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By Root 1276 0

was a god somewhere who actually loved us, then surely he wanted us to be happy, at least some of the time. Where was this god anyway? Strangely absent. So we came to the beach to hide from the world and cry our hearts out or sometimes just to kick the sand or to run like maniacs until we were gasping for breath and our sides ached so badly we doubled over in pain. You might say it was our adolescent version of primal scream therapy. It worked, somewhat, but now I think whatever relief we found, we found only because we had each other to which our fractured hearts could cling. Sometimes we would sit there until it was dark. And Aunt Daisy and Ella would coax us with the sweetest words they knew to please come back inside the house for supper. On occasion, and especially in the early days when our wounds were still fresh, we’d be greeted by the parish priest, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and having a piece of Ella’s pie. He’d try his best through diplomacy and guilt to talk us into becoming more active in the church, to join CYO—the Catholic Youth Organization—or the Regina Mundi Club. Aunt Daisy would stand behind him, rolling her eyes, and at some point she would say that, well, it all sounded fine but for now seeing us on Sunday was probably all he should expect, but he was welcome to stop by any time he was in the neighborhood. We were so grateful for her understanding that we couldn’t stand one more thing.

I know that all sounds depressing but getting through those first birthdays and Christmases or holidays of any kind without our mom and dad was unbelievably painful. We couldn’t show them our Halloween costumes or share our candy with them. Ever again. We couldn’t make them cards on their birthdays or bring them school projects to admire or pick black-eyed Susans for them in the summer. Ever. We didn’t know how to live without them. We belonged to them. And try as we may have tried to transfer all that longing and need to Aunt Daisy and even Ella, who was around more and more, we were inclined to hide our feelings from them and to make them think we were getting along all right. We’re just fine! After all, Aunt Daisy took us in. And we loved her for it.

Besides, Folly Beach wasn’t exactly crawling with therapists who specialized in the treatment of children in those days. Even if it had been, we weren’t the kind of people who paid other people our hard-earned money to listen to our problems and help us understand tragedies that could not be reversed. We were far too pragmatic for that sort of self-indulgence, having been cut from suck-it-up cloth. We learned that you never got used to losing your parents. You just got used to the pain.

I was six and Patti was twelve when our mother died from breast cancer. She was robbed of her life when she was only forty years old. Lila. Beautiful Lila. She always put off going to the doctor for check-ups and so forth, saying she felt perfectly fine. She played tennis all the time and even belonged to a waltz society, which caused Patti and me endless giggling to see her twirling in the wacky dresses she wore. Skirt, skirt, and more skirt! But other than that one embarrassing deviation from our ironclad definition of what normal mothers were supposed to do for a hobby, she was tanned, toned, and fit from head to toe, defying her actual age from every angle. By the time her cancer was discovered it had metastasized to her lymph nodes, liver, and brain.

Patti said our mother’s illness lasted only eight weeks. I don’t remember the timeline. I just know that right after she died, I began to dance, saying I was dancing for her. Dance became the prism through which I looked at my world and the only way I could find it bearable.

It made Patti cry every time I said I was dancing for Momma, but Aunt Daisy and Ella said it was good for me and they wished Patti would dance, too. But Patti preferred to bake. It all started with the Easy-Bake Oven, moved to Toll House cookies, and led to zillion-dollar mega wedding cakes. No one who knew our family in those days would have