How Lulu Lost Her Mind

by Rachel Gibson

  “I think I found that dress in this photo album,” Lindsey says, and brings it to me. She places it on top of the trunk, and it’s open to an eight-by-ten photograph taken in a flower garden. Grandmother Lily’s floral bouquet is so big it looks like a funeral spray. She’s wearing a simple headpiece and a long veil, and if I look close enough, I can see the same lace sleeves and sweetheart neckline. The wedding party is small, with only two family members on each side, and most of them look happy. Gone was the era of dour-faced photographs. Too bad someone didn’t tell the groomsmen that their joyless expressions were twenty years out of fashion.

  I zero in on the man standing next to Grandmother, wearing a dark suit and tie, a white shirt, and a very dapper pocket square. He’s old-school handsome, and his hair is slicked back from a nasty widow’s peak.

  My nasty widow’s peak. The one I had lasered off. The one that still grows an occasional stray hair from my forehead. I never knew my dad or grandfather, and for the first time in my life, I’m staring at a male with the same DNA as me.

  I show the picture to Mom, and she looks back and forth from the picture to me. “That’s Momma and Grandmere and Grandpere.” She points to the groom. “That’s my daddy.” She moves her finger. “Jasper and Jed.”

  “Where’s Grandfather’s family?”

  She shrugs. “Momma didn’t know them.”

  Which I’ve always thought was strange, but I seem to be the only one. “Why are they on the groom’s side?”

  “School friends.”

  This time she doesn’t lower her voice or look around when she says, “Jed and Jasper were gay as a box of sprinkles.” Mom shakes her head, and the broken feather falls and hangs off one side. “Momma said Daddy’s kin didn’t want him to get married.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She digs in a small compartment of the trunk and pulls out earrings, heavy with clusters of rubies and emeralds.

  I return my attention to the photograph. My great-grandparents look pleased, Lily and Louis smile pleasantly, but Jasper and Jed look like they’re headed to a memorial service instead of their sister’s wedding.

  Lindsey helps Mom clip on the heavy earrings, which immediately pull at her lobes. “Don’t those hurt?” I ask her. She shakes her head and the earrings swing from side to side.

  Lindsey takes out her phone and says, “Let me take a picture of both of you.”

  We walk across the hall to the library, where the lighting is far better. Raphael screams from the chandelier overhead like someone’s stabbed him.

  “Shut your beak,” I say.

  “Merde! Shut the fuck up, Boomer!”

  I give him the stink eye I’ve inherited from Mom and slide the doors closed so Lindsey’s fear won’t cause her to go into early labor.

  Mom and I pose in front of the fireplace, our faces dour like Jed’s and Jasper’s, and almost all the same portraits lining the hall. We play around on the conversation couch; in one pic she holds her hand out like a traffic cop as if to stop the conversation. Then we move near a floor-to-ceiling window and stand within the variegated sunlight. Then, I trade places with Lindsey and snap her in the light, hand on her belly.

  “Cup your bump,” I tell her as she poses in front of the fireplace. “The other day, I saw a tiny T-shirt that said ‘Poop Happens’ on it.” Lindsey laughs, her eyes bright with joy. “Do you have baby stuff?”

  “I have a few onesies and some socks, but I have time to get the big stuff before he’s born.”

  “You get diapers at the birthday party.” Mom smiles. “We should give you a birthday party.”

  I’m sure she means baby shower, but what the hell. “That’s a good idea, Mom.”

  Lindsey rubs her belly and adds, “I can buy Frankie diapers and everything else he needs.”

  “I think Mom’s right.” It’s too bad Lindsey doesn’t have a group of friends or family members to throw her a baby shower. “You need a baby shower.”

  “No. We don’t need a big fuss. I mean, it’s not like we…” Lindsey blushes and looks down at her stomach.

  “You can’t speak for Frankie. He might want a big piece of cake.”

  Lindsey smiles and I snap another picture. “Frankie likes cake.”

  “I believe that. You’re huge!”

  I ignore Mom. “We’ll need decorations.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone as big as you!”

