I broke off an engagement. I’ve puked outside an independently owned bike store and flashed boob at a musician after we had sex. I don’t want my indiscretions blasted across the TV sets of the Lowcountry.
“Come on, Bruno.” We huddle together on the couch, where I finally fall asleep.
31.
The Invitation
My phone buzzes, but I’m too hot to move. My body has cooled after a cold shower, but my face is still Johns-Island-tomato-red. Naked in bed, I study patterns of light through the blinds. The room still smells of bleach. I washed my sheets four times after that monstrous asshole accosted me a couple of weeks ago, and they still feel dirty. Maybe I need to burn some sage. My phone buzzes again . . . and again . . . with insistence. I finally roll over and snatch it from the bedside table. It’s Mom.
“Laudie had an episode.”
My heart tightens. “Another stroke?”
“We’re not sure. We just got a call a few minutes ago. Your father and I are headed there right now.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Honey, we don’t know.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
I fling myself out of bed to get dressed. I gather my wet hair in a low ponytail. Where is that other damn ballet flat? I squat and sift through a rubbery pile at the bottom of my closet, chucking aside old sneakers, a pair of Doc Martens, and my stilettos from that icky night. Underneath a flip-flop, I spy something that looks like a pillow for a Barbie Doll—it’s a little plastic bag with white powder inside. I’m no druggie, but I’m no idiot, either. That fucking Kevin was high on cocaine, which might explain his obsessive cleaning of the table at the club but most certainly doesn’t excuse him of being a predator. I open the bag over the toilet and watch the powder spread in the bowl.
* * *
Cascades of string music escape from Laudie’s room. I recognize this thunderous storm of violins and cellos as a section of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. The music is brisk, allegro, as though urging me to hurry up. Summer has vanished. Fall approaches. Skipping every other stair, I arrive breathless at her bedroom door, anticipating my family circling my grandmother, weeping. Instead, the mood is calm.
A bouquet of damask roses on Laudie’s mirrored vanity perfumes the air. A green light on the stereo blinks steadily, which plays at a volume just below deafening. Mom sits next to Laudie’s bed. Dad talks with Shaniece, but I can’t hear a word over the music. He wears a navy suit and a burgundy tie printed with mallard ducks. He waves me over.
“How is she?”
“She’s better now. She calmed down.”
“Calmed down? Was it a stroke?”
“Shaniece is pretty sure your grandmother has a UTI; apparently they can make her act a little goofy. A nurse already called in the antibiotics. Weezy’s going to pick them up on her way.”
“And that will make her feel better?”
“We think so.”
The knot in my stomach eases. “Where’s Tito?”
“Tito’s outside enjoying his coffee on the piazza.”
While Shaniece adjusts Laudie’s covers, Dad unexpectedly opens his arms to me, inviting me into a bear hug. I’m not sure if it’s in celebration of Laudie’s turn for the better or a peace offering. I fold into his body, which is still as strong as I remember from when I was a child, when I thought he was Superman—out of uniform, of course. My wet hair dampens his starched button-down, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he kisses me on the head.
Mom joins us, rubs the side of my arm up and down, over and over. It’s meant to be tender, but it feels more like she’s trying to scrub me clean. She breaks the circle and gestures for me to take a seat beside Laudie. “Mother,” she says, “Simons is here to see you.”
Laudie struggles to locate me in what must be some sort of shadowy miasma, some existential murkiness. I pivot the chair sideways to put myself in her direct line of vision. “Hi, Laudie. I love you.”
A tiny rustle escapes from her throat, a wisp of sound. Even if the music weren’t blasting, it would be impossible to hear. I take a guess: “You love me, too.” I pat her skeletal leg. “I know.”
She shakes her head, pleads at me with her eyes. “Letter,” she mumbles, or at least that’s what I think she says. I only catch the last, indistinct syllable.
“Laudie, what letter?” I spin around to my parents, who are talking with Shaniece. “Can you turn the music down? She’s trying to tell me something.”
