Cathead Crazy

by Rhett DeVane

  Mae moaned and moved her legs beneath the stiff white sheet. Mae appeared to be half-conscious, but Hannah knew her mother was tuned into the conversation, regardless of how bad she felt.

  “Did you call your sister?” Suzanne asked.

  “I reached her on the way over. Told her I’d phone her first thing tomorrow morning. She’ll drive over if I need her.”

  Suzanne shifted her gaze to Mae and purposely lowered her tone. “You better start letting Helen lend a hand.”

  “I hate to bother her.”

  “You’d rather have a nervous fit than ask for help. You beat all I’ve ever seen.” Suzanne shook her finger. “What you’re not stopping to consider is that Helen might want to be involved.” Suzanne’s voice slipped to a barely-audible whisper. “On down the line, when all is said and done, Helen might feel kind of slighted if you don’t at least give her the chance to help out your mama. I have it all on my shoulders, me being an only child, but you—you have two siblings who will share the load if you let them.”

  A burst of laughter sounded in the direction of the nurses’ station. Mirth seemed out of sync in this place, like knock-knock jokes at a funeral. The ER was about waking in the wee hours in a panic, or with something bleeding and hanging off at an odd angle. About bruises and body fluids and foul-scented emissions. Life disrupted. The Reaper cheated, or not.

  A rattle on the opposite side of the door announced the arrival of Dr. Timmons, a thin, twitchy, balding man in his late fifties. He shot into the room, flipping through the clipboard chart. Behind him, the heavy door swung slowly open as if another patient’s disoriented newly-minted ghost had trailed the physician.

  Hannah jumped up. “Here, let me close that. We’ve gotten the hang of making it stay shut.”

  The doctor threw up his hand. “No.”

  For a couple of minutes, Hannah and Suzanne watched as the emergency room doctor studied the door and its faulty latch. He mumbled to himself, visually measuring the gaps above and below, opening and closing the door several times. Meanwhile, Mae coughed, writhed, and moaned on the gurney. The automatic blood pressure cuff inflated and deflated, sending updated data to the overhead monitor.

  Dr. Timmons stepped over to a wall phone, jabbed a series of numbers, then consulted with Joe in Maintenance.

  The doctor turned to face the bewildered stares of Hannah and Suzanne. He flashed a sheepish smile, as if the reason for his second appearance in room six had suddenly come to mind. “Got to handle these things as they come up.”

  Suzanne glanced at Hannah, then back to the doctor. “As long as you keep a mind to detail that much with my mother-in-law, we’ll get along just fine.”

  The doctor nodded once then said, “The chest x-ray shows signs of congestion. Possibly the start of pneumonia. You said earlier that she seemed confused?”

  “Her memory’s been a bit fuzzy lately,” Hannah said. “But some of it, at least right now, might be because of her medications. We’re pretty sure she took a double dose of her Xanax and Avapro.”

  “Her blood pressure’s low, but not dangerously so.” He nodded toward the gurney. “I’ll order a CAT scan of her brain.”

  Mae’s eyelids flew open. “My brain? Nothing’s the matter with my brain!”

  Hannah leaned over and grasped her mother’s hand. “I think what the doctor is worried about, Ma-Mae, is ruling out anything terribly wrong.”

  Mae tried to sit up, but collapsed with the effort. “I don’t want no scan! Ain’t a gosh-darn thing wrong with my brain!” A series of coughs left her breathless for a moment. “I got the consumption! I need some help! You don’t do something and my next stop will be the bone yard.”

  Dr. Timmons snapped the chart closed. “She clearly doesn’t want a scan. I’ll consult with Dr. Rawlings. I’d like to admit her, start her on breathing treatments and IVs.” Before either of them could reply, the doctor left, a flurry of green scrubs and white lab coat.

  Suzanne propped her hands on her hips. “That was surely short and sweet.”

  Hannah eased her mother’s arms beneath the sheet and smoothed the edges. Melancholia washed over her. How many times had her mother tucked her into bed in the same fashion, promising to keep the night-light on, telling her to “sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite?” No matter how much she butted heads with Mae, Hannah had always felt protected. Now she felt powerless to reciprocate. “I’m sure he’s busy. They’ve always been good here, so I have to trust.”

