Before the dementia took away all her stories, I recorded our conversations so I could capture her voice and her cadence, and I could picture her, the way she used her hands like big, swooping birds when she talked.
I played games with her; we read to each other. We made place mats and napkins on her old Kenmore sewing machine, which brought back memories of those summer days when she taught me how to sew.
On hot summer mornings when I checked on her, Mama sometimes had one foot sticking out from under the covers. I marveled at how youthful her feet were. Long, slender, smooth, they looked like the feet of a twenty-year-old. Elegant. Regal, even. I imagined that a queen’s feet would look this way, or a princess’s. And I thought how much our roles had changed. I played the mom now, and Mama the little princess. And I was happy to fulfill any wish she had.
Those wishes were simple, usually. She wanted the TV tray moved closer so she could sit up straighter. She needed a different pillow for reading. She wanted to sit in her favorite spot under the pergola, where it felt cool no matter how hot the summer day.
Often the two of us sat together in the kitchen late in the afternoon after I got home from work. I asked her about her childhood, and about how she and Daddy met.
“I’ve told you that story a hundred times,” Mama would say. “You know exactly how it happened.”
I nodded and winked. “Yes,” I said, “but I’ve forgotten the details. Can’t you tell me again?”
Mama didn’t need much prodding. She told the whole tale again. How they met three years after Daddy came home from Korea. He’d finished college on the GI Bill and started his work as an insurance underwriter. He came to the diner where she waitressed and sat at one of her tables every morning, ordering eggs over easy before he went to work.
“It took him two months to ask me out,” Mama said. “I’d get so frustrated. How could I let him know I wanted to go out with him without being too obvious?”
“So what did you do?” I asked. It was part of the script between the two of us, as though we’d rehearsed it many times before.
“I asked my boss to put a different waitress at that table,” Mama said, gathering her hair up behind her head like a young girl. “I said hello to him when he came in and then ignored him. It worked like a charm. He asked me out the next day.”
“You’ve always been a wise woman,” I said, feeling satisfied to hear the story one more time.
I imagined my parents’ early days living in a tiny apartment on the square, buying their first Buick, driving cross country to Yellowstone Park, taking their pictures with a Brownie camera and saving them in a photo album with those little white corner stickers. Mama got nauseous on that trip and blamed it on carsickness. But when they got back home, she found out she was pregnant with me.
“Maybe that’s why I always liked the West,” I said.
“True enough,” said Mama. “You were there in spirit before I even knew you existed.”
* * *
I heard on the news today that two people have been arrested for animal cruelty because they left their dogs outside in the heat. In both cases, the owners had left bowls of water with the dogs, but with temperatures over 100 degrees for the sixth day in a row, the water got hot and dogs won’t drink hot water. I never knew this. Sometimes we have what we need right in front of us, but we’re programmed not to let it in.
Maybe that’s what happened when Holly called tonight. When I told her I’d decided to take a few days off because of the heat, she invited me to come out and see her.
“The kids would love it,” she said, “and so would I. We haven’t had real time together for a couple of years now.”
I couldn’t think what to say, so I stumbled around. “But there’s so much I need to do here.”
“Like what?” she said.
“Cleaning out closets, doing a little painting.” Even as I said it, I knew she’d think it was lame. I tried to make a stronger case by invoking Mama’s name. “Sprucing the place up a little. I’ve been neglecting it a long time. Mama would be wagging her finger at me. . . .”
“Yeah, and then she’d climb up on a ladder and fix it,” she said. “But you can do that anytime. Do it in the dead of winter when you’re stuck at home for a weekend. How often do you have a week or two of unscheduled time? You deserve to get away. And the kids aren’t back in school yet, so we could go to the aquarium, spend some time at the waterfront. It would be great for all of us. They always love spending time with their favorite aunt.”
The fact that I’m their only aunt is never lost on me when she says that. A part of me wanted to tell her I’d be there tomorrow, wanted to spill the whole story. But I’m not ready to tell her the truth.
Plus she doesn’t know that even though I love the kids, they bring back difficult memories. Rose and the boys used to play together when they were little. Now Mark and Brent are almost out of college, which reminds me that Rose would be well into her adult life by now. Maybe married. Maybe I’d be a grandma.
Anyway, how could I go and stay in Holly’s house, not knowing for sure what’s going to happen in the next two weeks? Maybe the pearls will kick in sooner, and she’d find me dead in her guest room. Maybe my nervous system will go haywire and I’ll have a stroke. Maybe I’ll start to turn green and my eyebrows will fall out. The last thing I want to do is to leave her needing to take care of me.
“Another time, Holly,” I said, trying to sound firm. “It’s just not a good time right now.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Maybe for the holidays?”
“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great. Let’s plan on it.”
It didn’t feel like small talk. With Holly it never does. We tiptoe around the edges a little, but we can also dive into the well when we need to.
“I was going through some old photos,” I told her, ready to change the subject. “There’s a great one of you sitting on the hood of our old Impala. Showing off your legs, as usual.”
