Like Mom, Louisa Lachicotte married a local lawyer. Also like Mom, the only time she didn’t live South of Broad was when she went off to Vanderbilt University. Louisa has been Mom’s BFF since they were first graders at Crescent Academy. Mom even named Weezy after her (Louisa got shortened to Weezy). Now, they’re doubles partners and both have leadership roles in the Ladies’ Charleston Charities. They host parties for each other’s children to celebrate major occasions. Louisa hosted a debutante brunch for both Weezy and me. Now, she’s doing it for Caroline.
Louisa’s house appears frozen in time. Nothing ever was—or ever will be—out of place. Perfectly manicured ficus vines grow on the risers of the steps leading up to the front piazza. In the planting bed that runs alongside the driveway, the Ligustrum must have been trimmed with embroidery scissors and a magnifying glass.
A single row of blue agapanthus provides the one touch of color in an otherwise monochromatic landscape. “Too many colors would compete with one another, don’t you think?” Louisa once asked me. While I can see her point, I prefer the bombastic, exuberant blooms of Laudie’s mismatched zinnias.
Because I’ll spend the better part of this day in a windowless newsroom writing stories about beach options for the July 4 weekend, I take a moment before going inside to sit on the joggling board.
Lots of Charlestonians have a joggling board on their piazzas; it’s a long, thin, flexible plank of southern pine supported on either end by rockers, which moves the joggler up and down, side to side. It’s traditionally painted “Charleston green,” a green so dark it is barely distinguishable from black. The story goes that young, aspiring lovers would each sit demurely at one end; as an evening of bouncing and rocking wore on, girl and boy would gradually find themselves side by side at the dip in the middle.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Mom calls from the front door. She wears a pleated lavender dress and kitten heels.
“Hi, Mom.”
She sits next to me. The joggling board sinks a bit farther; we slide a little closer together. The Ashley River glitters in the distance. Pillowy cumulous clouds drift overhead. “Have you called Trip yet?”
“No.”
“I haven’t told anyone about you two. You could get back together, you know. Plus, we want to keep the focus on Caroline.”
“It’s a special day for her.”
“It is.” Mom studies her hands; she toys with a cocktail ring on her right hand.
“Is that from Dad?” She must have cashed in a few birthday gift cards.
She lifts her hand. “It’s a tourmaline. Do you like it?”
Tiny white diamonds encircle a pink stone. Part of me wonders if those are blood diamonds. Another part of me wants to wear it. “I think it’s pretty.” I pat her skirt. “Let’s go inside.”
We enter the foyer. An enormous bouquet of Madonna lilies and white roses perfumes the house. A curving staircase draws my eye up toward the crystal chandelier, which, refracting light, scatters jewel-like rainbows over the crowd.
Caroline’s friends look like professional models: tiny waists, shiny hair, good bones. Mom’s friends also look lovely, though it’s likely many have had facelifts—discreet ones, of course—and probably all have been recently Botoxed.
Young, old, and in between, we all wear dresses. Some debutantes push the hemline, but for the most part, we wear what we’d put on for an Easter service. The dresses are either in solid colors—lemon, cantaloupe, raspberry, pistachio—or else patterned with flowers. No black, brown, or beige in sight. I’m no exception. I purchased a floral dress—one with pink peonies—from a consignment store. Since Mom didn’t comment on it, the dress passes muster.
The food is arrayed on old silver and Delft china platters that have been placed around the mahogany dining table. Everything on offer has been miniaturized, downsized, feminized: baby ham biscuits, mini tomato pies, itty-bitty crab cakes, and—essential at all South of Broad events—Mrs. Harley’s crustless tea sandwiches on white bread. Each sandwich is bonded with liberal amounts of mayonnaise and then quartered into soft triangles. Most parties serve all four types of Mrs. Harley’s sandwiches: chicken salad, pimento cheese, shrimp, and cucumber.
“Where’s Laudie?” I pop a mini tomato pie into my mouth.
“She’s not coming.”
“Why?”
“Because Tito doesn’t want her to get hurt. As I’m sure you recall, she nearly collapsed at the barre.”
“You told Tito.” It’s hard to swallow.
“Of course I told him. He’s there all day and can keep an eye on her.”
“But she wants to be here—”
“It’s not worth the risk, Simons.”
In a rustle and blur of aquamarine silk, Louisa appears. “How are you?” she asks in the familiar drawl of a woman with a proper Charleston pedigree. Her smile exaggerates the ligaments in her neck. She flings her arms wide for a hug.
I lean in, careful not to muss her hairdo. “Hi, Louisa. It’s such a lovely party. Thank you so much for doing this for Caroline.”
“Of course!” She blows me a kiss, dispatching me toward the bar.
In the creamy white living room, a pair of mint-colored tufted chairs has been pushed beneath the window. A couple of Mom’s friends roost on the chairs’ edges, legs crossed, skirts tucked over their knees. Directly beneath a brass chandelier is the bar. On it are cocktail nuts, cloth napkins, and bottles of white wine dotted with tiny beads of water. A ladle rests in a scalloped punch bowl, which is filled to the brim with the shimmery cocktail I recall from my debutante days—the Pink Panther.
Because I need to be at work in a couple of hours, I help myself to iced tea. But then I think, When will I ever have a Pink Panther again? Just as I pour myself the mix of champagne, cranberry juice, and maraschino cherries, Caroline appears.
