‘Maman!’ I called as I stepped into the entrance way. I didn’t even bother to remove my hat and gloves before running from room to room in search of her. ‘Maman!’
‘Is that you, Miss Ruby?’ I heard Mae call from the kitchen. I found her sitting at the table looking lethargic and dejected. ‘Oh, thank the Lord you’re home! It’s been a terrible day!’
The blood drained from my face. In my world there was only one truly terrible thing that could happen. ‘What is it, Mae?’ I clutched her arm. ‘Tell me. Don’t torture me!’
My distress forced Mae to regain control of herself, and she stood and helped me into a chair. ‘It’s all right, Miss Ruby, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Your dear mother is still with us. It’s just that I’ve been here waiting for you and you’re much later than usual and I’ve got myself worked up. Mrs Desiree collapsed right after I brought her afternoon tea. Doctor Monfort sent her to the hospital. They’re taking X-rays because her breathing was real odd. I stayed with her as long as I could in the ambulance, but they wouldn’t let me into the white ward. So I came back here to wait for you.’
I put my head in my hands. Every time something happened to Maman, some further complication of her disease, my heart sank lower. How could God be so cruel? Didn’t he hear my prayers every night before I went to bed? Maman was the kindest person in the world. Why was she suffering so when that old witch Aunt Elva never even caught a cold?
‘Which hospital is she in?’ I asked Mae. ‘I’ll go straight away.’
‘The ambulance took her to Charity —’
‘Charity!’ I cried with horror, rising from the chair. That was a hospital for the poor of the city. Of course all the doctors and nurses there did their best, but it was no place for Maman. A de Villeray didn’t go to a hospital for the disadvantaged!
‘Now, Miss Ruby, what else was Doctor Monfort to do?’ said Mae, patting my arm. ‘We ain’t got no money.’
No, we didn’t have any money. The little I made on my ghost tours was just enough to meet our daily needs and buy the occasional luxury, and the only things of value we had left to pawn were the chairs we sat on, Maman’s dressing table and our crockery. Financial troubles were nothing new to us, but now things were truly desperate.
‘What about Uncle Rex?’ I asked. ‘Did you tell him?’
Mae looked at her feet and nodded.
‘And what did he say?’ I tried to keep my voice steady. Surely Uncle Rex wouldn’t completely desert us? Not now!
Mae began to cry softly. ‘He said, “I’ve helped all I can. It seems to be the Lord’s will that my dear sister-in-law is not much longer for this earth.”’
I gasped like a drowning person who’d grabbed for an oar only to be shoved back into the water by the very person who should be rescuing her. I remembered the day I’d met Uncle Rex in Jefferson Parish. Something in his attitude towards us had changed. If he would no longer help us, then we were lost. Truly lost.
I stood up and walked to the sitting room, my mind a swirl of desperate thoughts. I noticed Maman’s empty chair. No! I couldn’t imagine life without her.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. ‘I won’t be defeated,’ I said, clenching my teeth. ‘I won’t.’
I didn’t know what I was going to do, just that I was going to have to do something. But first I’d go see Maman.
I sat in the Charity Hospital’s reception area, waiting for a nurse to escort me to the women’s ward. My head pounded, and the pain was made worse by the inane conversation of the two women sitting next to me.
‘You know, they don’t separate the blood up North,’ one of the women said. ‘You get in an accident up there and need a transfusion, you won’t know if they’re giving you white blood or Negro blood.’ When her friend gave a suitably horrified gasp, she continued, ‘I know! Negro blood! Can you imagine? They may as well give you the blood of a monkey!’
For the first time since I’d learned of Maman’s collapse, I thought of Clifford Lalande and our conversation. It seemed like it had taken place years ago, not a few hours earlier. I remembered the way his eyes sparkled with interest when I told him I shared his belief that coloured people should have the same rights and facilities as white people did. But listening to the two women next to me, I realised what a fight that would be. Too many Southerners wanted coloured people to remain inferior.
