I parked the car and the two of us quickly went into Summit Center, a new home I’d recently moved Mother into. Though the staff works hard to keep the place deodorized, there is still the faint odor of urine that assaults the senses upon entry. Michelle signed, “I hate this smell,” and I wondered about that old adage about how losing one sense causes others to be more alert, making Michelle’s nose more sensitive to the scent. But with no way to know for sure, I simply nodded.
We reached the main nurses’ station, where I stopped to talk with the head nurse, who was talking to Mrs. Hirvela—a woman I’ve known all my life and who had to be the oldest resident in the facility. Mrs. Hirvela sat somewhat slumped over in a wheelchair. Her face, however, registered complete control of her faculties.
“Why, Lizzie Trawick,” she said, referring to my maiden name. “However are you?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Hirvela,” I said. “And you?”
She gave us a lopsided grin. “I’d be better if I were out of this chair.” She slapped the armrests with the palms of her hands.
The head nurse motioned for one of the nursing assistants as she said, “Can you get Mrs. Hirvela back to her room, please?”
“I guess that’s my cue to go,” the old woman said. I had to admit, she seemed a little saddened by it.
I waved good-bye, then turned to the head nurse, who rested her right hip against the counter and said, “Should I live to be that old, I hope I’m still that sharp.” She frowned. “God love her. Not a soul comes by to see her. No family here, at least not anymore, and she’s outlived all her friends.”
“How sad,” I said, then turned the conversation to ask how Mom had been getting along.
“Well, on that one,” she said, “all I can say is that I’m glad you’re here. She’s been quite a pill to swallow lately.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered, then signed to Michelle what the nurse had said.
Michelle made a face and signed, “Aren’t you glad you brought me?” which I translated for the nurse.
The nurse pressed her painted rose lips together and said, “Mmm-hmm. You better believe we are.”
We found Mom in her room, watching the little television Samuel and I had provided for her. The sound was completely off, but Mom seemed captivated by whatever show was featured.
“Hi, Mom,” I said from the door. “Look who came to see you.” I forced a smile as I waited for Mom’s reaction.
Michelle stepped around me, signed, “Hi, Grandma,” to which Mom, face scowling, said, “Who in the world are you?”
“It’s Lizzie, Mom. Lizzie and Michelle.” Mom was sitting in one of the two chairs the room provided. I took a seat on the twin-sized bed and indicated to Michelle that she should sit next to her grandmother. “You remember Michelle, don’t you, Mom? She’s your granddaughter.”
“Never heard of her,” Mom barked. “And what in the world is going on with the television? I can’t hear a word these people are saying!”
As Mom rambled on, I signed for Michelle, whose eyes expertly shifted from my hands to her grandmother’s face and back. When I’d finished, Michelle used her voice to say, “I know how you feel, Grandma.”
Michelle rarely spoke aloud, though she does well with pronunciation. She has always insisted that she simply prefers to sign when she can.
Mom furrowed her brow at Michelle. “Why are you talking so funny?” she asked. “What’s wrong with you?” She jerked her head from Michelle to me. “And what are you doing there with your hands?”
“Mom,” I said. “You remember that Michelle is deaf.” I didn’t say the words as if they were questions but more as a matter of fact. Mom’s doctor insisted we try to keep control over all conversations and, rather than sounding as if we were begging her to remember, state our words factually.
Mom’s hands gripped the arms of her chair. “I tell you what I remember. I remember that nurse who came in here this morning with that awful stuff they call breakfast.”
“It wasn’t good?” I asked.
“It was poison!”
My shoulders sank. “Mom,” I said. I felt tears sting my eyes. But before I could say another word, Michelle whipped a photo album from her purse. It was one I recognized—a small version of her wedding album, covered in white satin and graced with a cross appliqué.
“Look, Grandma,” she said, opening the book to the first page, which displayed Michelle dressed like a princess in her wedding gown. “Isn’t this pretty?”
