by Lynne Gentry
“I’m more than capable of taking care of my daughter, Benjamin. And I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I’ve failed to take care of her up to now.”
Itty holds up two bear-sized palms. “It’s not a matter of simply keeping her well-fed. Charlotte needs serious relief from all of the...” he cut a look my way that said he was going out on a limb, but didn’t care. “Charlotte needs a little fun in her life.”
“Charlotte doesn’t do fun anymore,” Momma says.
“Well, as her mother, it’s your responsibility to see that situation remedied. Have I made myself clear?”
The bluster seeps from Momma’s shoulders. “I suppose a few medicinal suggestions would be helpful.”
“That’s the spirit.” Itty’s face is serious. “First on the list is a little fun. There’s a local band that needs a good keyboardist.”
“No, Itty,” I say.
“Why not?” Momma demands.
“Playing with a band is not something I want to commit to right now.”
“His band needs someone on the keys, Charlotte, not someone in the sheets.”
“Momma, what’s happened to your filter?”
She ignores me and points a ruler-straight finger at Itty. “How often does this band of yours rehearse?”
“One night a week.”
“I think Benjamin’s right,” Momma plops into a chair. “A night of music would do you good.” She smiles at Itty. “I’ll see that she’s there.”
I let my head fall back on the pillow with a sigh.
“Great.” Itty’s eyes do not dart from the visual daggers I’m throwing his way. It’s as if he can see right through my flimsy excuses. “We practice Sunday nights at seven.”
“Sundays at seven,” Momma repeats. “Where?”
“At the church.”
“She’ll be there,” Momma confirms, ignoring my distressed moans. “With bells on.”
Obviously pleased at his success, a smile breaks into Itty’s beard. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours with your tests results, Charlotte.” He lightly pats my foot. “Remember, no weight on that leg for a week.”
“Then I don’t know how you expect me to drive to band practice.” My exasperation narrows into a glare meant to burn holes in Itty’s hard head. “Guess it’ll be a few weeks before I can get there.”
“I’ll pick you up.” Itty gives me a two-fingered salute then leaves the room.
“Is he whistling?” My unanswered question gets swallowed up by the questions Aria, Ira, and Momma are firing at me.
“Will you lose your leg, Mom?”
I cross my arms. “No.”
“Are they going to give you antivenin?” Ira asks.
“Not unless the swelling goes past that ugly black line my doctor drew on my leg,” I snap.
“I don’t know why you’re acting so pissy,” Momma says.
“You really want to know, Momma?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“Why did you tell Itty I’d play for his band?”
She gives a noncommittal shrug. “Benjamin’s right, you do need more fun in your life.”
“There’s plenty going on in my life right now.”
“Not much of it is fun,” Momma mutters.
“Fun is overrated,” I argue.
“I don’t understand why you’re not jumping at the chance to spend more time with Benjamin,” Momma says. “He has good teeth and a respectable job.”
“Momma, those two phrases don’t add up to anything even remotely sensible.”
“Sweet Moses, Charlotte Ann.” Momma laughs and reaches for my hand. “It doesn’t take a head filled with functioning brain cells to solve this equation.” She points toward the sound of whistling echoing in the hall. “That man is crazy about you.”
Chapter 40
CHARLOTTE
Early Sunday morning Itty appears at the foot of my hospital bed. “Swelling hasn’t passed the mark. That’s a good thing.” He examines my puffy, black and blue ankle. “This hurt?”
I squirm under the pressure. “Feels like my whole leg is melting away.”
“That’s normal. But as far as I can tell, you’re only going to suffer temporary tissue damage.” He uncoils the stethoscope around his neck and rubs the bell against his palm. “Let’s have another listen to your ticker.”
“Knock yourself out.” I turn my head to the window but I tense as he moves to my side.
He leans over and places hot metal atop my rapidly beating heart. “Hold your breath.” He straightens and drapes the stethoscope around his neck, a pleased twinkle in his eyes. “Looks like you’ll live.”
