How Lulu Lost Her Mind

by Rachel Gibson

  “Read the part where Daddy says he misses me.”

  “ ‘I miss my girls and wish I was there to kiss Patricia good night.’ ”

  Mom stares up at the faded gold canopy. Her braid is to one side, and her arms are across her chest. She’s so still that if her eyes weren’t open and blinking, I might think she’d fallen asleep.

  “Good night, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and scoot to the side of the bed.

  “Daddy was a war hero.”

  I stop and look across my shoulder at Mom.

  “I wish his letters weren’t about the war so much and were more about missing me and Momma.”

  “Some people just have a problem expressing emotion. Not all men are like Earl with his cactus card,” I say, because I’d much rather she talk about Earl than feel sad about Louis’s stilted letters.

  “He never said he loves us. I would have liked to hear that.”

  I hate to see my mom sad. “I found another letter from Grandfather that I haven’t read yet.” I return to sit beside her and pull the letter from the last envelope.

  “ ‘My dearest heart Lily,’ ” I fudge.

  “ ‘This separation is killing me. I long for the days when I am with you again. The memory of the last time I held you in my arms is such sweet torture. It sustains my darkest days, yet makes me long for you all the more. I loathe the world that keeps us apart and the miles that separate our hearts. I do not despair, knowing that you and my pretty little Patricia await my return,’ ” I fudge a bit more. “ ‘Give her a kiss every night for me and tell her that Daddy loves her.

  “ ‘Yet, dearest love, if anything should happen to me, know that I shall call to you unafraid. Know that your name is a whisper on my lips. Listen for it and know that I died loving you and my little girl. Love, Louis.’ ”

  “I never knew.” There are tears in the corners of Mom’s eyes and I’m glad I embellished. “That’s even better than Earl’s card.”

  “I guess some men save up their feelings and write about them all at once.”

  “I miss Earl,” she says through a sigh. “I liked when he took me to dinner, but I’m glad I don’t have to eat stuffed peppers at that place anymore. I hate goddamn stuffed peppers.”

  I smile. “You and me both.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have to listen to crazy people.” She looks at me; her eyes are getting droopy. “Except for you.”

  I laugh and shake my head. I’m not so certain that she’s kidding. “You made me crazy.”

  She yawns and closes her eyes. “I’m glad I don’t have to end up like the others. Shriveled up and carted out and folks asking if I passed peaceful. I don’t have to get my insides taken out at no hospital.” Her voice fades and her chest gently rises as she inhales. We had a good day together. We had a good day yesterday too. She turns on her side, and her mouth gapes open. Her breath catches in the back of her throat and she lets out her first snore of the night. Mom could live for several more years. We have a lot of good days ahead. Someday she’ll be too sick, and all our good days will be gone, but she’s not there yet. Not when I look into her eyes and I can see her. There are parts of Mom that have faded away forever, but the part of her that brushes her hair a hundred times and puts on her lipstick every morning, the part that loves men and game shows, and the part that loves me, is still there. For all my mother’s Alzheimer rages, I know that she loves me.

  Shriveled up and carted out like the others.

  My vision blurs, and I feel a hard pinch in my chest. I think I’m having a heart attack… but I don’t fall over or pass out. I just keep standing here by the side of my mom’s bed, watching her.

  She’s going to get sicker. She’s worse than when we first moved to Sutton Hall. Most of the time she acts like she isn’t aware of her illness, but she must be, or she wouldn’t have stashed her pills.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. I love her. I don’t want her to take her life, but it’s not up to me. It’s not my choice. I walk from the room and return a few minutes later.

  My hand shakes as I open the first drawer in her bedside chest and reach for the jewelry box. It is weightless in my shaky palm, and I spring the top open with my thumb. The ugly earrings are still inside, and I dump them out. I look at Mom, cozy beneath silky gold bedding, snoring like a hibernating bear.

  My fist tightens around the little pills I’ve kept hidden from her.

  A sob clogs my throat, and I open my hand, giving her back the right to make the choice.

  21

  July 25

  Snips and snails and gruesome tales.

