by Lynne Gentry
“Aria, we need to talk.” Whenever Mom calls me by my full name, it can’t be good, especially when her voice is strained and tired. “Can I come in?”
“Whatever.”
Hinges creak. Nana keeps WD40 in the kitchen cabinets, but I know Mom refuses to oil my bedroom door on purpose. She’s using the noise like a secret alarm system. If I try to sneak out in the middle of the night, she wants to be able to nail me. I’m not stupid. There’s a window that opens onto the porch roof. If I really wanted to get out of here, I could scamper down one of the porch pillars faster than my cat. But if I leave, who’s left to give a flip about Nana?
“Aria...” Something about the sad look on Mom’s face makes me feel like she’s wishing she’d found her sister standing next to the lacy pink curtains instead of me. “You hungry?”
I shake my head.
She sinks onto the foot of the bed. “Me neither. Too tired, I guess.”
It’s the first time since Mom came barreling up the drive in Nana’s old Escort that I’ve noticed she’s still wearing her I-want-to-look-like-a-teacher skirt and heels. She lets out a long sigh as her gaze dusts the trophies and posters my aunt left behind. She gets hung up on the framed newspaper clipping I’ve memorized. It’s an article about my aunt. Caroline Slocum’s impressive display of back flips across the gym floor led Addisonville to a State basketball championship. Apparently, my mom’s older sister was like some sort of one-girl wonder. Why we can’t ever talk about her is something I don’t understand.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving school today?”
“Would you have let me go without losing it?”
“You didn’t trust me, so now we’ll never know, will we?”
“I’m sorry I made you worry, Mom.” I cross my arms. “But I’m not sorry I came back to check on Nana.”
Mom runs her hand over the bumpy bedspread. “When Caroline was your age, she begged Momma to order this bedspread from the Sears catalog. I remember her standing in the middle of this very room arguing that chenille was so durable Momma would never have to replace it. ‘It’ll probably outlast me,’ was her closing argument. I guess she was right.”
Although I’m dying to know more about this ghost girl who haunts us all, I’m already in enough trouble. “What’s a catalog?”
Mom gives me that half-laugh of hers. “Catalogs are to online shopping what land lines are to mobile phones.” Then she turns toward me. Tears glitter in her eyes. “Ari, if you hadn’t come back to check on your grandmother today, who knows what might have happened.”
I brace myself for the punishment lurking behind this statement. “But?”
“Hear me out, okay?” Mom reaches for my hand. “You and I have to go to school, but I believe you’re right. Nana might benefit from some extra mental stimulation.”
“Really?”
“It can’t hurt. She always seems a little better on the days you can convince her to play the piano. Maybe you can sweet talk her into trying a few memory games.”
“She loves math.”
“Sounds like the place to start then.” Mom pats the bed and I sit beside her. “Tell me what you need and I’ll order it tomorrow during my planning period.”
“I can pull up an interactive YouTube video for her tonight.”
“After you lay out everything you need for school tomorrow, right?”
“But if you make me go to school, that means Nana will be all alone.”
Mom hauls my stiff body to her and kisses my temple. “While you’re working Nana over, I’ll see what I can do about hiring someone to sit with her. It may take a few days, so we’ll just have to trust Winnie to look out for her until I get things worked out.” Mom offers me her hand. “Deal?” No wonder Mom’s clients loved her. She’s slick.
“I don’t mind staying home with her, really.”
“You need to give this new school a chance.”
“For you?”
“So, you won’t end up a lonely old woman. I want you to have friends.”
“Nana’s my friend.”
“Friends your age.”
“If I don’t make friends, will you homeschool me?”
Mom doesn’t jump in with her usual, come-on-kid-look-on-the-bright-side pep talk. Instead, she rubs her chin and studies me as if she’s trying to peel away the layers of my brain and get to the bottom of why I’m making everything so difficult. I brace for her you’re-better-than-this lecture.
“I think you’re selling yourself short, but...okay. I’ll make you a bet.”
“What kind of bet?”
“If you don’t make friends by Christmas, we’ll reassess and go from there.”
“And if I do make friends...which I won’t...but if I do?”
“You’ll try to get happy in Addisonville. Deal?”
It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but it’s not a no. “Deal.”
She starts to leave then stops at the door. “And while you’re scouring the internet for miracles cures for Alzheimer’s, why don’t you pick out a new bedspread. Preferably something from this century.”
“Does it have to last forever?”
Her smile is a mixture of pleasure and sadness. “Nothing last forever, sweetheart. Not even feeling way in over your head.”
Chapter 22
CHARLOTTE
I take a deep breath despite the pressure on my chest and open the door to Benjamin’s clinic. Across the lobby, Corina Miller is talking on the phone. If Itty was willing to give me his personal number, maybe he’d be okay with me slipping in and out of his office without having to face my sister’s old nemesis?
Corina hangs up the phone. “Danged insurance companies.”
I take a pen from the can and sign the log-in chart. “Hi, Corina.”
She sizes me up for a second, then says, “Ember loves choir.” It wasn’t a compliment.
“Your daughter has a great voice.”
Corina gives a half-shrug. “It’s her brother who can really sing.”
