by Lynne Gentry
I will not be guilty of thinking only of myself, and that’s exactly what asking Charlotte to care for me would be. “Get me some gaudy snowflake earrings and put me in the room next to Cora. She can teach me to crochet afghans.”
“Are we still talking about Cora Jenkins?”
“Do you know another Cora?”
“Momma, Cora Jenkins has been dead for thirty years.”
My insides jump high as a frightened jack rabbit. “Promise you won’t let me parade my problems down Main Street, Charlotte Ann.”
Charlotte grabs my hand and squeezes. “That’s why I’m here.” She pulls out from under the drive-thru awning. “I can reschedule Aria’s school tour if you’d rather go home.”
Facing a classroom filled with slothful Raymond Lecks sounds way better than being subjected to the smirk of my former principal. Wilma played innocent when I waylaid her in the administration’s parking lot after the school board meeting, but it was Wilma who’d been collecting complaints, tallying test scores, and making surprise classroom visits. It was Wilma who’d stood up in that school board meeting and read off a detailed list of all my shortcomings. And it was Wilma who’d delivered the exaggerated report of the student whom I’d sent home with a regurgitated peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his lunchbox.
The lunchroom story was the ugly nail the board used to declare me no longer fit to teach. It wasn’t like sending the nasty lunchbox home had unnecessarily traumatized the child. Especially when all twenty-three of my students, including that little boy, went home that day well taught. Rinsing out a soiled lunchbox had simply slipped my mind. It could have happened to someone far younger.
Forty years of loyal service and I’d been fired for forgetting to clean up after a child who was tired of PB&Js and wanted his mother to know.
“We’ve got to kill an hour.” I open the visor mirror and check my lipstick. Senility has yet to abolish my vanity. “Making Wilma look me in the face after what she did is more likely to kill her than me.”
“I can park in the shade and you can wait in the car.”
“And let that sadist sell you a bill of goods? I don’t think so.”
“Momma, I know this has been a very upsetting morning, but could you please stop using that word in front of Aria.”
“Very well. Vindictive backstabber. That better?”
Charlotte rolls her eyes like what’s the point. “We’re going to get to the bottom of what’s going on with you, Momma.”
My daughter will need support. What I need is a piece of paper to write down the things I want set in order before I completely lose it. For now, I’ll have to settle for repeating things again and again in hopes of retaining some of the information whirring about in my head.
“If one of my students couldn’t draw a proper clock, I would think that child suffered some sort of cognitive impairment,” I say.
“Possible impairment.”
“Splitting hairs is a waste of time.”
“Itty’s not sure it’s Alzheimer’s, Momma. Let’s wait until he gets the blood work-ups and scans before we start acting like we have a definitive diagnosis, okay?”
“I have brain agility loss, Charlotte Ann. Not hearing loss. I heard Benjamin’s entire spiel.”
Charlotte’s brow scrunches in that way it does whenever she’s thinking on something she isn’t sharing. “We’re going to figure this out, okay?”
“Why do you keep using the word we?” It’s a sane and legitimate question. “I’m the one losing the ability to solve problems, control my emotions, and eventually even the ability to feed or dress myself.”
“There are treatments.”
What did Charlotte want me to say? Would it comfort her to know that she’s not the only one scared to death? Who wants to lose their mind before their body gives out? Terrifying as it is to think of my brain as a bowl of mush, my insides shake at the possibility I’ve waited too long to retrieve all the good memories I’ve tucked away. There are hundreds of recollections I’ve shoved deep and avoided on purpose. My faith in the trite adage that time heals all wounds is thin, but I’ve been counting on those old memories to ferment to a vintage that will comfort me in old age. I have stacks of memories I want to enjoy...Caroline’s tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the tinkle of Charlotte mastering her piano scales, and Martin’s laughter whenever the two of us sneaked to the river for a midnight swim.
I’d rather choke on my overwhelming emotions than suck Charlotte down with me. “Benjamin has always been a smart one.”
