Wouldn’t Change a Thing

by Stacy Campbell

  His denial is painful and genetic. It runs deep in my blood too.

  “Do you need my help with the tomatoes and peaches?”

  “Are you still going to the library?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve checked my emails. Maybe someone wants Mustang Sally to decorate or design a green, energy-efficient home for them.”

  “Toni, you can use the Internet here.”

  “I know. I want to get out and roam the town. Since the IGA incident, I’ve been holed up like a fugitive. I can’t hide forever.”

  “Suit yourself.” She looks at the stove and the Ball jars. “I’ve got more than enough work to keep me busy.”

  “What are you selling this year?”

  “Peaches, tomatoes, pepper and fruit-flavored jellies, chow-chow, pickled cucumbers, and muscadine wine.”

  “You’ve got skills. I can’t boil water.”

  “You could if you wanted to. I’ll be happy to teach you.” Aunt Mavis struggles to stand.

  “You okay?”

  “Arthur’s trying to get me, but I won’t let him.”

  I stare at her, waiting to reveal this strange man.

  “Arthritis.”

  “On that note, I’m heading to the library. I’ll be back soon.”

  I had set a bag next to the front door earlier for the day’s excursion. Denial runs in my blood. So does lying. I wave to Aunt Mavis as I head out to the door to connect with the woman from IGA. If I’m lucky, she can help connect the dots I’m missing about my mother.

  Chapter 14

  I push back doubts as I sit in the Washington EMC parking lot. Lying to Aunt Mavis makes my flesh crawl. But years of lying left me feeling as if I didn’t have a conscience. I stare at the phone number. After a few cars pass, I dial. She answers on the first ring.

  “Hello, this is Antoinette Williamson.”

  “Toni?”

  “How do you know me?”

  “Chile, we’re first cousins. I’m Edwina, your Uncle Grady’s daughter.”

  “Grady?”

  “Listen, I’m fixing Walter’s lunch. Come on down and eat with us.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. You still know the town, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where are you?”

  “EMC parking lot.”

  “Come out and make a right. We’re on the Sandersville Highway. Keep to the right side of the road, past Rocky’s and Ameris Bank. You gonna keep going past Galilee Baptist Church for about three miles. My house is the black-and-white one on the right with the John Deere mailbox. You can’t miss it.”

  Either I’m in the Twilight Zone or I’ve been sheltered too long. This is the first time I’ve heard of an Uncle Grady. I know Norlyza and Carrie Bell—Mama’s sisters—live in Alabama. That’s where Willa went to live. No one ever mentioned Grady, though. Edwina has piqued my curiosity. How many other unknown relatives are out there? Grandma Rose kept so many secrets, it’s hard to tell. We were forbidden to visit her when I was small, and I never questioned why.

  The heat is stifling as I drive along this road. The weatherman promised a slight breeze for today’s forecast. He was misinformed. If this car were a thermostat, the heat would be on hell. The hot air is soothing, though. It quells the butterflies in my stomach. Who goes to a stranger’s house for food? A woman who wants answers, that’s who. During Shirley’s rant at IGA, Edwina’s face stood out in the crowd. Her concern caught my attention. Sassy, middle-aged, and wearing a dressy suit in the middle of the day, everything about her was regal. Her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes resembled our bloodline. I shook it off as a coincidence since everyone in a small town is usually related by blood or love.

  In no time, I spot the John Deere mailbox and pull into the driveway. I travel down a small hill and onto a circular driveway. Déjà vu hits me. Something is familiar about this yard. I get out and two cats greet me with purrs. One is blacker than the ace of spades. Its shiny coat gleams in the sun. A tan cat totters on three legs toward me. I hope they don’t have Whiplash’s licking affinity.

  The front door opens and Edwina says, “Midnight, Tic-Tac, go on around back.”

  I shield my eyes from the sun and look at the top of the steps of the huge porch. Midnight and Tic-Tac are excited to have a guest as well. They disobey her and park themselves alongside one of many yard planters made from old tires. The gold, purple and white spray-painted tires have been fashioned as teacups and house beautiful flowers that know love and nurturing. Ignoring them, she descends the steps and sweeps me in a hug. She looks me over and hugs me again.

