I groan. Not that again.
Simon rises from his seat. Lindsey scoots her chair back and poor Jim jumps up like he can’t get away fast enough.
“I’ll get your meds, Patricia.” Lindsey makes a quick exit with Jim on her heels.
“Are you leaving me, Dr. Simon?” Mom smiles up at him as if the past few seconds haven’t happened.
“Afraid so.” Simon helps Mom to her feet. “Thank you for lunch. It was delicious,” he says, but I notice he hasn’t eaten much, especially compared to Jim, whose plate looks licked clean.
She offers her cheek and scowls at me over his shoulder. “You don’t get to watch my shows ever again,” she whispers loudly, as if no one else can hear her. As if listening to her yell about Melvin Thompson’s white balls is some sort of reward for good behavior.
I watch Mom shuffle from the room, madder than ever. So much for a giddy afterglow.
“Do you have a hat?”
Since Simon and I are the only two left in the room, I assume he’s asking me. “No. Why?”
“I want to show you something?”
For a split second, I imagine Simon ripping off his shirt to Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On.” “What?”
“I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just have to come with me.”
I doubt he’s going to show me the Full Monty, and I follow him into the hall because I’m intrigued and have nothing else to do.
“I parked my truck out front.”
I turn toward the parlor and he heads toward the kitchen.
“This way, tee Lou.”
“You said you parked in the front.”
“I did.”
“That’s the back of the house.” You’d think since he’s worked on this house for twenty-five years, he’d know the difference.
He points to the front door. “That’s the back.”
I walk toward him. One of us fell on our head one too many times as a kid, and it wasn’t me. “The kitchen is at the back of the house,” I tell him.
“But this wasn’t always the kitchen. This used to be a grand entry just like the one at the back of the house.” He shakes his head as we walk outside. “Front of the house to you.”
“What?” Maybe it is me. Maybe I’m the one who fell on my head and just doesn’t remember.
He points to the columns and transom above the doors. “Originally, the front and back were identical.”
“What?” He puts a hand on the small of my back and we walk to the passenger side of his truck. “Why?”
“River side and road.” He opens the door and helps me inside. “If guests arrived by river, they had the same view of the house and grounds as guests arriving by buggy from the roadside.”
He closes the door and I’m still confused.
“There isn’t a road back here,” I point out as he gets in the driver’s side. “It’s on the other side of the house. The front side.”
“It is now, but it used to be on this side.” He fires up the truck and cool air flows from the vents. “The old road was closer to the house than the river, and both sides of the house had fountains and gardens to impress people when they arrived.” We drive slowly down the old cobblestone road toward the cemetery. “A flood in the late eighteen hundreds forced the bayou this way and cut off part of the old road.”
“So the front of the house became the back.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s still the back.”
“But the kitchen is in the back.”
“When the kitchen got moved inside, it made sense to put it in front since folks arrived by boat.”
No. I was right the first time. He’s the one who fell on his head as a kid, but it might explain why the front-door key unlocked the back door on the day we first arrived. “Where are we going?”
“You’re going to love it.”
Mom’s being horrible and I suppose I can use a little time away from the house. All I see out my side window is the cemetery. “I don’t love the cemetery, if that’s where you’re taking me.”
He looks across the cab at me. “Just relax.”
“That’s a problem for me.”
“I noticed.”
“I can probably relax more if I know where you’re taking me.”
“Practice some breathing or something.”
Five meditation apps haven’t helped with that. “I smell the bayou. It stinks.”
“That’s nothin’ this time a year. Wait a few more weeks. Poo-yi.” We follow a bend in the road and the trees get thicker. “This’ll be great. Trust me.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He glances across the cab. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you. For all I know, you’re a serial killer.”
“Ahh, boo. You hurt my feelings.”
“I doubt it.”
He pulls the truck off the road and stops in a clearing of jagged tupelo stumps and cypresses that I remember climbing up on as a kid. I was joking about the serial killer thing, but the trees are now covered in moss and the place looks weird and creepy.
