Wanda nods. “So much is going to change now.”
“Change is the only constant in the universe,” Mimi says and Portia rolls her eyes. But Wanda and I get it.
We continue our goodbyes and can’t stop hugging Wanda. Finally, she raises two palms, tears running down her face. “Enough, y’all. I’m getting out of here.” With those final words, she slips out the front door wiping her eyes and we stand there watching long after she disappears around the corner.
Finally, Portia wakes us up. “I guess it’s time to go home.”
We’re all halfway to the second floor before Mimi notices once more that TB is absent. “Where’s your husband?”
I swallow hard because the hurt now has made a nest in my throat. I try to sound neutral. “His uncle came to get him, said he was needed on a job in Lake Charles.”
“Today?” Portia asks. “How odd. We could have dropped him off on the way back.”
Mimi studies me when I say nothing, offering, “You know construction sites, they get up early so they probably needed him right away.”
The elevator doors open and we agree to meet in thirty minutes for the trip home, although Mimi tries to push for an hour, saying something about a morning constitution. Finally, when the elevator alarm rings, Portia throws up her hands and agrees.
I head to my room and pack, which takes me five minutes, placing the dance trophy and check that TB left behind in my purse. I fall on the bed and stare at the ceiling, which is vibrating with the reflection of the Gulf waves. I feel a large body jump on the tousled comforter, then soft feet making their way to my face. Stinky greets me with a lick at my cheek and it’s all it takes to make me bawl like a baby. I cry into my pillow forever, sad because of the way TB and I parted but also for the injustices of the world, that feelings of love must always be balanced by pain.
I hear Gloria Gaynor sing and I sit up in bed. My iPad’s playing I Will Survive.
“Funny, ghost. Real funny.”
But it’s what I need to get moving. I pull my things together — including Stinky in his carrier which he hates, — shut off the iPad and head out. I hand the valet man our ticket and he retrieves the car, then pile my stuff inside, letting Stinky loose in the back seat.
I scratch behind his ears. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”
I sit on a nearby bench and watch the sea birds flying past. I spot three types of gulls, a killdeer, and a line of pelicans following the shoreline. Dad would love it here, I think, remember a time when he took Lillye to the seawall at Lake Pontchartrain and they labeled gulls on the beach and two egrets, all of us so happy. I close my eyes and lean back, let the sunlight paint reds and oranges on the outside of my eyelids and try to find peace.
It’s then that Dad arrives.
“Hey, Sweetpea.”
My first inclination is to cry but I have so many questions. I swallow all the hurt choking me and attempt to smile.
“Hey, Dad.”
He studies me with a frown. “Something’s wrong.”
I laugh through the tears. “Everything’s wrong.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He always said that when I was troubled. Except when Lillye died and he retreated to the bottle.
“What happened to you?”
He gazes around the darkness and repeats, “I don’t know where I am.”
“We found you in Alabama.”
He frowns, trying to piece it together. “I think I went there. To the old homestead.”
“Yes, but why? Were you running from something?”
He nods like it’s starting to make sense. “Ruiz took me.”
This sounds odd. Why would my Dad tell the murdering drug dealer about Grandma Willow’s house two states over? Was he still working undercover, even though Elena had been killed.
“Why would that man take you there?”
Dad shakes his head. “He saved me.”
“Saved you?” I practically shout and it’s then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” the valet driver asks.
I look around and see a couple with two small children staring at me, not to mention said driver. “Sorry, must have fallen asleep.”
He straightens and smiles; the family relaxes too. “You were having a good ole conversation with somebody.”
If only he knew.
Portia and Mimi arrive and we finish loading up the van. Portia offers to drive and I beg for the backseat to take a nap. My sister smirks and mentions something about lacking sleep due to strenuous activity the night before, and she’s not talking about the dance-off, but Mimi gazes at me as if she senses something’s amiss.
“You alright, sugar?” Mimi asks.
