by Lynne Gentry
Momma’s head cocks as if the idea is one she’s never considered. And then she does a very strange thing. She looks me dead in the eye, reaches for my hand, and lovingly gives it a squeeze. “Sometimes, the worst path leads us right back to where we belong.”
I squeeze back. “If teaching is where I truly belong, then I need to take advantage of your experience and ask you again, how can I motivate this student?”
“When Evan was in third-grade, he was shy and awkward.”
“He acts like he owns the joint now.”
“We never really change who we are at our core...but we can learn to compensate.” Momma rubs her chin like she trying to conjure her recollections. “Evan is much like his mother, full of bluster and unfocused energy. But, as I discovered in Corina, outward swagger can often be a smoke screen to cover up the internal fear of looking like a fool in front of others. The scrutiny of the stage terrifies this type of child. In Evan’s case, he couldn’t even read his science report to the class.” A conspiratorial twinkle lights her eyes. “You know how I can’t stand to see a student fail.”
“What did you do?”
“I rented one of those video camera things, had the little fellow stay after school, then recorded him giving his report to an empty classroom.” Pride at her cutting-edge brilliance brightens Momma’s face. “Corina gave me an ear-full when her son missed his bus home, but when I showed Evan’s video at parent night, every person in that room, including Corina, knew immediately that the camera loves Evan Miller...and that boy loves the camera.”
Now I’m impressed as well. “So, you’re saying I should offer to record his six-week solo?”
“I’m saying it pays to get to know your students.”
Possibilities surge through me. “Evan Miller will be singing his heart out by Christmas.”
Momma thumps the checkbook. “Now, what is it you really want to talk about?”
My mother’s astute calm gives me courage. “I’ve been going over your finances and maybe it’s time for me to take this burden off of you.”
Any earlier good will that had flowed between us quick freezes to ice. “If you want my money, just say so, Charlotte Ann.”
“I’m not trying to take your money.”
“My teacher’s pension is nothing to scoff at.”
“Your teacher’s pension is barely enough to pay the bills. And it’s certainly not enough for me to hoodwink you into bankruptcy.”
“I worked forty years for that money and I’m not going to simply turn it over.”
“Nobody says you have to turn over complete control of your finances. You can still use your checkbook...buy whatever you want. I’m offering to keep up with the bills as they come in. I can even take on the payment of most of them once James and I settle our divorce.”
“Oh, I see what’s driving this nasty maneuver...little Jimmy McCandless is taking his mommy’s money and going elsewhere.”
“Momma, this isn’t about James. This is about you forgetting to pay the light bill. Letting the water bill fall behind. Not filing for any of the senior citizen property tax exemptions. It’ll take me a week to sort out what you owe in back taxes. Your records are a mess.”
“First you call me a mess and now you claim my money is a mess.” Momma pushes back from the table and rises to her full height. “I’ve been running this ranch since before you were born, Caroline.”
“I’m Charlotte.”
She studies me hard. “Yes, you are. Caroline would never do this to me.”
The sting hangs in the air. Neither of us speak.
“I’m not trying to push you in a corner, Momma. I’m just saying that if you’ll let me help you manage your money, we can make it go a lot farther. There are all kinds of breaks on everything from utilities to taxes for seniors.”
“I’ll not let you rob me blind.”
“I’ve never stolen from you and I never would.”
“That’s what Cora Jenkins’ kids said to her right before they slapped her into the nursing home, sold her house, and skipped out of town.”
“Cora raised her five kids in a little rental on Second Street after her husband left her. Cora didn’t have a pot to pee in. What was there for her children to steal?”
“Get out!” Momma grabs the checkbook and hugs it to her chest. “And don’t come back!”
“You know what?” I grab my purse and the keys to the Escort. “That’s the most lucid idea you’ve had in weeks.”
“Mom!” Horror paints the face of my daughter standing in the doorway.
“Come on, Ari.” I sling the purse strap over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“No.” She rushes to her grandmother and wraps her arm around the old woman’s waist. “She didn’t mean it, did you, Nana?”
Momma squeezes the checkbook tighter. Fight flickers then dies in her eyes. “Mean what?”
Chapter 24
CHARLOTTE
A couple of hours later, I gun the gas pedal and the Escort bounces over the cattle guard at the end of Momma’s lane. Speeding away from my mother isn’t going to slow her mental decline, but I’m hoping putting a few minutes of distance between us will keep me sane. The sedative I gave her only keeps her in bed for a couple of hours. Which means, I can’t go far.
When I was younger and needed breathing space, I’d either take off for the river or ride my bike to LaVera’s. The river’s not been my sanctuary in a long time. And now that LaVera’s dead...I gaze down the road. Lights beckon from her windows.
Winnie.
I fish my cell phone out of my purse and text Aria in case she wakes up and panics when she can’t find me. Have gone to Winnie’s. Call if you or Nana need me.
Five minutes later, I’m standing on LaVera’s porch. The heavy front door is open. Romantic music and laughter drift through the screen. What was I thinking dropping in on newlyweds unannounced?
