of tomatoes, lettuce and other vegetables. Trees lined the driveway; beautiful enormous trees that I had never seen before. They were lush and a variety of colors—green, red, and purple. At the base of the house, there were flowers in full bloom, in colors vibrant and rich. The scenery nearly took my breath away. Everywhere I turned, I could see majestic, enormous green mountains. A white picket fence stood in the distance, giving the home a welcoming feeling.

Herb interrupted my thoughts. “That’ll be fifty dollars,” he said wiping his forehead, he spit into his bottle again. He moved his head around searching for someone and saw no one was there. “You sure you want me to go? Ain’t no one here?” he asked.

“No thank you. I’ll be fine,” I said but I wasn’t even sure I would be welcome. For all they knew, I had brushed them off for years. They might want nothing to do with me. I handed him the cash; more of my savings—gone. He asked me one more time if I wanted him to go. I told him again that I was fine and he got into the cab and drove off quickly, in a hurry to go nowhere.

I walked toward the front door and up the porch stairs. I put my suitcase down and knocked on the door several times, subconsciously knowing that no one was home. No one answered. A large wind chime rang in the background. A hummingbird fluttered nearby. I peered through the window and could see that no one was home; all of the lights were off. Panic started to settle in. What if my grandparents had decided to go on vacation and I was stranded? Herb was gone and I was in the middle of the mountain countryside. The last house I had seen was more than a mile away. I looked at my cell and saw only one bar. It needed to be charged. This was worrisome. I sat down on the swing swaying back and forth, wondering what to do. I sat there for a long time, contemplating my next move.

I finally stood up and walked around the porch, peering into every window. I was curious. Gingham printed curtains lined one window; another was covered with lace sheers. It was a challenge to see inside, the curtains were covering the view. What I could see, I liked. The house had a warm feeling like there was life and love in it. I decidedly walked down the steps toward the garage. It was separated from the house. An old structure, it had small glass windows in the garage door. I stood on my tippy toes trying to see what was inside. I felt intrusive, but I was curious, too curious to just sit and wait. An old teal green Chevy in pristine condition was parked inside. I couldn’t tell what model it was. It looked like it was from the 1970’s. Cows mooed in the pasture across the road. I watched them for a few minutes. It was rare for me to see cattle. Cow pastures are nonexistent in Tampa. The cows ate constantly, unaware of me staring at them.

I walked toward the back of the house, discovering a small pond. I wanted to jump in it but decided against it once I saw the murkiness of the water. I would never have jumped in a lake in Florida. Alligators and water moccasins made every lake in Florida their permanent home. I never swam in them, the bottom was too gross, full of plants and weeds and other things that felt slimy. I looked again at the pond inundated with lily pads, watching as tiny fish swam aimlessly. I sat on the ground with my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. Taking my shoes off, I allowed my feet to breathe and rest from the last 24 hours. I sat there for a long time and thought, wondering what was going to happen next.

I stood up, picking up my shoes and carrying them in both hands, and walked barefoot toward the front of my grandparents’ home. It felt good to walk in the grass. Even the ground felt different. The soil was clay rather than sand. The blades tickled my feet, feeling like silk as I brushed my feet against them them on the ground. It felt so different than the sharp St. Augustine blades of grass that I was used to: grass that could never be walked on in bare feet for fear of fire ant bites. I sat down on the wooden swing, stained in a beautiful mahogany. The warm breeze blew gently on the back of my neck that was speckled with beads of sweat. I swayed back and forth, still lost in thought. The sun was starting to set. The sky was clear and cloudless, almost a perfect shade of orange and blue.

The loud noise from the truck startled me. It smelled like exhaust and sounded like a semi-truck but instead was a small truck that had seen its fair share of heartache. The engine roared its way into the driveway. The person driving was unconcerned with following a speed limit. The truck sped through the gravel driveway, rocks flying everywhere. Squirrels ran for their lives trying to avoid being hit. I worried the truck was going to slam into the outdoor garage as fast as it was going. It came to an abrupt stop, the engine cut. Out came an older petite woman with very short, salt and pepper hair. She was wearing jeans that were rolled up to her ankles with red tennis shoes and a pink Lilly’s Diner t-shirt. She had a small, delicate face. Her buttermilk complexion was smooth and had few wrinkles. Looking at her, I could see the resemblance. I was seeing a future vision of myself.

She walked hesitantly toward me, skeptically. She looked at me curiously, probably wondering why a teenage girl lingered on her porch in the early evening. I stood up, moving slowly toward her.