  Hannah sank down into one of the vinyl chairs. She caught a whiff of stale sweat and urine and wondered if it came from Ma-Mae—her mother worried constantly about smelling like an old person—or if the odor free-floated in the ER air like cologne.

  Suzanne huffed. “They don’t want to mess with this family. I may look like a little bitty thing, but I can come out snorting if you ruffle my feathers enough.”

  Hannah patted the chair beside hers. “Might as well smooth those fanny feathers and sit down. Looks like it’s gonna be a long night.”

  Suzanne glanced at the wall clock. “Done been night. Morning, now.”

  Hannah knew the routine. At least seventy-two hours in the hospital—the minimum for insurance purposes before Ma-Mae would be transferred to some kind of rehab facility. Then, several weeks of therapy to restore mobility and health before moving her back to Rosemont. For Hannah, extra hours spent burning the forty miles between home and the hospital. Collecting and washing soiled clothing. Consulting with teams of doctors, therapists, and case management staff. And work. And family.

  Hannah felt exhaustion drape across her shoulders like a shroud. On the gurney, Mae had settled into a fitful sleep. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically. At least one of them was getting some rest. The inevitable wash of guilt circled her heart.

  Dang, Hannah. How could you think of yourself when your mother is lying on a hospital bed? she thought. What a pitiful excuse for a daughter you have, Ma-Mae.

  Ma-Mae’s Buttermilk Cathead Biscuits

  2 cups flour

  4 teaspoons baking powder

  1/4 teaspoon baking soda

  3/4 teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons butter

  2 tablespoons shortening

  1 cup buttermilk, chilled

  Preheat oven to 450º

  In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Using your fingertips, rub butter and shortening into dry ingredients until mixture looks like crumbs (do this quickly so the fats don’t melt). Make a well in the center and pour in the chilled buttermilk. Stir just until the dough comes together. The dough will be very sticky.

  Turn dough onto floured surface, dust top with flour and gently fold dough over on itself 5 or 6 times. This isn’t like working bread dough. The less you handle it, the fluffier your biscuits will turn out.

  Press into a 1-inch thick round. Cut out biscuits with a 2-inch cutter, being sure to push straight down through the dough. You can also pinch off dough (about a palm’s full) with floured hands and pat into rounds. True catheads are larger ’round.

  Place biscuits on baking sheet so that they just touch. Reform scrap dough, working it as little as possible and continue cutting. (Biscuits from the second pass will not be quite as light as those from the first.) Bake until biscuits are tall and light gold on top, 15 to 20 minutes. Slather with butter. Good with Tupelo honey, cream cheese, or your favorite jam or preserves.

  Go walk a block or two. You’ll need to.

  Chapter Three

  One of life’s true little pleasures: the chocolaty-rich aroma of ground Colombian beans. Hannah closed her eyes as she breathed the puff of exhaled air from the vacuum-packed coffee bag.

  “Gah, Mom.” Justine stood at the kitchen threshold, hands propped on her slender hips. “You are so freakin’ bizarre. No wonder I’m such a head case.”

  Hannah ignored the invitation to spar. Too early. Too much other crap raining down over her head. She measured several heaping tables
poons into the paper-lined filter cup, added cold water, and flipped the power switch on the expensive brewer. She might wear rags, but by golly her coffee maker had to be the top of the line. “If they made cologne that smelled like this, I wouldn’t have to sniff. There’re a few turkey bacon strips on the stove. Want me to fry you an egg?”

  “Not even. I’ll grab something later.”

  The urge to give her daughter the importance-of-breakfast spiel nudged. Not today. No energy for motherly well-intended needling. “Suit yourself.”

  Justine’s brows knit together. Hannah could almost read her daughter’s thoughts: Like, what’s up with this? No lecture?

  “You going over to be with Grand-Mae this morning?”

  “Later on. Your Aunt Helen is with her.”

  “Oh.”