Mom’s anger was diverted as she peered down at the photograph. “Oh my,” she said. Her gnarled fingers reached forward and lightly grazed the cellophane over the picture. “How’d you get this?” She looked from Michelle to me and then back to the photograph. “A picture of me on my wedding day . . . Oh, what a day that was . . .”
Evangeline
8
Dicey Run-In
I suppose I was a little surprised that Goldie didn’t come to services on Sunday, but, in thinking about it from all sides, I couldn’t say I blamed her. She’d probably had enough of hearing people tell her how sorry they were for her misfortune. And, I suspect, she had heard all she wanted to hear of those lines people say when you’ve lost a loved one, words meant to sound encouraging but falling short. Things like, “Well, you’re still young, you know . . .”
Meaning, Goldie is young enough to find some nice man, date him for a while, then get married and sail off into the sunset years with New Mr. Right.
During the week following Jack’s death, Goldie’s house had looked like Old Home Week. I’d never seen so many people in one place in my whole life. Certainly not so many Southerners. Summit View’s inns, hotels, and our one motel could hardly hold them all. Some had to stay in Breckenridge, and a few went to Frisco.
And I’ll tell you something else I’ve never seen so much of: food! Every kind of pie you can imagine. All sorts of cakes and breads, casseroles, and vegetables. Of course, Lisa Leann was in her element (even with her daughter home) but was nearly upstaged by Goldie’s sister Diane, who made peanut brittle I’d sell Vernon for.
As anyone who knows me will confirm, I have never been much of a cook, and these times of bringing food to the home of the family have always left me feeling a bit insecure. That is, until a few years ago when I got wise. Instead of bringing a plate of prepared food, I would swing by Walmart, where I’d purchase things like toilet paper, paper napkins, and disposable utensils and plates. I quickly became the hit at any funeral.
If one can be a hit at a funeral.
———
So, while Goldie wasn’t at church and I didn’t blame her, neither were her daughter nor her son-in-law, which surprised me. Olivia has always been a stickler for how things look and going to church and all that. Naturally, after church I called Goldie to see if she was okay. When she didn’t answer, I called Olivia’s house, but she didn’t answer either. I figured they were having some quiet family time or maybe even returning family members back home. It was, after all, Sunday. Time for all God’s children to go home.
Monday morning, after Vernon had left for work, I dressed, got in the car, and headed toward Goldie’s. She didn’t answer the door. Not when I knocked and not when I rang the doorbell. I got back in the car and drove to Olivia’s. A quick look at my dashboard clock told me it was already after 9:00. I figured by now that Tony would have left for work and the kids would be up, fed, and doing whatever it is little ones do at 9:00 in the morning.
Not ever having children of my own, I really can’t say what that is.
But Olivia didn’t answer either.
I returned to my car, retrieved my cell phone from my purse, and called Lisa Leann, whose daughter and grandchild had made an unexpected visit. Lisa Leann was so beside herself with glee over this, she’d hardly mentioned any of us coming to the shop to work on our catering business. Just as well, in my humble opinion. I was worn out from it all anyway.
But Lisa Leann answered with a sigh.
> “What’s going on with you?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Well, nothing I can talk about right now.”
I heard the cooing of a baby obviously being held close to the phone.
“Have you talked with Goldie today?” I asked.
“No, why?”
“How about yesterday?”
“She wasn’t in church.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward. “I know that, Lisa Leann. I was in church, remember?”
“Of course I remember. Why are you being so snippy with me?”
I leaned back against the car seat. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Goldie, and she’s not answering the door.”
“Maybe she’s out.”
“Well, of course she’s out, Lisa Leann. I didn’t think she was deliberately not answering the door. Do you know when all her family was leaving?”
“Yesterday, I was told.”
“Hmm . . . so then, where do you think . . . surely she hasn’t gone back to work!”
“Oh no. She told me Chris told her to take two weeks off and not to worry about the law practice one bit. He’s brought in some temp secretary. Oh! I bet I know where she is.”
“Where?”