Mom and Dad watch me, their noses scrunched. Shaniece crosses the room to lower the volume. I mouth a thank-you and lean in close to Laudie’s mouth, which trembles with effort. This time, though, she speaks clearly. “The letter.”
It’s also clear to see that she won’t be able to say anything more, at least for now. Whatever message she’s trying to send, I want her to feel I received it. “I’ll get it,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me, or at least she doesn’t acknowledge that she’s heard me. Her eyes are closed. She has fallen back asleep.
“Mom, do you think she’ll get better?”
“Shaniece says the drugs will help, honey, but you know she’s not going to get better.”
“I do. Of course. Do we know how long . . . ?”
“We don’t know. It could be months. Could be weeks. This is part of the journey.”
“It’s just so sad.”
“She had a good life.”
“Mom, I think she wants to tell me something. It has to do with a letter.”
“She’s probably talking about these.” Mom rummages through her pocketbook, hands me two heavy white cards. The first is Caroline’s debutante party invitation. “I need your journalistic eye. I had some proofs made.”
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Edward Chisolm Smythe
Request the Pleasure of Your Company
For Cocktails
Honouring Their Daughter
Caroline Jenrette Smythe
On Saturday, the Thirtieth of November
At Eight O’Clock in the Evening
30 Atlantic Street
Charleston, South Carolina
Black Tie
The Favour of a Reply Is Requested
* * *
“I don’t see any typos, but are you sure you don’t want your name on it, Mom? What about Carry Ann and Ed Smythe? Or even Caroline Ann and Edward, if you want to go formal?”
“My name is on it.”
“As Mrs. Edward Chisolm Smythe.”
“Everyone knows it’s me.”
“Mom, you’re a person, separate from Dad.”
“Hmm.” She plucks the invitation from my hand. In front of us, Laudie sleeps, her breathing a bit less tumultuous. “Look at the date.” She taps her finger on the line that reads, Saturday, the Thirtieth of November. “I think we got the best date. You know how by the end of the season you just don’t want to eat another mini crab cake . . .”
“Yeah,” I manage, feeling a tad sacrilegious talking about hors d’oeuvres in front of a dying woman. Mom hands me the second card. I start to read:
The family of Claudia Pringle Middleton wishes to convey its sincere appreciation for your recent expression of sympathy . . .
Am I really proofreading a card for Mom to mail, thanking family friends for the casseroles, notes, and flowers they’ll send after Laudie dies? Instead of fussing over fonts and paper stock at the stationery store, shouldn’t we be burning incense and lighting votives? Are there not ceremonies and songs for sending dying people out of this world? Sure, The Four Seasons plays on the stereo, but it hardly constitutes a vigil. We’ve even outsourced all the hands-on dirty work—laundry, diapers, medications—to the hospice nurses.
We are mainly spectators, dutifully waiting for Laudie to die so we can get death’s messiness out of the way and move on to what we do best: choosing between ecru or white paper stock, observing the two-week-turnaround correspondence rule. We’re all too fucking polite to do the real, messy, difficult, authentic
work of life . . . and death. What is the matter with us? I look at Mom, hoping she’s absorbing the full measure of incredulity on my face. She waves her hand dismissively. “Honey, we know it’s going to happen. I just need to get these cards printed now so we’ll have them when we need them.”
“Isn’t that a bit like putting the cart before the horse? She isn’t even . . .” I struggle for the right words. “She’s still here.”
Mom smiles, pats Laudie on the head. “Oh, don’t look so worried. Besides, she likes them. I already showed them to her.”
Jesus H.
Shaniece takes Laudie’s blood pressure. She lifts a limp arm with one hand and pumps her gadget with the other. “Her heart rate’s strong.”
“Thank you, Shaniece. Call me the minute anything changes,” Mom says. She gathers her purse and cups my chin in her hands. “Okay, honey, your father and I are going to scoot. We’ve got to get ready for lunch with the Lachicottes at Battery Hall.”
“Y’all are going out to lunch?”
Mom squares her jaw. Her eyes flash with anger. She crosses the room and motions for me to follow her. “Come with me.” She leads me into the bathroom and shuts the door.
