Wife-in-Law

by Haywood Smith

  Chastened, Amelia said, “Well, maybe there’s some treatment—”

  “She won’t take the meds, and I can’t shove them down her throat. Mama’s crazy, but she’s not incompetent. The kindest thing I can do is let her stay where she is and visit her and bring food, so she eats decently.”

  Amelia started to cry again. “There you go, looking after everybody but yourself. Mama, you have a right to be happy too. At least move to somewhere else in Atlanta.”

  I bristled. “I am not going to let this run me out of my home. I love this house. I have it just the way I want it, and I’m not going anywhere.” Shades of Mama.

  “Well, at least leave for the rest of the day, then. Promise me you won’t be there when they … Just go to a movie. Or have lunch with one of your real friends, then go shopping. Pick out a new outfit, my treat. Just please don’t stay there. That would be too tragic to endure.”

  For whom? But Amelia always had overdramatized. Still, she really was upset.

  “I might go out for lunch and a movie,” I conceded, “but I’m not promising anything. It’s too hot to go anywhere.”

  “I’m glad it’s hot,” Amelia said. “I hope they all roast at Kat’s, and everybody stays home.”

  “Amelia,” I scolded, “that is most ungracious of you, and it pains me to hear you say such things.”

  “Then I won’t say them. But you can’t stop me from thinking them.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from thinking them, but I kept that to myself.

  Emma appeared at the door, yawning. “Who’s that?”

  Good. Let her deal with her sister. “It’s Amelia.” I proffered the phone. “Why don’t you talk to her while I fix your breakfast?”

  Emma brightened. “Great.” She took the phone. “Hey, Mealy”—a nickname Amelia had always hated—“what are you doing up at this hour? It’s like, five there, right?” She made a face as Amelia started in about the wedding. Unable to get a word in edgewise, Emma covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Whole wheat bagels with low-fat strawberry cream cheese, please.”

  As if I didn’t know. She’d been eating bagels since way before bagels were in. “Coming up.” I left the dregs of my now-cold eggs and went to defrost some bagels.

  I tried not to eavesdrop, but couldn’t help it.

  Listening to Amelia’s tirade, Emma sighed in disapproval. “Amelia, why are you being hysterical about this? It’s not gonna change anything. Daddy’s a free agent, and so is Kat. So just get over it, okay?”

  I could hear Amelia’s outrage from where I was standing.

  Emma scowled. “I am not being disloyal to Mama!” She pulled the phone away from her ear to ask, “Mama, do you think I’m being disloyal to you if I go to the wedding?”

  I put the bagels into the toaster oven, then took the phone. “Emma is not being disloyal to me by going to the wedding. Amelia, honey, you’ve got to let go of this, or you’ll make yourself sick. I’m fine.”

  “Mama,” she said in a calmer tone, “please let me speak to Emma.”

  “Only if you promise not to let this come between you. That’s the only thing that bothers me about this wedding. I don’t want it to come between you and your sister.”

  Chastened, Amelia promised it wouldn’t.

  “All right then,” I told her. I handed the phone back to Emma, who accepted her sister’s apology, then told her to go back to bed, and hung up.

  The toaster oven dinged, and I fixed the bagels, then served them to Emma with some orange juice.

  “Thanks, Mama.” She licked some cream cheese from one. “Man. What a drama queen.” She took a bite, then paused, studying me as I sat across from her to drink my coffee. “You don’t really think I’m betraying you by accepting this thing with Kat and Daddy, do you?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I chided.

  Emma’s expression clouded. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I shook my head. “How many times am I going to have to tell you girls I’m okay before you believe it?”

  “Sorry.” My younger daughter sent me a worried look. “It’s just, well, Amelia said it’s not natural for you to be so calm about all this.”

  Oh, good grief. Why can’t a person be well adjusted? “Would you rather I shut myself away like Mama did?” I asked. “Or maybe you’d feel better if I go Jerry Springer during the ceremony. Would that be better?”

  Emma laughed. “No. I think you’ve been great about this, Mama, really I do. I just don’t want you to stuff it all inside. That could eat you up.”