  “You look just like Greta! A little of Paul too.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looks over my shoulder. “Does Mavis know you’re here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. What we have to talk about today is between the two of us.”

  Her hair is covered in a decorative floral silk scarf. It matches her capris and dark-blue T-shirt. The McCallister bloodline—my mother’s side of the family—comes in full view. Women on Mama’s side have facial moles and a small hole above their right ears. I stare a bit too long and she becomes self-conscious. She touches the scarf.

  “I was pulling weeds this morning. I can’t let these flowers get away from me.”

  “I wasn’t looking at the flowers or your scarf. Looking at your face, it’s obvious we’re kin.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Come on in so you can meet Walt.”

  I follow her up five or six steps, marveling at the variety of flowers on the porch and in the yard. Her place is a green thumb paradise. The moment I step inside the entryway, my mouth waters. I smell liver and onions with gravy. Clay’s liver was the best I’d ever tasted, but I enjoyed sampling variations in other kitchens.

  “Walt, she’s here.”

  Her husband rises from a recliner where he’s watching the news and greets me. Stacks of photo albums fill the coffee table in front of him.

  “It’s so good to see you again, Ms. Toni. I hadn’t seen you since you were a little girl.”

  He smiles, steps back a few paces, and gives me the once-over. His long-sleeved dress shirt and jeans seem out of place in this weather. He pulls on his suspender straps and says, “Let’s eat before Edwina’s liver gets cold. You haven’t had liver and onions until you taste hers. Bathroom’s down the hallway. You can wash up in there.”

  I head down the hallway, sneaking glances at family photos along the walls. They are mostly of Edwina and Walter, but a few of them are of relatives I’ve seen sporadically. I stop when I spot a photo of me, my sister, and parents. I lift it from the wall, pondering the family that used to be. The teal scenery captured us with huge grins. Daddy is next to Mama, and they both smile. Willa wears a red dress and four plaits pulled high and held together by block-shaped ponytail holders. Front teeth missing, she protects me with her hands on my left shoulder. My dress is white and my hair is cornrowed in “the Peaches,” thanks to the nurse’s aide Aunt Mavis paid. I lift the velvet and cardboard backing from the frame and read the inscription: The Williamson Family, 1979. I place the photo back on the wall.

  After washing up, I join them in the dining room. Walter says grace and Edwina starts our conversation over clanking silverware.

  “I’m sorry about the article, but I’m glad you’re home.”

  “I never meant to hurt anyone in the family.”

  “The McCallisters, our maternal relatives, don’t do so well with mental illness. I guess we’re like everyone else. But when we ignore a person, we ignore a person. I want the trend to stop with you and Willa.”

  She looks out the window and her husband picks up the conversation. “Far as I know, a few of the folks on Greta’s side tried to help her, Edwina included, but the sicker your mother got, the stronger Mavis’s grip tightened. We don’t know what it was all about, but the next thing we knew, she was in Georgia Mental.”

  Edwina’s side view solves
the mystery. Her eyeglass chain takes me back to the mall meltdown. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  She faces me. “Come again?”

  “In the mall. Years ago at Hatcher Square. You were the woman who sat with me when they took Mama away.”

  “I sure did. I would have brought you home if Mavis hadn’t stopped me. You asked me to call her, but I wanted to take you by the hand and bring you here with us.”

  “Why didn’t I remember you or know we were related?”

  “Greta started going downhill a little after you were born. We used to visit one another’s houses all the time. All that acreage out in the country was the perfect spot for parties and picnics. But something happened one day at the Fourth of July cookout that changed everything. After that day, it’s like you all fell from the face of the earth.”

  I stop chewing and give her my undivided attention.

  “The children were bobbing for apples, your uncles and guys from the neighborhood were standing around the oak tree in the yard drinking beer, and your aunts and a few of our lady friends sat at the oblong table Greta put out for parties. She kept swatting at flies, or so we thought. She eyed us like we were stepchildren as we played spades. She shook her head, ran in the house, and came back with a shotgun.”