I nod and send her a reassuring smile, but inside I’m aching. I roll my sweater into a ball and place it against the door and stretch out for a nap, but all I keep remembering is TB’s concerned face in our room when he stared out the window and the abrupt way he said goodbye.
I pull out my phone for one last try. I text, “Miss you,” hoping that starts a conversation.
He texts back, “Miss you, too,” but that’s all.
Stinky curls up next to me and I close my eyes, tears leaking through. I pray to the moon, the goddess, God and the universe, send me no more ghosts today.
Chapter Fourteen
Cats seem to have been put on this earth to prepare people for parenting and the oncoming years of little sleep. In the last 12 hours — overnight, of course — Stinky has stepped on my face to get food, cried to be let outside, scratched at the door to be let back in, and is now sitting on the windowsill making cackling noises at a blue jay. He’s been like this ever since we returned from Galveston a week ago and is getting on my last sleep-deprived nerve.
I pick up one of my pillows and hurl it his way, missing my orange and white cat and knocking my cell phone on the floor, which makes a sad little thud. I release a few expletives and lean over to grab the phone and Stinky takes this opportunity to caress my outstretched arm and give me a lick.
“Going to take a lot more than that,” I growl at him.
I admit I’ve been sleeping a lot. I returned to Lafayette to a mound of work so I had to plow through a few deadlines before the Thanksgiving holidays roll around. I basically worked on the stories, ate a few bites, and then headed to bed and it’s been reload and repeat ever since.
TB hasn’t called and his reply texts have been short and sweet, insisting we’ll talk soon. I’m too proud to call and leave pleading messages but I’m still stunned as to why he’s gone incognito. Turkey Day looms in two days and I’m heading back to Mom’s for the big meal. TB insists he’ll be there, but his lack of communication and Dad’s unfinished mystery pulls at my heart and I doubt I’ll feel much better than I do right now looking at my pain-in-the-butt cat.
Stinky winks and I reply with the evil eye.
I stumble out of bed and head to my French Press, put a pot of water on to boil, but I catch my image in the microwave glass and shriek with fright. I realize I’ve been sleeping way too much for dark bags hang beneath my eyes, pillow wrinkles mar my face, and my curly hair, which should be sticking up every which way, is pasted on my skull.
“I think it’s time for a shower, Stinky,” I murmur and he replies with a howl.
Once I get my coffee soaking in the French Press — I don’t do anything without coffee brewing — I jump in the shower, then put on a clean set of clothes; thankfully I did a load of laundry before my sleep-a-thon. I pour myself a cup of coffee, throw on a sweater, and head out to the patio next to my apartment. As I sit down on a beach chair I was gifted from the Miami tourism folks, Stinky jumps up and curls himself in my lap.
“You have no right to be here,” I tell him, although of course I start scratching behind his ears as he purrs. Again, cats were put on this earth to prepare you for children; they’re not that different. They drive you nuts and then you love them as if nothing happened. All animosity toward St
inky gone, I lean back and enjoy the morning sunlight warming my face.
I discovered my little haven when TB and I evacuated to Lafayette after Katrina and my landlord, Reece Cormier, let me to live here rent-free while he renovated the big house in front. The arrangement allowed me to follow my dream of being a travel writer since my expenses were small and freelance pay arrives infrequently.
My mom has calls my Lafayette apartment the “Potting Shed” and in the early days she wasn’t that far off. Once I moved in Reece renovated my bath and kitchen, I painted the walls, and last spring I turned a tiny plot of ground into the garden oasis I’m enjoying right now. Since I lost everything in the hurricane, my décor is twenty-first century travel writer, swag items I picked up on trips. I’m drinking out of a mug that sports “Might Be Moonshine Inside - Gatlinburg” and I’m wrapped in a blanket with a picture of a harmonica player that announces, “Get the Blues in Mississippi!”
