How Lulu Lost Her Mind

by Rachel Gibson

  “Periwinkle!”

  My eye twitches and I’m hurrying to the doorway when I remember, “Lindsey has the day off tomorrow, and I think she’s shopping for clothes afterward.” At least, I assume she meant clothes shopping when she said she was going to the mall.

  “Why?” Mom asks without taking her gaze from Family Feud.

  Clothes shopping is something we all need to do—at least, Lindsey and I do. Mom wears velour and doesn’t seem affected. “It’s her day off.”

  “She’s fat.”

  “Mom!” I thought she’d said that the other night because she was out of her mind and raging. “That’s not nice.” I frown at her, but she isn’t paying attention to me. “Don’t say that to Lindsey.” I see how the girl pulls at her tops, and I suddenly feel protective of her. “She’s a nice girl, and I don’t want you to hurt her feelings.”

  “She should have said ‘periwinkle.’ ”

  When she doesn’t respond, I ask over the sound of buzzers, “Mom, are you listening to me?”

  She tears her attention from the television, and her gaze is a little more vacant than it was ten minutes ago. “That Richard is a foxy man.” Before I completely lose my mind, I leave her to gush over the game show host. Cheesy theme music follows me down the hall and up the stairs. Thankfully, I can’t hear it by the time I stop in the doorway of Lindsey’s yellow-and-white bedroom. She is kneeling beside the sleigh bed, tucking in her clean sheets, and I avert my eye from her plumber’s cleavage. Tomorrow will be our first day without Lindsey since we arrived at Sutton Hall. Mom and I’ll be just fine on our own, but I’m nervous that something will set her off and Lindsey won’t be here to defuse Mom’s anger. “When are you leaving tomorrow?”

  “Ten thirty.”

  I’ll have to be extra patient to avoid Rattlesnake Patty. “If you’re near a store that sells insect spray, can you buy a few gallons?”

  “Sure.” She laughs, but I’m serious. “I’ll protect you from bugs.”

  I’d rather have toxic spray, but I return the favor. “And I’ll protect you from Raphael.”

  “Deal.” She walks toward me, and we shake hands. “I hate that evil bird.”

  “You’re getting the raw end of the deal. There is only one evil bird but a million evil bugs.”

  “I’d rather encounter a million bugs.” She drops my hand and says, “Thanks for the nice mattress and soft sheets and everything you do for me.” I’m about to ask her what “everything” is when she adds, “My new health insurance is better and cheaper than my old Blue Shield.”

  “Actually, I’m selfishly baiting a trap so you’ll never leave me and Mom.”

  “You’re not selfish.” She laughs as if I’m joking, but I’m not.

  It’s hard to admit, but I can be selfish sometimes. In my own defense, it’s embedded in my DNA. Like making myself look good even when I don’t have anywhere to go and I’m not leaving the house.

  I tell her good night and turn out the hall lights as I move to the blue room. There are two kinds of selfish: the healthy kind and the unhealthy kind. I’ve written rules and blogs and book chapters on the subject. In speeches and podcasts, I explain the differences.

  There is a trick to balancing the two, but somewhere my scales got off-balance and I got absorbed with pushing Lulu to bigger and better heights. Fighting to keep my business going during the hell years with Tony didn’t help my single-minded, borderline-unhealthy focus.

  I keep an eye on the chandelier and push a button switch on the bedroom wall. No sparks fall from the ceiling, but in the dim light, the half tester looks just as imposing in this room as it did across the hall. So do the few other pieces of Great-grandfather’s furniture placed about the room, but at least I have somewhere to unpack my clothes now.

  The wardrobe can easily accommodate a family of three, and the dresser is almost as tall as I am. The old drawers smell of cedar and beeswax and don’t stick as badly as I’d presumed. Before leaving the cold wind and sleet of Seattle, I’d packed wool suits and sweaters, pink Ugg boots and flannel nightshirts, which just goes to show how chaotic my life had gotten. Boots and flannel don’t go with springtime in Louisiana. At least not when you’re used to March in the Pacific Northwest, where moisture comes in the form of chilly rain instead of steamy humidity. Lindsey has the right idea. I need a trip to the mall.