  I cough and drink tea as her story intensifies.

  “She pointed that double-barrel straight at your Cousin Francine and told her to give back the gold coins she stole. Said the voices told her Francine had snuck in the window the night before and took the gold coins she had stashed in a flour tin.”

  “What did Francine do?”

  “She tried to remain calm, but we could all see she was scared half to death. The men, including your Daddy, ran to the table from the oak. The children toppled the barrel of apples and ran for cover under the house. Your Daddy talked to Greta like he was talking fire out of a wound, telling her he had the gold coins and it was all a misunderstanding. We knew there were no gold coins; the Williamsons were big on keeping their money in the bank. That’s how they have all this land in Hancock County. Paul convinced her to give him the gun and he took her inside. It looked like a father leading his child.”

  “Did anyone say anything? Do anything?”

  “Everyone went home in fear. I told Francine watching Greta was like watching my Daddy all over again.”

  “Uncle Grady, correct?”

  “Yes. You probably never heard of my father, since there’s an eighteen-year age difference between him and your mother. He clicked out before you were born. He died in a mental institution in Florida a few years ago.”

  “I wish I had known. I mean, about him.”

  “Clayton knew about Daddy’s death. He and Russell sent a beautiful arrangement to the funeral.”

  Walter releases my hand and pats my back. Edwina holds up one finger and he stands, empty plate in hand, and goes to the kitchen. He returns with a bag across his shoulder.

  “I’m going to see a man about a mule.”

  “Walter Crittenden, one more Hurston phrase.”

  They laugh in unison, leaving me in the dark.

  She reaches for the book on the buffet. “Walter’s headed to the library for a one o’clock meeting. It’s our One Book, One City reading program. The library picks a yearly reading list to discuss. July’s book is Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God.”

  “I got sixty acres.”

  “Walter!” He doubles back and kisses her cheek. She blushes and gives his butt a light tap. “Get on out of here, old man!”

  He leaves and I wrestle with my vanishing appetite. The food is delicious, but the more I learn about my family, the less I want to eat.

  “I can wrap your plate up, Toni.”

  “I’d love to eat it later. I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”

  She takes our plates and I go to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I return, she’s nestled on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her. Several photo albums are open, and I grab the nearest one.

  “Ready for your history lesson?”

  I nod and settle back on the sofa. Hours pass and I learn about my grandmother, Rose, my uncle, Grady, and all the relatives who dropped them like hot coals when their illnesses progressed. I lift the plastic shield and gently release a picture of Grady and a woman hugged up next to him at a Trailways bus terminal. I flip the photo over and read the date: May 31, 1969.

  “Where was this taken?”

  “Macon, Georgia.” Edwina holds the photo, then hugs it. “This is my parents’ last photo before he lost his freedom.”

  I wait for her to explain. Her eyes are misty, but she plows forward.

  “Daddy had gotten his master’s degree and my mother was so excited about him moving us to Texas. She thought he was stressed out over getting his degree. She ignored his behavior—waking up in the middle of the night and walking around the house talking to himself—but things grew stranger. She hid his behavior from us until the trip. He boarded the bus, and hours later, she received a call in the middle of the night about his outburst. He’d made it as far as the Texas state line when he was put off the bus. He said God came up through the floor of the bus and told him to kill the driver. The other passengers fought him, and my mother went to pick him up. She was uneducated about the mental illness maze and had him institutionalized. First, he went to Georgia Mental. We’d go back and forth to see him, even brought him to Sparta a time or two, but he was never able to function on his own. Back then, they didn’t have all the modern treatments and medicine they have now. He received electroshock therapy and was later moved to Seaborn Hospital down in Florida. That’s where he died.”

  “Mama never said anything about him as far as I can remember.”

  “The onset of her illness started after you were born. That’s when we all noticed small changes in her.”

  So I caused my mother’s sickness? “What about my grandmother?”