I make myself comfortable, enjoying the smell of fresh coffee and the crispness of the fall morning when I spot Reece’s wife heading to the pool area with a platter full of breakfast, her two kids following behind like she’s the Pied Piper. She catches me looking and before I can avert my gaze waves me over. I smile and do a little wisp of my hand, like I’m greeting her but failed to get the message, but she places the platter on to a table and waves again, this time insistent.
“Well, dang,” I whisper to Stinky, rise and push him off my lap. Stinky’s not too happy either, does a little growl and heads for a little patch of sunlight warming my front door.
The pool sits between my mother-in-law unit and the big house and remained out of service until this past summer when Reece finally got around to its renovation. Now that Reece and his wife are back together, she and the kids have moved in and use the pool frequently. Well, until the fall weather rolled in. The trouble with this new development is twofold: one, where before we all lived separate lives hardly seeing each other, now I can watch the family in the pool from my apartment and vice versa and two, the renovation is complete, so it’s likely time for me to move on.
Then there’s the problem of me dating Reece for a time. Hardly called dating since nothing happened, but if Reece’s wife hadn’t reappeared on the scene, something might have. I had a serious envie, as they say in Cajun Country, for my fine-looking landlord but looking back now, it all seems insignificant.
“How are you?” Mrs. Reece says as I approach. I can never remember that woman’s name.
“Fine. And you?”
“Great.”
Such conversationalists, we.
She points to one of the new cast-iron lawn chairs they purchased this summer. “Please, sit. We’re taking advantage of the gorgeous weather and having breakfast outside.”
I look over and find the kids are lathering Stinky with love.
“No school today?” I ask.
“They go to a private school. They have the whole week off for Thanksgiving.”
Of course they go to a private school. Did I mention the big house has five bedrooms and Gone With the Wind pillars out front?
My stomach does a little dance and I wince. Why am I so sour this morning? I don’t covet this woman’s husband anymore, have liked his wife immensely on the few times we’ve talked, and I’m not jealous of their wealth.
“You okay?”
I sip my coffee and try to relax. “Been a weird month.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head and smile sadly. “It’s too crazy to repeat.”
Mrs. Reece smiles and it’s genuine. “We have croissants and fresh jam from the farmer’s market.”
My stomach reacts again, this time insisting I feed it, although I’m not sure I should. “Sounds lovely.”
She makes me a plate while I settle into my chair. It’s nice here by the pool, open enough so that the sun warms us more than it does by my little unit. The bare yard could use more color and I wonder if they’ve finished landscaping. One thing I’ve enjoyed living on the Cormier estate is gardening around my miniature patio, something I never had time for before. Or maybe it’s the witch in me coming out.
Mrs. Reece hands me a plate with not only croissants and jam but a variety of fruit. I smile my thanks and kick myself for not remembering her name.
“Christina,” Reece yells from the house, “do you need me to bring the coffee?”
Thank you, God.
“Yes, please,” Christina answers.
I look over my shoulder and catch Reece’s gaze. He waves and I smile. There’s nothing between us anymore, if there ever was. We were both rebounding from what we assumed were failed marriages, had some good times playing tourist in Cajun Country. Now, I just want to get back to my goofy Cajun in New Orleans.
When I turn back and sip my coffee, Christina’s studying me. I swallow hard and am about to explain that there was nothing between her husband and me when she beats me to it. But it’s not what I’m expecting.
“You’re very pale, Viola.”
“What?”
“Reece said you’ve been sleeping a lot lately. He said you did that once before and he’s concerned.”
Didn’t see this coming. And yes, right after my first press trip when I discovered I could see wet ghosts and spent a horrific week solving the mystery of a dead coed in Eureka Springs, I took a nosedive. Reece rescued me with gumbo and got me back on my feet.
“Like I said, it’s been a crazy month.”
Christina doesn’t say a word, studies me over the rim of her coffee. I imagine she’s one of those mothers who sees all, like my best friend’s mom who knew we were smoking cigarettes two blocks away, arrived at the scene, hands on hips.