Aria reaches over the seat. “It’s going to be all right, Nana.”
Maybe I hadn’t sounded as brave as I’d intended. I can barely nod, but for Aria’s sake I bob my head a couple of times. I will not fail my granddaughter the way I’ve failed Charlotte. “Yes, yes, it is, my dear.”
Red lights scroll out a message on the new digital Addisonville ISD sign flashing up ahead.
Back to school registration now open.
The Escort bounces over a couple of pot holes at the parking lot entrance. Only a smattering of cars bake in the morning sun. The nandina bushes I’d helped the janitor plant around the campus seem a little bigger and the three-pronged, single-story hill country stone building seems a little smaller. Is the discrepancy the result of time or Alzheimer’s?
I sneak a quick sideways peek at my daughter. Charlotte’s jaw is set and her knuckles white. Returning to the place where she’d lived in her older sister’s shadow isn’t any easier for her than it is for me. Charlotte doesn’t need me along to show Aria around her second childhood home. She knows every inch of this campus. Every summer, she and her sister rode their bikes in the halls, practiced their piano scales on the old upright in the music room, and spent hours playing hide and seek while I worked on my classroom. Charlotte planned this tour to coincide with my doctor appointment because she needs me along for moral support.
Needed. I haven’t felt truly needed since Caroline died and Charlotte pushed me away.
Longing spins my gut into a ball. Perhaps not being able to remember the mistakes of my life won’t be so bad after all.
“Is this it?” Aria’s poking her head between us. “How many kids did you say go here?”
“Between three hundred and fifty to four hundred.” Charlotte is so busy taking everything in that the car has slowed to a crawl. “The teacher/student ratio is great. You’ll probably have the fine arts teacher all to yourself.”
“Fine arts?” Aria scoffs. “A box of crayons does not a fine arts department make.”
Charlotte’s jaw clenches. “Ari, give it chance, okay? Mrs. Kirk is an excellent musician. She taught me music from kindergarten to twelfth grade.”
“Yeah, and look how you turned out.” Aria throws herself against the backseat. “They probably don’t even have internet access.”
“I loved helping your Nana get her classroom ready.” Charlotte shoots me a sideways plea for support. “Remember, Momma?”
“I do.” The ease of accessing this information bolsters my spirits. “One year, your mother cut out a hundred paper bunnies for my math bulletin board.”
“A hundred?” Aria asks.
Charlotte chuckles. “I can’t see cottontail to this day without thinking about our multiply like a bunny slogan.”
“Wilma thought it was so catchy, she used it the next year.” Bitterness curdles my tongue. “But then the only thing original about Wilma Rayburn is her creative ability to stab you in the back.”
“Momma, that was seven years ago.”
I can’t tell if Charlotte’s marveling at my ability to recall this incident or my inability to let it go. I point at the empty space beside the Principal Parking Only sign. “Wilma’s come up in the world.”
“Momma,” Charlotte warns. “This is important.”
“My career was as important to me as yours is to you.” I pop the door hard with my shoulder and it creaks open. “Come on, Aria. I want to show you the corner adm
inistration office that should have been mine.”
Chapter 11
CHARLOTTE
The cinderblock halls of the old school building smell of freshly waxed floors and newly-applied off-white paint. With only two weeks until school starts, I’d expected the place to be crawling with teachers, but it’s deathly quiet in the empty corridors.
I’m worried that keeping this appointment is just too much for all of us. I, for one, could use a few minutes to process all that Benjamin said and didn’t say about protecting what was left of Momma’s working memory.
“You girls okay?” I whisper over the squeak of Momma’s non-skid slippers.
“Right as rain,” Momma chirps quickly, way too quickly.
Is her attempt to fake it for Aria’s sake or has she already entered into the next stage of mental decline? Benjamin warned me that not being able to remember something that was said ten minutes earlier was a sign. What if she’s really right as rain because at this very moment she can’t remember how much she hates the school that cast her aside after forty years of dedicated service? What if she really can’t remember the furious injustice she’d felt when she demanded I file an age discrimination lawsuit accusing Wilma Rayburn, the very woman we were about to face?