  I lifted my coffee mug her way. “Don’t worry, honey. I get it all out of my system in my dreams.”

  She cocked back with a grin. “Tell, tell.”

  “Never. Now eat your breakfast so you can go to the salon and get your hair done for the wedding.” As usual, she’d put her thick, wavy brown mane into a hasty ponytail.

  I reached into my purse and handed her the certificate I’d gotten before she came. “Here. Manicure and pedicure, my treat.”

  “Rad!” She accepted it with delight, then sobered. “I sure wish Amelia could be as sane as you are. All she wants to do anymore is rag on Kat and Daddy.”

  “She’ll have to work this out with her daddy in her own time,” I said, “but you are certainly entitled to tell her that subject is off limits.”

  “Good idea.” Emma got up and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Mama. Not just for the manicure.”

  I savored the feel of her in my arms. “For what, then?”

  “For being so surrealistically good.”

  She wouldn’t think so if she could read my mind—or my dreams.

  Emma nestled against my shoulder the way she had as a child. “I sure do miss you in Alaska.”

  “I miss you too.” I gave her a brief squeeze, then pulled back to look at this plump, confident woman my little girl had become. “Any chance I can talk you into moving back home?”

  She smiled, shaking her head no. “Down here, men look right through me because I’m not some blond flat-belly. But in Alaska, women are so scarce that I’m the belle of the ball.” Pride radiated from her. “I get asked out all the time, and not just by the nerds. I’m talking manly men. Gotta tell ya, it’s great.”

  “Try not to break too many hearts,” I said as we released each other.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Thirty minutes later, the house was spotless and Emma was off to the salon. I went into her room to lay out the slenderizing dress we’d picked out for her to wear, and I decided to give it a fresh press. Then I hung it in her closet and went back to my room to pile up in bed and watch back episodes of What Not to Wear I’d recorded on the DVR.

  Usually, this was a real treat for me, but on that particular day, I felt restless after only two episodes. I got the cable remote and went through everything on the guide, but nothing appealed to me. On Saturdays, even cable left a lot to be desired if you weren’t a kid or a sports fan. Nothing worth watching on the pay-per-view either.

  Nonplussed, I turned off the set and got up to check the laundry. The hampers were empty, and so were all the trash cans in the house, leaving me without a single chore to pass the time.

  Back in the bedroom, I decided that maybe I should have lunch and go shopping with somebody.

  I got out my address book and started calling the girls I knew fairly well from church and charity work. The first two didn’t answer, so I didn’t leave a message. The next three I called were tied up for the day. After all, it was last-minute.

  I made five more phone calls before I ran out of people I felt comfortable asking, which made me pretty grumpy.

  So what if I didn’t have many friends? I’d managed fine before Kat, and I would again.

  Sulking a bit, I told myself I could always go somewhere nice by myself. La Grotta, or the Fish Market. But I wasn’t in the mood to eat alone in public.

  I got the paper and looked into the movies, but I wasn’t into vampires
or computer-enhanced action movies, or chick flicks that were supposed to be fun, but were really just so-so. And I hated going to movies alone, anyway.

  Amelia. This was all her fault. If she’d just left me alone, I’d be perfectly fine, going through my day as usual.

  At sixes and sevens, I decided to kill some time by calling Mama. (That’ll tell you how desperate I was.) “Hey, Mama. How are you feeling today?”

  “I’m fine, but I can’t talk now,” she said in an odd tone. “I’ll have to call you back.”

  A click, then a dial tone. What was up with that?

  Maybe a burglar had broken into her house and was holding her hostage. I hit redial.

  After several rings, Mama answered with a breathless, “I told you, I can’t talk now.” I could have sworn the sound she made next was a stifled chortle.

  “Are you okay? Is anybody threatening you?”

  Another stifled chortle. “Not hardly. See you later.”

  An odd choice of words. Again, the dial tone.

  I considered going over to find out what was up, but decided it would be wiser not to set such a precedent.

