Wouldn’t Change a Thing

by Stacy Campbell

“Once I’m comfortable with the routine of taking care of my mother, I’ll seek a freelance assignment or two.”

  “Let me know if you need me to help you out on my end. I’m a phone call away.” She plants a kiss on my cheek and gets in her car. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  I watch Jordan drive away, grateful to her for allowing me to be transparent about my mother. Quality beats quantity in friendship any day.

  Chapter 27

  Beacon Cottage is aptly named. The driveway in which I sit holds a lovely bungalow painted green and white. I’m a sucker for good design and curb appeal. Nothing gets me like good landscaping, and the owners of this home have made the grounds a winter wonderland. I find the referral card Ethan gave me and head toward the front porch. The meeting starts in twenty minutes, but he had suggested I come early. He said I don’t have to talk if I’m uncomfortable, but it helps to express myself. I walk toward the porch and speak to a man smoking a cigarette in one of two Adirondack chairs. He stands to greet me as I near the door. He drags on the cigarette, blows smoke away from my face, and places it in the ashtray.

  “How are you, tonight?” He extends a hand to shake mine. “I’m Jim Beacon. I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I’m Toni Williamson. I was referred by Ethan Sutton.”

  “Your name won’t matter once you get inside. I’m glad you could join us tonight.”

  I release Jim’s hands and notice his yellowing nails. His face is youthful, but gray hair covers his head. I’d venture to guess he’s under forty, but his eyes are pools of sadness. The night carries a biting chill, but he is dressed only in corduroys and a striped flannel shirt. He shuffles his feet and finally says, “Go on inside. My wife will give you the skinny on the meeting.”

  I knock on the door and a happy-go-lucky woman answers it. She steps aside to let me in.

  “Ethan sent you, didn’t he?” she asks.

  A quick sweep of the house tells me I’m among kindred spirits. She welcomes me in and I feel like I’m at Aunt Mavis’s. She sets snacks on a buffet table in the living room and I fall in line with her. Chairs are placed in a semicircle and a podium sits off to the side.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I’ve done most of the finger foods. Let’s get the snacks on the table. By the way, I’m Delores Beacon.”

  “Toni Williamson.”

  “Not sure if Jim told you, but you don’t have to give your real name. I’ll tell you about our format when we’re done with the food.”

  I bring a pink box from Doddle’s Cupcake Bakery from the kitchen. I rotate bowls of tortilla chips, salsa, cheese straws, and a tray of pinwheel sandwiches to the left of the buffet. The right side houses wrapped gifts and few Santa gift bags.

  “Do you mind putting the cupcakes out?” I open the box so others can serve themselves. Delores chatters with me as we continue putting out the food. “I take it Ethan told you about our daughter?”

  “He only said she died in the care of the state. He didn’t go into details.”

  Delores’s red holiday dress is festive, as are her candy cane earrings. Her hair is swept up in a bun with wisps of hair framing her face. She is the opposite of Jim tonight.

  “Our ten-year-old daughter, Sherri, died when she was left too long without oxygen at a mental facility in North Georgia. Jim took it the hardest, as you can probably tell. Hair turned straight white before he turned thirty-five.” She detects my sadness. “Don’t be sad. I’m grateful for the short time we had with her. Our marriage has been fragile since she died two years ago, but I’m hoping Jim comes around and realizes she was on loan to us.”

  “I never thought of death that way.”

  “Everything is about mindset, Toni.”

  Delores removes the Santa Claus apron from her dress and we both walk to the kitchen.

  “Our meetings are held once a month for family members dealing with grief or who are in the role of caregiver for a mentally ill family member. We have our usual mix of people, but someone new comes into the fold from time to time. There are two bowls of first names on the buffet. The pink bowl has female names and the blue bowl has male names. The name you select is who you’ll be for the night. This provides anonymity, and to some degree, a measure of comfort. People can be uncomfortable shedding layers to strangers.”

  “Great idea.”