I tug my gown into place. “My students will be thrilled.”
“And your family.”
“Momma probably won’t even remember that I’ve been bitten.”
“Oh, I think this one is sticking with her. She’s called me five times this morning asking when you can come home.”
“She wants me home?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Are you just trying to make me feel better?”
He pulls out his phone and shows me his call history. Five times within fifteen minutes Fossil Ridge’s landline number appears.
I know better than to trust Momma’s brief mental reprieve, but for now, her concern for me is better medicine than the antibiotics flowing through my IV. “When can I go?”
“It’ll take about an hour to process your discharge papers.”
“The sooner the better.”
An insolent smirk quirks one corner of his mouth. “No thanks Itty for saving my life?”
“Thanks.”
“Heartwarming,” he says. “Winnie’s volunteered to give you a lift home.” He hands the phone to me. “You want to call or shall I do that for you?”
“I believe you’re the one who declared me an invalid in need of at least a week of hand and foot servitude.”
“Touché.” Itty scrolls through his contacts, then makes a big production of pressing the number. “Winnie, she’s grouchy as a bear in spring, but she’ll be ready to blow this joint by the time you get to town.”
Two hours later, I’m checked out of the hospital and bumping toward Fossil Ridge in Winnie’s little VW bug. I appreciate her willingness to take it slow over the cattleguard. The fence rows are tidy now that I’ve taken Ira’s advice and bought five goats and set them free to frolic in the pasture. Except for the three-story turret that remains unpainted on Momma’s big farm house, the scene is almost idyllic.
“Glad to be home?” Winnie asks as she steers around a pothole.
On the porch four people are waving. My smiling mother anchors the group. “Yes.” And strangely enough, I mean it.
Winnie parks as close to the steps as she can.
“Mom!” Aria is the first to the passenger door. “We have everything ready, including a bed set up downstairs.”
I pass my crutches to Ira. “Y’all didn’t need to go to so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Ira helps me balance until I can get squared away on the crutches. “Wish I could carry you.”
“Just a little spotting on my left side is all I need, Ira.”
“Hang on to her, Aria.” Momma stands at the top of the steps. With a touch of relief, I recognize the old spark in her eyes. She doesn’t call me by name, but I can tell from the way she smiles at me that today she knows me. Today, she’s the same mother who spoiled me with homemade soup and ice cream after I had my tonsils out. It’s all I can do not to run and jump into her arms.
“Will do, Nana.”
Despite my clumsy effort, the three of us manage to make it up the steps. Winnie follows behind with the computer printout of Itty’s detailed instructions and the bag of meds we picked up at the pharmacy. According to Penny, snakebite survivors can’t be too careful.
I hobble past Teeny, who’s holding the door with her hip and bobbing her head. “I can do your hair.” She nudges her pink hairbow back into
place. “You’ll look nice with a bow.”
“Thanks, Teeny.” The aroma of fresh baked pumpkin bread fills me with the hope that my recovery will go better than I anticipated. “Something smells good.” I aim for the recliner.
“Nana and I have been cooking all morning.” Aria takes my crutches so that I can fall back into the chair. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Nana’s been in the kitchen?”
Aria leans in and whispers, “Don’t worry, I supervised.”
“In that case, I’m starving.”
“Wait right here.” Aria’s enthusiasm raises my antennas, especially when she motions to Ira, Teeny and Momma and they all silently turn and scurry off to the kitchen like they have some secret. That Momma can make a plan and remember it is...well...it’s...perilous to trust the possibility that she’s better.
Winnie sets my bag beside my chair. “Sara seems like her old self.”
“For the moment.” I pull the lever on the recliner and my feet pop into the air.
Winnie looks up. Seeing my grave expression, she smiles. “I’m just down the road.”
“This is not going to go well.”
“What’s to screw up? You sit and they wait on you like a queen.”
