Mama's Comfort Food

by Rhett DeVane

  Karen smiled wistfully. “If only chemo was that easy.”

  The Borrowed Thyme Bakery and Eatery bustled with the typical morning rush. Joe Fletcher moved expertly between the griddle and tables, delivering heaping plates of eggs, waffles, pancakes, and hot biscuits. He passed by D. J. and said, “Let me finish up this last order, and I’ll have a cup of coffee with you before you leave.”

  D. J. leaned back and patted the pooch at his waistline. Good thing he was going home. Joe’s homemade breakfasts were becoming too much of a habit. That, and no workouts for three weeks—D. J. groaned, thinking of the glee on his personal trainer’s face when he finally faced the flab-earned music.

  Joe slipped a plate in front of a customer, then drew up a chair beside D. J. “Whew! This ole stallion ain’t what he used to be. That’s for sure. Either life is speeding up, or I’m slowing down.”

  “Lack of sleep isn’t doing you or your wife any favors.”

  Joe shrugged and took a noisy swill of coffee. “Can’t be helped. Reckon Karen would like a decent night, too. When you planning on taking off?”

  D. J. glanced at his Rolex. “Pretty soon. I’d like to hit Atlanta mid-afternoon, well before the evening rush.”

  Joe dabbed the sweat from his brow with a napkin. “Don’t see it as a setback, son—Karen sending you packing. She’s trying to prepare herself for the last round of chemo treatments. She’s weak and I think this one will be much harder for her.”

  “We had a long talk last night. I understand why she needs some space. She’s dealing with a lot.” He took a deep breath. “Besides, it’ll do me good to get back to work and focus on something else for a while.”

  Joe pointed to D. J.’s empty mug. “Refill?”

  “How about a to-go cup? I need all the caffeine I can get this morning.”

  “You too tired to drive? Maybe you ought to go on back to the house and lay down for a few hours before hitting the road.”

  “I’ll be all right.” He stretched his arms overhead and yawned.

  Joe packed a Styrofoam cup in a white paper bag and added sugar and creamer packets. “Want a cathead for the road?”

  D. J. rolled his eyes. “Oh, what the hell? Sure.”

  Joe handed the bags over. “I put some butter pats and jelly in there, too. Maybe you can pull over halfway and have a bite or two.”

  “Thanks, Joe.” D. J. shook the older man’s hand. “You have my numbers. Don’t hesitate to call me. I can hop a flight and be here in less than two hours.”

  “And D. J.? Try not to be down-hearted about my daughter. She’s riding this thing out. I—we—think the world of you, and I know Karen does, too.”

  The phone rang once before Jake answered. “Insomniacs Hotline, Jake speaking.”

  Karen laughed.

  “What’s the matter, sweetie-poots? Can’t sleep again?”

  “Same ole.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  She heard him shifting around before he came back on the line.

  “Moved to the porch so I could catch a little night air. You taking any drugs to help you?”

  “Falling to sleep’s not the issue,” Karen said.

  “Hmm. The cave dream’s back. Tell Jakey all about it.”

  “Wish I could. It’s a nightmare. Or something. I wake up yelling.”

  “No wonder Evelyn’s under-eye circles are down to her chin.”

  “And I’ve been so edgy.”

  Jake sniffed. “Sorry, my allergies are dealing me a fit. You being a brat? Break anything?”

  “I stabbed a canvas until it looked like Swiss cheese. Threw a mug across Mama’s kitchen. Snapped at my brother when he called from Ohio to check on me.”

  She heard Jake whispering. “I didn’t wake Jon, did I?”

  “Huh? No. Elvis is up pattering around. Jon is dead out. Snoring like nobody’s business. I could storm naked through the bedroom with cymbals and a snare drum and he wouldn’t budge. Damn him. Maybe you should come live with me, and I could ship Jon to your Mama’s.”

  Karen huffed. “Way I’m acting, you wouldn’t want me.”

  “Poor baby. Is lover boy still planning on sticking around for your treatments?”

  Karen paused. “I sent him back to Atlanta this morning.”

  “What’d you do that for? He hasn’t done anything to upset you, has he? I’ll thrash him about the head and ears!”

  “No, not at all. Donald’s been . . . exceptional. I just couldn’t deal with him, with us, right now. It’s all I can do to get out of bed and drag to the hospital. Not to mention right after chemo.”

  “Wretched?”

  “Right.”

  “Can I reassure you that, at least, where I was concerned, the temper tantrums are normal? I pitched my share of falling-out fits when I came home from the hospital after the assault. Broke three of my favorite canes during one particularly memorable one.”

  Karen smiled. “Any words of wisdom about dealing with the anger?”

  Jake chuckled. “Better pissed off than pissed on.”