Her cheeks are naturally rosy. Her tan is even: no strap marks. And it’s not sprayed on. With her yellow dress nipping in at her waist, she has a Barbie Doll figure. She comes by it authentically—she’s the sister who got Laudie’s figure. “Jeez, Sims. Double-fisting before noon?”
Well, that’s annoying. I start to tell her that only one hand holds alcohol, but instead I go on the offensive. “I need to loosen up for your debutante striptease.” I churn my hips.
“Hilarious,” Caroline huffs.
“Hola, sissies!” Weezy appears behind us. Francie clings to her mother’s shapeless aubergine dress. It looks out of place among the flowery frocks, but it’s probably the only thing that still fits her these days. Weezy turns to me. “I just saw Laudie. She says you’re taking her to a ballet in a couple weeks. That’s really thoughtful of you.”
Caroline coils a long, shiny lock around her slender finger. “She can’t go. She nearly died the other day, Simons. Plus, Tito has her on lockdown, anyway.”
“She didn’t nearly die. She had a dizzy spell because she hadn’t eaten her lunch.”
“Well, if she can’t come to my brunch, she certainly shouldn’t be going to a ballet.”
“She has a point, Sims,” Weezy adds reluctantly.
I agree but try not to think about it.
Weezy brightens. “On another note, I’ve finally made a decision. I’m having this baby at a birthing center.”
“Gross,” says Caroline, only half-playfully. “Y’all have fun talking about that.”
She spins toward a friend. I recognize her; she’s the one I met at the bar who interned with Trip. Bennett. A strange flash of dislike flickers over me. I shake it off. “Aren’t all babies born at birthing centers?”
Weezy sinks into the love seat, swinging Francie from her hip to her lap in one smooth, maternal motion. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“I’m sorry.” I drop down next to her. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“So, remember right after Francie was born, she had to go back to the hospital for four days?”
“Yes, of course.” It was awful. The wires and monitors attached to Francie’s little body terrified me.
“Well, I’ve been doing some research. I found out about something called HAI, hospital-acquired illnesses. She got sick because she was in the hospital.”
“You mean right after she was born?”
“Yes! Hospitals are where sick people go to die, Sims. It’s not where healthy people should go to have babies.” She taps on her belly. “I don’t want this nugget to be exposed to all those germs.”
“So, you’re going to have the baby at a birthing center. Is that where they deliver in a tub?”
“Yeah, but you could do it on the bed or anywhere in the room. Or on the toilet, but I don’t want to do that.”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “I wouldn’t do that. Will there be a doctor?”
“A midwife.” She reaches for my champagne glass.
“Take it. I don’t want it.”
“Good ol’ Pink Panthers.” Weezy takes a tiny sip. I know she’s feeling a little guilty, but it’s just a sip. She didn’t even allow herself that in the first trimester. She’s such a good mom. She’s a good sister, too. I’d fall apart if anything happened to her.
What if something does happen during delivery? I stamp out images of Weezy taking her last breath in some blood-soaked pool surrounded by midwives rattling their amethysts and rose quartzes. “What if”—I think carefully about my phrasing—“something doesn’t go as planned?”
“There’s a hospital two miles away. They take you there if they think you need to go. They have a protocol and everything.”
That makes me feel better. “What does Ashley say?”
“He thinks I’m nuts.”
Ashley thinks gourmet coffee is nuts. He thinks going anywhere for college other than Clemson is nuts. He thinks eating any other nut than a peanut is nuts. “Well, I’m sure you’ve done your research. I support you.”
“I know. Thanks, Sims.” Weezy smiles, looking wistfully at the ceiling. “Did you know that being in warm water during delivery feels almost as good as an epidural?”
I love being in the water. Nothing’s more relaxing. That makes sense. Natural. Natural is good. “What does Mom say?”
“I haven’t told her.” She flashes me a cheeky smile. “What the hell, maybe I’ll tell her right now.”
“Dangit. While I’m here?”
* * *
Mom, Caroline, and I head over to Laudie’s after the debutante brunch. Mom carries a plate of Mrs. Harley’s sandwiches. Caroline holds a bouquet from the party. We enter through the kitchen. “Mother?” Mom calls into the den.
The TV is on but muted. The room is otherwise dark. Laudie naps on a recliner, her face turned away from the screen. Mom places the plate on the coffee table and removes the Saran Wrap. “We brought some goodies for you.”
Laudie straightens and smooths her skirt. “Thank you.”
Caroline crosses the room with the bouquet. “Here, smell these lilies. They smell so good.”
Laudie inhales with her eyes closed. “They’re heavenly.”
Mom clicks on a lamp and turns off the TV. While the room should be cheerier, it feels the same. Static and subdued. She and Caroline stand side by side, waiting for me to speak. In the car on the way over, they hatched a plan. It was up to me, they decided, to tell Laudie.
I do my best to sound positive. “Laudie, Mom and Caroline are worried that going to the ballet might not be a good idea. But we can still see it. Caroline found a video of La Sylphide online. We can watch it here on your TV. I’ll bring snacks.”
Mom clears her throat, reminding me to add another point. “It will be like having front-row seats.”
My stoic grandmother—always composed—bows her head ever so slightly. A single tear rolls down her face. I can’t bear to look.