“Hey there,” she said uncertainly. “Can I help you?” she asked. She looked at me like she knew who I was but was second guessing herself. She squinted at me, trying to see me better.

“I’m Finley Hemmings, your granddaughter,” I said, my voice quivering. We were within a few feet of each other now.

“Finley,” she said rushing toward me. She grabbed me and held me tight. She smelled so good, like jasmine. “I’m so glad you are here,” her accent was faint, slow and sweet sounding. Her face touched mine, it was smooth and soft. She continued to hold me. I tried controlling my emotions. The last thing I wanted to do was stand there and cry. But the emotion of it all got to me and I couldn’t contain myself. I started crying, sobbing like a baby for several minutes while she just stood there and held me. We never stopped embracing. I think we both were too afraid to let go.

She released me and put her hand under my chin looking directly into my eyes, smiling at me appreciatively, appraising my facial features. “Look at you. You’re grown into such a beautiful young lady.”

I blushed from her remark pleased at what she said.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Let’s go inside.” Before I could say anything, she grabbed my suitcase without much effort, motioning to follow her inside her home. Her reception was what I had hoped it would be—welcoming and without any judgment.

The inside of the house smelled like vanilla and sugar cookies and instantly felt warm, like a country home. It was inundated with antique furniture, beautiful oak furniture that was still in good condition made more than a hundred years ago by expert craftsman. The craftsmanship was evident throughout the home. Oak trim and oak doors with old glass door knobs could be seen in every room. The walls were adorned with an eclectic grouping of art: rich landscapes, vibrant abstracts, and old family photos of relatives I had never met nor knew existed. The house was full of color. Each room was painted in a cheery bright color: orange, green, yellow, and blue. No wall was plain white or bare. The old oak floors creaked loudly as we walked. She placed my suitcase at the base of the massive wooden staircase. The railing was a stunning wrought iron that was intricately and uniquely designed.

“How about we have a cup of tea while we get to know each other?” she offered, leading me into her kitchen.

It was large, big enough to fit a breakfast table for six with room to spare. The cabinets were painted white, the walls a bright yellow. The room felt sunny, happy, like it had a lot of life. She had a knack for strawberries that was obvious. Strawberry wallpaper accented one wall. A large painting of a basket of strawberries hung on another. There were strawberry placemats on the table, and something I’ve never seen, a strawberry cookie jar. Even her rug was red, the color of strawberries. I looked around curiously.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fix us something to eat. Surely you’re hungry,” she said. As she opened the lime green refrigerator door, it squeaked loudly. She took out a jar of grape jelly, setting it down on the counter. She opened one of the cabinets making a loud creaking sound and took out a jar of peanut butter. She slathered peanut butter and jelly onto two slices of bread and brought the sandwich over to the table.

“Thank you,” I said. I felt my stomach grumble. It had been a while since I had eaten. I took a large bite of the sandwich, nearly finishing it within the first few bites. I was ravenous.

“What brings you here after all this time?” she asked standing in front of the sink, her back to me. She turned the faucet on and poured water in a tea kettle. She placed the tea kettle on the stove and walked over to the table sitting down facing me.

“It’s a long story,” I began.

“Well, I’d like to hear it.” She patted my hand. She was very touchy, unlike my mother, and I liked it.

“I didn’t know you were trying to contact me all this time. I just found out yesterday,” I said. I found myself crying again. She moved over to me consoling me, squeezing me tightly on the shoulder.

“I always hoped that was the case that you wanted to know us. Your mama doesn’t like us very much. I figured her feelings about us had influenced yours,” she said and frowned.

“They didn’t. If I had known,” I started.

“Shh, it’s okay honey. I understand. I’m just glad you’re here now,” she said smiling at me. The tea kettle whistled and she stood up to take it off the stove. She poured it into a tea pot, adding two large tea bags and more than a cup of sugar.

“I would have written you or called you. I believed you didn’t want anything to do with me,” I said. I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Why didn’t you try calling me?” I asked looking at her desperately.

She frowned. “We did many times. But after several attempts, your mama changed her phone number to unlisted. The last time we talked to her was years ago and she told me in no uncertain terms to leave you alone.” She took a deep breath. “Course that didn’t stop us from sending you cards in the mail.”

*************

The phone rang. I ran to get the phone, hoping to answer it before my mom could.

“Hello,” I said, my voice high pitched and youthful.

“Finley,” the woman had said.

“Finn,” I corrected her with a subtle lisp, my two front baby teeth missing.

