by Lynne Hinton
“Peggy, wait. Look, I’m sorry.” Louise followed her, trying to make amends. “Is it for your fried okra? I love that. With the tomatoes and the bacon drippings? I’d like my own copy of that recipe.” Louise tried but failed to regain Peggy’s attention. She had gone over to Lilly and was speaking to her.
Great, Louise thought, now I’ve pissed her off. But before she could get to her or decide what to do, the nurse came out and called Louise’s name.
After an X ray and blood test, Dr. Phillips came in the examining room where Louise was waiting and looked over her file. She poked and prodded a few body parts, then sat down on the stool in front of the examining table. The doctor, who had taken Roxie as a patient, knew about Louise’s living situation. She asked how they were both doing together. Having noticed Louise’s high blood pressure and her agitated state, she began to try to tell Louise that she would have to get some help. She waited a minute, then suggested a home health nurse. Louise made no response.
Dr. Phillips then brought up the possibility of nursing home placement, which sent Louise into a rage, so she backed away from that idea but still encouraged her to look into home health agencies, and Louise finally agreed.
“You do understand, don’t you, Ms. Fisher, that things are only going to get worse? Roxie’s condition will decline, and I don’t believe that you are going to be able to care for her on your own.”
Louise waved aside the advice and asked if they were finished. The doctor shook her head in frustration, wrote a prescription for blood pressure pills, told Louise to have her pressure checked regularly, and to come back in one month. She also wrote an order for a home health nursing assessment and handed the papers to Louise. As she was going out the door, Louise stopped her. “How long does she have, Doctor?”
Dr. Phillips turned around. She went back to the stool and sat down. She studied Louise, then she began. “Alzheimer’s doesn’t allow for a complete prognosis. All we know is the condition of the patient continues to worsen. Bodily functions just break down. There’s no way of knowing how long somebody can live with the disease.” She paused for a moment. “But I do know that in the end stages one person can’t do all of the caregiving. You’ll have to have some help.” She looked at Louise. “Do you understand, Ms. Fisher? You can’t care for Roxie by yourself.”
Louise dropped her head. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath. “Thank you.” And with that the doctor nodded and left the room.
It was the news that Louise held somewhere inside her. The familiar ring from what Roxie’s family had told her months ago. She knew it, tried to keep it in the front of her mind as she was carrying out the day-to-day tasks, but taking it deep inside, digesting it, letting it be a part of her soul, was something she couldn’t do. It seemed to her that it was like a foreign body, this bad news, and that her system was doing what it was made to do, fight it, hold it back, keep it from coming in, infecting everything, and taking over. It felt more natural to struggle against it, ignore and deny it, than to deal with it.
Louise had never known such turmoil. With the others she knew who had gone through a time of dying, it had been different. It hurt, but it never split her heart. Not like this. This time it felt like a disease. Until now she didn’t know emotional pain could alter the pressure of the circulation of her blood, change the number of times her heart beat in a minute, cause her shoulders to feel tied together and the back of her head to burn. She thought she had known suffering before, but nothing, nothing had ever been like this.
Louise got dressed, paid her bill, and left the doctor’s office. Before going by the bank, she went to the pharmacy and was back home at just a little after twelve. It seemed unusually quiet as she opened the door and went inside. She thought that Roxie’s nap had gone a little late. She put her things on the counter, called out for Beatrice, and walked into the den. In only a matter of minutes, the room had become a war zone.
In the lull of the late morning, Beatrice had fixed Roxie’s hair and put makeup on her so that, while sleeping, she looked like a made-up corpse lying in a casket. She lay there with her hands folded across her chest and the sheet pulled just under her chin. Louise went into a fit.
“Oh, dear God! Rox, Roxie, wake up! Jesus! I was only gone a couple of hours! How did this happen? Roxie, Rox!” She knocked everything off the coffee table jumping on the bed. “You can’t be dead! Oh, God, please don’t let it be so!” Louise was straddled over Roxie, shaking her by the shoulders, hugging her, crying and yelling.
