Southern Discomfort

by Tena Clark

  * * *

  As weak as Mama was in her last days, she clung on. I didn’t know what was keeping her alive, but Georgia did.

  “Tena, Mama is not going to let go until you and Cody leave,” Georgia said one morning in the hall outside Mama’s room.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t want to leave you. Again. I know that’s what’s keepin’ her back. She just can’t do it. The first time nearly killed her,” Georgia said. Even my strong and steady sister was fighting back tears.

  Suddenly, there it was, the vision of Mama taking the broken music box from my hands as she told me, “I’m so sorry. I have to go,” and me standing with Virgie watching the Cadillac disappear down the driveway.

  She doesn’t want to leave you. Again.

  I folded myself into Georgia’s arms and wept. I felt her hand patting my back and smoothing my hair. How many times had she comforted me just like this, just like a mama, through the countless traumas? I wondered if Georgia herself had ever had a proper childhood. I never asked, but somehow I doubted it. She was just too busy taking care of everyone around her. So strong and solid, this sister of mine.

  “I can’t leave, I just can’t,” I said. “I can’t leave until . . .”

  “I know, honey, I know. But you have to. She’ll hang on forever if you don’t, and it’s her time to go. You know that. You don’t want to see her suffer anymore.”

  “I can’t.” I moaned. “How can I not be here? How can I miss holding her hand, being there when she goes?” My voice cracked and broke on the last word, remembering my promise to God that I would in fact let her go gracefully if He gave me ten more years with her. And He had. Damn. He had.

  “Okay now, listen to me. This is what you’re going to do,” Georgia said, her voice firm and gentle. “You’re going to tell Mama you have important business in New York, but that you’ll be back the next day. Just a one-day trip. Please, Tena. It’s time.”

  I raised my head. I knew she was right, but I didn’t have her mettle in facing it head-on. I looked into Georgia’s eyes, and nodded.

  The next day Cody and I went to Mama’s room at 6 A.M. Our flight out of Mobile was at nine, giving us only a few minutes with her before we had to drive south to the airport.

  “Hey, Mama, how you feelin’ this mornin’?” I asked.

  She tried to sit up but could only smile, her chapped lips cracking with the effort.

  “I’m okay, baby,” she said, looking at me and reaching out for Cody’s hand. Cody immediately went to the side of the bed and took her memaw’s hand, gently stroking the dry, bony fingers.

  “We’re headed to the airport,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t betray my mission, “but we’ll be back early tomorrow morning, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Be safe, baby. See y’all tomorrow.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes flickered with agitation.

  “What is it, Mama? Is there anything you need?”

  She thought about it, then her teeniest shy smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  “You know what I want?” she asked, her voice mischievous, like a kid playing Truth or Dare. “I want a Popsicle. A purple Popsicle. Do you think you could get me one?”

  I knew the nurses kept boxes of Popsicles on hand for patients, but Mama was under strict instructions not to eat or drink anything.

  “But, Mama,” I protested, “you know it’s doctor’s orders. You’ll choke, possibly get an infection . . .” My words trailed off when I realized how utterly ridiculous it was to deny this woman anything, ever again. It didn’t matter if she choked, or got an infection, or even if she stopped breathing right then and there.

  “Of course, Mama. I’ll get your Popsicle.”

  She rested back into her pillows, smiling a smile that was pure, young, and full of simple happiness.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, and ran out of the room and down to the nurses’ station.

  “My mama wants a Popsicle, a purple Popsicle,” I blurted, out of breath and already frenzied with the urgency of getting her that damn Popsicle. The possibility that she could die before I got back with it was unthinkable. It was the same panic I had felt in making sure Virgie tasted Neapolitan ice cream for the first, and last, time in her life.

  “Why, Tena,” the nurse said apologetically. “You know she can’t have anything to eat. She might aspirate.”

  “Are you serious? She’s dying, she might even die today, and if my mother wants a purple Popsicle before she goes, by God, she’s going to have one. Now. Please. Please can you do that for her?” I begged.