She snort-laughed. “Do you remember when we got picked up by the sheriff after I first started driving, and we never let Mama know?” she said.
“Yeah,” I laughed. “We were so afraid he was going to call her, we wouldn’t let her answer the phone for a month after that.”
“And the time we went on a double date and you ended up making out with Jason Leech?”
“And you abandoned me?”
“Hey, I couldn’t help it if my date was a drag.”
“Life has had a lot of ups and downs, hasn’t it?” she said.
“Definitely,” I said. And then, before we hung up, “I love you, sis.”
DAY FIVE
I spent the day in the basement, the coolest place in the house, experiencing a sense of urgency to cross a few things off my list. I feel better knowing my lab results are in process. Now I just need to keep my mind off them until they arrive. Easier said than done.
As I walked into the cedar closet, I could hear Mama’s voice as though she were right beside me. “Those old clothes aren’t going to sort themselves.” By noon, I’d filled five huge trash bags with wool jackets and shoes that went out of style years ago. I dragged them up the stairs and set them by the back door. Maybe tomorrow I’ll make a trip to Goodwill.
I have so much to do; I certainly didn’t expect to be entertaining company. But it turned out that I got together with Miriam Webster tonight. I’ve known that girl her whole life, and I still can’t get over her name. I also can’t get over the fact that I still think of her as a girl when she’s forty-five years old. I babysat for her so often, I can’t help picturing her at six years old with curly blond hair and a holster with cap guns.
Miriam always seemed like such an old-fashioned name. And when she was in high school and started dating Rick Webster, I thought, Holy cow, what if they get married? I could just hear the jokes. “There goes Miriam Webster, the walking dictionary.”
She’s smart enough to be one, which is why it’s
always a pleasure to see her. She called about five o’clock this afternoon—an unexpected surprise. The power had gone out at four. Poof, just out. No lightning or thunderstorm, of course. There’s still no rain in the forecast. I was in the basement, and all of a sudden I heard the sound of everything shutting down. I always think the house is completely quiet—but then I hear that awful dying down of the computer and the air-conditioning, and I realize how much I’ve been tuning out.
I did all the crazy things you do when the power goes out. I went into the kitchen and automatically reached for the light switch. I tried to turn on the TV to check for any news. Then I called the power company to report the outage, got an automated message, and realized I could be in for a long, hot night. I checked the thermometer outside the kitchen door: 107 degrees in the shade. I thought about making iced tea and got ready to put some water in the microwave to heat. Duh.
Then Miriam called.
She wanted to get together for supper since she was home alone, but she called the Mexican restaurant in town and they had no power, either. So she came over with chicken salad and margarita mix.
“Honey, I’m home!” she said when she showed up at the kitchen door. That’s Miriam for you. She knocked, then let herself in, set the bags of food on the table, and tore a paper towel off the rack next to the sink so she could wipe the sweat off her forehead.
“I lost five pounds just walking in from the Jeep!” she said. “I’d hug you, but I don’t think you want any of this.” She pulled at the front of her T-shirt and waved it back and forth to fan the perspiration.
“You’re right,” I said, setting out plates and glasses. “Between the humidity and my hot flashes, I have enough of that for both of us.”
“What’s this all about?” she asked, nodding toward the bags and boxes by the door while she opened the margarita mix.
“Oh,” I said. “Just a little spring cleaning.”
“In August?” she said.
“I’m either really late or really early,” I said as I opened the freezer door for ice and let the wave of cool air flow over us.
We spread out the food on the kitchen table, moving like sloths so we wouldn’t stir up any more heat. I hadn’t seen Miriam since I had my last haircut at her salon, so she caught me up on her life.
Rick is coming back from his deployment for two weeks in October. The twins are already at school, helping with their pledge classes for their fraternity and sorority. Miriam joined a knitting circle but only went for a couple of weeks. “I love all those older ladies,” she said. “I’m just not ready to be one.”
After we ate, we took our drinks out to the porch to catch the slightest hint of a breeze. Miriam still has wavy blond hair, though she’s added some honey-colored highlights. “I’m way too young to let the gray show,” she always says. And I’ve got my curly red mop, which is only manageable thanks to her skills with the scissors. We both gathered our hair and held it up out of the way, pressing our cold glasses against our necks.
“Your freckles sure have faded,” Miriam said. She stood up, came over behind my chair, and started arranging my hair in a high ponytail.
I stiffened and tried to shrug it off. But she was right. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Dreadlocks,” I said to change the subject.
“What?” Miriam asked.
“How would I look in dreads?” I asked, knowing how ridiculous the question was. “Two of the Lincoln cheerleaders came into the shop the other day, and one had dreadlocks. It got me thinking.”
“Oh, honey,” Miriam said, as though I’d given her a shot of caffeine. “Don’t get me started. I’ve always wanted to do something different with your hair, but I never thought you’d be up for it.”
She piled my hair up on top of my head, then let it fall down over my shoulders and ran her fingers through it to plump up the ringlets. “Next time you’re in the shop, we’re going to have some fun with it.”
Next time? I thought.