Simon jumps out and reaches behind the seat. “You can get down,” he says, and tosses a can of bug spray onto the seat.
I point to my loop-toe sandals. “I’m not wearing shoes for a hike.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’m not very outdoorsy.”
“Uh-huh.” His seat flips forward and disappears from view. “Come see.”
“See what?”
I hear his long-suffering sigh. “Come here.”
I open the passenger-side door. “You should have said that.”
“Mais la! You’re a pain in the ass.”
He’s trying to be nice, and I don’t want to be a pain in the ass, so I walk around the front of the truck… and he’s holding fishing poles. This has got to be a joke. “We’re fishing?”
“Take about.” He pulls a Minnie’s Bait and Tackle ball cap from behind the seat and puts it on my head. “That’s my lucky hat. Don’t worry about the guts.”
“There’s guts on this thing?” My voice sounds kind of squeaky. I don’t like guts, but I leave the hat on my head instead of touching it with my fingers.
“Lucky guts.”
“I hate to deprive you of your lucky guts hat. You should wear it.”
“It looks better on you, city girl.” He laughs and holds up the bug spray. “Now close your eyes.”
He sprays every inch of me, then hands me the can. “Get the back of my neck really good.” I do as he says; then he grabs a cooler and hands me a tackle box that has seen better days. I don’t see blood or anything suspicious, but I’m sure it too was christened with lucky guts at some point. The metal handle is loose, and I tuck the box beneath one arm as we walk down a short path to a wooden dock.
He said I would love it. “This’ll be great,” he said.
“Have you fished before?”
“No.” And I’ve never had a desire to either. I like my fish the same way I like my chicken: packaged and clearly marked with an expiration date at the grocery store. The dock sways and creaks beneath our feet as we walk toward the two Adirondack chairs at the end. Simon sets the cooler between them and I ask, “What’s in there?” I hope it’s not live bait that might jump out.
“Water and Coke on ice.” He rigs the poles with shiny lures and red-and-white bobbers as I wave away bugs flying in front of my face.
“I don’t want to catch an actual fish.”
He looks down at me from beneath the brim of his own lucky guts hat, then reaches into his tackle box for a big knife. “We’ll both be safer this way.” He cuts the line beneath the bobber and the lure falls onto the dock. “When Jasper was too much for me, I’d come back here and throw in a line.” He ties a bell-shaped sinker beneath the bobber and lets go. “Nothing like it to get your head straight.”
He shows me how to cast, his big arms around me and his hands cupping mine. He smells like man soap
and bug spray. As it did that day in the garage, my brain says, Ooh, this is nice.
Simon drops his arms and takes the nice feeling with him. Which is probably a good thing. “You try now.”
To my surprise, I drop the bobber behind me only twice before I whip it over my head and out into the bayou. I smile with accomplishment. I’ve never fished before, but I sit in one of the chairs and watch my bobber rock within the ripples like a pro. Frogs croak and cicadas sing, and a snapping turtle comes up for air. I suppress my “city girl” urge to lock myself in the truck and hope ugly beetles don’t dive-bomb me. “What if there’s an alligator?” I sit up straighter. How could I have forgotten my alligator repellent? “What should I do? I haven’t practiced a zigzag!”
“Just watch your bobber, tee Lou. Don’t overthink it.”
“Easy for you to say. Your legs are longer, and you can run faster.”
“True.” Simon’s line makes a ziiiing as his lure whips out to the other side of the bayou. “But for you, I’ll give you a head start.”
“Promise?”
“Mais la! Gators don’t mess with you unless you mess with them.”
“That isn’t what you said at the grocery store.”
“You obviously don’t know when someone is joking.”
“And you obviously don’t know when you’re not funny.”
“Relax.” He sits in the other chair and looks over at me. “I promise to throw myself on a gator if you promise to relax.”
“Sounds fair.”