  “You can pull a name and wait for the others. Our December meeting is usually a thin crowd due to the holiday season.”

  I pull a name from the pink bowl. “Susan.”

  “I’ll remember your new name for the night.” Delores moves the podium in the center of the chairs. “Are you a caretaker or a bereaved family member?”

  “Caretaker.”

  “I’ve been both, so I can appreciate you wanting to talk. We are here no longer than an hour, but I’m available if you’d like to talk alone.”

  “Sounds good. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to talk tonight.”

  “By the way, I always make a point to mention we aren’t trying to steal NAMI’s thunder. We are grassroots, also. All races and genders join us for meetings. Mental illness knows no race or socioeconomic boundaries. You can visit with us and them as well.”

  The doorbell rings and I realize I’ve become countrified the past six months. I no longer ring doorbells. I knock.

  Delores opens the door and two women and a man file in. They are regulars. They hang up their coats, run to the buffet, and pick names from the bowls. They speak to me and take seats in the chairs. I hear an engine idling, and I look out the window. Jim backs out of the driveway.

  We start the meeting with introductions.

  “I’m Susan.”

  “Carlotta.”

  “Houston.”

  “Rita.”

  The members stand and I follow suit. Houston sidles next to me with a piece of paper. Delores takes her position as moderator at the podium. “Let us recite the motto.”

  Carlotta, Rita, and Delores know it by heart. Houston sticks by my side with the poem typed on a four-by-six glossy card. “If I can stop one heart from breaking/I shall not live in vain/If I can ease one life the aching/Or cool one pain/Or help one fainting robin/Unto his nest again/I shall not live in vain. Emily Dickinson.”

  We take our seats and Delores encourages us to speak. Carlotta’s eyes dart around the room, but she begins her talk. She fiddles with short dreads that frame her cherubic face. “I am happy that my bipolar daughter is taking her medication. She’s really following through on the treatment plan she received from her doctor. We were concerned that her quality of life would remain stagnant, but she signed up for classes at the local college. She can’t live on campus, but we are working together as a family to see that she’s taken care of.”

  The others applaud and so do I.

  The good news bolsters Houston. His strong voice adds to the celebration. “We found my brother, Mac, living in Seattle. Last month, I told y’all he had been missing the last three years. He comes to Georgia, gets on a good routine with his doctors and medication, and the minute he’s stable, he thinks he can do it on his own and disappears. Every call we get, we think it will be a call saying he’s dead. I know it’s a blessing he’ll be home for Christmas. If we could figure out a way to keep him stable this time, I’d be happy.”

  Delores pipes in. “Is Mac open to seeing a psychologist?”

  “He had a psychiatrist last time.”

  “No. A psychiatrist prescribes medications and treatment plans; a psychologist is the couch-coaxer. Someone Mac can utilize for personal and group therapy.”

  “I’ll check into it. I love my brother and I’m tired of these disappearing acts.”

  Rita bows out of the conversation. She pushes the huge dark shades she wears closer to her eyes.

  “Are you sure?” Delores asks.

  “Ain’t been no change since the last time. I don’t wanna keep saying the same thing over and over again.” She stopped, swallowed h
ard, and continued. “I feel like a failure is all I’m tryna say.”

  “We may hear something different this time,” Delores says.

  Rita dawdles. She pulls on her sweater and runs her fingers through her hair. “I want to have my husband committed, but I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to lock him away.” She rocks a bit and stops. “When he was in good mental health, he was a wonderful man. He was a good provider, he helped with the children, and he was a pro around the house with fixing things. He used to make these model ships with his hands. I should have been watching him more, but his mind slipped away before I could help him, and now me and the children feel stuck.”

  “Do you try to do any activities with him?” Delores asks.

  “He won’t leave the house.”

  “Does family come around?”

  “Only immediate. By that, I mean me and the children. The others have fallen by the wayside.”

  “Before you leave, I have some information I’d like to give you, Rita. Don’t give up yet.”