A few minutes later, Aria marches into the living room carrying the same tray Momma used when I was a sick child in need of warm soup and crackers.
Two pumpkin muffins are flanked by several strips of crisp bacon and a lovely bowl of chopped fruit. “Who did all of this?” I reach for the cup of steaming hot tea.
“Nana planned the menu and made the muffins,” Aria beams. “Teeny and I chopped fruit and Ira fried the bacon.”
Blinking back tears, I raise my gaze to my smiling mother. “You remembered my favorite breakfast.”
The smile slides from her lips and her head cocks to the side. “I remember you’re someone I love.”
Chapter 41
CHARLOTTE
I pull the covers over my eyes and pretend I’m on a deserted island. Momma and Aria have been arguing since the alarm went off at six o’clock.
They spent the weekend wrestling over who got to plump my pillows, stuff me with soup and pie, and help me to the bathroom. While I’ve never enjoyed being the center of attention, I have to admit I could get used to having Momma look at me and see me. Not Caroline. Not some former student. But me. Her youngest daughter.
And I believe my own daughter has enjoyed being needed as much as I’ve enjoyed having her close. Had I known snakebite had these advantages, I would have traipsed across the pasture the moment I got back to Texas.
“Slocums do not skip school, young lady,” Momma shouts.
“Mom.” Aria pokes my shoulder. “Mom, tell Nana that I need to stay home.”
I lower one corner of the blanket. “Ari, I’ll be fine.”
“But what if you have to get up?”
Three wrinkled faces peer over their glasses as they await my answer. “I’ve got plenty of help.” I push the recliner to a seated position, careful to keep my leg elevated. I take Aria’s hand. “You can help me by checking on my sub. Ask if she needs supplemental activities for the lesson plans I’ve uploaded.”
“Mom, she doesn’t even play the piano,” Aria sighs. “Ember says Evan is worried he won’t be ready for his audition.”
“Tell him I can work with him if he can come out here.”
“You can’t sit at the piano,” Momma says.
“Either you or Aria can accompany him.” I turn my gaze to Momma. “He’s ready for a LaVera-sized audience.”
Momma’s face scrunches. “Who?”
To be fair, the memory of how I finally conquered stage fright may not have been as meaningful to my mother as it had been to me. “Remember when you had our neighbor come listen to me play?” I coach.
Momma’s brow pleats tighter, like she trying to squeeze the memory out. But when nothing comes to her, the lines on her forehead relax and she spews accusation. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Panic flashes across Aria’s face. “See, I need to stay.”
“Come on, Aria,” Ira says. “I’ll walk you to the end of the lane to catch the bus.” He lifts the big stick in his hand. “There’s not a snake in the county that will mess with me.”
Why hasn’t it dawned on me that the possibility of encountering another snake scared Aria nearly as much as her grandmother’s unpredictable behavior? If Momma’s good days are coming to an end, I don’t want Aria to stand around and watch every heartbreaking detail. It will be hard enough on her when Momma dies.
Tears prick my eyes. Hard on everyone. “Thanks, Ira.”
“Always does me good to stretch these old legs,” he says, rubbing his bald head. “Give me a minute to get my cap, little lady.” On his way past Momma, Ira stops and whispers, “Sara, kettle’s whistling. Might want to brew the tea.”
Without argument, Momma turns and heads for the kitchen.
Aria holds up her phone. “Promise you’ll text if you need me?”
“Try not to grow up too fast, Ari.” I kiss her hand. “Or you’ll be old a very long time.”
Thirty seconds after the front porch screen slams, Teeny appears at my propped feet. She’s holding a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, and a Ziploc bag crammed with bows and hairbrushes. “Let’s get you ready to face the day.”
If I’ve learned anything from my new post in the recliner, arguing with this giant of a woman is useless. Besides, right now, I need the help. I sit back and close my eyes. Teeny starts at my forehead and slowly drags the brush along my scalp. Stroke after careful stroke she removes the tangles. She works silently, as if she’s allowing me to mentally smooth out the sadness that came over me when Momma failed to recall her best friend. How could Momma forget LaVera? They’d grown up together. They were so close they practically wore each other’s underwear. They were more than friends...they were family.