  WHEN I told Lindsey we had twelve Little Peanut place settings, I guess she took it to mean that she should fill them all. Precisely at 1 p.m. on the last Saturday in July, Jim rolls up in his Malibu, followed closely by a maroon minivan. The doors to the van slide open and out pour his two aunts, his mother, and three sisters:

  Mindy Lee.

  Margaret Ann.

  Mary Sue.

  Jenny Kay.

  Janet Lyn.

  Jessica.

  “Just Jessica?” I ask as I welcome her inside.

  “Momma ran out of middle names.”

  “She has one; she just don’ like it,” corrects her mother, Mary Sue. “It’s Don, like a man spells it. Her daddy was cassed and spelled it wrong on the birt’ certificate. It’s a long story.”

  Mary Sue is a more hardened version of her three daughters, with their blue eyes and hair pulled back in varying lengths of brown ponytails. I can’t tell the aunts apart and assume they’re twins. Curly gray hair frames round faces, and thick glasses rest on their short noses. The only difference I can detect is the color of their Mardi Gras T-shirts.

  All six women sit in various chairs I’ve pulled into the parlor, hands folded in their laps like they’re afraid they might break something. Their accents aren’t as thick as Jim’s, but they sound every bit as Cajun.

  The front parlor is awash in blue balloons, streamers, and tissue pom-poms complete with cutout elephants and vases of blue hydrangeas. A WELCOME BABY FRANKIE banner hangs from the balcony above the front porch and a two-tier cake sits on the kitchen table, which we dragged into the front parlor. Or back parlor. Whatever.

  I serve blue raspberry punch from one of my great-grandmother’s big Limoges bowls. Mom’s cocktail peanuts and butter mints sit beside the silver tea service while several bottles of wine chill in crystal ice buckets. Mom and Lindsey and I are all in baby blue—Lindsey in a muumuu, Mom in a tracksuit, and me in a cotton sundress—and all of us in blue sequined headbands.

  Mom sits on the chesterfield like she’s holding court while Raphael hangs upside down in his locked cage. Both he and Mom have behaved themselves so far, but I know how quickly that can change.

  I might be a little out of practice, but I have organized both big and small events. I know how to be the event’s attraction and work behind the scenes. The first few years of Lulu, I did both at the same time.

  Today I am hostess, photographer, and one-person waitstaff, thanks to the past ten years I’ve spent making people feel welcome and at ease. I put my skills to work, and by the time I get out the string for How Big Is Mommy’s Belly?, the ice is broken, and our guests are much more relaxed. We play Baby Shower Bingo, and I pass out little boxes of Godiva chocolate for prizes. Everyone wins something, but Jim is the big winner of Baby Grab Bag when he pulls out the boob bottle. His face turns red and he quickly leaves the room.

  “He’s shy, him.” His mom shrugs.

  His sister Janet Lyn explains further: “I don’ tink he’s ever touched a real boob in his life.”

  A chorus of “Janet Lyn!” follows, and I suspect this isn’t the first time Jim’s middle sister has been inappropriate. There’s one in every crowd, and I cut my gaze to Mom sitting next to me, her lips Vermilion Vixen, sipping punch from a Little Peanut cup.

  Lindsey’s cheeks turn the color of Mom’s lips, and I rise to my feet. “It’
s time for presents!” I place a chair for Lindsey in front of the fireplace and stack gifts at her feet. The first thing she unwraps is a blue-and-white blanket that Mary Sue knitted herself. It’s beautiful and warm at the same time. Most of the other gifts are practical, like diapers and baby shampoo, and I slip out of the room and into the library, where I’ve hidden the bassinet. I sit the little elephant from Mom in the bed and wheel it into the parlor.

  When she sees it, Lindsey’s mouth drops open. “Oh my gosh!” She puts a hand to her chest, and her huge eyes get a little teary.

  “I found that elephant,” Mom says. “It’s a good one.”

  “Mom and I thought you could use a little cradle when you’re down here with Frankie.”

  “Thank you.” Lindsey looks so happy I just might cry too. “Sorry, Frankie makes me emotional,” she confesses, and I hand her a Little Peanut cocktail napkin.