The wallpaper is patterned with miniature roses. Terry-cloth towels hang from the rack; they’re folded so that Laudie’s initials—CPM, embroidered in white—are displayed. The room is small; Mom and I stand together on a shaggy bath mat. “How dare you!” She works hard to keep from shouting. She points a finger toward the door; behind it Laudie lies in her bed. “My mother”—she pounds her chest—“my mother is in that bed right now because you took her to a ballet. I come here every day, for hours, Simons, to be by her side. Just because I don’t work and I’m old-fashioned doesn’t mean I don’t have a life. Things still need to get done. And I still need to eat. Louisa has been asking me for weeks to go to lunch, and I’ve been putting it off to come here. And here you are, picking at me, at everything I do. I hadn’t said one word to you about Laudie’s last day—her real last day—but you seem to have forgotten. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you why we are here now.”
I bow my head, steel my body to help absorb the onslaught of my mother’s fury. “But, Mom, it was Laudie’s idea.”
“If I were you, I’d be quiet. Just hush.” Mom leaves the bathroom and shuts the door behind her, enclosing me in a roomful of Laudie’s personal things—perfumes, lipsticks, soaps, hand lotions, a collection of brushes and combs—that she might still be enjoying now if I hadn’t taken her to the ballet. Sure, she wouldn’t be pirouetting to the grocery store, but she would have had more time on earth with us.
I run into Laudie’s bedroom, which is dead silent except for her labored breathing. Everyone else is gone. Someone cut off the music before leaving. I crouch to the side of Laudie’s bed, stroke her bony body. “Laudie, I’m so sorry.” I hope she’ll tell me it’s all going to be okay, that it’s not my fault, but Laudie doesn’t say anything. It dawns on me that she doesn’t have to. She made it very clear: I must find that letter.
32.
Imagine
On this moonless night, at this distance, the Edisto house glows like the last embers of a fire. When I get out of my car, the animals welcome me. A whip-poor-will calls, then an owl. Tree frogs trill, intoning spirits from another world.
Weezy had begged me to come; it’s time again for our Monthly Monday, after all. I thought of cancelling—what if Laudie dies while I’m out here? Weezy reminded me that I’m only skipping one morning visit and that I could see her tomorrow afternoon, on my way home.
The antibiotics worked. Turns out Laudie did have a UTI. She got a little better, but we’re pretty sure she had her last real meal nearly three weeks ago. She might have had her last taste of food—a bite of watermelon—on Thursday. When I visit, I sometimes read to her. Harry Potter, of course. Other times, I just sit, both awed and terrified by her raggedly inhales that seem as though they could splinter her ribs into shards. Shaniece reassures me that she’s not in pain. She’s transitioning, she says. Lately, Laudie seems to exist more and more in the realm of the unconscious. I wish I could bring her out here—to Edisto and the wild—and let the animals of night call her home.
Inside the cabin, ambient music flows from the master bedroom. I pad down the hallway to find Weezy on the floor. A candle flickers on the dresser. “Hey,” she mouths with a big, sleepy smile, patting a spot next to her on the carpet. She switches off the recording.
“What are you doing?”
“Guided meditation. It’s supposed to help me get ready.”
Weezy slides a stack of pamphlets my way; they’re dominated by photos of wrinkly babies and their makeup-less mothers. She riffles through the leaflets as though through a deck of cards. “Here’s the one that explains how baths are nearly as effective as an epidural. And this one talks about the importance of mood lighting. Candles apparently have a soothing effect and help relax the moms’ muscles, which makes it easier to push out the baby.”
“It’s still going to hurt, though, right? Aren’t you nervous?”
She rubs her belly, which is already as big as a beach ball and she still has two more months. “The only thing I’m worried about is going into labor early. I doubt it will happen. Francie was on time, and second children tend to cook longer, but Ashley has that duck-hunting trip a week before the due date.”
“Seriously?”
“He and his college buddies have been planning it for more than a year.”
“He could cancel.”