A shadow slashes across his face as he opens the cooler. “What’s your poison?”
“Water, please.” I do take a peek inside before I lean back in the chair, though, and I’m grateful that I don’t see anything in there but bottles. I stretch my legs out in front of me and stare out at trees and grasses on the far side. “Why’d you throw your lure so far away?”
“The current’ll take it downstream and dump it in a hole where the fish hang out.” He hands me the water and cracks a Dr Pepper. “Nothing to do now but relax and watch your line.”
I doubt something so simple as watching a fishing line will help me relax, but much to my surprise, the tension at the base of my skull slowly begins to ease. My gaze is fixed on the hypnotic rocking dips of my bobber. I think of my original goal in bringing Mother to Sutton Hall. Every step forward is two steps back. I just can’t make her happy. Not even when I toss man bait her way. “Sorry Mom yelled at you earlier.”
“You don’t have to apologize for your mother, tee Lou.”
“I feel like I do. She’s angry with me and took it out on you.” I lift my hair off the back of my clammy neck. “She gets angry when I do something to her and angrier when I don’t. Half the time, she doesn’t remember why she’s angry, just that I’ve done something to make her angry.” I shake my head. “I don’t know if I’m making sense.”
“I understand. Jasper could be fine one moment, and the next, his vicious streak would get the best of him. One second, he’d be happy ’cause I brought him paint samples, and the next, he’d yell and throw things because the samples were only eight ounces.”
“What would you do?”
“Walk out the door and go back to work.” He spins his reel and takes up some slack. “Or I’d come down here and poach on Sutton property.”
Sounds like Jasper had some Rattlesnake in him, too. “When Mom says she hates me, I believe her. She hates me for days and sometimes weeks, long after she’s forgotten why.” I feel like I’m betraying Mom, but once I start, it just pours out. “She can be very hurtful and rarely gives anyone else a thought.” I let go of my hair. “But when she’s not angry, she’s great to be around and often surprisingly present. I love being with her. She’s my mom. She’s all I’ve got.” I think about our conversation in the cemetery. “I’m not in denial about her Alzheimer’s. I know she’ll die, but I’m not ready for her to go. It’s not time.”
“Not up to you, tee Lou. It’s in God’s hands, and your momma will pass on his watch, not yours. C’est la vie.”
“I know, but life sucks sometimes.”
“When life sucks the hardest, you survive by finding someplace to sit still and clear your head. Breathe fresh air and lose yourself in life’s simple pleasures. That’s the beauty of fishing, or, in your case, bobbering.”
The air could be fresher but sitting here in my crab T-shirt and Simon’s lucky guts hat, I’m more relaxed than I’ve been since the day Mom got kicked out of Golden Springs. “I prefer bobbering. It’s not as cruel as hooking a poor innocent fish and yanking it out of the water.”
The end of his pole dips and he stands and yanks it back at the same time. “You say cruel and I say, ‘Hot damn, I’m having poor innocent fish for supper.’ ” He laughs as sunlight pinwheels off his spinning reel.
“You’re cruel and heartless.” I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “And way overpriced.”
“And you’re a bossy pain in the backside. Mouthy to boot.” He glances over his shoulder and his eyes lock with mine. “Make sure you don’t lose yourself down here, tee Lou. I’d hate for that to happen.”
17
June 13
Where’s my mom?
MOM’S STILL a little chilly toward me, but at least we’re back to most of our routine. This morning, while she painted happy trees, I rummaged through the attic and came across a trunk filled with Confederate war bonds and paper currency. I thought it was fascinating, and so did Lindsey. Mom, on the other hand, was underwhelmed. After lunch I redeemed myself by hauling down scrapbooks and jewelry.