  “Happens to everybody,” one of the aunts tells her. “It’s part of havin’ a bebe. Just you wait till labor starts, yes.”

  Oh no.

  “I was in labor fer five days,” the other aunt says, and, as if it were a starter pistol, the race is on for the worst birthing horror story.

  “Junior tore me up good.”

  “I ripped every which way.”

  “Shana gave me back labor. I ’bout killed Bobby Karl.”

  Wait for it, I tell myself.

  “Lou Ann yanked out my uterus.”

  And there it is. Mom doesn’t disappoint and smiles like she came in first place. Poor Lindsey looks horrified, but Mom isn’t done. “I almost bled out.”

  “Who wants cake?” I desperately move behind the table as several hands shoot up.

  “You wouldn’t think such a tiny thing could tear me up like that.”

  “More punch?” I hold up an empty paper cup.

  “But once I saw her little face, I couldn’t stay mad.”

  That’s a nice turn.

  “She was just the most precious thing. Delicate little face and all that dark hair. Lou Ann was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen.”

  “Ahh, Mom.” I think she’s trying to out-brag everyone else in the room, and I love it. I reach for a big knife as Lindsey holds up the first poop onesie out of a baker’s dozen. When I wrapped the thirteen poop onesies, I was almost as amused as Mom. Now, seeing each of those potty-humor baby shirts laid out one by one in public, it’s just plain embarrassing for me. Mom and Janet Lyn, on the other hand, laugh so hard they have to hold their sides in pain.

  Raphael flaps his wings and squawks at me. “I feel the same way,” I tell him.

  “Does he talk?” Jessica asks as she stares into the cage.

  “Sometimes too much.”

  “What does he say?”

  I turn toward the bird. “Raphael, say, ‘Shake your tail feathers.’ ” Of course, he doesn’t, and I shrug. “I guess he doesn’t feel like it today.” I remove the elephant topper and slice into the top layer of the cake.

  “Are you really Lulu da Love Guru?”

  “Yes.” At least for now.

  “I read your book.”

  “Which one?” I put a piece of cake on a plate and hand it to her. “I’ve written several.”

  “It was yellow, I tink, and you wrote about waitin’ tree months before you have sex wit your boyfriend.”

  I stab the pointed end of the knife into the cake plate and wait. This is usually the part where I’m told that my advice sucks because (insert name) ran off with her boyfriend while she was following my rules.

  “I followed it and the guy I was datin’ dumped me for a salope bonne à rien.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I assume it isn’t good.

  “I was mad at first, but I’m glad now. They deserved each other.”

  “Sounds like you saved yourself heartache down the road.”

  “Yeah.” She takes a sip of blue punch from her Little Peanut cup. “How long have you known Lindsey?”

  “Almost six months.”

  “Jimmy really likes her.” She turns her head and watches Lindsey rip into more presents. “I hope she’s a good person, ’cause my brother is a good guy.”

  “Lindsey is a very good person.” Someone sticks a bow on her head, and she laughs. “Smart too.”

  “Tony’s an asshole.” We both turn and look at Raphael. Now is not a good time for his potty beak.

  “Who’s Tony?”

  I shrug. “He learned that from his previous owner.”

  Jessica and I watch several more bows get stuck on Lindsey’s head, and I reach for my phone and take a picture of her looking young and happy and very, very pregnant. Jim returns as I finish cutting the cake, but he’s not alone. He’s brought reinforcement with him.

  “Doctor Simon,” Mom calls out as he walks into the parlor.

  “Bonjour, ladies.”

  There’s a round of “bonjours,” one “How’s ya’ momma an’ dem?” and Janet Lyn’s “You been behavin’ yaself, boo?”

  “Always,” he answers.

  Mom shoots Janet Lyn the stink eye and pats my empty place on the sofa beside her. “You can sit here.”

  Lindsey holds up the “Poop Star” onesie to show Jim. “Patricia and Lou Ann got this for Frankie.”

  He smiles. “Nice.”

  “Cake?” I ask both men and give Jim the bigger piece because he looks hungry. He might not be, but he’s just one of those skinny people you want to fatten up.