I took a sip of my margarita. “How much time do you think you’ve spent in your life thinking about your hair, playing with it, styling it, wishing it were different?” I asked.
Miriam thought for a moment, then said, “Probably a solid two years of my life.”
“Me too,” I said. “Growing up, I always hated my ringlets. One time Mama threatened to shave my head if I complained about my hair one more time. ‘Other girls spend a fortune on perms,’ she said. ‘Be grateful for what God gave you.’”
“Did you stop complaining?” Miriam asked.
“Are you kidding?” I said.
We both fanned ourselves with our napkins, which did us no good at all.
“Why does hair matter so much?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Look at us. I’m married to a man who could be shot or blown up at any moment. You’ve lost your daughter and your mom. Maybe what we both need is some distraction. More fun, you know?”
She sat back down on the porch swing.
“Speaking of which,” she said, “is there anyone special in your life right now?”
I always dread this question, and especially now. What could I say? That I feel no desire? That no one will ever replace Joe? That the thought of awkward conversation and a date at a coffee shop makes me tired? That a relationship means sex, and the idea does nothing to ignite the pilot light that flickered out a few years ago?
Or—oh—that I might be dead in another fifteen days?
“No,” I said, “I stay busy just trying to keep up with things around here.”
We were quiet for a few moments, listening to the cicadas and watching the moon rise. Despite the humidity in the air, it shone sharp and clear.
Out of the blue, Miriam asked me, “Meggie, would you mind if I told you something?” My heart sank, because I knew it wouldn’t be good.
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “You know you can tell me anything.”
She fell quiet again, and then she said, “I haven’t said this to anyone, but I know I can trust you.” How many times in my life have people said that to me and then revealed something so secret and deep that it takes my breath away?
“What is it, sweetie?” I said.
“I slept with someone last spring.”
Oh my God. Rick was overseas facing IEDs and snipers, and Miriam was in bed with someone else.
“Oh,” I said, my standard response when people tell me their secrets. Uncomfortable but trying not to show it. Trying not to judge.
“I can’t believe I did it,” she said. “And I only did it once. But we met at a party, and we both had too much to drink. I know how stupid that sounds . . . like something a twenty-year-old would say, not a grown woman with twenty-year-olds of her own.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No,” Miriam said. The moon lit up her face, as if she was a little girl dreaming of what’s beyond this universe of ours. “I don’t intend to ever see him again. It wasn’t an affair. Just one night of complete stupidity. I adore Rick. I just miss being with a man, you know?”
“Are you going to tell him?” I said.
“What do you think? Should I? That’s why I wanted to tell you . . . to get your advice. You always know the right thing to do.”
I drew in a deep breath at the irony. In the darkness, I shook my head. “Keep it between yourself and the moon,” I said. “It would do no good for Rick to know. But you’ve got to let go of it. If you keep carrying it with you, it’ll eventually break you down and things will never be the same with Rick and he won’t know why.”
“But how do I do that?” she said. I saw the tears on her cheeks in the moonlight. “How do I let go of it? I’ve never done something unforgivable before. Crazy and unfair and hormonal and uncalled for, yes,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “But not out-and-out unforgivable.”
Who am I to give her any advice on forgiveness? I thought. How can I tell her to do something I think is impossible?
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“I think that one’s between you and God,” I said. “It’s never made sense to me that He would make us human and then judge us for being human,” I said. I pushed the porch swing back and forth with my legs. “You make things right with yourself,” I said, “and I’m pretty sure God will be on board.”
We were quiet again; the only sound was the creak of the porch swing.
“So, how about you?” Miriam said. “Do you have any secrets you want to share?”
I stopped swinging and tried not to be too transparent.
“No,” I said, moving the swing again. “I haven’t had a secret for years.”
No matter how much we fanned ourselves, sweat trickled down our faces and ran down our necks. Miriam slipped off her top and dropped it to the porch beside her, then stretched out the front of her bra and fanned air between her breasts.
“Great idea,” I said and did the same. It felt good to spend time with someone who wasn’t judging me, either for my cellulite and stretch marks or my decision to live or die.
Along about ten thirty, the power finally came back on. I heard the hum of the refrigerator, the blessed air-conditioning fan kick in.
Miriam and I looked at each other and said, “Thank God!” at the same time. We ran in the house to stand in front of the vents while the cool air flowed over us and dried up the sweat and tears. We held our hair out of the way to feel the cool air on our necks.
Miriam’s eyes were bright green in the light, and she smiled as she looked at me.
“What would someone think if they walked in right now and saw us both in our underwear?” Miriam asked.
“They’d think, ‘Damn, those lesbians look good,’” I said.
* * *
When Mama passed away, I decided to stay in the house. It’s where I grew up, and it has always been home. Even when Joe and I had our own place, even when Rose was little, we still wanted to be here at Christmas. Mama always made turkey and trimmings for all of us, since Holly and her family only lived twenty minutes away back then. And spending time with Joe’s family wasn’t an option. He walked away from his parents when he was seventeen and never looked back. That’s one of the reasons why Mama adopted him like her own.
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