“She’s probably meeting with Chris.”
Chris Lowe, attorney at law, was Goldie’s boss. If he’d told her to take time off, why would she be meeting with him? Unless . . . “Oh, of course. She’s probably meeting with him to go over paperwork, the will, and all that.”
“I bet if you drive past the law office you’ll see her car.”
“Well, that’s okay. She’s a grown woman, after all. I was just a little worried.”
I hung up the phone, started the car, and then drove to Main Street and past the law office in search of Goldie’s car. Sure enough, there it was.
Chris Lowe’s law office is directly above a Hallmark card store. I parked nearby and went into the store, where I perused the “Thinking of You” kind of cards I thought would bring Goldie comfort as the weeks went on. I remembered how, when my parents died—both tragically killed in a car accident—once the funeral was over and the last of the out-of-town guests had left and friends had ceased to come over to check on me and I was left alone with my heartache and emptiness, it was my friend Ruth Ann’s cards that helped me keep one foot in front of the other. I knew they’d help Goldie too.
I purchased four then returned to my car. But before I could get in, I heard a voice behind me. “Hey, lady!”
I turned to see Donna’s half-sister Velvet James. She stood on the sidewalk, hands planted on her hips and her jaw set.
Velvet and Donna look remarkably alike, but their similarities end there. Donna is practical. She’s conservative. She’s law-abiding. Donna is tough and vulnerable, all at the same time. Velvet is . . . well, she’s the opposite of all those things.
“Hello, Velvet. Nice to see you today.” I peered upward. “Isn’t it nice the sun came out for us this morning?” I opened the car door and swung my bag of cards over to the passenger’s side, where it dropped with a swish.
Velvet took several steps toward me. “Don’t even start the nice chitchat. I wanna know what you did to my mother last week.”
I noticed those who were passing by on the sidewalk, craning their necks to see what might be about to go down. Goodness knows I didn’t want to start a fight and certainly not in the middle of town. “Look, Velvet. I have no problem with your mother. But your mother obviously has a problem—”
“Don’t talk about her like that!” Velvet’s voice rose an octave as she took another step toward me. Her face flashed fury, and for a second I felt fearful.
But only for a second. “Now look here!” I pointed a finger toward her as I gained momentum. “I’ve had just about enough of you and your mother to last me a lifetime. I’ve been nice to you. I’ve been nice to your mother. She and I have laid all our cards out on the table and . . .” My voice was becoming louder than I wanted it to be. I dropped it by taking in a deep breath and then releasing it. “It’s really none of your business.”
“She’s my mother and it is my business!”
I leaned closer to her. As angry as I was, though, I couldn’t help but notice how vibrant her blue eyes were. Donna and Velvet were two peas in a pod when it came to their eyes. Every emotion held inside could be read right there. “Well, I will tell you this, Velvet James. If you are so worried about your mother, I’d suggest you get her into some kind of rehab program.”
“And I suggest you get into some kind of rehab program.”
“Me? Why would I need to . . .” I took another deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You know, JA, maybe? Jealous Anonymous.”
“Make jokes, Velvet. But I’m not kidding.”
“I’m not kidding either. Leave my mother alone!” With that, she turned on her heel and started walking away.
I felt a million pinpricks along the skin of my body, head to toe. Heat rose in my cheeks as my eyes made contact with several of the passersby on the sidewalk and those going into and coming out of the card shop and other nearby establishments. I couldn’t let her have the last word like this. I just couldn’t. Besides, she needed to listen to what I was saying. Or at least to what I was trying to convey. “Mark my words, Velvet James!” I hollered like a child reared in a barn. “If your mother keeps this up, she won’t live long!”
Velvet spun around. “Is that a threat?” she bellowed, arms crossed.
“It’s a promise!” I hollered back. I cut my eyes to everyone else. “Oh, go home and mind your own business!” I shouted.
I then got in my car and went home myself.
Within an hour, Donna arrived in her Bronco. I invited her in. I’d just put a kettle of water on the stove for a cup of tea and asked her if she’d like to join me.