  Hannah grabbed the insulated coffee carafe and poured a quick cup. Coffee brew-us interrupt-us, she thought, love that feature! She sipped, savoring the flavor. Rich, sugar-less, jet black. Nothing to water down the heart-jarring punch.

  “You ’kay, Mom?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

  One of Justine’s shoulders lifted slightly, then fell. “I’da know. You’re acting a little strange—more than usual.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be, honey?”

  Justine slipped a hot-pink backpack over one shoulder. “At Brittany’s if you need me.”

  This was new: her teenage daughter revealing her plans sans the interrogation. Hannah watched Justine sweep from the room with her cell phone clutched in her hands, her thumbs tapping a staccato rhythm. The child probably texted in her sleep.

  The blare of the television in the den announced the awakening of her son. Jonas teetered at a pivotal age: old enough for the stirrings of hormones and young enough to still love Saturday morning cartoons and sugary cereal.

  Jonas acknowledged her on the way to the cupboard. Hannah watched as he carefully measured out cereal to within an inch of the bowl’s rim, then added a heap of precisely sliced bananas and milk. His thick, shiny brown hair hung in uncombed hanks across his forehead. Blue eyes with lashes any woman would die for. And dimples surrounding a slightly lopsided smile. One day, he would be a real lady killer. God forbid.

  “Napkin?” She offered as he passed by on his way back to the cave-like den.

  Jonas stuck the napkin in the edge of his T-shirt collar. “Thanks.”

  When had her kids become separate nations unto themselves? She had blinked and missed it.

  Earthy male cologne announced her husband’s arrival. “Mornin’, hon.” Norman’s lips barely brushed her cheek as he reached past her for coffee.

  “You want anything to eat?”

  “I’m playing a round with Rich Burns this morning. We’ll grab a sausage biscuit.”

  “All righty then.”

  What about your cholesterol? And your promise to take the car in for an oil change? And the fact that your mother-in-law is sick as a dog, lying in the hospital in Tallahassee? Hmm? Hate to interrupt your golf game.

  Norman stopped long enough to study his wife’s expression. “You all right, hon?”

  “Just peachy.”

  Norman snapped the lid on a commuter mug. “I’ll have the cell on.” He delivered a drive-by kiss before grabbing a worn set of clubs and disappearing out the carport door.

  “Ma-ummm!” Jonas’s sing-song voice echoed from the bowels of the den. “Slug yakked again!”

  “Jeez.” Hannah grabbed a handful of paper towels, an old dishrag, and the beacon-red, economy-sized bottle of carpet spot remover.

  Slug walked in deliberate circles around a gelatinous mound of purged hair, then raked the surrounding carpet with one clawless paw. True to his name, each movement the aging feline made expended as little energy as possible.

  “Thank you for at least trying to cover it up,” Hannah said to the family fat-cat.

  Slug sat back on his haunches and studied her with big yellow eyes.

  Hannah used a paper towel to remove the hairball, then sprayed the foaming cleaner and dabbed with the damp rag. “You know, you wouldn’t have this ongoing little issue if you’d stick to cat food.”

  The former stray ate hair—human or otherwise—as if driven by addiction. Even frequent vacuuming and hiding the family hairbrushes couldn’t squelch his quest for the favored dietary supplement. Slug stretched in one long, luxurious motion, then padded over and twirled in slow circles around her, purring loudly. Hannah picked him up and cuddled him in her arms. Slug reciprocated with an affectionate head-butt, followed by rubbing the sides of his mouth along her chin line.

  “You don’t have to mark me. You had me wrapped around your little paw from the first day you appeared at the back door.”

  Hannah buried her face in his silky black fur and mused about the difference between cat love and dog love. Dog love was the all-slobbering, total devotion, clingy sort of love. Hannah had to earn cat love; it wasn’t doled out to humans as a matter of fact. Slug was the only creature in Hannah’s life who didn’t make demands on her time. He didn’t need her. The most delicious moments—rare, lately—were when she and the old Tomcat simply sat together, doing absolutely as little as possible while still breathing.