Beatrice ran from the bathroom up the hall, her dress still hiked up from having been on the toilet. “My God, what’s happened?” She was screaming as well.
“She’s dead! Lord help me, Roxie’s dead!”
It was flying elbows and knees. Heads and necks jerking. Bodies stretched into bodies. Louise was pulling on Roxie while Beatrice was pulling on Louise.
“Lou, Louise.” Beatrice was trying to gain control. She had Louise by the back of her sweatshirt, trying to get her off the bed, but Louise was stronger than Beatrice.
“She’s dead. O Lord, my Roxie.” And then the words melted into cries and sobs. Louise had Roxie’s body up and in her arms so tightly that when Roxie finally was able to move it was only with her feet. She kicked as hard as she could, but all she did was force Beatrice off the bed and onto the floor, her dress now up around her waist.
Finally, Louise eased her grip on Roxie and was kicked out of the bed herself, falling squarely on top of Beatrice. Roxie began to yell, “You’re killing me! She’s killing me. I told you, Ms. Bea, they’re trying to kill me.” But when she looked down and saw Louise sprawled out on Beatrice, who was fighting with her dress and with Louise to get up, she began to laugh. She laughed so hard that she started to hiccup. And when Beatrice and Louise were finally able to grasp the situation, they began to laugh too.
It seemed like a long time before Louise was able to pull herself off the floor, but when she did she bent down and gave Beatrice a hand.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Beatrice was tugging at the hand and at her dress at the same time. “What on earth made you go all crazy all of a sudden?”
Louise began to straighten herself up a little while Roxie was still laughing. “Why did you put that mess on her face and fix her hair like that?”
Roxie answered, “We played beauty parlor, didn’t we, Ms. Bea? She even did my toenails.” And she pulled her feet from under the sheets and wiggled her toes.
“I just put a little makeup on her and did her hair up. She seemed to like it.” Beatrice was still shaky from the whole experience. “I never thought, not for a moment, that you would think, well, that you could imagine…” She could not even finish her sentence.
“It was beauty parlor stuff, Louie. Ms. Bea just let me go to the beauty parlor. Don’t you think I look nice?” She had reached over and put her arm around Louise, who was sitting beside her on the bed.
“You look great, Rox. Real pretty.” Louise moved a loose hair from Roxie’s forehead back to where it had come from. She looked over at Beatrice. “I’m sorry,” she said as sincerely as she could. “I overreacted. Way overreacted. I don’t know, I just went a little crazy or something.”
Beatrice touched up her own hair, tapped herself lightly on the neck. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine.” She blew out a breath. “But really, Louise, what on earth were you thinking?”
“Yeah, no, I don’t know. I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.” She began to put things back on the coffee table.
Roxie continued to laugh at the situation as Louise tried to straighten things up.
“Bea, you’ll stay for lunch, won’t you? I’ll fix us something.” Louise was picking up papers and coasters.
“Ms. Bea stays for lunch. It would be a pleasure.” Roxie smiled at Beatrice.
Beatrice waited for a minute while both Louise and Roxie stared at her. “Well, all right. But I can’t think that I’ll have much of an appetite after this ordeal.” S
he fanned herself with a magazine that had been at her feet. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“No,” said Louise. “I’ll handle it. You two can just stay in here.” She went into the kitchen while Beatrice and Roxie began to play through the scene over and over. They were making fun of Louise screaming, “She’s dead…Dear God, she’s dead!”
Louise yelled from the kitchen, “Yeah, that’s really funny, you two.” And they laughed some more.
After lunch Roxie took a nap and Louise and Beatrice began to clean up the dishes. They were mostly quiet until Beatrice asked, “So, was everything all right at the doctor’s?”
Louise washed and rinsed a dish and handed it to Beatrice. “She says I need to get some help with Roxie pretty soon.”