I’m back to brushing Mom’s hair and watching game shows with her at night, but she doesn’t want me to climb in bed with her like before. At least I’m not completely banned, and I leave when Lindsey comes to give Mom her sleeping medication. The chasm between us hasn’t fully closed since the euthanasia drama. I’m not surprised, since we’ve maintained a degree of distance for most of my life, but I hate that—ironically—I’m the only one willing to sweep the past under the rug. It’s always up to me to keep pushing forward, but not tonight.
Tonight, I’m in my office, reading over several rough outlines Fern sent for the possible relaunch of Lulu. We invited guest bloggers, but followers are confused by the differing views and are picking favorites and taking sides. I can’t believe it’s come to this. The business I built from nothing but a legal pad is slipping through my fingers. All I can do now is hold tight and poise myself to bounce back.
I think about what Simon said that day at the bayou: “When life sucks the hardest, you survive by finding someplace to sit still and clear your head. Breathe fresh air and lose yourself in life’s simple pleasures. That’s the beauty of fishing, or, in your case, bobbering.”
I haven’t taken his advice yet. Maybe tomorrow. I rub my eyes and push back from my desk when Lindsey knocks at the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you when you’re working, but your mother has a temperature of a hundred and two.”
“What?” I quickly follow Lindsey to Mom’s room, where she’s sitting on the side of her bed in leopard pajamas.
“I’ll have hot pastrami,” Mom tells no one in particular.
She’s pale and her eyes are crazy—relatively speaking. “What is wrong with her?” I ask Lindsey as she whips out her stethoscope. Just a few hours ago, Mom was her normal self, angrily telling people that I want her to die, and conveniently leaving out the part about me refusing to kill her.
“And a beer!”
“I’ll tell you what I suspect in a minute.” She takes Mom’s blood pressure, then listens to her heart and lungs.
All I can do is fold my arms across my chest to hold in my panic.
“Your heart and lungs sound good, Patricia.” Lindsey hooks the stethoscope around her neck.
“Grab Tiger and Blacky.” Tiger was a cat Mom had before she burned her condo down. We never saw him afterward, and I like to think he found a good home a few blocks away. I’ve never he
ard of Blacky. Mom tries to stand, but Lindsey puts a hand on her shoulder and keeps her seated on the edge of her bed.
“I don’t want you to fall.” She turns her face to me. “I think she has a bladder infection. She drinks her water every day, but she’s had three in the past few years, according to her medical records.” Lindsey reaches into her scrubs for her little notebook. “I’ll call the closest hospital and let them know she’s coming.”
Mom’s no stranger to urinary tract infections. The first one traveled to her kidneys and landed her in the hospital. The pain that would send anyone else screaming to the emergency room at the first twinge of a problem, Mom doesn’t feel. The first sign that anything’s wrong is a rise in her temperature. “I’ve never heard of a bladder infection making anyone crazy,” I say as I put Mom’s orthopedic shoes on her feet.
“Bring me the cats. I’ll wait by the saltwater pool.”
“It’s not unusual for a temperature spike to cause confusion and even hallucinations in people with dementia,” Lindsey assures me.
With past infections, Mom’s temperature had returned to normal by the time I saw her. This is the first time I’ve seen her like this and I’m worried and afraid.
“We’re taking you to the hospital, Patricia.” She sticks a file of Mom’s records in a tote and hangs it from one shoulder.
“I’ll need my passport and swimming suit,” Mom says as we get her to her feet.
The thought of taking my delirious, back-seat-driving mother to the hospital makes my panic bubble to the surface of my skin. Mom’s heart might sound good, but mine is in danger of cardiac arrest. “How far away is the hospital?” I ask as we move to the back door.
“Ten miles.” Lindsey snatches the keys from a hook by the back door before I have a chance to reach for them. “I’ll drive.”
The spare key went missing about the same time Raphael started to go missing. “You just got your license.”
“We want to get there before it closes.”
Hospitals don’t close, but I get it. I grab my purse, and the three of us head out with Lindsey in the driver’s seat and Mom buckled in back.
“I love a good visit with Lorena and Vito. He’s such a cutup.”
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 18