“I know, but it’s not like he’s leaving on my due date. And Ashley hardly gets to go anywhere these days.”
“Yeah, because he’s a parent. Takes two to tango.”
“I don’t mind. Anyway, the older I get, the more I like to stay close to pasture.” Weezy leans forward to stretch. A hipbone cracks, or maybe her back. “How’s the single life?”
“Great. I’ve spent a lot of time in my apartment finding myself . . .”
“That’s good.”
“Mostly in the bathroom mirror.”
“At least you still have a sense of humor. No wild adventures with Martha?”
“No. We haven’t hung out in a while. She’s managing Harry’s band.”
“She knows how to manage a band?”
“I wondered the same thing.”
“Oh, so you think they’re having a fling?”
Of course the thought was there, lurking in the recesses of my brain, but I never allowed the idea to surface, bashing it down Whack-A-Mole style every time it popped up. “Maybe just friends.”
“Think so?”
“Pretty sure. She knows I slept with him.”
“Oh. Are y’all dating?”
“No. He never called back.” When I say it, I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would.
“Well, that sucks.”
“I’m over it.”
“Glad to hear it.” Weezy finds a loose thread in the carpet and rolls it between her fingers. “Simons, I don’t think Martha has your best interest at heart. There’s something—I don’t know—sneaky about her. I think she’s a bad friend for you.”
Bad friend. Is she a bad friend? “Maybe I’m just being hard on her. She needs a job.”
“Maybe. Just keep your eyes open, okay? That’s the silver lining to getting older. You realize you can be choosy about your relationships. Drop the ones that aren’t serving you.”
“Well, I did that with Trip.”
“You did.”
“I saw him the other day.”
“Whoa. Did you finally have your talk?”
“No. I ran into him at that park near my house of all places. He was headed back from some conference—but it didn’t make any sense for him to be walking around there.”
“Maybe he was hoping to bump into you.”
“I don’t think so, Weezy. I think he was staying with a girl.”
“Well, you did break it off.”
Oomf. Whac
k-A-Mole mallet to the gut. “I didn’t know what to expect, but I didn’t think it would be so hard.”
“What did you think was going to happen?”
“Martha says I thought I’d enter some fairy tale where my Prince Charming waited for me on the other side of the breakup.”
“But you know better now.”
“I do.” Did Laudie? Is Tito her Prince Charming, in a way? A quiet static, heard only on the stillest of nights, hums in my ears. The night animals have gone silent. “I miss Laudie. She’s not gone yet, but I miss her.”
“Of course you do.”
“And I still feel like it’s my fault. At least I think Mom does.”
“That’s absolutely not true, and you know it. Mom is scared, but she definitely doesn’t think it’s your fault Laudie is dying. Mom’s very emotional right now.”
“It was Laudie’s idea to go to the ballet. Not mine.”
“We know that. Mom’s just grieving. Give her some time.”
“You should have seen Laudie that day, Weezy. She wore her Chanel suit and her best jewelry—the giant pearls and the gold jaguar pin. She was so determined.”
“I know how stubborn she can be. Hold on to that image. I’m learning about the importance of images. Listen.” Weezy rolls onto her side and turns the recording back on. Her phone screen reads Methods for a Loving, Natural Birth.
“Now repeat after me,” intones a soothing female voice. “‘I love my baby. My baby loves me. I love my baby. My baby loves me.’ Okay, now, deep breath. Goooood. Now go back to your paradise. Remember what it looks like? Picture it in your imagination. Go there. When you feel your body begin to work, to move your child into this world, go there.”
While it’s hard to fathom how any woman in labor could simply will herself through the pain, it’s impressive how much this woman’s voice has altered my mental state in the short time I’ve listened. I imagine Laudie, in the wings of a theater, changing from her Chanel suit into the costume of the Atlanta troupe’s prima ballerina. She laces up her pointe shoes and secures her headdress made of diamonds and feathers. She takes a centering breath and glides into a giant theater awash with brilliant lights and enthusiastic, clamorous applause.
In Polite Company Page 17