“Here you go.” Momma places a tray on my lap. “Tea, hummingbird cake, and a pumpkin muffin.”
“Thank you, Teeny.” I shift in the chair as Teeny silently gathers her supplies. “I’m going to gain weight if you keep this up, Momma.”
“You eat like a bird.” Momma takes the cloth napkin and gives it an opening snap. “It won’t hurt you to have a little meat on those bones.” She drops the napkin onto the arm of the recliner.
“Thank you, Momma.”
She leans over and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. “You scared us all to death.”
“I’m sorry.”
She perches on the arm of the couch. Her head cocks as she looks me over, starting at my now-not-so-swollen ankle then traveling all the way to my face. “Your father hated snakes.”
“I remember.”
“He hardly ever darkened the door of the chicken house because one morning he stepped on a rat snake.” She smiles. “I heard him hollering. By the time I got to the coop he was dancing a jig.” Her eyes drift past me. “That man could dance.”
“I loved watching the two of you dance around the kitchen.”
Momma reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Those were some of the happiest days of my life.” She begins to tell me other stories. Some of them I’ve heard before. Some are told with new details, information she must have thought I couldn’t handle as a child. “My father adored me, in much the same way your father adored you. It broke his heart when I married a dreamer like Martin.”
Although I’ve heard this story before, this time there’s something different in her voice. A heartbreak I’ve never heard before. It’s as if she’s telling her family’s story for the last time and wants me to get every detail straight.
Heart beating rapidly, I listen intently. “Is that why we never saw your parents?”
“No, that was my fault.” Sadness tinges her voice. “I think my father would have softened had I not marched into the bank and made a big deal of depositing the first check Martin received for selling a photo.” Her eyes water. �
�Papa pulled down the shade to his office.”
This is the first time she’s given me a peek into the high cost of loving my father. Alienated from her flesh and blood family, she’d made Martin Slocum her family. And though he never would do anything spectacular enough to earn such enduring love...she’d loved him anyway...unconditionally.
“Someone’s coming.” Momma leaves me to ponder the weight of unconditional love and goes to the bay windows. I want to pull her to me, beg her to tell me more, but it seems she’s completely forgotten what we were discussing.
“Sweet Moses!” Momma presses her nose to the window. “Not that woman.” She wheels and marches to the front door. The screen slams behind her.
I tug the big bow from my hair and run my fingers through Teeny’s work in an attempt to fluff things up. A familiar voice floats through the screen.
Wilma Rayburn.
Tossing the blanket off my not-nearly-as-swollen leg, I scramble to find the lever on the recliner. “Ira!” I press the foot rest down by sheer will. “Ira! Help!”
The old goat farmer rushes into the living room. “What’s wrong?”
I grabbing for my crutches. “Make sure Momma doesn’t have a gun.”
“What?”
“Wilma Rayburn just pulled up.”
“Heaven help us!” Ira leaves me floundering like a turtle on its back and flies from the living room.
By the time I get my crutches under me and hobble toward the door, I’m expecting to hear fireworks, but instead Momma and Wilma are standing on the porch steps and having a lovely exchange about the cooler weather. Wilma has Get Well balloons in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. Momma has the expression of a woman meeting a stranger.
“Mrs. Rayburn?” Breathing hard, I push the screen and swing my crutches over the threshold.
“Oh, Charlotte.” Wilma recognizes my distress. “I’m sorry my arrival forced you to your feet.” She nods toward Momma. “Sara and I are doing just fine here.”
“This nice woman has brought balloons.” Momma’s face scrunches. “Is it my birthday?”
And just like that, Momma is gone again. My injured leg suddenly feels as heavy as my heart. “No, they’re Get Well balloons.”