“Take me home.”
A part of me can’t help but resent what she’s asking. I know it may seem petty given the circumstances, but the thirteen-year-old girl in me wants to remind her that she never considered my wants and needs before she moved us from city to city because she lost a job again, or got a divorce again, or her boyfriend’s wife was threatening her again. She never considered how difficult her decisions have made my life.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Ya think, Patty? Even if I were to take her seriously, Mother’s care is overwhelming, and I’m not sure the nurse I just hired is up for a cross-country trip already. “How would we get there?” After our disastrous twenty-five-minute drive across town earlier, there’s no way I’m driving across the country. One of us would end up dead or found at a rest stop in Kansas with a note pinned to her coat. I’m not saying it would be Mom, either.
“Fly.”
I chuckle at that. I have flight anxiety, or what doctors call “aviophobia.” A more accurate term is “scared shitless” of plummeting to earth in an out-of-control plane, unable to do anything but scream before I’m incinerated in a massive fireball. Air travel is necessary for business, so to save myself from a full-blown panic attack, I usually have a few calming glasses of wine before I board. Flying with Mother, I’d have to drink a few bottles.
“I have to be near my kin.”
That’s the same “kin” who’d disowned my grandma Lily and my grandfather Bob—aka first-cousin-twice-removed Bob—and forced them to leave Louisiana. They’re also the same kin who welcomed Grandma Lily back only after her father died. Well, most of them anyway. Her frowny-faced brother Jasper usually stayed at his galley house in the French Quarter. On the few occasions that he was at Sutton Hall, the two didn’t speak. His twin, Jed, passed the same year as Bob, so no one knows if he would have been as cold to his only sister.
“That’s a long way to visit your kin, Mom.” I don’t remind her that there aren’t any “kin” left to visit. Not that I know of, anyway.
“I don’t want to visit. I want to live there.”
“What?” That’s insane. So insane I’d have to be out of my mind to agree to it. “We can’t move there.” The thought of actually moving Mom clear across the country is so daunting, my mind recoils with horror. “My life is here. Your life is here. What about Earl?” Suddenly, a visit doesn’t sound so bad. “We can vacation there for a few weeks. Stay at the Ritz, where it’s nice and air-conditioned, and drive to Sutton Hall as often as you’d like. We’ll get a two-bedroom suite with a balcony that overlooks the city.”
“You have to bury me with Momma and Grandmere,” she persists.
“We don’t have to worry about that for a long time.” I know the disease that has taken her memory will take her life, but I don’t want to think about burying my mother.
“I need to rest in Sutton soil.”
Technically, she wouldn’t rest in soil but in an aboveground vault.
“Suttons always return to our soil.” This is the first time I’ve heard of Sutton “soil,” but it would explain why Grandmother chose to be buried in the Sutton cemetery rather than in Tennessee next to the man she’d married over her family’s objections. I’ve always thought that the man who smiled and laughed and overfed anyone in his vicinity deserved better than an eternal blank spot under BELOVED WIFE on his gravestone.
“Please, Lou. I have so much left to do.”
There is fear in her voice, and we look at each other across the pillow. Through the darkness, her eyes are shiny with tears, and she isn’t smiling. Sometimes she cries out of confusion. Other times her mind is clear enough that she knows what is happening to her. I don’t know which is worse.
“You have to help me with my final resting spot.”
That is the last thing I want to do with my mother. No matter her shenanigans, I can’t imagine a life without her. I want to dog-paddle in the river of denial for as long as possible. “Mom, we have lots of time before we have to think about that.”
“You have time. I don’t.”
I let that sink in. Lower and lower until panic twists my stomach in a knot. If she doesn’t have time, I don’t have time with her.
“I can’t get there on my own.” She squeezes my hand, and it feels like she’s crushing my heart. “Promise to take me home before I forget. Please, Lou.”
“I promise.” Because what else can I do? My heart is crushed beneath the weight of my sadness. I want to make new and lasting memories before time runs out. I want to write them all down so I won’t forget.