  An inspiration came to me. I could bring her a cake, my famous devil’s food with seven-minute icing. And while I was at it, I could bake one for Emma. And one for Kat, as a gesture of goodwill.

  So I set about baking, and three hours later, the cakes were cooled, iced, and sitting on the kitchen table while I took a long, cool soak, then washed my hair. I’d just finished drying it when Emma came home.

  “Mama?”

  “I’m in the bathroom,” I called from my dressing table, sponging a little bronzer on my pale cheeks.

  I heard her approach, then looked in the mirror to see her framed in the doorway. She looked gorgeous. “Oh, honey, I love your hair. You let them cut it.”

  Emma swung the layered, shoulder-length curls. “Yep. It’s still long enough to put up, but the layers in the front give it more volume.”

  I hugged her with pride. “It’s beautiful, and so are you.”

  She slipped off her Crocs and wiggled her toes, now adorned with bright red polish. “You like it? I thought it would look good with the red flowers on my dress.” She waggled her scarlet fingernails at me. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s perfect, just like you.” I put my arm around her shoulder. “Come on. It’s time for you to get ready. Will you let me do your face?” Mine could wait.

  Emma nodded. “Okay, but only if I have the right of refusal.”

  “Deal.” We headed for her room.

  Thirty minutes later, she emerged looking like a model, only subtler. Her long empire-style dress flattered her figure, and her floral platform sandals showed off her pedicure.

  “You look mah-velous,” I told her.

  “You do too,” she said.

  She’d insisted on doing my makeup, and I looked pretty exotic.

  Emma studied herself in the full-length mirror. “Mama, this is fabulous. No wonder people pay you. I look almost pretty.”

  “You are pretty,” I told her with a mother’s conviction.

  Grinning, she shook her curls, looking like she believed it.

  I glanced at the clock. “You’d better get going if you want to help Kat with the last-minute arrangements.”

  “Okay.”

  I got Kat’s cake and handed it to Emma in the foyer as she left. “This is for the reception.”

  “Oooh, my favorite.” Emma eyed it with lust.

  “Be sure they keep it inside,” I told her. “The heat’ll ruin the icing.”

  “I will.” Emma paused by the door. “I thought you were going to go out this afternoon.”

  Apparently, nobody was going to be satisfied if I didn’t. “I am,” I lied, “I just wanted to help you get ready first.”

  Emma gave me a peck. “Good. I’m glad you decided to get away.”

  I opened the door to the inferno. No way was I going out in that. The cake’s icing would probably melt before Emma got it across the street. “Have fun. I’ll leave the key under the doormat.”

  Emma waved. “I doubt I’ll be very late. Bye.”

  Once inside, I decided to do something I’d never done before in my life. I went for the white zinfandel and poured myself a huge gobletful, then cut myself a slab of fresh cake and had a party of one, long before the sun was over the yardarm. The wine was almost as sweet as the cake, and it went down smoothly. Feeling better when that was gone, I refilled my goblet and my plate. Twenty minutes and two thousand calories later, I got up for some iced water and wavered as I stood.

  Whoo! All that sugar and alcohol in the middle of the day had gotten me way past high.

  I guzzled a bottled spring water, then lurched back to the shady recesses of my room and promptly fell asleep.

  I was worriedly working my way through some formless ordeal dream when a door slammed in my dream, and Emma and somebody else started hollering something I couldn’t understand. As I focused harder, I realized the hollering wasn’t imaginary, and I woke up.

  I leaped to my feet, setting off a hand grenade in my skull. Covering my left eye to keep it from falling out, I staggered toward the light and sound and saw two figures in the foyer, backlit by the blazing sun.

  “I cannot believe you disrupted the wedding and insulted Daddy and Kat in front of all those people!” Emma shouted. “You owe everybody there an apology, especially Kat!”

  “I don’t owe that hippie girl squat!”

  Mama?

  I blinked hard. Must still be dreaming!

  I focused as my eyes adjusted to the brightness, and sure enough, there Mama stood, looking like Mrs. Gotrocks in a vintage Chanel suit and Italian heels, her hair pulled back into an elegant chignon.