  I swing open the veranda doors and take a deep breath of Mississippi Delta air. Even I, a woman who’d rather be at the Windsor Court Hotel, enjoying pralines and dry air-conditioning, admit that I am enchanted by riverboat lights filtered through branches of towering trees swathed with Spanish moss. I pull another cleansing breath into the bottom of my lungs and let it out. There is a stillness up here on the balcony, a quiet that allows my heart to beat without worry and calms my mind. My head is clearer and I can think about moving forward.

  My business has survived the tour cancellations, and I managed to work both yesterday and today. Margie called with an offer from the publisher of my last three books. It was a good offer, but I turned it down. It wasn’t an easy decision. The old Lulu would have sealed the deal with a signature and a glass of champagne in Margie’s apartment on New York’s Upper East Side. There is a huge part of me that misses that life, but as rough as the past few days have been, Mom is my priority. Other business opportunities will come my way, but the opportunity to spend time with Mother will not.

  An insect buzzes in my ear, ending my enchantment. I shut the doors tight and change for bed. No more flannel—tonight it’s just a sports bra and panties. Just in case, I shake the footboard and wait for the half tester to collapse. It doesn’t move, and I’m satisfied that I won’t be impaled tonight.

  “What’re you planning, tee Lou Ann?” Simon hadn’t even cracked a smile after that. He’d just turned on his heels and walked from the room, leaving the question hanging in the air and me to wonder what tee meant. He’d already compared me to a swamp rat, so I’m not holding out hope that it was a compliment.

  I’m still mulling it over when I turn off the lights and pull back sheets that I’d brought from Seattle. Moonbeams pour through the veranda door and windows, spilling a golden path across the hardwood floor to my feet, and I grab my phone from the side table. Beneath the covers, I settle in and plump pillows behind my back. The light from my phone flashes across my face as I Google the meaning of tee Lou Ann. It takes longer than I expect, especially when I get sidetracked with the meaning of Cajun sayings and slang. I also discover that Simon’s rougarou is a swamp-dwelling werewolf. According to legend, I have to be careful not to get entranced and led deep into the swamp, and I should especially avoid the Honey Island Swamp Monster.

  Note to self: Avoid the damn swamp altogether. That means the bayou too.

  Just as I’m ready to call it a night, I find what I’ve been searching over an hour for.

  Tee or T: small, little, petite.

  I don’t know if Simon meant it as a compliment, but it’s better than swamp rat.

  I put my phone on the side table and snuggle into my pillows. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake feeling great for the first time since arriving at Sutton Hall. No lumpy mattress. No creepy ghost sounds. No hibernating-bear snores from the monitors. I even take a really quick bath in the pink tub. Unfortunately, not quick enough, and the water turns cold while I’m halfway through shampooing my hair. On the bright side, Lindsey bathed before me and has flushed the pipes of rust.

  An Uber arrives precisely at ten thirty and Lindsey tells me one last time, “I left a list of numbers and the salmon recipe for lunch on the kitchen counter. I put Patricia’s Xanax in the cupboard above the refrigerator. If she gets anxious, get her to put half a pill under her tongue.”

  “Okay,” I call after her as she gets in the car. Lindsey obviously doesn’t trust me not to overdose Mother and knock her out for a couple of days.

  I watch from the doorway as she is driven toward the road and am fleetingly concerned
that she’s bolting, escaping the madness, and never coming back. Then I recall how happy she was when I offered her the same health insurance that I provide for all my employees, effectively roping her in and tying her down with a half hitch. I close the front door and smile.

  “Is that Earl?” Mom yells from the front parlor, where she is settled with scrapbooks and photo albums.

  “No.”

  I grab my laptop before I join Mom on an olive-green velvet chesterfield that I’m guessing is fairly new to the house. If you consider circa 1972 reasonably new. A delicate goblet made of Venetian glass is on a side table next to her. It’s pink and gold and filled with sweet tea. “Was it Tony?”

  I don’t answer, but Raphael makes a gurgling sound. He bobs his head as if he’s the cool kid in school, listening to beats that only he can hear. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Raph, but you can’t be cool if you look like a plucked chicken.” He flaps his wings, and I warn, “Behave.” He opens his beak, and I steel myself for his scream, but he just yawns.