“Mon mouche a miel, cher,” Mom whispers, and rolls to her other side.
She hasn’t called me her honeybee love since I was a child, and I raise a palm to cover the thumping coming from my heart. I can’t imagine my life without my mom, and I take a deep, shuddering breath. I’ve always known the time would come when I needed to focus less on work and more on my mother. I’ve known since her diagnosis that I needed to have plans in place for this eventuality, but I don’t. Maybe because planning for it would make it too real.
Memories are more important than ever, and I know I’ll deeply regret not writing them down once she is gone, but I also know myself and know I won’t. I’ll start out with great intentions, but I write for a living almost every day. Writing in a journal or diary will feel like a lot of pressure and I’ll put it off. Horrible guilt will add to the pressure, but if I give myself permission to skip days, I know I’ll be less likely to let weeks and months slip by. If I don’t place expectations on myself and keep it as simple and as easy as jotting a little something in my day planner on my cell phone, I can do this.
I’m Lulu the Love Guru and I can do anything.
Except move to Louisiana. I can’t imagine life without Mom, but I can’t imagine living in Louisiana, either. The last thing I want to do is move to the land of stifling humidity and attack bugs and live the next few years in a musty plantation house. Mom will have to adjust to a new routine just as she’s settled in and adjusted to living with me in my condo. I feel a little panicky until I realize that there is a real possibility that Mom won’t remember this conversation by morning.
4
March 16
Alaska flight 794. I lost my mind.
Mom lost her mind.
Hell in a handbasket.
MY BIGGEST fears in life are all related to control. More specifically, loss of control. When I fly, I control nothing but the peanuts I chomp and the wine I swill. I try to control the fine line between a few calming drinks and a few too many, but sometimes the line blurs. Things quickly go from Calm Town to Delusional Drunk-ville.
Running a very close second to my fear of flying is my fear of fainting. I’ve never fainted in my life. Sure, I’ve felt light-headed, but I’ve never actually blacked out. I’ve never fallen like a bag of laundry. I’ve never opened my eyes and looked up at people staring down at me. I am disoriented and confused, and it seems like everything is moving at a slower speed than usual. Someone calls my name, but I don’t answer.
“Goodness, Lou Ann. What are you doing down there?” Mom peers at me from her aisle seat.
“What happened?” My voice sounds weird, hollow and distant. I try to sit up, but my shoulders are firmly weighted to the floor.
“You fainted.”
I roll my eyeballs toward my brows. “I don’t think so. I’ve never fainted in my life,” I tell Mom’s nurse, Lindsey Benedict. She’s put a blood pressure cuff on my arm and is listening to my heart rate.
“I guess this is your first time.”
What are the chances that the first time I experience my second-biggest fear happens when I’m enduring my first? Or something like that. My head hurts. “Why now?” I ask.
“Might be Wild Turkey,” Mom speculates. “That’ll lay ya out.”
Looking up makes my eyes hurt and I close my lids.
“Is she dead? She used to play dead all the time.”
More like sometimes, and only on days when Mom was busy with a new man and I had to do something to get her attention.
“She’s not dead.”
“Sure looks like death.”
More like I’m embarrassed to death. “How can I be dead? I’m talking to you right now.”
“Then quit playing around down there.”
I open my eyes and look up at Mom’s red lips. I can’t think of anything nice to say and am saved the effort by Lindsey ripping the cuff from my arm. “Your levels are still a little low, but you’ll be okay.”
“My forehead hurts.”
“You smacked it fairly hard on the floor.”
“I fell forward?”
“Like a ton of bricks.”
A whole ton? “I’m on my back.”
“The male steward and I rolled you onto your back.” Great. Lindsey helps me sit up and my gaze travels up the legs and torso of the steward Mom’s been flirting with since we boarded in Seattle. My right arm has been pulled from the sleeve of my St. John jacket and my skirt is up around the tops of my thighs. Thank God I’m wearing black hose. One black Manolo is still on my left foot while the other is MIA.
