by Cathy Lamb
When Faith stuck the needle into the heart of the straw doll, they heard Mr. Taft’s screams shooting across the plantation. When Grace stuck it in his crotch, they heard more screams. Emmie stuck the needle back in the heart.
Mr. Taft died after clutching both his heart, then his crotch, and back up again, as if he was being struck in both places.
His wife was later seen doing a jig of joy in the woods, Emmie’s son was not sold, and there were no more lynchings on that plantation.
I would never use a voodoo doll—not that I believed Mr. Taft died via a voodoo doll, or that they work. They don’t. But it is family lore, it is a tale handed down, and it is probably based in some truth. For example, maybe someone shot Mr. Taft a few times that night and the voodoo doll got the credit, or he had a simple heart attack.
When I was done reading Italian recipe books and ready to go inside, I was called to that darn cutting board, as if a rope were around my waist tugging me there. I was wishing, so hard, with everything I had, that it would tell me something different tonight.
I chopped up bay leaves, then squished them in my trembling hands.
I picked apart mint leaves.
I rolled the hard nobs of coriander between my fingers.
I mixed them together.
I smelled death. Raw, black, clinging.
Threatening. Imminent.
The scent of a life filtering away filled the room, swirling all around, rancid and rotting. Mine?
My mother’s?
My brother’s?
Brooke’s? That was, rationally, the most probable.
Or Damini?
The triplets?
Tate?
I put my head on my cutting table, the scent of orange tea surrounding me sweetly, my candle burning off a blueberry scent, my white Christmas lights twinkling, such a cozy contrast to the putrid stench of death that had snuck into the room.
“Tate, remember how you said you wanted me to locate your mom so you could check on her, make sure she’s all right?”
“Yeah, yeah! I did.” He rolled away from his computer in his experiment room. It was freezing outside, but the sun was out. Earlier in the day it had rained and a rainbow had arched over the mountains.
I eyed a couple of beakers he had that were boiling. “What is that?”
“Water, Mom, water. Maybe a harmless mixture or two. Simple stuff. This and that. Nothing, it’s a blend.” He stood up, blue eyes eager. “Where is she?”
“And what is that?” I eyed a radio that was hooked up to several other wires, a cell phone, and foil.
“Another small experiment. Is she okay?”
“She’s okay, Tate. Currently she’s sober.”
“Cool.” His face relaxed. “I am out of this galaxy glad. Drugs are sketchy, unbalanced, and chemically destructive things with an unreliable creator and distributor, plus they can rewire and destroy your brain.”
“You got that right, buddy.” I put my hands in my pocket, unsure, utterly not confident this was the right way to go. “This might be painful for you to meet her. You can say no. . . .”
“I want to meet her. I do. I do, I do.”
“You still do?”
“Yes! I want to meet the Other Mother. I know she screwed up, I know it. But I still want to meet her, please, Mom!”
“Okay, son. You’ll meet her.”
I hoped this wouldn’t end in a melting-down disaster. So much of parenting is doing your best and hoping you’re making the right decision with the information you have at that time without resorting to sneaking whiskey in your closet. It’s darn scary.
What a mess.
I hugged him close. “I love you, Tate.”
“I love you, too, Boss Mom!” He hugged me tight and lifted me up. “You’re my mom, Boss Mom.”
I knew what he meant: I was the real mom.
I rocked in the old rocking chair that night by the windows. I wondered how many women in my family line had rocked in it, their emotions rolling, their control tight, as they analyzed how to handle one crisis or another as they stared out at the red poppies in the field, the fir trees, their abundant herb gardens. Oh, what to do, what to do, what to do....
I’m sure Grandma Violet spent hundreds of hours rocking in this very chair before that one night when he told her, “It’s time,” and she did what she did.
It did not bring me much comfort.
At my last appointment with Maggie Granelli she asked if Tate could come over soon and play chess.
I brought him over on a Saturday.
He was merciless. He won. He beats all his opponents.
“Ha ha!” he cackled. “Victory is mine, Maggie Shoes!”