As much as I’d love to believe Momma needs me close to keep her from leaving the flame burning under a pan of grease, evidence is stacking up to support the very real possibility that she might not have as much sane time left as Itty had implied. This gut punch puts a big dent in the excitement I’d had about showing my daughter where I’d grown up. A quick glance at Aria’s wrinkled nose stomps out the last remaining hopes of my child loving this place as much as I had.
“I can reschedule.” My offer echoes off the cold cement walls.
“Slocums never back down.” Momma takes Aria’s hand. “This way.”
Sometimes backing down is the best way to win. I need time to think. To sort through how I’m feeling. To come up with a plan that stops the Slocum dysfunction: Momma denies anything’s wrong, then shoves me aside. I feel guilty and try to change up my whole life to please everyone. And Aria clams up.
None of these approaches will change what’s really happening.
My mother has Alzheimer’s.
According to Benjamin, the first phase is trouble with short-term memory and rational decision making. This stage can last up to two years. I’m not sure when the clock started on this phase, but I feel Momma’s already suffering from an inability to make good decisions. The time has most likely been ticking on this stage for quite a while. I knew something was wrong at least a year ago. It’s not normal for someone to drive a riding lawn mower straight into a tree or to blow a man off a ladder with a garden hose. How many months have I wasted justifying Momma’s crazy actions?
“The elementary wing is down the hall to your left.” Momma’s dragging Aria along as if she’s delivering a naughty child to the principal.
“Can I see your old classroom, Nana?” Aria asks.
The question trips Momma up and slows her down. “I suppose it won’t hurt to take a peek at it before we leave.”
“Is the high school wing still the hallway to the right, Momma?” I ask.
“Unless Wilma got a wild hair and flipped everything around.”
“Then the middle school must be straight ahead.” Aria’s eyes are huge and I suddenly remember how hard it is to be thirteen.
“Want to see my old locker?” I ask.
“Aren’t we late?” Momma points at the letters on the frosted glass of the principal’s office. “Don’t give Wilma any more ammunition against the Slocums.”
I push the door open and we step into a chilly waiting area. Even though no one is working the neat and tidy secretary’s desk, I still feel the need to defend my tardiness. Across the room is an open office door. The metal plate is engraved with the single word that can still strike fear in me.
Principal.
“Wait here.” I leave Momma and Aria still holding hands and hurry to the threshold of the principal’s office. Not sure whether to knock or clear my throat, I just stand there, staring. Seated behind a large wooden desk is a frosted-blonde woman who could pass as the slightly younger doppelganger of the stunning actress Glenn Close. “Mrs. Rayburn?”
Wilma looks up from the stacks of papers piled on her desk and smiles. “Charlotte Slocum.” Her genuine pleasure activates an equally pleased grin from me.
Feeling like a traitor to Momma, I dial my smile back a notch. “Good to see you, Mrs. Rayburn.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
If she only knew how far that was from the truth. “Things seem pretty much the same here, too.”
“Progress is a tough row to hoe in Addisonville.” She pushes back her chair, strides confidently around the desk wearing white linen pants, a tangerine top and hemp-colored espadrilles. Wilma is only a year younger than mother, a fact I discovered when I researched her age in order to shut down Mother’s age discrimination suit. If I hadn’t seen a copy of her birth certificate, I’d guess her to be in her early fifties. “Are you alone?” Her furtive gaze shoots past me and I wonder if she’s been expecting a Slocum ambush.
“Aria’s in the waiting room.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her that Momma’s with me, too. Maybe I want Momma to have the advantage for once.
“I’ve looked over her transfer records,” Wilma says. “It appears Aria’s very bright.”
“And a little nervous. This is all very different from the metro schools I’ve had her enrolled in.”
“Well, let’s see if we can put your daughter at ease, shall we?”