I turn to leave when Winnie emerges from the kitchen. “C?” The hall light silhouettes her lithe body beneath her thin cotton gown. She sees me staring at her through the screen. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t take it anymore...” Try as I might, not another word can push past the ball of emotions lodged in my throat.
Winnie pads down the hall, eases the screen open, and I fall into her outstretched arms. “Come on, let’s get you something to drink.”
Bo appears in the hallway, jeans and a bare chest. “Winifred?”
I don’t know if it’s the concerned way he says her name, the sparks that pass between them, the easy way they work together to lead me to the kitchen, or if it’s simply that LaVera’s not here, but something sends tears tumbling down my cheeks. I’m blubbering like an idiot by the time Winnie has me settled at the small metal table in the breakfast nook.
“Do you have any wine?” I sob.
Winnie nods to Bo. While he slips into the pantry, Winnie floats to the china cabinet and fetches one LaVera’s elegant pieces of stemware. A large tabby cat curls its tail around my leg as an added gesture of comfort. Swiping my cheeks, I glance around the room where I’ve spent some of the best parts of my childhood. LaVera used to joke that she only had a kitchen because it came with the house. She hated to cook, but she always had a sweet treat ready to serve. Even though Caroline and I used to gag on her dried angel food cake and awful cookies, we couldn’t devour enough of her laughter and unconditional love.
Bo pours red liquid into the goblet. “Do I need to go check on Aria and your mother?”
I shake my head. “They were both sleeping when I left.”
Winnie gently touches Bo’s arm. “I think Charlotte and I need a little girlfriend time.”
Bo’s gaze falls upon my blotchy face. “Nice night to sit on the porch.”
“Great idea.” Winnie takes my elbow and slides her fingers under the fragile bowl of the wine glass. “Let’s get some fresh air, C.”
Light spills through the screen door and puddles on the glossy porch planks. I
trudge to the dark end of the porch and sink onto the big wooden swing. Winnie hands me the glass, sits beside me, and sets us in motion with one push of her foot.
Gliding back and forth in silence allows the familiar sounds of the country to break through my pounding headache. Cicadas sing in the trees. River frogs croak. Somewhere in the darkness, the hoot of an owl joins the symphony. I’m too tired to fight the comfort.
My tears slow. My breath returns and brings with it the courage to say what I should have said weeks ago. “I’ve not been a very good friend since I moved back. I’m sorry, Win.”
“When will you learn that love is not earned?” Winnie squeezes my hand. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s all so petty and ugly.”
“And eating you alive.”
I drag my hand across my runny nose. “I miss my sister.”
“You’ve missed Caroline for twenty-five years.” Winnie gives my hand another squeeze. “But you’ve coped. Who picked the scab off your grief tonight?”
“Who do you think?”
“Your mother.”
“She threw me out.”
“She’s talking again?”
“Like a loose-lipped lush,” I say.
“That’s progress, right?”
“Hurtful,” I admit with a one-shoulder shrug. “Clamming up is her way of punishing me. She’s done it for years. I don’t know why I’m surprised that she’d punish me for LaVera’s death.”
“Sara may be talking, but you know she’s not thinking straight, right?” Winnie gives the swing a gentle push. “And probably won’t ever think logically again...no matter how many brain tests Aria makes her take.”
“It’s not fair.” I take a big gulp of wine. “My mother can’t remember what she had for lunch, but she’s got the memory of an elephant when it comes to arguments she intends to win.”
“What were you fighting about?”
“The checkbook.”
“Ah.” Winnie lifts the glass from my hand and helps herself to a sip. “When you officially take her car keys you better make sure the shotgun’s locked up.”
I laugh despite the urge to bang my head against a wall and scream. “I hate being the DD.”
“DD?”
“Designated daughter, otherwise known as the unlucky scapegoat chosen to fill the hole Caroline and Daddy’s death left in Momma.” I relieve Winnie of the glass and throw back another slug. “I hate being the responsible one...the only one making decisions.”
“You’re wishing Caroline was here to help you because she was better at making decisions?”
I snort. “Caroline never thought through anything in her life. She just did whatever she wanted then laughed in the face of whatever hell came from it.”
“Your daddy drank, your mother buried her head in teaching, and your sister did whatever she wanted. Sounds like that left you to take on the family responsibility. You’ve been the designated daughter your whole life.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Who gave up a shot at Juilliard because there wasn’t enough money?”
“I wasn’t good enough for Juilliard.”
“Who changed their major and married a rich jerk so she’d always have a ton of money to support her mother?”
“I loved James.”
“Telling yourself something doesn’t always make it so.”
“You know, sometimes I really don’t like you, Win.”
Her laughter drifts toward the stars. “Ditto, friend.”
We swing in silence. Winnie waiting. Me sipping wine like it’s going to give me an infusion of strength. Instead, I feel my tongue loosen and the truth tumbles out.
“Watching Momma fall apart, piece by piece, is no picnic. But watching my daughter lose her childhood because she’s trying to take as much of this burden off of me as she can is...