  “I’ve never hosted a baby shower, but it can’t be that hard to plan. I’ll look on the internet for ideas.”

  “And games,” Mom adds. “A good party has to have games.”

  Lindsey sits on the couch next to Mom, and I take a few pictures of them together. “Won’t it just be the three of us? What kind of games?”

  “That game with the dots on the floor.” Mom poses with her hands on the side of her face next to the big bow.

  “Dots on the floor?” I take several pictures of her looking cheesy.

  “You put a hand on one dot and a foot on another.”

  “Twister?” Lindsey and I laugh. Mom’s too old, Lindsey’s too pregnant, and I’m too short. Twister isn’t fun when you’re the short kid.

  “Don’t invite the Duffys if we’re playing Twister.” Mom shakes her head. “Rex is a hairy bastard and sheds in the baby oil.”

  It takes a few heartbeats for that to sink in. Lindsey and I suck in horrified breaths, but Mom is not quite finished.

  “What were those people’s names?” Mom’s brows pull together. “They had a girl your age with really crossed eyes.”

  “Jodee Pulaski, and her eyes didn’t cross if she wore her glasses.”

  “Lovely couple. Not at all hairy.”

  “Mom, stop! I don’t need to know any of this.” I remember that family. They’d seemed so normal compared to mine. The children had been involved in Scouts, they’d gone on family vacations to Yellowstone and Disneyland. They went to church every Sunday. I know because I used to go with Jodee to get saved.

  “They didn’t want to see Rex’s big hairy—”

  “Mom, don’t say it!”

  “—back.”

  One day, we just never saw them again, but that wasn’t unusual. It happened a lot. Mostly because Mom couldn’t get along with women for very long. She still can’t, but I always thought the Pulaskis stopped coming around because they got tired of saving me on Sundays. I never suspected it had to do with naked Twister.

  19

  Mom’s stash.

  The plan.

  What’s wrong with this picture?

  HIDE THOSE someplace where Wynonna won’t find ’em.” Mom pulls the earrings from her lobes and shoves them toward me. “A spot where no one will find them.”

  “Okay.” I have to fight to keep my eyes from rolling.

  “Damn her.” Mom shakes a dramatic fist as she rises from the sofa.

  Lindsey and I make brief eye contact over the top of her head. Mom has enough Pirate’s Booty to last her several months. She’s stashed it somewhere and can’t remember where now. I shove the earrings up my tight lace sleeve because I don’t trust Raphael not to take off with them if I set them down.

  It’s nearing noon, and Mom gets grumpy around this time every day. Before her bladder infection, her mental and emotional slide started around four in the afternoon. Now it starts sooner. Lindsey and I help her out of the old skirt and jacket, but she insists on keeping the hat. “It’s a good hat,” she says, and follows Lindsey to the kitchen so she can boss her around. “I want roast beef.”

  “If you want roast beef, you’ll have to make it yourself. I’m making halibut for lunch.”

  I gather everything and return to the parlor. Raphael is still hanging from the chandelier and screams as I pass, but not like someone’s stabbing him this time. No, this scream is filled with terror and happens to sound remarkably like Lindsey’s.

  “Not funny,” I say, but he laughs anyway.

  I return Mom’s skirt and jacket to the trunk
and pull Grandmother’s wedding dress over my head. I gather the gloves Mom tossed about and pack them and the dress away. The trunk has lots of little drawers and boxes, some filled with old sewing needles and thread. Others contain old photos of Lily and Louis, lots of random keys, and a stack of letters tied up with blue velvet ribbon. I fan the corners of the envelopes and see they contain letters that were written by my grandparents, postmarked from 1950 to 1953. I toss the bundle on the couch, figuring I can read the letters on nights I can’t sleep.

  The drawer to the jewelry box is open, and I shut it before getting dressed and heading off to Mom’s room to hide the dreadful earrings. Even if Wynonna lived next door, I think it’s safe to say the gaudy clip-ons would be safe from her evil grasp.