  Houston chimes in. “Don’t give up hope too soon. Every time I see Mac, I feel like anything is possible.”

  Rita, Carlotta, and Houston look in my direction. They are strangers, but I feel safe with them. “I’m a liar and a fraud.” The statement is not for shock value, only the truth.

  “What you mean by that, Susan?” Rita asks.

  “I went to live with relatives in Atlanta when I was little because of my mother’s mental illness. I got into the habit of telling people she was dead. I was embarrassed by the fact I didn’t have a normal family like the other kids. It’s only now that I’m learning she isn’t the only one in the family with schizophrenia. I could have helped her if I hadn’t been given away.”

  “Hold on, now,” Rita admonishes. “Speaking from the voice of someone knee-deep in it, sounds like your family was trying to spare you some heartache. Caring for Glenn is a twenty-four-seven job. I don’t get a break. Even if I step away, I’m worried about him and fret if he’s going to be okay.”

  For the first time, I consider May and Ray’s role in helping my mother. She is not their blood relative, yet they’ve stuck by her twenty-three years. Visitation, money, clothes, nursing her back to health through episodes.

  “Rita, I didn’t realize how hard taking care of the mentally ill is until I brought my mother home last month. We weren’t in the house two weeks and she attacked me. She said she’d been taking meds and she wasn’t.”

  “Glenn won’t take medication, and the sad part about the rules is we can’t do anything unless he’s a threat to us or himself.”

  I’ve complained about her medication and didn’t realize even the injections are a blessing.

  Delores corrals us back to the meeting. “There are so many people in need around us. If we don’t discuss the issues, we can’t help each other.”

  “Susan, I want to talk with you after the meeting if that’s okay,” Rita says.

  We continue chatting until Delores realizes we’ve gone past our allotted meeting time. She adjourns the meeting and we gather at the snack table.

  “It’s good to meet you, Susan,” Houston says. “You remind me of my daughter.”

  “It was nice meeting all of you as well.”

  Rita polishes off two cheese straws and puts a cupcake in a clear container from the table. She asks if it’s okay to walk me to my car. I tell everyone goodbye and promise to come back to next month’s meeting. I get to the door and Delores calls me.

  “Susan, you forgot your gift.”

  She gets a bag from the table and hands it to me. “Merry Christmas.”

  I didn’t expect camaraderie or a gift, but I’m touched. Rita and I walk outside.

  “I wish Jim was back,” she says. “I can always count on him for a smoke.”

  “I can’t help you, lady. Ms. Susan is smoke-free.”

  “Oh, my real name is Jackie Montgomery.”

  “Toni Williamson.”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  I rifle through my purse for a pen and pad and give it to her. She jots her number down.

  “I know you’re busy like I am, but if you get the chance, call me sometimes. Maybe I can find out how to help Glenn.”

  “I’ll call you, Jackie.”

  She opens my door for me. I start the car and chuckle.

  “What?”

  “Won’t get too far on less than half a tank of gas,” I say.

  “Gas station’s two blocks over. You better fill up.”

  I drive away, glad I took a chance on something different. I have one more month left before I make a decision. If I learn more, Mama will be with me for the long haul.

  Chapter 28

  I pull alongside a pump at Shell and do a double-take. The dangling “S” on the side of the truck is familiar. Can’t be. Not now and not here. It is dark, but Evan’s truck is next to the air pump. I pump my gas and get out and walk toward his vehicle, startling him with a hello.

  “Evan?”

  He does a quick glance in my direction and smiles. “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting gas.”

  “Wait a sec until I fill my tire.”

  He fills his tire and heads over. His clothes are dirty and paint-stained. He flashes his smile again and I remember he is a twin. Evan. His name is Evan, not Ethan.

  “Hard day at work?”

  “Worked on a historic home a few blocks over today.”

  “Those are the best.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I dabble with houses every now and then.”