  The nurse looked at me for a few seconds in silence, then nodded, got up, and went to the little kitchen behind the reception area. I could see her dig through the freezer, and then she came back with a Popsicle. Purple.

  I raced back to the room.

  “Mama!” I said, out of breath from my sprint back to her room. “I got it! Look! A purple Popsicle!”

  She struggled to sit up, and she watched like a little girl on Christmas morning as I pulled the paper off and handed it to her. I too felt like a girl on Christmas morning, pleased and proud that I was handing my mother the one cherished gift she had been waiting for all year. She put the Popsicle to her dry and cracked lips and fell back against the pillows, eyes closed, with a sigh of pure bliss at just having the sugary syrup against her lips. She then slowly savored the flavor and the cool, wet sweetness, tentatively swallowing the melted syrup, the first thing to have gone down her ruined throat in weeks.

  “Is it good?” I asked, relieved that it hadn’t made her choke.

  “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm,” she sighed, and we both laughed.

  A drop of the purple syrup trickled down her chin. I reached out and caught it with my finger, and she smiled.

  Swallowing a lump in my throat that felt like it was the size of a Key lime, I breathed deeply and prayed I’d hold it together at least until I got out of the room.

  “Okay, Mama. Cody and I better be headin’ to the airport,” I said, bending over the bed to kiss her forehead. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, and I’ll bring you an entire box of purple Popsicles!” My voice held a false gaiety that hung in the air.

  Cody hugged Mama so tightly that I feared she wouldn’t be able to let go. “I love you so much, Memaw. We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yes you will, my sweet little angel,” Mama said, giving Cody’s face a light brush with her fingers. “Yes you will.”

  I went to the door, but try as I might, I couldn’t make myself open it. I knew, as sure as I knew anything, that I would never see my mama again. I stared at the door, at its wood and its stainless-steel handle.

  “You’d better get going,” Mama said, and with her words I nodded and finally pulled the door open. I lingered in the doorway, my left hand holding the door open to look at Mama for a few more moments.

  “Aloha, Mama. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she said, pausing and catching her breath.

  And then she said: “Goodbye, baby.”

  It was the first time in my life I had heard her actually say the word.

  “Mama, I said aloha.”

  She smiled, her eyes gentle and sad, as another drip of purple syrup dropped onto her hospital gown. She too knew this was it. That I had to go and that she wouldn’t be there when I got back.

  “I love you, baby. Goodbye,” she said again, more firmly.

  I nodded and finally stepped out of the room. The only reason I didn’t sink to my knees on the cold linoleum was that Cody stood outside, anxiously waiting for me. I took a deep breath, reached for her hand, and we walked out of the hospital to my car.

  Forty-five minutes later, as we crossed the Alabama line, my phone rang. I didn’t have to look at the number to know who was calling and why.

  “Tena . . .” Georgia said, and then fell silent. It took her several moments to say the rest. “Mama’s gone.”

&
nbsp; Unable to speak, I nodded, as if she could see me acknowledge the news. Cody reached over and placed her hand on mine where it gripped the steering wheel. She knew. I didn’t have to tell her. We sat silently until I could breathe again, enough at least to drive the car. Then, heavy with despair and taking deep breaths through the vise grip that held my throat, I turned around and headed back home to bury my mama.

  * * *

  Mama picked a good time to die. It doesn’t get much prettier than April in Mississippi—the days are warm, but not yet hot, and the gentle breeze floats with hints of honeysuckle, jasmine and gardenia, and roses and wisteria, and of course, magnolia. On the day of Mama’s funeral, I felt as if God pulled out all His stops, making sure the last air that touched her body would be as soft and succulent as nature could provide.

  Daddy’s funeral five years earlier had been a command performance of politicians he’d bought and local folks he’d supported. There had been a lot of gratitude at his service, but not a lot of tenderness.