“I fought to the bitter end,” she said, holding up her lone pawn and king. “The bitter end!”
“For my prize I’m going to eat your coconut layer cake.”
“Be my guest, then get yourself back in here. Next time the victory is mine, pip-squeak.”
Maggie’s roses are not blooming anymore. We talk about our favorite types of roses anyhow. Tate told her that she had a mouth like a rose. It wasn’t flirty, the words slipped out of his mouth, genuine and sincere.
Maggie smiled and reached out her hand. “You are a gentleman, Bishop Tate, a true gentleman.”
“Guess where I am now?” my mother asked.
“On the set? In your trailer?”
“Yes, I’m on the set and I’m in bed. Beck crawled into bed with me. He’s tired because his nephew is sick and he was up ’til one o’clock playing him songs on the piano. He may fall asleep if the director doesn’t get it together soon. Anyhow, we’re shooting the scene where we secretly reunite. Say hello to Beck, Jaden, you’re on speakerphone.”
“Hi, Beck,” I called out. Beck was a neat guy. He was tall and had white and black speckled hair. He’d been with his partner, Jason, for twenty years. Secretly, obviously. Who wanted to know that her favorite soap opera star, who was lusty and sexy with the ladies, was gay?
“My dear Jaden,” he boomed out. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine and dandy, Beck.”
“Tell me, Jaden, about this scrumptious seafood dish your mother told me you made last weekend called Seafood Bust Up. You used snapper, lobster, shrimp, and clams, right?”
Beck and I were off and cooking—at least verbally. We discussed Seafood Bust Up, named by Tate, and the garlic, olive oil, cumin, and green onions I used. Then we discussed an okra salad I made with lime juice, green onions, tomatoes, pepper flakes, and vinegar. Tate named the okra salad, Okay Dokay Salad. Beck’s a master chef.
“All righty, the cameramen are all ready now,” my mother called out. “You ready to go, Maryana? And you, too, Roz? Okay, sweets. Beck and I have to have a wild love scene and then we’ll call you back.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Bye, honey!” Beck called out. “As a reminder: Butter is your friend. Do not skimp on it ever.”
“I will carve that into my walls.”
Before we disconnected I heard my mother say, “Okay, Bodacious Boy Beck, I’m ready for you, baby. Hold on. Have to arrange my boobs. Maryana, how do my boobs look . . . oh, you flatterer, you. Okay . . . move the left one up? Beck, remember when your arm is under me give ’em a lift . . . yep, you’re doing it, sweets . . . all right, kiss me, Becki, you burly bear—”
I envisioned my mother and Beck rolling around in bed, their faces heated, tight with their forbidden passion. Beck did call me back not too many minutes later. He wanted my great-grandma’s recipe, from her mother, for a banana cream pie.
I wish I could roll around tight with passion with Ethan. For a while I tried not to daydream about him. It didn’t work and it made me depressed. The loss was more unbearable when I was done with the daydream, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to think about him. I needed him in my life, even if it wasn’t him, the living, breathing, smiling Ethan.
I am pathetic. I know this. And I need to snap out of it, g
et a life, stop being dramatic and sappy.
How does one snap out of love, though?
Although he was excited at first to meet his Other Mother, the next days were an emotional roller coaster for Tate. He wanted to talk nightly after he came home from practice, then again after he practiced outside on our court. I think he finally took some time to examine the whole Brooke situation. Before she was abstract, never met her. Now, she was a reality and she was coming to our home.
He gravitated from excitement at meeting her, to anger and frustration for her being absent from his life, to relief that he knew she was safe, to hope that they could have a relationship, to disbelief that she’d abandoned him, to loss and sorrow, a bit of mourning of what could have been, to curiosity, and back to anger and excitement again.
“What kind of mother does drugs, especially when she’s pregnant?” He wiped his tears. “My mom. That’s the kind of woman that does it. I don’t get it.”