  “I wondered if I’d ever see you again. I’ve thought about you, but figured you weren’t interested since you never called. I even asked Ethan about you, but he told me to drop it. That you had a lot on your plate.”

  “Hey, that Hermès statement I made is true. And I don’t have one plate; I have three.”

  “We all have baggage.” He looks askance at me. “You said you stopped for gas. You drove all the way to the ’Ville for gas?”

  “I had…” I pause. I don’t know this stranger well enough to tell him what’s going on with me. Then again, I shared family history with a house of strangers less than thirty minutes ago.

  “It’s a little late. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

  “How about my house?”

  My poker face fails me. I scrunch my face at the notion, but he clears the air.

  “I’m filthy. I have to take a shower. This is a tad bit later than I normally eat, but I can take you to grab a quick bite or I can cook something for you.”

  “What about your son?”

  “Rhoda has physical custody of him. He stays with me on the weekends.”

  “No drama, right?”

  “Who have you been dating?”

  “About that baggage thing. Until June, I’d been with the same man five years. I’ve heard dating horror stories from my friends.”

  “Pull out your cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Draft a text message to one family member and one friend.”

  I accept the dare, compose a group text to Willa, Aunt Mavis, and Jordan, and hand him the phone. He types a message. When he’s done, he lets me proof the message. I am with Evan Sutton at 9407 Beehive Lane. His number is 478-555-3297. If something happens to me, alert authorities immediately.

  “Evan?”

  “I’m a grown man. I don’t have time for games and tricks. Hit send on the message and follow me.”

  A take-charge man. I like it. I follow him home. The drive is about fifteen minutes, and we pull into a subdivision on Beehive Lane. He parks in his garage and I stay in the driveway. I brace myself for a filthy bachelor pad. He opens the front door and I’m shocked. With the exception of laundry neatly folded on the couch, his house is clean.

  “Be back in fifteen.”

  I turn on the television and flip channels. This is the second adventurous move I’ve made tonight. I’ve neve
r been to a man’s house after meeting him for a second time. Common sense jolts me, and I place the remote back on the coffee table so I can leave. This is your last night of freedom before your mother returns. Enjoy it.

  I relax again and flip the channels. If we do nothing else, I can at least get a quick meal. My nerves are too frayed for a sit-down meal, and I’d much rather enjoy some company before Mama comes home tomorrow.

  Evan’s body odor sways me with Irish Spring. He’s cleaned up well. The dome is shining and his muscles bulge in the sweater he wears. I’ve never been a fan of cowboy boots, but my, they round out his nice body in those jeans.

  “You decided what you want to eat?”

  “I’m tired. If you worked on a historic home, I’m sure you’re tired, too. Let’s compromise and order takeout. Dutch.”

  He’s stern and emphatic as he removes a credit card from his wallet. “I can pay for the food.”

  “You’re hosting me, so the least I can do is go half on something to eat. Better yet, let me get this meal since I barged in on you.”

  “You didn’t barge; the pleasure’s all mine.”

  Evan brings out a takeout menu organizer, and we scroll through it for food. I haven’t had pizza in ages, so I suggest Mellow Mushroom pizza. Thirty minutes later, we sit at his kitchen table and gorge on Funky Q Chicken and Kosmic Karma pizzas. He wipes sauce from my mouth and we swap life stories.

  “You were about to tell me why you’re in the ’Ville.”

  All the lies of omission I shared with Lamonte rush back. I hear the new leaf turning.

  “I attended a support group meeting.”

  He drops his pizza slice on a plate. “I didn’t know you were battling addiction.”

  “I’m not. It was a meeting for family members of the mentally ill. My mother lives with schizophrenia.” I wait for him to ask me to leave. When he doesn’t, I set a mental timer to see how long it will take for the other shoe to drop.

  “Are you her only caretaker?”

  “I stepped in to help—” The truth shall set you free. “That’s a lie. I lived in Atlanta for years and pretended my mother was dead. The AJC—”