Then why doesn’t he? “So, I’ve heard.”
“He givin’ you trouble?” Her interest feels more like she’s picking a fight than offering to step in and help me encourage her son to reach his full potential.
I drop the pen in the can. “Not a lick.”
She leans forward. “You never have had a believable poker face.” She falls back in her chair, a pleased smile on her face. “Ben said to send you on back. I put your chart on the door of exam room one.”
Shaking inside, I waver between the lesser of two evils: forgetting about asking Itty for help or going back to school. Corina Miller already has an inside scoop into my classroom, I don’t want to give her access to health concerns that are probably nothing more than my overactive imagination.
I’m in the process of quietly skipping out on my appointment when Benjamin appears in the lobby. “Hey, Charlotte,” he calls. “Come on back.”
“Hi, Doc.” I force a smile and slip through the lobby door that leads to all three exam rooms.
Benjamin waves me toward an open door. He ushers me in with a smile, indicates I should take a seat on the exam table and says, “Tell me what’s going on with your mother.”
I close the door, then hoist myself upon the table’s crackly paper. “If she was speaking to me, I might be better able to answer that question.”
He sits on a rolling stool and wheels to within a couple of feet of my dangling legs. “How long has she been uncommunicative?”
“Since LaVera died.”
“I can adjust her meds.” His understanding smile makes my chest hurt worse. He notices my sneaky attempt to press my palm against the pain. “Something tells me this isn’t about your mom.”
“I think I’m having a heart attack, Itty.”
He leaps to his feet. “Maybe you should have led with that.” He whips the stethoscope from around his neck.
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Describe what’
s going on.” He rubs his palm against the stethoscope’s bell then nods at the buttons on my shirt.
Unable to make eye contact with him I undo the first two buttons. “Feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.”
He slides the bell over my heart. “When did the pain start?”
“When I moved home.”
He fights a smile then moves the bell around and directs me to breathe. After several careful placements and what seems like forever, he sits on the stool, loops the stethoscope around his neck, and slides back a step. “I don’t think you’re having a myocardial infarction.”
“Why can’t I breathe?”
“Stress.”
Anger building, I button my shirt. “So, it’s in my head?”
“I didn’t say that. Stress often presents in physical symptoms.”
“You know most women who die of a heart attack had a cocky male doctor tell them it was all in their heads, right?”
He’s not amused. “Have you checked into any of the support resources on that list I gave you?”
“Between burying my mom’s best friend, starting a new job, and trying to keep my daughter from facing truancy charges, I’ve had plenty of time for extra reading and sappy group meetings.”
“No wonder your body’s giving you heck.”
“Look, if it’s not my heart, maybe you can give me something that will help me...you know...cope.”
“This time you have with your mother is a gift, Charlotte.”
“So that’s a no?”
“For now.” He sees straight through me and it’s a bit disconcerting. “A chance to heal old wounds. With a little bit of support, I think you’ll be glad you did this.”
“You sound like Aria.”
“Your daughter’s a smart kid.”
“She’s Googled home treatments for memory loss. Started Momma on a regimen of fresh veggies, fruits, crazy herbs, and memory exercise flash cards.”
“Is it working?”
“Not really. More and more things are turning up in unusual places. Last week I found Momma’s wristwatch in the sugar bowl.”
“If you can learn to see the humor in a situation, you might discover the salvation as well.”
“I came for a pill, not a sermon.”
He nods. “You’re not the first caregiver to become overwhelmed by the strain of caring for an aging parent.” He rolls over to his little desk and takes out a prescription pad. “Untreated stress can lead to illness, sleep deprivation, depression, and premature aging.” He scribbles on the pad, rips off the paper and hands it to me. “Take this medicine twice a week and I guarantee you’ll feel better.”
My relief is an audible sigh. “Thank you, Itty.” I glance down at the script.
Band practice. First Baptist Church. 7:00 pm. Thursdays.
Chapter 23
CHARLOTTE
Nana, you’re not even trying.” Aria clicks off the Memory Multiplier DVD she’d order from a TV infomercial. She jams her fists on her hips and lowers herself until her gaze is even with Momma’s. “Don’t cry to me when you’re stuck riding shotgun on Aunt Winnie’s mail route for the rest of your life.”
Aria’s frustrated tone snaps my head up from the mess Momma’s made of her checkbook. After two hours of sorting through a growing stack of my mother’s unpaid bills and unreconciled bank statements, I, too, am on the verge of resorting to a little shaming. Momma’s engagement with life isn’t the only thing that’s rapidly disappearing. Her finances are a mess. None of the numbers add up. She’s written checks to causes I’ve never heard of and ignored monthly bills she’s paid on time for years.
Momma’s never been a quitter. Tragedy only sharpens her resolve. She’s always been a put-your-head-down-and-press-on kind of woman. But it’s like LaVera’s death has dulled her steely will...or is this what Alzheimer’s looks like?