“You’re lucky you didn’t hit your face on the way down,” says the male flight attendant, whose arms are so buff and his bald head so shiny that he’s probably gay. No, he is gay, no probably about it, not that Mom would stop even if she noticed. I write about love and finding love, and those topics are universal. For the most part, gay men and women want the same thing as straight men and women. Love and happiness with a person who returns love and happiness. After a couple of decades in the love business, my gaydar is finely tuned, an invaluable tool when it comes to Love Guru advice.
“How are you feeling?” Mom asks.
Groggy and disoriented. “Okay.”
Before I can grab onto something to help myself stand, Lindsey hauls me to my feet. First class breaks out in applause, and I’m so embarrassed that I think I just might pass out again.
“Scoot over, Pat,” Lindsey says, and dumps me in the aisle seat.
I knew Lindsey was strong the moment I opened the door a month ago. She’s tall and big-boned, like a Valkyrie—the kind that sings opera and wears a big iron breastplate and horned helmet. Instead of golden braids, her hair is different shades of fried blond that she pulls back in a stubby ponytail. She towers over Mom and me and is a little rough around the edges and some of her manners are a bit raw.
“We’ll need some water and juice,” she tells a flight attendant as she takes her own seat across the aisle from me.
I didn’t think she was going to work out at first, but I was wrong. Lindsey’s a godsend. Mom really likes her, and they have several things in common. One, they talk about Mom’s daily bowel movements. While I understand that Lindsey needs to know if Mom’s insides are working properly, it’s not a proper topic for discussion at the dinner table. Two, they both think it’s necessary to announce when they’re “feeling bloated and gassy,” any time of the day or night. Like anyone wants or needs that information. It’s like they have a membership to the same bad-manners club, and I am the odd man out.
Which is fine with me.
My pump appears from over the top of the seat in front of me. “Thank you.”
Mom grabs it by the four-inch heel as I thread my arm through my jacket sleeve. I push my skirt to my knees and re-tuck my white blouse as best I can.
“You’re getting your color back,” Mom says, and puts the shoe in my lap.
“I’m tired.” I open the vents above my head and let the recycled air blow across my face. Normally, I close the vents because I don’t want recycled germs and cold air freezing me out, but nothing about this day is normal.
Before leaving for Sea-Tac this morning, I’d braided my hair and given Mom a side ponytail. She’d pulled on a cozy jogging suit while I’d pulled on my wool suit and four-inch heels. I could have left the house in cozy, warm sweats, but I am Lulu the Love Guru. I always have to look my best in public because the one time I don’t will be the one time I am recognized. The one time I have a big zit on my nose and bags under my eyes and I run into the store to grab a box of tampons and a Snickers will be the one time I hear someone behind me whisper, “That looks like Lulu the Love Guru—only uglier.”
A female flight attendant returns with a little bottle of cold water and a glass of orange juice and hands them to me.
“Where’s that foxy man?” Mom asks her.
Not foxy man again. This is getting embarrassing.
“Greg? He’s making coffee.”
“Ohhh… coffee.”
“Would you like me to bring you a cup?”
“No, but I would like Greg to bring me that snack basket so I can have another look at it.”
This will be her fourth go-round on snacks, and I suspect her hunger has more to do with “that foxy man” than with biscotti. I’m drinking the juice and holding the cold plastic bottle against my forehead when Greg returns with the basket.
“You’re so big and strong,” Mom coos as she plays with her side pony. “I like a big strong man. You make a girl feel safe.” The steward doesn’t know what to say to this old woman who keeps coming on to him. Some men look at my mom and just chuckle, while others look like they just want to run like hell. Greg falls somewhere in between.
“Mom, just pick a snack.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Biscotti, same as before,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t asking you,” she says without looking at me.
“You can’t go wrong with the biscotti,” he says.
“Ohhh, biscotti sounds wonderful.”
He hands it to her along with a napkin, then beats feet up the aisle.