  Mama’s funeral was one of pure love. It was also one of respect and compassion. She wasn’t the only wife of Waynesboro to drown her sorrow in Jack Daniel’s, but she had been one of the first to walk out on that misery and start a new life, and people respected her courage. They also just plain loved her for who she was—her humor and grace and dignity.

  Waynesboro showed up in the hundreds to say goodbye. Those who couldn’t make it sent dozens upon dozens of bouquets and wreaths of pink roses, her favorite flower. It took hours for the mourners to pass by her casket, reaching out to touch her fingers and see her face one more time. Most bent over her and whispered that they’d miss her laugh, her kindness, and her stories. They promised they would never forget her. And I doubt any have. When I stood to deliver the eulogy, I gritted my teeth against the tears in my throat and stinging my eyes. Determined to hold it together, I read some of the lyrics of a song I had written for her at her bedside, two days before she’d passed:

  God, we’re gonna miss her

  It feels like more than we can bear,

  But I guess you really need her

  For something special up there.

  We have to believe

  That you always know what’s right,

  But, Lord, it’s gonna be raining tears

  In Mississippi tonight.

  At the reception, Waynesboro’s church ladies put out a spread worthy of feeding a hungry platoon: casseroles of every imaginable combination, fried chicken, seven or eight different pasta salads, ham and potato salads, Spanish rice, deviled eggs, pork and beans, pulled pork and brisket, sausage and garlic potatoes, corn bread, ham salad, chicken salad sandwiches, chicken spaghetti and lasagna, meatballs, baked ham, and bowl after bowl of vegetables—collard and turnip greens, fried okra, peas and butter beans, creamed corn and tomatoes—although none of what we called the fancy vegetables, broccoli and asparagus and artichoke hearts and the like. I didn’t know those vegetables even existed until I left Waynesboro for college.

  I ate as much as my stomach and sadness would allow, not wanting any of the ladies to feel insulted that I hadn’t tried their dish. With the excuse of “needing to get some air after all this food!” I escaped out the side door and found myself walking the short distance back to the graveyard.

  Her grave was impossible to miss. It sat among hundreds, perhaps thousands of flowers—wreaths, bouquets, vases, and single stems wrapped with ribbon. The ocean of flowers reminded me of the scene outside Buckingham Palace after Lady Diana’s death. And in a way, Mama was Waynesboro’s Lady Di; she certainly was loved as much.

  I approached the fresh mound over her grave slowly and then knelt on the ground next to it, my fingers digging gently into the cool dirt.

  “I’m so sorry, Mama,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to save you this time.”

  And suddenly it all came pouring out, and with my fingers spread wide like a sprinter poised for a race and my head bowed over the grave, I sobbed alone among the silent tombstones. I had held it together for so long—for myself, for Cody, for my sisters—but I could hold it no longer. It felt as if grief had split me wide open.

  I remembered that day, over forty years earlier, when I sat on my sad mama’s lap, careful to avoid the bandages on her wrists, and promised to keep her safe for the rest of her life. I wept over her now because I felt as if I had failed. She was gone. I hadn’t been able to prevent her death and keep her here, by my side, safe and sound and doing her crosswords in her chair and quietly singing her songs. I had promised her. But I had failed.

  I cried until I could cry no more, my chest aching and my eyes raw, and then crumpled down, lying back on the grass, the last of my tears falling from my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, one last time.

  I looked up through the pine trees, a gentle spring breeze moving the branches and carrying their clean, sharp scent through the air. And suddenly I realized: I was done. I didn’t need to worry anymore, or feel guilt that I hadn’t done a better job of being my mama’s mama, or sadness that I hadn’t been able to ultimately save her from death. Mama was gone and I was done.

  I took a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs and expand my rib cage, and then exhaled slowly.

  “You’re free, Mama,” I whispered into the wind, “and so am I.”

  And with the words came the realization of their truth. She was free, but so was I. We were both delivered from our burden.

  I sat up, and put my hand back on the mound of dirt. On Mama.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  It was Cody, who had come to find me and make sure I was all right. I turned and smiled, brushing my hands free of dirt. I patted the ground next to me and she sat down and reached over for my hand.