“You all over again?”
Winnie’s observation hits me hard.
“I’m so mad that I had to grow up so fast...I can’t remember doing one crazy, adolescent thing in college. But watching my thirteen-year-old march around the house with a list of caregiving safety measures we need to implement makes me want to cry.”
“Safety measures?”
“Non-skid mats in the tub. Medicines stored under lock and key. Throw rugs removed because they create a fall risk.”
“The kid may have a future in elder care.”
“This is not the life I wanted to give her.”
“You know Beauregard and I are happy to give you a break.”
“Momma isn’t your problem, friend. She’s mine.”
“Have you talked to Benjamin?”
“About?”
“Available resources.”
Facing up to my inability to handle the pressure is something I’m not quite ready to do. “Momma would never agree to help.”
“Like mother like daughter.”
“Trying to hire someone to come in and sit with her during the day is almost impossible around here.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of taking care of yourself. To be a loving caregiver is the highest form of giving – but you can’t give what you don’t have.”
“I’ll try to squeeze in a spa day between taking care of chickens, lesson preps for four different subjects, helping Aria with her homework, and having knock-down-drag-out fights with my demented mother.” Why can’t I tell her about Benjamin’s invitation to join the praise band? “I don’t know how you stand spending so much time with my mother.”
“She’s growing on me.”
“If you weren’t letting her ride the route with you, she’d just sit in that house all day and brood.”
“I think you just hit on a solution.”
“Give me a hint, because I’m not feeling it.”
“Obviously, Sara’s still in grief over losing LaVera. She’s lonely, and it’s exacerbated when you and Aria leave for the day. She needs friends.”
“She doesn’t have any.”
“But she does.”
“Who?”
“Ira and Teeny.”
“They live in Austin.”
“It’s not the moon.”
“I don’t have time to run Momma back and forth to Austin, and there’s no way I’m letting her drive there.”
“You’re right, it’s the full-time companionship she needs.”
“Objection. Leading the witness.” Anger is the rope I’ve been hanging on to for a long time. If I let it go, I’ll drown in the grief of losing my sister and father...and now, my mother.
“Overruled.” Winnie’s determined for me to listen. “What if you could offer your mother a compromise?”
“I don’t think I like where this is going.”
“Hear me out.” Before I can put an end to this line of questioning, Winnie swoops in for the kill. “What if you offered your mother a trade?”
“What kind of trade?”
“If she’ll agree to letting you manage her finances, you’ll let Ira and Teeny visit your ranch for a few days.”
“Have you not heard a word I said? I’m drowning here and you want me to pile boulders on my head.”
“Think about it. While Ira and Teeny were staying at the ranch, your mother was calm, coherent, and very chipper.”
“And I was exhausted.”
We ride the swing in silence. While I fume, I can feel Winnie plotting her next line of questioning.
“Here’s the truth of it, C. I don’t think that the mother who raised you is so far gone that she can’t tell the difference between obligation and love.”
I plant my foot. The swing jerks to a stop. I leap out and whirl on Winnie. “I uprooted my life for her.”
“That’s obligation. Not love. What do you think would happen if you surprised her with an outrageous act of love?”
“Don’t you get it? After the way she’s treated me for the past twenty-some years, she doesn’t deserve love.”
I recoil at my own
bitterness. Winnie doesn’t even flinch.
“You think you’re the first person who’s had to love someone who doesn’t deserve it?” Her question heaps burning coals on my head.
Winnie’s mother was a beautiful rich housewife who became addicted to oxycodone after surviving the car wreck that killed Winnie’s father. By the time Winnie turned nine, her mom had snorted her way through the money. She dragged Winnie and her little brother from one eviction to the next. It was Winnie’s high school art teacher who saw something special in Winnie and convinced her to apply for college scholarships and loans. When Winnie and I met in law school, we were two broken halves desperate to be whole.
“Your mom was sick, Win.”
“So’s yours.” Winnie tucks her legs under her. “By the time I was ready to forgive my mom, it was too late.” She spears me with that laser stare I’ve seen her use in the courtroom. “If you keep putting off opportunities to make your relationships right, there’s a real good chance your mother won’t be the only one to die alone.”
Chapter 25
SARA
It’s hard to concentrate on Aria’s musical training with Charlotte flitting around the dining room, dust cloth in hand. She’s been tidying up all morning and I can’t remember whether or not she told me why and I’m not about to ask.
“Momma, why don’t you and Aria take a break from the piano?”
Normally, I’d feel bad about the sorry state of my home, but since LaVera died I really have no reason to ever dust or clean a toilet again. “If Aria’s going to be ready for her Juilliard audition, she must practice every spare moment.”
Aria grabs my wrist. “But it’s Saturday, Nana.”
I loosen her grip and set her hand upon the keys. “Every spare moment.”
Charlotte drags the dust cloth across the top of the piano. “It’s nearly noon and you haven’t combed your hair or dressed.”
“Yeah, Nana, let’s stop and get you dressed.”
“Sweet Moses. What does it matter what I wear?”