  Hannah walked over and parted the curtains. Sunlight streamed into the room. “It’s a beautiful day outside, Jonas. A little cool maybe, but still nice. Please don’t sit in here glued to the boob tube all day, son.”

  Jonas eased into channel-surfing mode before settling on a station with an old Star Trek rerun. “’kay, Mom.”

  After she refreshed her coffee, Hannah threw on one of Norman’s old cardigan sweaters and carried Slug outside to the deck. When she and Norman had purchased the small, ranch-style brick house on Morgan Avenue, the backyard living space had consisted of a cracked and stained ten-by-ten foot concrete slab circled by overgrown boxwood shrubs. Deeply eroded ruts in the surrounding three-quarter acre lot attested to neglect and improper drainage.

  Two years after Jonas’s birth, Hannah had initiated a gardening make-over. Hal and Norman created a series of stepped terraces to tame the sloping land. With the help of several neighbors, they designed and built a bi-level deck with ample room for Norman’s grill, a wooden porch swing, and three wide bench seats. As money allowed, they had added trees, shrubs, and flower beds.

  Hannah normally would have been happily rooting in the deck planter boxes, preparing the soil for a variety of flowering annuals. This year, the cracked dirt lay fallow with wisps of dead stems and leaves sticking out haphazardly like Norman’s morning hair.

  She deposited Slug onto a bench cushion and plucked the remnants of the past year’s plantings from the pots. Between work, family, and attending to Mae’s increased need for nurturing, no time existed for hobbies. Hannah was lucky to bathe and don clean underwear. Snooker bounded onto the deck and sniffed the cat, then tail-wagged over to his owner. The beagle lifted his head for a pat and hand-lick before darting after the bold squirrel foolish enough to trespass in his yard.

  A set of wind chimes rippled music in the breeze, reminding Hannah of her father. She wondered where all the homemade chimes he had fashioned from pieces of discarded pipe had ended up after her mother’s move to Rosemont. Probably stored on the back porch of the old house on Satsuma Road.

  “Hey, Pop. Nice day, huh?” She looked to the heavens. “I feel kind of sorry for those poor folks up north. Here we are, feeling the first little bit of warmth, and they’re still digging out from under snow and ice.”

  Hannah remembered tilling and planting with her father. His vegetable gardens had been legend. In the small space behind the house on Satsuma Road, he had grown enough for their family to eat and can, plus gifting paper grocery bags of fresh produce to the next-door neighbors.

  “I could use some help with Ma-Mae, Pop, if you could look down for a bit. She’s really sick. I think she wants to give up.” A gust of wind twirled the suspended discs in the chimes’ centers and t
hey rang out, a signal that her father was surely listening.

  Tears gathered in her eyes. “If it’s her time, that’s okay. She’s told me over and over how she’s ready to see you. But . . . ” She sank into the porch swing. “I don’t want to put her through a ton of awful tests or anything like that. Then again, I don’t want to be negligent. The doctors throw out all these options. She has so many issues, it’s like patching a leaky dam.”

  Sometimes Hannah wished nursing had been her profession rather than computers. The answers might come easy, or at least she would know the right questions to ask.

  “God, what to do?” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, pushing her feet to make the swing move. “What to do . . .”

  “Mom?” Jonas stood in front of her, out of range enough to avoid being hit by the swing.

  Hannah snapped to attention so quickly, she felt the bones clack in her neck. “You scared me half to death, Jonas! How do you do that, slip up on a person so silently?”

  The expression on his face held a mixture of confusion and concern.

  Hannah patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit.”

  As the swing pitched gently back and forth, the creak of the aluminum support chains accompanied the morning songs of the birds battling for space at the feeders. Snooker took up position at Jonas’s feet and waited for a head-pat at each downward pass.

  Jonas studied her from beneath his thick bangs. “Who were you talking to?”

  “To your Grandpop, and myself.”

  “Oh.” He sat, silent for a moment. “Does that mean you’re losin’ it? Talking to your own self and someone who’s . . . dead?”

  She tousled his hair. “Some days honey, talking to myself is the best conversation I have all day.”