“She’s an addict, honey. They don’t think. The drugs have wrapped them up tight, taken their brains captive, poisoned them, stripped them of morals and ethics, taken away who they really are. Nothing gets through to them except their next hit.”
He nodded, his lips trembling. “Yeah. But still. She made a choice to stay on drugs . . . I don’t know. Even though she sounds so messed up and what she did to our whole family and me was wrong, I still want to see her. I don’t like what she did, and I love you, Boss Mom, but I still want to meet her. Talk to her.”
“I get it. She’s your biological mother.”
“It’s this screwed-up tie I have with her. I don’t even know why. I want to know who I came from. I want to see her. I want to ask her questions. I want to know why she did what she did and see if I feel anything for her. I’m living with space. Living with empty space, this weird mystery that you and Nana Bird get, but I don’t, and I need to get in that space and see it better because she’s the space.”
I groaned inwardly, and it was a shaky, troubled groan.
This meeting wouldn’t be easy. It would be emotional and unpredictable. Brooke was unpredictable.
I could be making an awful mistake by letting her in Tate’s life. I could be.
I hoped I wasn’t.
TATE’S AWESOME PIGSKIN BLOG
I do not have a date for Winter Formal.
It’s not as if ladies are bashing down my door. Who wants to go to a dance with a kid with a head the size of a spaceship? I get it. But the formal sounds fun. You can dance. You can eat. All the food is free. There’s some bubbly, sparkly stuff to drink. There’s cool music.
I don’t think I dance with any rhythm, no beats either, but I’m going to give it a shot. I can wiggle. Maybe that’s enough. I know I’m a better dancer than Milt and Anthony. Those two look like worms on hooks when they dance.
I probably look like a half lizard/half bouncing atom when I dance. So, if anyone wants to go with me, a half lizard/half bouncing atom dancer, to Winter Formal, please let me know.
I am looking for someone with these special qualities:
1. Female.
2. Not from outer space, although I will bend this rule if there are no antennae.
3. A brain. Again, not a firm rule.
4. Dressed. No naked dates. My Boss Mom would have a fit. Hey! I’ll take a naked date, but I would have to meet you at the school.
That’s it! If you want to be my date, let me know!
Here’s a photo of Albert Einstein’s lab.
Here’s a photo of Clara Barton helping people.
Here’s a photo of Itzhak Perlman playing his violin.
Here’s a photo of Bobby Fischer playing chess.
Here’s a photo of Madame Curie.
“I want to die.”
“I understand.”
“No, Jaden, I don’t think you do. I want to die now. Immediately. I don’t want to wait this out another six months. I don’t want to wait this out another month.”
I held the hand of one of my favorite patients ever, General Jerry Ross. General Ross is ninety years old. He is career military, starting in WWII. He landed at Normandy. He does not talk about it.
He stayed in the military for twenty-five years, married Mrs. Ross, and had five kids. He was bored being a retired military man so he bought a failing lumber company and built it back up. His daughter runs the company now. She had five kids, too.
Perhaps this story will best explain General Ross’s character.
Ten years ago, a young man with an impressively long rap sheet named Arrel Hood hit Mrs. Ross in the face with his fist, and ran off with her purse. Mrs. Ross was seventy-nine years old and had a cane. Mr. Hood later said he thought Mrs. Ross would be an “easy target,” because she was old and the guy next to her was even older.
That was a bad mistake. General Ross took off running after Arrel Hood, his legs pumping. He tackled Arrel to the ground, hit him in the face three times, boom boom boom, flipped him over, then used his own belt to tie the guy’s hands behind his back until the police arrived. Two men in their twenties told the police, “We ran over to help the old guy, but he was beating the crap out of the purse stealin’ guy and didn’t need help so we watched. It was awesome.”
In court, the young man admitted what he’d done. General Ross stood up, straight and tall, and barked out, “I demand an apology for my wife. Stand up, hoodlum, and apologize to my wife like a man.”
The judge told him to do it. Arrel stood up and mumbled something.