“No,” she said. Her voice was soft.
I turned to go back to the kitchen, and she followed me. I heard the gentle squeaking of her leather belt against her holster and all that other stuff law enforcement officers wear around their waists. “So what brings you by?”
“Evie, listen,” she said. The tone in her voice made me turn around.
“What’s going on? Is it Vernon?”
Donna’s face registered surprise. “Dad? No, no.” She paused. “I’m here on official business. But to be honest with you, Dad doesn’t even know.”
I crossed my arms. “What kind of official business?”
Donna pressed the palm of her right hand against the kitchen countertop and rested her hip against it. “I got a call from Velvet a little while ago.”
My arms dropped. “Oh. Her.”
The whistle of the teakettle shrilled from the stove. I turned to prepare my tea.
“Evie, did you threaten my mother?”
I spun around. “Did I . . . ? Are you serious?”
She raised her left hand to stop me. “I’ve interviewed two witnesses, Evie. They said they heard you tell Velvet that you were going to kill my mother.”
I coughed out a laugh. “Oh, Donna. Don’t be absurd.” I went back to preparing my tea. “Look. I told Velvet that if her mother—your mother—didn’t stop drinking she was going to kill herself.” I paused to think as I bobbed the tea bag in and out of the hot water. “Actually, what I said was that she wouldn’t be alive much longer.” I took a sip of the tea. “I think those were my exact words. Maybe not, but something close to it. To be honest with you, I was so upset I sort of don’t remember my exact words.” I took another sip. “But I think that was what I said. Oh well, at least that’s what I meant. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? It’s peppermint and it’s very good.”
Donna shook her head. “Evie, I don’t think you understand how serious this is. Velvet wants me to arrest you. For that matter, so does Doreen.”
“Arrest me?” I had to put the cup of tea down now. “Are you kidding me?” I felt myself flush. “You aren’t actually going to
arrest me, are you?”
Donna gave me a half smile. “No. I’m not. But you’ve got to be careful, Evie. I know my mother drinks too much, and I know my sister is a hothead, but you can’t just go around knocking them over and screaming at them in the middle of the street.”
“Now wait a minute.” I pointed my finger at my stepdaughter. It was the second time today I’d raised a finger.
But Donna shook her head. “No, Evie. Let’s leave it at this.”
“But you haven’t heard my side of this!”
“I’ve heard enough.” She took a step backward, gave a half turn, then looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes were filled with sorrow, and for a moment I saw the little girl who’d been abandoned by her mother so many years ago, left alone with her father to pick up the pieces when she hardly knew where the pieces were.
As Goldie often said, bless her heart.
“Donna . . .”
I didn’t say anything else. I was afraid if I did, Donna would begin to cry. Then I’d be crying right along with her.
“Enjoy your tea,” she said, then walked out of the kitchen.
I stood motionless, listening to her footsteps as she made her way to the front door. It opened, then rattled shut. A minute later the Bronco roared to life. Even from the kitchen I could hear its tires backing out of my driveway, turning, and heading toward town.
I looked down at my teacup, a blurred vision of respite in the vale of tears that now refused to be stopped.
That Doreen, I thought. It was time for the two of us to talk.
Again.
Lisa Leann
9
Scalding News
I was amazed at all the high-tech baby gadgets Mandy had brought to Colorado in her red diaper bag backpack. The gadgets included such items as a baby monitor with a video camera—if you can imagine—a baby iPod that played Mozart, for goodness sakes, a bottle warmer, not to mention an electronic breast pump. Amazingly, there was also a diaper-wipe warmer so that a baby wouldn’t have to shiver through a diaper change, and an actual sling for carrying the baby—a piece of cloth worn wound around the neck and waist, like African mothers I’d seen in National Geographic magazine photos. Only, according to Mandy, this sling was made out of peanut shells so as to be environmentally friendly.
Bake Until Golden: A Novel (The Potluck Catering Club) Page 6