There was an awkward pause. “I can’t stand the thought of a stranger caring for her.” She handed Beatrice a cup. “But I also know I can’t keep doing this by myself.”
Beatrice said nothing. There was only the sound of splashing water.
“What, Ms. I Can Fix Everything doesn’t have an answer?” Louise looked over at Beatrice. It was really only a joke.
Beatrice waited. “No. I have no answer for this.” She put down the towel. “But I do know that when you love someone, a part of loving them is sharing them.”
It was a strange and awkward moment. Beatrice put her hands on Louise’s shoulders, turning her so they could look eye to eye. “There are folks who want to help you, Lou. Let us. We really won’t kill her.” She dropped her hands and picked up the towel. She dried a dish and put it in the cabinet. “Even if it looks like it.”
Beatrice elbowed Louise in the ribs.
“Yeah?” Louise looked at Beatrice like it was the first time she’d seen her.
“Yeah.”
Meats
*
Twila’s Chicken Pie
CRUST
½ cup water
½ pound pure lard
3 cups flour
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon baking powder
FILLING
2½ pounds cooked chicken
3 cups chicken broth
1 stick margarine
1½ cups milk
5 tablespoons cornstarch
Boil water and add to lard until lard is melted. Add flour, salt, and baking powder, mixing well. Roll into a ball and chill before using.
Cook chicken in lightly salted water. When tender, remove chicken from bones and cut into small pieces. Strain chicken broth, and measure 3 cups in a 3-quart pot. Add margarine and milk, bringing to the boiling point. Dissolve cornstarch in a small amount of cold water and add to the broth mixture, stirring constantly until a gravy is obtained. Salt and pepper to taste. Pour the chicken mixture into a 9 x 13 x 2-inch pan. Roll out the chilled crust and top the chicken mixture. Bake in a hot oven (400°F to 425°F) until brown. Serves 8.
—TWILA MARKS
*
Twila Marks was the first one to come right out and ask Charlotte about the wedding. The preacher felt the sanctuary rock and steady after Sunday worship when it was announced. She knew everybody was whispering about it at their cars, but no one said anything to her until Twila.
She claimed that she needed to change the bulletin board in the narthex, since the season of Advent was almost upon them. But Charlotte could tell that she was hanging around after church to talk to her. She hadn’t really expected Twila to be the one to bring it up, since Twila had the reputation for being quiet and nonconfrontational.
“Louise got a home health nurse for her friend. Had you heard? And I think all of her family is coming in for the holiday weekend.”
Charlotte nodded in response. Louise had called her last week to tell her the news.
“So will you be going home to be with your mother for Thanksgiving?” Twila was pulling out the thumbtacks and putting them in a cardboard box.
“Oh, I don’t know. I usually like to work at the soup kitchen in Greensboro on Thanksgiving.” Charlotte was taking off her stole. “And the wedding will be on Saturday of that weekend, so it doesn’t do much good for me to be away.” She pulled the front doors together and locked them.
“Oh yes, that wedding.”
Charlotte heard it in her voice. “Yes,” she said almost in a mocking voice, “that wedding.” She threw away the extra bulletins, walked over to the display table, and checked the guest roster. She didn’t say anything else. It was, after all, not her conversation.
“Reverend Stewart.” Twila put down the tacks and borders and turned to Charlotte, who closed her eyes and thought, Here it comes!
“I have to ask, is it really prudent to have that wedding here?”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Well, Mrs. Marks, both Wallace and Lana were baptized and confirmed here; their families are longtime members. I have been leading the two of them in counseling for several weeks and feel ready and clear about blessing this union. I think that covers all the bases for appropriate weddings here at Hope Springs.” She continued. “I have read the constitution and bylaws of the church and find that this wedding is in line with rules and traditions, so I don’t really see why it wouldn’t be prudent to have this wedding here.”