  “Mama?” I stopped breathing, and tiny stars danced around the edges of my vision. No more booze in the middle of the day. I was honest-to-God hallucinating.

  “Emma,” Mama barked out, “you’d better grab your mother before she passes out.”

  “Mama!” Emma hurried over and steadied me. “Are you okay?”

  It sure felt real.

  Stunned, I patted her arm, my eyes glued on a defiant Mama. “Is this really happening?”

  Emma winced and drew back in disapproval. “Mama! You’ve been drinking.”

  “Just two glasses of wine,” I defended, my stomach roiling at the mention, “with some cake.”

  My mother sidled toward the door. “Well, while you two are talking, I’ll just slip out. The meter’s running on my cab.”

  Emma abandoned me to block the way. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere till you apologize to Kat and Daddy for ruining their wedding.”

  “Mama,” I said, “what did you do?”

  “Turnabout’s fair play,” she said, straightening her cuffs. She jerked her chin upward. “They embarrassed you by having that travesty right across the street. I just decided to give them a taste of their own medicine.”

  Oh, Lord. “Thirty years, you haven’t set foot out of that house, and you finally do it for this?”

  “I did it for you.” Mama leveled a clear gaze at me. “Nobody ever takes up for you, including me. I decided it was time.”

  Deciding didn’t cure mental illness like my mother’s. Something else was going on, here. I turned to my daughter. “Emma, please go over to Kat’s and explain that I had no idea Mama was going to do something like this, and I deeply apologize on her behalf.”

  “Don’t you do that,” Mama warned her. “I do not apologize.”

  I motioned Emma to go anyway.

  “Don’t worry, Mama,” she said. “I’ll tell them. And I’ll also tell them Nana is mentally ill.” She shot a scowl at her grandmother, then departed with a slam of the door.

  As soon as Mama and I were alone, I didn’t mince words. “What’s going on here? How did you manage to leave that house?”

  Mama lifted a shoulder and both eyebrows, looking down. “Well, if you must know
, I’ve been taking my meds and practicing going out for months.”

  “Why? How?”

  “You’re not the only one around here who has her secrets, you know.”

  What was she up to? “Okay, Mama. Let’s hear it.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” she gloated.

  What?

  Maybe she’d finally lost touch with reality completely. “Oh, really. Who?”

  “Claude Brenner, from next door. His wife died a year ago. Somebody told him I was a collector, so he came over to see what I had.” She straightened the hydrangeas in the vase on the foyer table. “Brought me some roses from his garden. I fed him supper, and one thing led to another, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

  Was she hallucinating? I talked to Mama every day, and she’d never even hinted at anything like this.

  “That’s great, Mama,” I said, still suspicious. “What does he look like?”

  “Tall and lanky, just like I like ’em.” She looked twenty years younger when she said it. “He thinks I’m pretty. And he’s been helping me find the real treasures in all the things I’ve been saving.”

  If this guy actually existed, I couldn’t help wondering if he was taking advantage of her. “Mama, did you give him any of your collectibles?” Some were actually valuable.

  “Heavens, no,” Mama said. “He’s got a houseful of his own. We just started clearing out the spare room, so we could put the good things in there.”

  Clearing out? I hadn’t seen any evidence of clearing out. But then again, I hadn’t looked in the spare room for ages.

  After all my years of trying to get her to clean up, to take her meds, to reach out to life, some guy comes along and she does it, just like that?

  Blindsided, I tried to think of what to say. “I think that’s great, Mama.” Another packrat, lonesome and available, right next door? That was too weird to be believed. “How long has he been visiting you?”

  “It’s not visiting,” she corrected. “We’re dating, with a capital D.”

  Sex? Was she saying they were having sex? I flashed on a recent article about rampant STDs in senior communities. “Mama, you’re not … I mean, are you two … you’re not sleeping together, are you?”

  “Lord, no,” she said. “There’s no way I’d let him stay over after we have sex. I need my rest. And my privacy.”