From the small desk in the corner of the living room, I hold my breath, watching Momma for some sort of reaction to Aria’s challenge. I’m secretly willing her to dig deep and find the spunk that has served her so well all these years. But within seconds, her forehead crumples like the discarded index cards she’s thrown around the room. It pains me to see my mother slipping away, but it’s my daughter’s Aria’s growing despair that I can hardly stomach. Every day the girl insists we rush home from school. After she checks on her grandmother, she hurries through her homework and piano practice so she can make flashcards and math worksheets that will stimulate her grandmother. So far, Aria’s valiant efforts haven’t made a dent in the shell of the sour-faced old woman pushed so deep inside herself she might as well be a turtle.
Aria waves her hand in front of Momma’s vacant stare. “Nana, can you hear me?”
“Why don’t you two take a little break?”
“Maybe she’s hungry.” Aria steps over the scattered flash cards. “Come on, Nana. Let’s get a snack.” She takes her grandmother’s hand and leads her toward the kitchen.
I bury my nose in my mother’s finances once again. Although it feels like I’m pawing through her underwear drawer, it has to be done. Last week, right when I was trying to enter choir grades into my school laptop, the electricity went out. When I asked Momma if she’d paid the electric bill she simply shrugged. When I called the electric company, she hadn’t paid for two months.
Trying to make heads or tails out of what’s she paid and what is still outstanding forces me to compare the stack of notices with her checkbook. I’m taken aback by Momma’s handwriting. On the most recent check stub entries, her third-grade perfect cursive is nearly illegible. Letters lean downhill, fall off the line, and tumble into a tangled mess with the line below. I flip back several pages in the check stubs. The dates and amounts are precise, neat, and correspond to the exact amount on the invoice. Just a few months ago, Momma was handling her affairs.
Had I misunderstood Benjamin, or is my mother’s descent into darkness happening faster than predicted?
The talk I’ve been dreading can no longer be put off. I gather the checkbook and trudge into the kitchen. “Ari, I’ll sit with Nana while you take your shower.”
Aria’s eyes dart from the papers in my hand to her grandmother. “Why is it okay for you to keep secrets?” She picks up her glass of milk.
“This could get...sensitive. I don’t want Nana embarrassed.”
“Whatever.” She kisses Momma’s forehead. “Night, Nana.”
“Night.” Momma’s acknowledgment sounds rusty, but it’s appropriate. I take it as a sign she might still comprehend some of what I’m about to say. Her gaze follows Aria out of the room then whips around on me. “Why are you going through my checkbook?”
“Well, that’s what I need to talk to you about.”
“You’ve no right to poke around in my money.”
I clear my throat. “You’ve not been yourself lately and a few things have begun to slide.”
“What things?”
“Your hygiene for one.”
Momma tugs her ratty robe closed. “Winnie doesn’t care what I wear.”
“No, but I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you bathed every day. Her VW doesn’t have air conditioning.”
“It smells like cats in that tin can of hers, so what does it matter how I smell?”
“See, this reaction right here is exactly what I’m talking about.” I wave a hand over Momma’s disheveled appearance. “The Sara Slocum I know would never go anywhere without dressing, combing her hair, and putting on her lipstick.”
“The mailboxes we stuff full of junk mail don’t care if I’m wearing lipstick.”
I start to say well I do when it suddenly dawns on me that Momma is not only speaking, she’s arguing...like Momma.
“What are you grinning about?” Momma gathers the dangling ties of her robe and whips them into a knot at her waist.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, it’s good to have you back among us.”
“I’m glad
I could give you something to smile about because you’ve come home every day for the past two weeks absolutely a bear.” Momma smooths her hair. “I told you Wilma Rayburn was a sadist, but you wouldn’t listen.”
I don’t know how long this window into lucidity will remain open. This may be my last chance to convince her to hand over the checkbook.
“Wilma is pretty demanding.” I motion toward the kitchen table. “Can we sit? I could use your advice.”
“On what?”
“A senior in my choir class. The boy has a bunch of potential but little motivation to use his talent.”
“Evan Miller?”
“How did you know?”
“I’m physic.”
“Momma.”
“Aria told me. Says the boy slouches in late, sits at the back, and won’t open his mouth unless he believes you’re not watching.”
“Crazy thing is, the moment he does start to sing I can hear him because his incredible voice cannot be hidden.”
“He’s a Miller. They may not be very likeable but they’re all very talented.”
“Ember’s a Miller but she’s nothing like her brother. She’s totally involved and from what I can tell, a really great kid.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Why?”
“Ember’s name is in nearly every sentence that rolls out of Aria’s mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t invite the girl over to play those silly brain games with me.”
“Ember’s been really kind to Ari.” Folding my hands over the checkbook, I can’t help but hope this break in Momma’s silence means I can shelve the issue sure to chip off another piece of her dignity. At least for now. “Any advice on how to motivate Evan Miller to use his gift?”
“I seem to remember trying to motivate you to use yours and failing miserably.”
If I close my eyes, I can still see Momma pacing in front of the piano and ranting about my decision to switch majors. “Momma, I love teaching music. You were right. There I said it. Music is what I was meant to do. But I don’t regret becoming a very good lawyer. I don’t regret living in the heartbeat of this nation. Believe it or not, I don’t even regret James. Without James I would never have had Ari. And without Ari, I might not be sitting here tonight.”