I shrug and hope what I’m about to say next emerges without tears. “My father died.”
It doesn’t.
Now, she’s inching closer, taking my hand. “You poor dear.”
I shrug, trying to brush off the pain, but it’s likely why I don’t want to get out of bed. I wipe my eyes and look away. “It’s okay. It happened more than a week ago but there’s so many things left unanswered.”
“Was it sudden?”
I shake my head, think back on the last two years, kicking myself for not speaking with my father when he contacted Portia. Hating myself for being stubborn and righteous. Now, all I have are our conversations in the dark. At least when I’m asleep.
“I dream about him a lot,” I tell Christina.
“That’s understandable. I dreamed of my mother for months after she passed.”
Maybe that’s it, I think. Now that we assumed Ruiz killed my father after he fled to Alabama my father has transitioned and only contacts me in my dreams, like the deceased do with normal people. This could be a good sign. And yet, he remains in that dark void, still confused about his whereabouts, and it still feels unsettled, his messages cryptic and vague.
“Are you going home for the holidays?” Christina asks me.
I’m about to answer when Reece arrives, coffee in hand. He places everything on the table and sits across from us.
“You okay, Vi?”
I laugh because I feel like one of their kids all of a sudden. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Dad.”
Mentioning that word makes me cringe and I look down at my plate.
“You haven’t eaten a bite,” Christina says.
I gaze up and look from one concerned face to another. How did I get so lucky to land in the hands of these wonderful people? I’m going to miss them and all the friendly people of Lafayette, Louisiana, folks who welcomed me with hugs and help after Katrina took away my life. Half the furniture in my meager apartment were items left on my doorstop after the storm.
“Reece, there’s something I have to ask you.”
He leans in close, coffee cup in hand. “Sure.”
“TB got accepted to a college in Tennessee and he can finish quicker there than he can at LSU so we’ve been thin
king about moving there for the next year or so.”
Reece nods and Christina takes my hand again, squeezes. I realize she knows my history. “I’m so glad to hear y’all are back together.” She looks back at her husband and smiles warmly. “Sometimes the second round is the best.”
I take another sip of coffee and swallow hard, hoping that what she says is true. Right now, I haven’t a clue what I’m doing with TB or where I’ll end up. But I keep going. “Do you need a month’s notice or anything?” I ask Reece.
He waves his hand and frowns as if that’s the stupidest thing he’s heard. “Don’t be silly, Vi. We never planned to rent your apartment, will use it for guests in the future. Leave whenever you want.”
Again, so thankful for these amazingly sweet human beings. “Thank you.” I look at Christina, too, tears welling up in my eyes. “Thank you both so much for everything.”
Now their eyes are beginning to flood. It’s the Katrina pity thing coming. After meeting so many people who would cry — literally — after I told them I was from New Orleans, I got tired of the pity party. Reece was no different, wept like a baby when I asked if I could rent his back unit.
Today, however, it doesn’t bother me. I’m grateful I’m not alone.
Reece takes my other hand and squeezes. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you Viola. And we’ve been so honored to have been able to help.”
We’re all crying now and laughing through tears. One of the kids calls for his dad to throw the ball around and Reece excuses himself and leaves.
“You still haven’t eaten a bite,” Christina says.
I look down at my plate and realize she’s right. But I’m not hungry. My stomach’s still doing back flips. Maybe I really am sick.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll bring this back to the apartment and eat it later,” I tell her. “I might have picked up a stomach bug in Texas.”
“Or maybe you’re pregnant.”
The words emerge from her mouth with merriment, no doubt equating symptoms she experienced with her own kids, but the idea floats through the air as if in slow motion, sinking into my brain with both clarity and confusion. I do feel like I did when I was pregnant with Lillye but we were careful in Galveston. I shake my head. The idea’s insane, I can’t be pregnant, it’s only been a week. But then, I think back on when we created Lillye and how I knew only a few days later. How many condoms did TB have?
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