  “Was it Tony?” she persists.

  “Tony’s an asshole,” I say, before I remember that I’m supposed to be extra patient today.

  Mom does the usual gasping thing as I open the laptop, and we indulge in online therapy. We shop for everything from shorts and summer shirts to light cotton dresses and skirts. I buy respectable summer nighties, and Mom picks out stripper lingerie that I know she’ll never wear. I’m still planning to go to the mall, but I can’t take Mom with me. She hasn’t been alone with Lindsey yet, and I have to make sure she’s comfortable without me before I leave her.

  When we’re done, I’m all shopped out, but Mom cracks open a photo album and starts ordering from it like it’s her own personal Google net.

  “I want this lamp.”

  “Which lamp?” I’d rather skip out on old family photo time and work, but I’ve read that thumbing through familiar pictures helps to stimulate the Alzheimer’s brain. Nothing will stop the progression of the disease, but recalling even small things is a healthy exercise and makes her feel good about herself.

  “This tall one.”

  She points to a tintype photo and a floor lamp behind a row of dour-looking women. “That has to be an oil lamp and probably isn’t around anymore.”

  “It’s here somewhere.”

  I remember what Simon said about Sutton treasures buried in the attic. “You’re probably right.”

  She moves her finger to a black-and-white portrait of a beautiful woman in a wedding gown. “And this is Great-grandmere.” It’s the right era, so she could be right. The picture was painted in front of potted ferns, clustered next to the fireplace in the library. At the bottom, almost obscured by a long lace veil, is a fireplace screen with a beagle painted on it.

  “Look.” I point it out.

  “What?”

  “Here, it’s Great-grandfather’s beagle screen.”

  She looks up at me. “Great-grandpere had a beagle?”

  “Yes!” She’s only been obsessing about it for days. “It’s painted on the fireplace screen you want.”

  She shakes her head and her nose pinches. “That’s ugly.”

  I’m about to ask if she still wants it but stop myself just in time. She’s obviously forgotten all about the screen, and I can cross it off my search-and-find list. Thank God I don’t have to put on a pith helmet and spend my day sucking up dust bunnies in that attic.

  Mom moves her finger to photos of various tables and knickknacks. “And these too.”

  “I think I saw those in the pink bedroom.” The day started out well and is getting better. We have a great time laughing at a black-and-white of Mom standing on the front porch and sticking her tongue out at the person behind the camera.

  “I was five. Momma wanted me to tap-dance like Shirley Temple.”

  Decked out in crinoline and curls, Mom looked like an escapee from the Good Ship Lollipop. “I guess you didn’t feel like dancing.”

  Mom shakes her head. “I didn’t like being called Shirley.”

  Amazing that a sixty-nine-year-old memory is still embedded in her brain.

  She turns a page in the album. “I want this.” Her attention has landed on a silver tea service on a sideboard in the dining room. “It’s on the third floor with all of Great-grandmere’s silver.”

  “Third floor?”

  I recognize the look pulling her brows together. “Up there.” She points at the ceiling. “You know.”

  Yes, I know. The old me would have employed my best distraction techniques. The new me closes my eyes and whispers, “The attic.”

  “Find me this and this here and I have to have that.”

  I listen to her rattle off just about everything she sees. The old me would have plotted an escape by pretending to make an urgent phone call. Or maybe I’d have brought up Earl and his Craftmatic. The old me would have suspected Mom of torturing me on purpose. The new, extra-patient me says, “I’m happy to get anything you want.”

  What I thought would take a few hours in the hot attic drags on until it becomes part of Mom’s daily routine. I haul family treasures to the parlor for her inspection, and she looks through photo albums and orders more.

  The attic is hot and musty, and I open all the dormer windows to let the slightly cooler air from the Mississippi blow through. Each time I leave for the day, I make sure to close them tight in a futile attempt to keep flying insects from taking up permanent residency. I hire a local exterminator to spray the entire house, inside and out. However, I have no doubt that the tough Southern bugs and spiders will rise again.