“Shoulders back, chin up, chest out,” General Ross ordered, drill sergeant–style. “Speak articulately! Speak!”
The young man tried again, General Ross interrupted.
“This is what you say, repeat after me and you’ll learn how to make an effective apology and you won’t sound like a stoned baboon! Mrs. Ross, I am an idiot. Say that!”
The defendant bent his head, then lifted it up when General Ross ordered him to. “Pull your head back up on your neck and do what I tell you to do!”
“Mrs. Ross,” Arrel said, embarrassed. “I am an idiot.”
This is the rest of what the young hoodlum was forced to repeat: “I stole your purse because I am lazy and don’t want to work, therefore I have no money of my own. I have a problem with marijuana and alcohol. I use both because I have no backbone. I am sorry that I hit you, Mrs. Ross. I am sorry I took your purse. I am sorry I scared you and gave you months of nightmares. That is no way to treat a lady. I am sorry that I am a coward. When I get out of jail, I’m going to quit being a weak, spineless, jellyfish loser. I’m going to get a job and be productive and pay taxes because I live in America and no one should be allowed to be deadweight, especially me, Arrel.”
Now and then General Ross would yell, “Shoulders back, chin up, chest out! Stand up! What are you made of, glue? What are you made of, rubber?”
It made front page news.
That’s General Ross. As he was quoted in the paper, “That young man needs the military! They’ll shape him up! They did me!”
I held General Ross’s hand as he rested in bed, wearing an adult diaper.
“Jaden, my lady, I’m ready to go and give God a hello.” He smiled at me, totally at peace.
“I think we need to talk about more pain control and—”
“Jaden.” His voice was raspy. “I am dying of bladder cancer, which has spread all over this ol’ boy. I am in a diaper, as you know. The other day I pissed myself and it ran down my leg. I am in terrible pain, which I can only control with a massive amount of drugs that make me dizzy, exhausted, incoherent, and nauseous.”
“We can try—”
“No, Jaden. You’re a dear lady, but we’re not trying anything else. We’ve tried it all. I can’t live like this anymore, peeing on myself, my bowels a mess, hurting all over, all day. It’s not a life. I need you to inject whiskey into me until I die a drunken, but happy death. Any chance you’ll help me?”
“Hmmm.” I tapped my forehead with a finger. �
��Let me think. I might. My ancestors had an innate love of whiskey. I can put it in your IV.”
“On a serious note”—he patted my hand, his eyes firm, somewhat sad, but resolute—“I want an assisted death.”
I was not surprised to hear this from him.
Assisted death is legal here in Oregon. It should not be called assisted suicide. Assisted suicide somehow implies that the person has a choice—to live or to die. An assisted death is radically different. The person is dying already and there is zero hope for recovery. Nada. No chance.
Assisted death helps a dying patient to leave earlier, on their own terms, with a shred of dignity still intact. Sometimes they are in torturous pain or enduring hellacious symptoms, like vomiting up fecal material or slowly suffocating. We hospice nurses and doctors do everything possible to help to alleviate this fallout.
In the end many people fear they will have no control over their withering bodies, their minds intact. There are stacks of rules and laws regulating it, doctors are involved, counselors, psychiatrists, etc. It is not as if a person who is terminal can decide one evening to cut out of life after watching their favorite cooking show and swallow something by the next commercial.
Some people hate that assisted death is legal; some staunchly defend it. And after all the outraged hoopla we’ve had here in Oregon, very, very few people actually do it. We control the pain and symptoms of the terminally ill, and they die naturally. The ones who do elect for an assisted death often share the same characteristics as General Ross: independent, educated, strong-willed.
“I want to cut out early and miss the rest of this,” General Ross said. “I don’t like good-byes. I don’t want to put my family through any more of this, either, but mostly I’m being selfish. I’ve got a diaper on my ass and someone wiping it. Stupid. This is exactly where I didn’t want to be. Yesterday two young nurses lifted my ass and gave it a cleaning, then put a diaper on and I messed it up five minutes later. God has a strange sense of humor, that’s clear.