Twila could tell that this was a touchy subject for the young preacher. She began to waver in her decision to bring it up. She turned back to the bulletin board and climbed up the stepladder. “Well, you have to know that people are unhappy. Everybody’s wondering why they can’t just go to the courthouse or do it at Jessie’s house or something. Why do they have to flaunt it in front of everyone’s face?”
Charlotte was livid. Even she hadn’t expected the depth of emotion that would be unleashed at the mention of this situation. Suddenly words were coming out of her mouth she hadn’t anticipated, but she did not stop them. “Having their wedding at the church is flaunting their relationship? That is the most hypocritical, un-Christian, evil thing I have ever heard. Lana and Wallace are children from this community. They are the grandchildren of women you supposedly care about. And now, suddenly, when they choose to have a family together, choose to make a commitment to each other and to God and to the baby she’s carrying, the church wants to hide them, ignore them, or, worse, cast them out?”
Twila didn’t say anything for a few minutes. She had turned to face her now, and Charlotte really thought the conversation was over. She began walking to the door. But then Twila turned back around to talk to the wall. “I think the deacon board is going to have a meeting about this. Grady said so this morning. As chairman, he thinks they need to decide.”
“And did you come to me as the representative of the chairman and the board of deacons?” Charlotte moved towards Twila.
“Well, not officially, I just told Grady that I would say something to you.” She was still standing on the ladder, a few feet above Charlotte. She looked down at her.
“Then, Mrs. Marks, you go back and tell your husband, the chairman of the board of deacons, that we can have a meeting if he would like one, but these young people are faithful members of this church, and if I have to bring the sheriff to stand at the door and deal with the board of deacons, including your husband, the chairman, Wallace and Lana will be married here.” Charlotte was a box, tight at the corners, opened on top.
Twila snapped her head around to face the empty board in front of her. Charlotte pulled open one of the swinging doors to the sanctuary and walked towards her office. She felt her face flush. As she got to the chancel she heard the phone ringing. She hurried back to answer it.
“Hope Springs Church,” she said breathlessly on the fifth ring.
“Charlotte?” There was a pause. “I didn’t know if I would reach you.” It was her mother. “Are you okay? You sound all breathy or something.”
Charlotte didn’t say anything. It was like the topping on a very bad day. She considered hanging up.
“Charlotte? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I ran from the sanctuary is all.”
She moved around the desk and sat down in her chair, her robe still on. “What do you want?”
“I’m your mother. Do I have to want something to call?” She said it very lightly, and Charlotte wondered if she had been drinking.
“Are you all right? Is everything okay?” Charlotte was sounding more like the mother now.
“Dear, I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you, see how things are going at the church. I miss you is all.”
“Are you back at Charter?”
There was a pause. “No. I haven’t been back there in a long time. I’ve been sober almost two years now. I’m staying with the program, Charlotte. I told you that the last time I saw you.”
Silence.
“The holidays are coming up. I thought maybe we could get together, have a meal or something.” She waited for a response.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s really busy here. And the holidays are the most busy time. I don’t think it’ll be possible.” She hated this.
“What if I come to your house? I could cook us a Thanksgiving meal there.”
“Thanks, Mom, but I’ll be serving lunch at the shelter in town. Then I’ll have to come back here and work on a wedding. It’ll be a busy weekend for me.”
“Oh.” Her mother sounded wounded. “Okay, well, maybe Christmas then.”
“Yeah, maybe Christmas.”
“So how are things?” Her mother was not going to go away easily.
“Things are fine, Mother. It’s Sunday. I’m tired. I just got through teaching Sunday School to a class of older men, most of whom were sleeping. Then I preached a sermon no one was interested in and just had a fight with the wife of the chairman of the board of deacons. Okay? I’m fine. Things are fine.”
She heard the side door open and close. Twila must have finished what she was doing and left. She took a deep breath.
“Well, then I guess you’d like to get home and relax a little.” Her mother’s voice was hurt, full.