Almost as if Wilma’s leery of being set up, she puts on a tight-lipped smile and motions for me to step into the waiting area ahead of her. Momma and Aria stand across the room. Wilma follows after me. I step aside, giving these two warring women their first face-to-face in five years. The temperature in the room drops thirty degrees.
Wilma’s smile doesn’t abandon her but her voice goes AWOL for a split second. She blinks and recovers. “Sara.” Wilma wouldn’t have beaten my mother to the kill-them-with-kindness punch two years ago, maybe not even yesterday. But today, the fully cognizant school principal obviously has the mental upper hand. “Is this the beautiful granddaughter you were always going on about?”
“Wilma,” Momma’s tone is laced with the old hostilities she ironically can’t seem to forget. “She’s as brilliant as her mother and just as gifted.”
“If you’ve said it once, you’ve said it a million times, your daughter is exceptional.”
I don’t know what’s more surprising: that Momma believes me brilliant and gifted or that she’s actually bragged on me to a woman she once considered a friend?
“Some things are worth repeating,” Momma’s reference to the reason she was dismissed is a shot fired straight at Wilma for leading the school board’s charge against her.
From the slanting of Wilma’s body away from her accuser, I can see that she still holds to her complete innocence in the whole sordid affair.
In an attempt to get this glacier moving, I say, “Maybe we could start with the music room?” I know I’m talking too fast, but I’m determined to get through this tour without any more of Momma’s potshots. “Aria’s preparing for Juilliard and she’s excited to meet her fine arts teacher.”
“Let’s save that until last, shall we?” Wilma motions toward the middle school wing. “This will be your hall, Aria.”
My daughter’s head rotates slowly as she takes in six classroom doors. “This is it?”
“Here in Addisonville, we believe the older students have a great deal to offer the younger. Our middle schoolers spend quite a bit of time in the elementary halls and classrooms. And each of our high school students is expected to mentor a middle schooler.”
Aria crosses her arms. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good, then you’ll really enjoy making a new friend.” Wilma walks
past my fence-post stiff child and opens the first classroom door. “Mrs. Rogers teaches sixth, seventh, and eighth grade English. She’s travels the world during the summer and loves bringing a new perspective to the required reading.”
I take in the room where I’d trudged through the pain of diagramming sentences, but devoured Little Women and To Kill a Mockingbird. I slid into a nearby desk. “This was my seat.”
“I’m not sitting on the front row,” Aria wheels and storms into the hall.
Maybe it’s better I keep my mouth shut, let Aria have her own experiences. After all, I know all too well how it feels to live in someone’s shadow. I wiggle out from the tight squeeze of the desk and hurry to catch up.
“Sorry, Ari,” I whisper into her ear. “You’ve got this.”
She storms ahead.
Without my comments, the tour moves along quickly. It only takes a few minutes to see all six rooms, learn the respective teacher’s name, and get a quick rundown on the curriculum.
“Any questions, Aria?” Wilma asks as she closes the science room door. Aria shakes her head and I can see that her sullenness flies all over Momma as much as it does me. “Very well. You’re welcome in my office any time if you need answers. Now, let’s investigate the common areas. We’ll start with the gym.”
Wilma stops us outside double doors. “Wait here while I flip on the lights.”
The moment she disappears behind the swinging doors, Aria grabs my arm and begs, “Mom, let’s go. Please.”
“You haven’t seen the music department.”
“I don’t need to. I don’t like it here.”
A quick glance at Momma tells me I’m on my own. “Everybody in town comes to the basketball games. The gym literally rocks with school spirit.”
The buzz of fluorescents warming up sends a sliver of light under the swinging doors. When it brightens to a blue glow, I figure it’s safe to enter. “Come on, Momma. Let’s show her where Caroline once did backflips the entire length of the court.”
Momma shakes her head. “I’m fine here.”
I could kick myself for bringing up Caroline. Being here now, I’m starting to wonder. Was Momma’s unorthodox behavior in the classroom caused by early onset dementia or working in the halls haunted by Caroline’s ghost?