“I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s gay, Mom.”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then says, “Well, some men just haven’t met the right woman.”
I have to laugh. Mom’s never suffered from low self-esteem, but lately I’ve wondered what she sees when she looks in the mirror. Does she see a faded beauty with lines on her face and age spots on her cheeks? Or is she seeing the reflection of a girl in the bloom of youth? Or does she even give it a thought?
I buckle myself in because it gives me the delusion of safety and lean my head back and close my eyes. I fainted. For the first time in my life, I fainted. Apparently like a ton of bricks. I recall using the bathroom and looking at my face in the mirror as I washed my hands. I remember walking toward my seat—then nothing until I looked up into Mom’s face and she was asking what I was doing down there. I don’t remember feeling dizzy or light-headed. Nothing more than my usual flight anxiety. I’ve white-knuckled it before and not fainted. The only difference between those times and now is I didn’t have someone next to me wringing her hands during takeoff and wondering out loud if we were going to “make it.” No one looking out the window and saying, “We sure are really high now,” or “We’re so high in the sky, I can’t see the ground.” Even after I made her switch seats with me and closed the window shade, she still made comments like, “I sure hope we can get back down.”
Mom is the variable. It’s the Pat factor, and the Pat factor has been working overtime, tripling my anxiety. We have about two more hours before we land, and I know she’s not done. Beyond a ball gag, there’s nothing I can do about it. My head rolls to the side and I let out a groan.
“Hey, you. Hey, you,” Mom calls out. I open my eyes and she’s waving her hands in the air. “Hey, you, woman with the basket.” Oh God, more snacks while she’s still working on her last. “My daughter needs some ice for her head.”
And just as I’m thinking of ways to shut her up, she says something that warms my heart. “Thanks.”
“That’s what moms are for.” She smiles and leans her head back against the seat. “I’ll take care of you, Lou.”
It’s nice that she thinks so.
The attendant returns shor
tly with a little baggie tied at the top. The ice is heavenly on my forehead and I close my eyes and run through my mental checklist.
I put my satellite assistants to work coordinating everything at Sutton Hall, from making sure the pantry and refrigerator are stocked to hiring a cleaning service to knock down the cobwebs. We had boxes of our belongings and loads of Mother’s care needs sent ahead. The vehicle Lulu Inc. leased will be delivered tomorrow morning, and the local cable company should arrive the next day to hook up cable and high-speed internet. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something, but I’m not too worried. Most anything can be replaced.
“I know Earl will come to visit. He’ll take me to dinner.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He gave me a Christmas card with a cactus on it.”
“That’s nice.”
“He loves me.”
“What’s not to love?”
“I have a passionate nature.”
“Mmm.”
“I hope we don’t run out of gas.”
Well, that didn’t last long. “We won’t run out of gas,” I tell her without opening my eyes. “Maybe you should take a little nap. We have a very busy day ahead of us.”
Mom yawns and seems to take my advice. I don’t hear a peep out of her for the next hour. The ice in my bag melts and cold droplets slide down my cheek. I hand it off to the flight attendant and try not to think of hurling through the atmosphere at five hundred miles an hour at thirty-five thousand feet. My mind turns to the perplexing face-plant in the aisle of a 737. Except for my headache and the red mark above my left eyebrow, it doesn’t seem like it really happened. I don’t know if it’s a sign of something serious or just a convergence of stressors. I think it might be the latter.
My MacBook is in the overhead compartment. I should probably use the next hour to get some work done. I need to start a blog post, but I just don’t feel like it. Once we’re all settled and Mom’s new routine is established, I’ll sit down and get into my own.
Shortly after I canceled the rest of my tour, I set up a conference call with my Lulu Inc. management team to discuss the best course for moving forward, and in the end we agreed that hiring bimonthly guest bloggers and inviting smart and savvy women to host the online events should keep the site current and interactive. Fern will post on my Instagram, and I’ll continue to make podcasts and video messages. Those changes cut my workload in half and give me more time with Mother.
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 4