A nurse came and took me to the ward where Maman was being treated. When I arrived I saw Doctor Monfort speaking with another doctor who looked young enough to be an intern. Doctor Monfort excused himself and took me to one side.
‘It’s very serious, Ruby,’ he said, holding up an X-ray. ‘She’s developed an abscess on her lung. The only way to save her is to remove the entire lung.’
The news pierced me as if a blade had been jabbed into my heart. The shock was so great that I barely heard Doctor Monfort explaining that bacterial infections were common in people with immune weaknesses and if the abscess ruptured it would spread the infection to other vulnerable organs, but I snapped to attention when he said, ‘They can do the operation here, but it would be much better if my colleague Doctor Emory performed the procedure. He’s a specialist in the field. It’s a complicated and dangerous operation with a long recovery time. Unfortunately . . .’
‘Unfortunately what?’ I demanded.
He hesitated, then said, ‘He only operates at his clinic in Uptown. He won’t operate here.’
My chest tightened. It was money that was stopping Maman being treated by the best doctor for her condition. Uncle Rex had already refused to help. What was I to do?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maman being propped up by a nurse so she could have a sip of water. My sense of powerlessness abated and the fight returned to me. I didn’t care what I had to do. I’d rob a bank if that’s what it took. I would find a way to get the best treatment for Maman.
‘Book her in with Doctor Emory,’ I told Doctor Monfort.
He stared at me in wonder. ‘But . . . ?’
‘But nothing! If Doctor Emory is the best surgeon to do the operation then he is the one who will do it. Only will he let me pay in instalments?’
Doctor Monfort’s shoulders relaxed. He was clearly relieved that I had agreed to Doctor Emory performing the surgery. ‘It’s not his usual practice but I’m sure it can be arranged. I will speak to him personally about it.’
After Doctor Monfort left, I approached Maman’s bed. Her face was drawn and she was struggling to breathe. But when she saw me standing there she smiled.
‘My darling Ruby,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘You were my only little baby to survive. How strong you were. How much you wanted to live. Now your little brother and sisters are waiting for me in heaven. Your father too.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘Don’t talk like that, Maman. You aren’t going to heaven just yet.’ I reached out and stroked her burning forehead. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see. Don’t you worry one bit. I’ll always take care of you, Maman — always.’
EIGHT
Amanda
I woke up later that morning with my birth name on my lips: Amandine Desiree Lalande. I’d been named Amandine after the house, and Grandma Ruby had bestowed her mother’s name on me too. I recalled my conversation with Tamara in Sydney, how I’d thought ‘Amandine Desiree Lalande’ a grand name that was too big for me. Now I realised I’d been given that name because I was cherished by my New Orleans family.
I slipped out of bed and moved to the window, where I had a view of the garden gate. I’d been fascinated by historic houses for as long as I could remember, but ‘Amandine’ was something else. Here, the story of my family was coming to life before me like a surround-sound 3D movie. I imagined a young Grandma Ruby standing there in her black dress, telling her tales, while Clifford Lalande watched her, perhaps from this very window, and fell in love.
I could have listened to Grandma Ruby’s story all night, but when dawn brok
e in the sky she told me she would continue it at a later time and that we’d better go to bed. Although I’d been disappointed, it was probably for the best. I was taking in so much about my family that it was both exhilarating and exhausting. I was rapidly realising that everything I thought I knew about myself had only been part of the story and I had to pace myself to hear the rest.
When I went into the ensuite bathroom, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My father used to look at himself in this mirror, I thought, and when he did, he saw these tawny eyes, this angular face, this smooth, even skin.
After my shower, I applied tinted moisturiser, mascara and lip gloss, which was far less make-up than I would normally wear. Apart from my dyed black hair and silver nail polish, it was the most natural I’d looked in years. I’d suddenly lost the need to radically alter my appearance and put on a mask.
A blue and white tube dress was the first item of clothing I found in my suitcase, and I paired it with white sandals. On my way down the stairs I noticed there were no telltale cracks in the walls or dips in the floors to suggest that the house was shifting unchecked. It pleased me to know that ‘Amandine’ was being maintained.