  There are close to two hundred years of history in the attic, documented mostly by fragile newspaper articles, yellowed letters, and several family Bibles inscribed with births and deaths of members of the Sutton family. I am intrigued by them, but I remain emotionally detached from the people who lived, worked, and died here.

  The huge space is almost as packed as Simon led me to believe it’d be when he was here several weeks ago. Trunks of every shape and size are heaped on top of one another, filled with everything from clothes and portraits to records for the Victrola phonograph in the front parlor. Different eras of furniture are stacked in high piles. Some pieces just need to be cleaned, reupholstered, and stuffed with foam rather than horsehair and moss. Some furniture made of wicker and rattan is beyond repair. An exceptionally creepy baby carriage leans to one side and has big holes in the bottom. It’s a fire hazard and needs to be hauled out and thrown away, but I am not about to risk Mother finding out that I’ve tossed away family treasures and getting anxious and angry.

  The attic is so eerily quiet that the slightest sound, like a floor creak or raindrops on a dormer window, makes me jump. If I were a woman with a weak bladder, I might be in danger of an accident—especially if the baby carriage rolls toward me for no reason.

  I know. I’m starting to sound like Lindsey, but I still don’t believe in spooky stuff. If I’m wrong, the spirits of Suttons past had better behave themselves or I’ll call the ghost busters. The electricians and plumbers I’ve hired are starting tomorrow; what are a few more people underfoot?

  Mom wants Great-grandmother’s silver tea service, and I find it in one of two camelback steamer trunks, which look like they’ve sailed the seas one too many times. Both overflow with close to two centuries’ worth of Sutton silver, and Mom wants to see every piece. It takes me several days to carry it down one armload at a time and polish it until it shines like new. Well, as new as a tray from 1850 can look.

  “One more thing I just have to have,” Mom says as we sit on her bed watching Chuck Woolery and waiting for Lindsey to bring Mom’s nighttime meds.

  “I’m happy to get anything for you,” I say, imagining that she wants to add her mother’s china doll to her daily list of must-have treasures.

  11

  March 28

  Mini vacation at Gator’s.

  GRITS,” SHE’D said. “I’d kill for grits.�
�� If Mom hadn’t been so insistent that she was going to “die” if she didn’t have grits for breakfast, I could’ve just included them in the next Rouses’ delivery. If Lindsey had her driver’s license, she could’ve run to the grocery store instead of me.

  A shopping basket hangs from my elbow as I walk up and down the aisles of the closest grocery store I could find using the Cadillac’s GPS. I got lost twice on the way to Gator’s Grocery, and I blame it on the dimly lit vanity mirror. If the Escalade had better lighting, I wouldn’t have blown past intersections while refreshing my makeup. The guidance system sounded just as judgmental as the last time I drove, but at least the world’s worst back-seat driver is at home, probably snoring like a hibernating bear.

  It’s Saturday night, and the store is busy with shoppers like me, grabbing last-minute items before it closes at ten. Unlike me, they know where to find what they need and don’t get sidetracked looking at bottles of hot sauce with names like Trappey’s, Bayou Butt Burner, and Slap Ya Mama.

  Papa Bob used to pour Crystal Extra Hot on everything, and I drop a bottle in my basket. I look at local food staples like pecan brown rice, gumbo and jambalaya mix, and turducken stuffing—who knew? After fifteen minutes of being distracted, I finally find a box of instant grits in the breakfast aisle and drop it in my basket. Mom won’t have to kill for grits now. Mission accomplished, but I don’t head to the front of the store. Instead, I stop to smell coconut sugar scrub in one aisle and plumeria candles in another. In the produce section, I lift a fresh pineapple to my nose and pretend I’m in Hawaii on a mini vacation. I can almost hear “Aloha ’Oe” and feel sand between my toes.

  Laughter draws my gaze from the spiky green crown. I know that deep laugh, and across rows of potatoes and onions, I recognize the back of Simon’s head. Two women laugh along with him, animated and chatty, playing with their blond hair. I’m Lulu the Love Guru; I know body language and recognize their subconscious wrangling for his attention. Not that I blame them. There aren’t many men who look as fine as he does in butt-hugging Levi’s, but I would advise the blondes to follow Lulu’s three-month rule if they want more than a one-night rodeo.