  There are so many places in Mom’s room to hide the earrings, and I glance around for a “spot where no one will find them.” But it has to be easy for me to remember, like Mom’s underwear drawer. Not surprisingly, Mom’s beat me to the punch. I find cash folded up with her panties and a long-lost remote control hidden in her compression socks. I wonder what else she’s hoarded and find the spare key to the Escalade in a pocket of her jogging pants. She’s stashed seven sterling pickle forks with her pajamas, and a thin box of matches from the Belle of Baton Rouge Casino and Hotel in with her bras.

  I slip the matches and spare key into my back pocket, doing my due diligence to prevent arson and grand theft auto, and my gaze falls on the brass coal box I found in the attic last month. It’s about the size of a small trunk and weighs a ton, and of course Mom wanted it by the fireplace. I lift the lid and discover three bags of Pirate’s Booty, two rock-hard bagels, an open sleeve of saltines, half a bottle of water, and a pack of toilet paper. I close the box tight, shocked it hasn’t attracted ants. If hoarding pickle forks and toilet paper gives her comfort, I’m all for it.

  The hunt for a hiding spot continues, and I pull open a drawer in Mom’s bedside chest. It’s not a spot that no one can find, but I’m more worried about my memory than about Wynonna’s sticky fingers. Inside is Mom’s red velvet jewelry box, round and small enough to fit in my palm. When I was a kid, it seemed magical with its colorful jewels, collection of wedding rings, and Great-grandmother’s watch pendant. A press of a tiny gold button makes the top flip up.

  It’s empty. No jewels or rings or watch pendant. Just four red pills. I poke them with my finger and wonder why Mom’s bedtime medication is in her nightstand. Lindsey keeps all medications in a lockbox in her bedroom. Mom can’t take so much as an aspirin without Lindsey giving it to her, and Lindsey keeps track of everything in her little notebook. At night she transcribes her notes into Mom’s electronic medical chart. If anything was missing, anything outside the routine, Lindsey would know it.

  Where did these come from?

  That day in the cemetery, Mom talked about killing herself with pills. She wanted my help and then got angry when I refused. She was horrible and mad for several weeks, but I thought she’d gotten over it. I thought she’d gotten over her death-with-dignity plan of several years ago, too, but apparently she’s never let it go. She can’t get her hands on four Flintstones vitamins without someone noticing, so I’ve rested comfortably in my belief that she has neither the opportunity nor the mental capacity to follow through without my assistance.

  I empty the pills into my palm and notice that some of the red coating looks like it’s been rubbed off, like the pills sat in water or someone’s mouth. Like someone is slipping her medication under her tongue and then slipping it out when no one is looking to create a lethal stockpile. But when? I’m with her at night… except when I’m banished or leave before Lindsey gives her the medication. If Mom can hoard bags of Pirate’s Booty and toilet paper without notice, I suppose she’s capable of hiding little red pills too.

  My knees buckle and I drop to the edge of the bed. She’s more resourceful than I’ve given her credit for, more determined than I imagined. Mother is planning to kill herself and she doesn’t need me to help her. She’s going to do it on her own. She wants to cut her life short but I want more. More time, more memories, more Bob Ross paintings, more nights braiding her hair, and even more twisted Twister stories.

  This is so typically selfish of her.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. An annoying little voice in my head reminds me that I believe people have a right to die. Just not my mom. If that makes me a selfish hypocrite, I don’t care. I know she will die from Alzheimer’s, but she can’t die now. I don’t care what Simon said about it not being up to me. God can wait until I’m ready to let her go.

  I hear her and Lindsey walk past the door. At some point Mom will notice her pills are missing, but I can’t leave them here. I toss the ugly earrings in the jewelry box and replace it in the chest. My heart pounds in my head, and yet I am numb as I wait for Mother and Lindsey to move into the dining room before I slip into Mom’s bathroom. I hold the pills over the elevated toilet seat with Mom’s new drainage bag hooked to one padded arm.

  “Lou Ann,” Lindsey calls from down the hall to me. “Lunch.”