I passed the parlour and a rich, delicious aroma reached my nostrils. It made me think of Mrs Lalande’s chocolate cake but I realised it was the smell of brewing coffee. In the kitchen I found a dark-haired woman in a blue tunic pantsuit. She was laying out dishes on the breakfast counter.
‘Good morning,’ she said, in a Latino accent. ‘You must be Amandine? I’m Lorena. I missed meeting you yesterday because I was running errands. Your grandmother has already had her coffee and beignets in bed, but your aunty told me that you’d like to eat healthy food.’
I eyed the fresh peaches, blueberries and sliced watermelon Lorena was arranging on a platter. I’d heard that Southerners ate ‘fried for breakfast, fried for lunch and fried for dinner’. I didn’t know how Aunt Louise had guessed that I preferred lighter food, but was glad she had. I thanked Lorena and sat down to eat. She handed me a copy of NOLA Life News before she disappeared into the adjacent laundry.
Judging from the number of murders, shootings, robberies and rapes reported in the newspaper I understood why the city was often described as dangerous. But looking out at the beautiful garden and sipping chicory-flavoured coffee, it seemed to me that nothing bad could happen in this lovely part of the world.
I flipped through the paper and a feature article caught my eye: The Big One.
It’s only a matter of time before New Orleans is hit by a major hurricane that could decimate the city. But even a moderate storm could cause flooding that will kill thousands of people . . .
The journalist went on to argue that despite a system of levees, sea walls, pumping systems and satellite storm-tracking, the city was in danger of a major catastrophe.
Coastal erosion, ironically caused by flood protection efforts, has now made areas inland more vulnerable to tropical storms than they were a century ago. As things presently stand, the only effective life-saving strategy would be to evacuate the city entirely, but given the large population involved, that task is fraught with problems. A spokesperson for the American Red Cross said the organization cannot build emergency shelters in the area because of the risk to volunteers and evacuees . . .
I was aware that New Orleans was prone to hurricanes in the same way I was aware that Italy was prone to earthquakes and the United Kingdom had experienced flash flooding. The threat of a hurricane hadn’t deterred me from making travel plans; after all, what was the chance of a natural disaster occurring on my trip? But what the article reported sounded serious.
Lorena returned carrying a pile of folded towels. ‘Oh, you’re reading about the “Big One”,’ she said when she passed me. ‘They have been predicting it for years: the big storm that’s going to wipe out New Orleans.’
‘What a load of scaremongering!’
I turned to see Grandma Ruby coming into the kitchen, a distinct sashay in her stride. She was wearing yellow capri pants and a white fitted blouse. Her hair was rolled into a Grace Kelly chignon. I wondered how she managed to look so glamorous on so little sleep.
‘Don’t worry, Amandine,’ she said, taking a seat next to me at the counter and moving her arm in dramatic arcs. ‘I’m seventy years old and I’ve lived through many hurricanes. Everybody’s so serious these days with their meteorological reports and models of potential damage. We had two hurricanes in July, which everyone thought were tropical storms until the weather bureau officially classified them as hurricanes. In the old days when a tempest was coming, we would barricade ourselves in our houses and party until it passed. We never stocked up on batteries and water. We used to buy vermouth and champagne.’
I thought about my mother’s letter: partying during a hurricane sounded like gallows humour to me. Maybe the danger was what made the New Orleanians live so vibrantly.
Lorena placed four medicine bottles in front of Grandma Ruby, who took a pill from each one. It was a lot of medication but she seemed in good health. Anxiety pricked me. So had Nan! I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Grandma Ruby now that I’d found her again.
‘I’ll take you for a stroll to Magazine Street before it gets too hot,’ she said to me. ‘My boyfriend has a shop there.’
Lorena and Grandma Ruby exchanged a smile, from which I deduced the ‘boyfriend’ was not quite that.