  “Grandma Rose, my father, and your mother are the three who suffered most. I think that’s why Norlyza and Carrie Bell didn’t have children. I also believe that’s why they took your sister in, too. Probably thought they could help the family out since we were so scattered.”

  Keep acting up and they’re gonna send you to Milledgeville was the playground taunt when I was in school. It wasn’t until Mama’s meltdown that I understood the threat. I drop my head. The photo albums are filled with rich stories, people who share my DNA, and I don’t know them. Edwina lifts my chin with her soft hands until we face each other.

  “What are you going to do about your mother?”

  “There’s a treatment meeting soon that I plan to attend. I want to bring her to the home-house soon. I won’t burden Uncle May and Ray with our presence.”

  “I can help you out with her. The one thing I share with Mavis is a nursing background. Daddy’s illness made me pursue this field. Trust me when I say you’ll need a break from time to time. Taking care of your mother won’t be a picnic in the park. You have to keep her occupied and she has to stay on top of her medicine. Otherwise, she’ll be right back at GMH.”

  “What else should I do?”

  “Indulge her hallucinations. If she says she sees something, go along. If she thinks you’re calling her crazy, she may lash out.”

  I ponder her instructions, unsure if I’m cut out for this. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I stand, not wanting to take up another minute of Edwina’s time. She stands with me.

  “Do you want me to put your food in Tupperware?”

  “Yes, please. I haven’t eaten good liver, onions, and rice since Clayton cooked. I wish I knew how to cook good Southern staples.”

  “My doors are always open for cooking lessons. We’re family. Don’t be a stranger.”

  She packs the food and walks me out. Midnight and Tic-Tac, still relaxing by the flowers, jump up and follow me to the car.

  “Cousin Edwina, do I want to know why Tic-Tac has three legs?”

&n
bsp; Edwina kneels and pets Tic-Tac. “He climbed up in Walt’s truck one day. Thought he’d explore the engine. Walt started the truck not knowing he was there, and well…” I touch my chest. “Wasn’t Tic-Tac’s fault. Walt retired from John Deere a few years ago. He drove back and forth to Augusta for years, so Tic-Tac wasn’t used to seeing the truck around.”

  We hug each other again and I get in my car feeling empowered. Today was a good start to putting the missing pieces of my family puzzle together. As I drive out of her yard, my phone buzzes. My day just got luckier. It’s Willa calling.

  Chapter 15

  I’m exploring my childhood home as I wait for Willa. Daddy dubbed it the home-house because he said wherever we went in the world, if we succeeded or failed, we could always come back home. When I spoke with Willa a few days ago, I couldn’t get the question, Will you come see me? out of my mouth before she said yes. I apologized for snubbing her and begged her forgiveness.

  May and Ray have outdone themselves. A passerby would never know the house is empty. The freshly mowed lawn is reminiscent of the old days. The striped technique is the one Daddy used when we were kids. I’d jump on the riding mower with him as he rode the acreage making straight lines, then going in the opposite direction. He said since he didn’t have sons that would play major league baseball, the yard may as well look like a baseball field. Green thumbs are in our blood. Hanging flower baskets and urns fill the porch. Seasonal flowers line a bricked path that encloses the oak tree in the front yard. The tree enhances the house’s view. Willa and I took turns helping Daddy paint the shutters of our white house. Mama said the house always had to be white, but we could choose shutter paint. Deep burgundy was the last color we chose. A fresh coat remains.

  I run to the backyard to see what other memories have been preserved. The clothesline anchored by two wooden posts remains. Mama said clothes were better hand-washed, so most Saturdays, she enlisted Willa and me to boil water and pour it in a huge silver tub while she went to work on our clothes using a washing board and Aunt Mavis’s handmade soap. Never mind the fact we had a spanking brand-new Maytag washer and dryer in the laundry room. Daddy reminded her of this one Saturday when he snatched the soap from her hand and waved the purchase receipt from Sears in her face. He called her country and backwards. She called him stupid and susceptible to germs and the conspiracy of the traitors who rigged the machines with poisonous dyes that would stain our clothes and kill us all. They compromised; she washed the clothes in the Maytag, but hung them on the line.