  I hold Mom’s life in my palm. All I have to do is tilt my hand and flush. You want to keep me around until I am just bones and skin and my mouth is hanging open. She’s accused me of wanting her to drool on a bib, too. None of that is true. I love my mom. I know what’s best for her. She’s been happier since we moved here. Yes, she’s lost some cognitive skills, but she has a while yet before the end stage. Just this morning she was laughing and having fun.

  “Lou!”

  I close my hand. She has a living will and a do-not-resuscitate order. She has the casket and flowers and music picked out for her funeral. She has a right to die. I shove the pills in my pocket. Just not right now.

  I join Lindsey and Mom in the dining room as if it is just any other lunch on any other day. It’s not for me. Everything is different. The halibut and jasmine rice taste like nothing in my mouth. The food sticks in my throat, and I reach for a heavy silver goblet and watch my mother as I take a drink of water. I watch her take little bites and chew longer than normal. She nods and smiles as Lindsey tells her the latest Frankie news. She swallows and raises a hand to her throat. I watch for her to choke, but she doesn’t.

  “They ripped out my uterus,” she recites word for word the story I’ve heard all my life. She gets to the part where she almost bled to death giving birth to me and stops. I recognize the lowering of her brows. Her lapse in memory isn’t unusual and is no indication that she’s slipping any more than the last time.

  “You had to have an emergency hysterectomy and couldn’t have more children,” I remind her. “You always wanted a son.” I can feel Mom’s pills in my pocket; my emotions are raw. I’m losing my mind again.

  “You can have a boy.” Mom points her fork at me.

  “Me? You know I’m not married.”

  “Get married.” She returns her fork to her plate and scoops up some rice. “It’s not hard to get a husband. Especially a shitty husband.”

  I must be getting used to Mom’s potty mouth, because it barely registers. “Maybe it’s not hard for you, Mom. You have a passionate nature.”

  She nods. “And a healing touch.”

  Yes, but as she’s pointed out, she can’t heal herself.

  “But don’t go for prisoners. They ain’t right.”

  I don’t know if Mom’s talking from experience, but it makes perfect cognitive sense to me.

  “Thanks for the warning.” Lindsey chuckles.

  I wipe at the red stain the pill coatings left on my palm. I need to talk to her. She needs to know what Mom is doing, but that conversation can wait until Mom takes her nap.

  After lunch, Mom and I move to my office for a power planning session. I have to block the last hour from my mind or I’ll go crazy. Lindsey thinks she should be in on the baby shower plans, too, but we boot her out and close the door. I pull up an extra chair for Mom, and we sit at my desk so I can write everything down on a
yellow legal pad.

  “Cocktail peanuts and those butter mints.” Mom taps a finger on the legal pad. “Diapers. Lots of damn diapers. Babies poop a lot.” Mom laughs, and I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.

  I turn on my computer, and we cruise the internet looking for ideas. Mom wants me to write down everything she sees, but I draw the line at a bottle that looks like a boob. It might be just the three of us, but we begin to assemble quite the list.

  “Diaper rash ointment,” Mom says, and I write down Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.

  I add cake and flowers to the bottom of the legal pad, and my eye catches a shadow creeping beneath the door.

  “Mom,” I whisper, and point. “Lindsey’s standing at the door trying to listen in.”

  “Huh.” Mom looks but doesn’t bother to whisper. “That’s her?”

  “Shh.” I put a finger to my lips. “Say ‘dunk tank.’ ”

  “Why?”

  “Lindsey’s being snoopy, and so she deserves to get a little freaked out.”

  “Dunk tank!” Mom’s looking forward to the party, and her excitement reassures me more than ever that it’s not time for her to die.

  “Good idea,” I say just as loud. “And a Slip ’N Slide.”

  “Oh, I like the Slip ’N Slide.”

  Of course she does. “Cornhole. Who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned cornhole?” The shadow wavers and disappears.

  “Me.” Mom’s lips purse, and she sits up straight. “I don’t like the cornhole.”

  Well, I guess she has her standards.

  Once we’ve finished our planning, Mom heads to her bedroom for a nap. I wait outside her door, listening for the sound of an opening drawer and the axe to land on my neck. It doesn’t happen, and I blow out a relieved breath.