When Grandma Ruby went to the hall cupboard to get her handbag, Lorena took two bottles of water out of the fridge and handed them to me. ‘Make sure she drinks plenty,’ she said. ‘She’s not as tough as she acts.’
On our way down Prytania Street, I was again taken by Grandma Ruby’s gait. Toes pointed and hips slightly thrust forward, it was something between a dancer’s walk and a circus performer’s strut. It was leisurely too. I had to keep slowing my own pace otherwise I was in danger of toppling over.
As we walked I took in the beautiful houses around us. It was incredible to me that so many antebellum mansions could exist together side by side yet there wasn’t a flashy Mercedes or BMW in sight. Most of the cars we saw were dinted Toyotas and Chevrolets.
It wasn’t only the kinds of cars the people of the Garden District favoured but how they were driving that caught me off guard. Nobody was doing more than forty kilometres per hour, and their calm manner wasn’t broken once by whatever was the New Orleans equivalent of a P-plater hoon or impatient tradie. Nobody gave us the finger either for having to stop so we could use the pedestrian crossing, as had happened to me many times in the Sydney CBD.
Another thing I noticed was that the roots of the live oaks were breaking up the footpaths. ‘Don’t you have people trying to sue the city because they tripped on a tree root?’ I asked.
Grandma Ruby looked aghast at the idea. ‘Oh, no-one’s going to cut these trees down,’ she said. ‘I mean, can you imagine this place without them?’
‘I’m glad,’ I told her. ‘People on Sydney’s North Shore used to think that way too. But as new people move in, they call out the loppers if so much as a leaf drops in their pool. The area’s losing its unique charm.’
‘We don’t get rid of things in New Orleans because they’re old and may not be one hundred per cent convenient. Look at the St Charles Avenue streetcar: it’s been in continuous operation since 1835. The seats are wooden and the “air conditioning” comes from opening a window. But my, what a civilised way to travel compared to a bus. All of us in the district still use the streetcar. You know you’re part of something when you ride on it. On a bus, you could be anywhere.’
‘I’m not sure Uncle Jonathan would agree,’ I said with a grin.
‘Oh, you picked that up? Well, let me tell you a little bit about Johnny’s gripe with old houses. He grew up in a grand Italianate villa Uptown. When he was a young boy his father, Judge Barial, decided the family ought to have a swimming pool but when the workmen went to dig the hole for the pool they discovered two skeletons buried in t
he garden.’
‘Really?’ I liked the way Grandma Ruby told a story, her lilting accent emphasising certain words. ‘Who did they belong to?’
‘There was a lot of speculation about that. Judge Barial’s opponents suggested there had been a murder in the family and demanded a full investigation but the most popular theory of the day was that the two had been victims of a mafia assassination. The mob in those days had a practice of burying bodies in the gardens or under the houses of respectable citizens, where they knew the police were unlikely to search for them. But in the end it was proven that the skeletons were very old and belonged to slaves who had died from natural causes before the Civil War. The whole area used to be plantations and as more digging was done more skeletons were found. The Barial mansion had been inadvertently built over an old slave cemetery!’
‘I can’t imagine Uncle Jonathan being happy about that,’ I said, with a giggle.
Grandma Ruby smirked. ‘He makes out that he doesn’t believe in the supernatural but you only have to say “Boo” to scare Johnny. That’s why he and Louise live out at Lake Terrace.’
We turned onto a street lined with small stores — an art gallery, a chocolatier, a florist and a beauty spa — before arriving at a Greek Revival mansion with a blade sign in French typography out the front: Galafate Antiques.
Grandma Ruby opened the door and indicated for me to follow her inside. The shop was a treasure chest crammed with antiques and I was struck by the glint of the mirrors that seemed to cover every inch of the walls. Some were Italian rococo style, while others were baroque. None of them were reproductions. One was a walnut trumeau mirror with an oil painting of a courting couple in eighteenth-century dress. My gaze drifted up from it to the chandeliers and lanterns that dangled from the ceiling like grapes from a vine.
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