“Finn. It’s your Nana,” she had said.

“Nana?” I said confused.

She asked, “I’m your grandmother and love you very much. Are you having a good Christmas?”

“Yes,” I said and nodded, forgetting that she could not see me through the phone.

“Finn, who are you talking to?” my mother asked.

“Nana,” I answered.

“Give me that,” she said grabbing the phone from my hand.

“Don’t call us again,” she said before hanging up the phone.

********************

She handed me a rose-colored mug. I held the handle, it was still very hot. I placed the cup on the table and blew into it hoping to cool the tea. I took a sip. Nana had added evaporated milk which made it sweet and delicious almost like liquid candy.

“I don’t know why she didn’t want me to have anything to do with you and my grandfather.” It should have felt strange saying the word “grandfather,” but it seemed to come out naturally as if I had known them all of my life.

She took a deep breath and raised her eyebrows. “I am just glad you are here now.”

“Me, too,” I smiled, feeling a sense of peace, like I was at home.

We sat at the table talking for hours. I learned that my grandparents owned Lilly’s Diner. It was one of the few restaurants in town and the only one within miles, mostly frequented by locals and tourists driving on a country road for a weekend drive. I discovered that Nana and I shared a love for books and reading. Her library put mine to shame. She had her own room filled with bookshelves that were stacked with books that she had read over the years. I learned that I was named after my great-grandmother and that she was my dad’s favorite grandparent. He had named me after much debate with my mother who had wanted to call me Tallulah. Thankfully, my father won that argument. The years of separation didn’t impact my ability to converse so easily with her. I felt like I had known her my entire life.

“I don’t understand why my mother kept me from you,” I said shaking my head.

She placed her hand under my chin and rubbed it gently with her fingers. “Your mama didn’t handle things well once your dad was gone. There was a lot of hurt and blame and,” she sighed heavily, “unfortunately, she thought it best that we not be a part of your life—a decision your grandfather and I’ll never understand.” Her forehead creased, her facial expression thoughtful. “Fortunately,” she smiled at me, “you’re here now and we can get to know each other. Tell me more about you. I want to hear more about you, what you want and hope for,” she said nudging me, her voice encouraging.

I smiled at her and began talking, telling her about myself, so we could connect the sixteen years of separation.

It was later in the evening when my grandfather arrived. I was so exhausted from the day that I went to bed early before I had the chance to meet him. Once I went to bed, however, I couldn’t sleep. I was too wired from the day. I lay awake in my father’s bed in his old room. It felt strange lying there. I knew very little about him. My mother didn’t say much. From what I could see, nothing had changed in this room since he lived in it. Trophies and a few books filled the shelves. Framed photos of him in little league uniforms stood on one shelf. A guitar sat in its case against the wall, collecting dust. An odd but stunning abstract painting, probably painted by my dad, hung on one wall. Posters of old rock bands were hung on another. On his desk a large framed photograph stood alone. It was a picture of my dad holding me when I was a baby. It was the first photo I’ve ever seen of my dad and I and I couldn’t stop staring at it. Mom didn’t have any of the two of us together at home. I never knew that any existed. I picked it up and held it close to me, scrutinizing it, bit by bit, piece by piece. I studied his face. I saw the resemblance; his reddish hair, his green eyes. He couldn’t have been older than 21 or 22 in the picture, but he appeared older, his eyes tired, dark circles shadowing underneath. A few wrinkles creased around them. His smile was broad and genuine. He held me in his arms, his eyes on me. I looked at my face, innocent and full of wonder, young and impressionable, safe in my dad’s arms.

I heard the door open downstairs. His footsteps were loud and heavy; his voice even louder and very husky. My grandfather spoke a decibel above most people. He had a strong southern accent, more pronounced than my grandmother’s. They talked, but I only captured a glimpse of the conversation.

“Why do you think she’s here now Lilly?”

“Because she just found out about us. You know Hillary didn’t want her to have anything to do with us,” she whispered loudly. She added, “She’s real smart Charlie. She was top in her class. She’s very inquisitive and asked a lot of questions about Pete.”

“What’d you tell her?” he asked.

“That the day she was born was the happiest day in his life,” she replied.

He took a deep breath. “I still don’t understand why she’s here now. Is she in some type of trouble? Does she want money?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes at his remark. I couldn’t believe he would even think these things about me.

“No, Charlie. You’re being ridiculous. Wait till you meet her. She reminds me a lot of you,” she said.

“Humph,” my grandfather responded skeptically. “We’ll just wait and see about that.”