  “Yes, baby, I am now. I just needed to say my own goodbye to Memaw.”

  We sat for several minutes, saying nothing, just holding hands and looking at the explosion of beautiful flowers surrounding the grave, and us, and Mama.

  Finally, I gave Cody’s hand a couple of squeezes, just as Virgie had done so many times to mine, and said, “Come on. Take a walk with me.”

  We rose, brushed off our clothes, left the graveyard, and crossed the street toward downtown Waynesboro. As we walked through the quiet streets, I told her about the town I knew as well as any place on Earth. We walked past the two-room walk-up above the dry cleaners where Mama had lived after she left Daddy for good, past Petty’s, where Virgie and I had sipped our sweet tea on the back steps, past Glitter Lane, where Mary sold the best sno-cones in the world, past the café where Daddy had taken me for breakfasts of Coca-Cola and doughnuts, past the intersection where I had confronted the Klan while Cindy, terrorized, cowered in the front seat, and past the football field where I took my anger and frustration and confusion and beat it all into an enormous snare drum.

  As we walked and our shadows grew longer and longer in the setting sun, I felt an ease, and a comfort, I had never felt in my thirty years living in Los Angeles. I realized, walking those wide, empty streets the afternoon after Mama’s funeral, that while I’ve always raged against the South’s ugly racism and oppression, and always will, it also is home to the people I’ve loved most in this world: my mother, Virgie, my three sisters, and yes, my wildly flawed and complicated father.

  Now, they were all gone: Virgie, Daddy, and that day, Mama. Then, all too soon, we would lose Penny, whose battle with diabetes finally killed her. My sad, sweet sister went to her grave never having achieved the one thing she wanted: our daddy’s love. And it would be left to me, Elizabeth, and Georgia to remember the ghosts. And we would. But it wouldn’t just be the three of us. Shocking all of us, Cody, who had her choice of colleges from coast to coast and from north to south, decided to attend my alma mater, the University of Southern Mississippi.

  My sisters crowed: “You just wait. She’s gonna fall in love with the South and never leave.”

  “That is never going to happen,” I assure
d them.

  That’s exactly what happened. Yes, it’s complicated.

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  This book could not have been written without Jennifer Jordan, who guided me through every step of the process with dedication, patience, and an uncanny ability to find the heart of my story. You are amazing. Thank you for going on this journey with me.

  I’m so grateful for my daughter, Cody, who gave me the strength and encouragement to write my story. Cody, you changed my life forever for the better the day you were born. You are by far my greatest accomplishment. I love you more than you can imagine, and I always say I want to be just like you when I grow up. Thank you to my Southern son-in-law, Josh Mannino, for being the husband you are to my daughter. I love you.

  I am blessed and forever grateful for my partner, Michelle LeClair, and for the beautiful life and family we’ve created together. Michelle, you have shown me a love that I never knew was possible. You have taught me how to trust. I love you more than you will ever know.

  I’m grateful to have been the youngest of three incredible sisters whom I love with all my heart.

  To my sister G.: You have been my rock, my buoy through the storms. G., your love and constancy in my life has given me strength and hope. I love you so much, Big Sis.

  To my sister S.: You have made me laugh my entire life. Thank you for sharing your sense of adventure and your eye for beauty with me. And thank you for always being there when I needed you. I love you so much.

  To my sister T., who died three years ago. I miss you every single day. I loved your candor. I loved your resilience and courage. I loved your authenticity. You were one of a kind and I will always love you.

  To my brothers-in-law, J., D., and C.: Thank you for choosing to be a part of this family. I love you.

  To my nieces Stephanie, Suzanne, and Jessica, and my nephews Scott, Steve, and Donnie: I am proud of each of you and love you so much.

  To Burke, my best friend, and my partner in crime through all those years: Our friendship is still as strong today as it was when we were children. Thank you for the hours of conversation that enriched my memories and helped shape this book.