  As the party starts winding down, I pour cabernet into a Little Peanut cup and take a sip. My finger just happens to swipe across the cake plate and gather a hunk of blue frosting. Yum. Red wine and sugar take me to my happy place. I look over at my mother. She’s happy, comfortable in her environment, eating cake, and chatting with “foxy” Simon. Even her eyes are smiling.

  It’s been nearly two weeks since I returned those little red pills to her jewelry box. Nearly two weeks of watching her swallow her medication. I’ve given her back the freedom to end her life. It’s her choice, and I’m okay with that, but I can’t make myself leave until I am certain it won’t be the last time I kiss her cheek good night.

  I take another swipe of frosting and watch Mom in action as the aunt in the orange T-shirt shows Simon something on her phone. The two of them laugh and Mom gives the aunt the stink eye for daring to encroach on her territory. I wonder what Mom would say if she knew I made out with her boyfriend on the front porch.

  “It wasn’t the pot dat doomed your marriage. It was the threesome with Rhonda June Farley.”

  With the tip of my finger in my mouth, I look over at Janet Lyn and Jenny Kay.

  “Oops,” Janet Lyn says into the suddenly quiet room. She turns to her red-faced sister. “Sorry, but it isn’t like folks don’ already know about dat.”

  Jim makes a sound that is somewhere between choking and wheezing, and his face is back to bright red. I lower my hand and grab a napkin for my sticky finger. I didn’t know about Rhonda June Farley, probably because I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her, and it appears the other “folks” in the room didn’t know either. Mary Sue’s mouth moves but no words come out. Everyone’s brows are raised up their foreheads, and no one knows quite what to say to fill the awkward silence.

  Luckily, I have Mom. “That’s how that sort of thing goes sometimes,” says the woman with the vermilion lips. She sighs and takes a drink of her punch, oblivious that the attention in the room is now on her. “One person ruins everyone’s fun. It’s a shame.”

  Simon’s eyes cut to mine. He starts to laugh, and I have to bite the corner of my lip to keep from joining him. “Mais, y’all, did you hear about that break-in at the Speedy Cash?”

  “Dat guy was fou fou, yeah,” Jim says, but the room remains silent until Lindsey plops the plush elephant on the top of her belly. “I think I’ll name this guy Horton.”

  “Or Dumbo,” someone suggests.

  “He doesn’t have a hat like Dumbo,” a sister argues. “Tantor,
after Tarzan’s elephant.”

  “Babar.”

  “Heffalump.”

  “Earl’s a damn good name.” I’m grateful Mom didn’t say “Tony” and set Raphael off again.

  By the time the party is over, it’s three thirty, and I hand out Little Peanut favor boxes filled with small pieces of cake and butter mints. I’m sincere when I tell them, “Thank you, ladies. It was very nice of all of you to give up your Saturday for us.” I stand on the porch as the women pile into the minivan. They certainly made Lindsey’s day better.

  Simon stands on the porch next to me, watching the van pull away. “Mais, that’s a load of trouble, no?”

  “I appreciate them coming, and I have to thank Jim. It was nice of them all to turn out for a girl they don’t know. I’m sure they have better things to do.”

  “Better than sucking up gossip about your family? I doubt it.”

  “What could they gossip about?” I wave at them. “We’re not interesting.”

  He laughs at that. “Folks are always interested in who’s living out here and if there’s anything scandalous goin’ on.”

  “No scandal today, and for whatever reason, I’m glad they joined us. The party would have been boring without them. No labor and delivery horror stories. No one but Mom laughing at all the poop onesies. No one to talk about a threesome with Rhonda What’s-her-face.”

  “Rhonda June Farley,” Simon provides.

  The van turns and disappears, and I look across my shoulder at him. “You know her?”

  “Cher, everyone knows Rhonda June.”

  I’m dying to ask the obvious question, but I control myself as we return to the parlor. Simon has referred to me several different ways since we first met. I don’t know how I feel about “cher.” I know I like “tee Lou Ann” more than “swamp rat.” “Tee Lou” is better than “fou fou.”