  “It’s not actually food I remember from childhood. It’s hot tea. My mother was from the UK, and tea was her lifeblood. A cup of tea was the answer to all of life’s ills. If I was feeling low, physically or emotionally, my mother would appear with the tea set. We would sit together, two civilized women, sipping our tea. What could possibly be so wrong about the world that a fresh spot of tea couldn’t heal?”

  Dr. Krystle Nakoa

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Dr. Krystle Nakoa breezed into the reception room in black palazzo pants and a flowing deep purple batik-print tunic. Long silver earrings dangled from her earlobes. “C’mon back, Karen.”

  “Thanks for seeing me. I know my appointment’s not until Friday,” Karen said.

  “My schedule hardly ever flows in a predictable line. What’s up?”

  Karen settled into the wicker loveseat and drew her legs underneath her. “I’m having a rough go of it lately.”

  “I can take one look at your eyes and tell that. Not sleeping? Or is it the chemo?”

  “Both.” Karen shifted her weight and the wicker creaked in reply. “I knew what was in store with the chemo. Certainly I didn’t look forward to it, but at least I knew what to expect.” Karen pointed to her head. “Hair’s history, again.”

  Krystle smiled. “At least it’s not cold outside. My scalp actually chapped.”

  “Small favors. Guess I should be grateful for those.”

  “Sometimes they’re all we get.” Krystle tilted her head. “I get the sense that’s not all.”

  Karen rubbed her burning eyes. “I’m having nightmares again, only this time I can’t recall them. I wake up shouting with sweat pouring off me. Scares my parents half to death.”

  “You tried painting? That brought the cave dream images into clearer focus.”

  “All I could see was blackness. Sometimes, I feel like a bratty child. I actually threw a temper tantrum when I couldn’t get through to whatever crap’s buried inside of me.”

  “Really? Tell me.” The counselor pitched gently back and forth in the wicker rocker.

  “I attacked a canvas I was attempting to paint on. Jabbed it full of holes with the pointy end of a brush. Slammed it to the ground and literally ripped it to shreds.”

  Krystle chuckled. “Nothing like a little anger venting to purge the soul. I kicked a door in.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Broke my big toe. Can’t splint toes, I found out. It swelled to three times its normal size. Turned purple and blue. Had to be taped to its neighbors for a few weeks. Felt like a big hunk of meat. I couldn’t wear any cute shoes for nearly two months.”

  Karen smiled. “Thanks, Krystle. Just when I feel like I’m some kind of nut case, you make me feel normal.”

  Krystle’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t go there, Karen. Normal people worry me.” She stood. “Want some tea? It’s Red Zinger. I have tupelo honey.”
/>   “Sure.”

  She returned with two pottery mugs. “Shall we delve into this recurring nightmare?”

  Karen shrugged. “How?”

  “Hypnosis.”

  Karen sipped the rich, flavored tea. “You think it will work on me?”

  “Don’t see why not. You can visualize easily. You can go to your safe place, then I’ll guide you to the memory. Sometimes you can access things not available on a conscious level with hypnosis. By my suggesting you view the memory as a detached onlooker, you can usually experience it without the trauma of feeling the corresponding emotions.”

  Karen ran her hand over her bald head. “At this point, I’m willing to try just about anything to get some sleep.”

  Krystle led her through a practiced series of relaxation suggestions. Karen’s breathing became deep and even and her head dropped forward.

  The log cabin great room appeared in Karen’s vision. She crossed the wooden plank floor to a marshmallow-soft chair covered in worn denim. The cats hovered nearby. Tequila crouched on one arm rest, purring contentedly. Taizer flopped across her feet.

  Krystle’s soft voice blended with low-volume soothing music. “You are calm and relaxed. The dream images from previous nights come to you. Images that can do no harm. Simply allow yourself to observe from a safe distance, as if you were watching a movie. Your breathing is deep and even. Your body—totally relaxed. When you are ready, tell me what you see.”

  “I’m walking. A little uphill—not much. There’s no light. Anywhere.” Karen squeezed her eyelids tightly shut. “Are my eyes open? Feels like they are, but still I can’t see.”

  Karen breathed deeply, then said, “I’m not alone. Something, or someone, is ahead of me. Menacing.” Her voice grew stern. “I know you’re there! I can sense you!” She was silent for a moment. “A dim flicker of light up ahead. Like a candle or lantern. I move faster now. My skin tingles.” Karen wrapped her arms around her midsection.

  Krystle’s voice: “Allow the images to play back for you to view. No need to feel the emotions they evoke. You are safe. You are safe.”

  “Safe,” Karen echoed. “A room, a rock cavern . . . cold.” She shivered and hugged her arms tighter around her chest. “A scent in the air. Perfume?” She sniffed, her chin tilted upward. “Where are you? Let me see you!”

  “From deep within, anger—pure white and hot. It’s bubbling to the surface.” Karen’s hands curled into fists. She clenched her teeth together so hard, the muscles of her face trembled with the strain.

  “Detach from the images, Karen. Deep breaths,” Krystle’s calm voice urged.

  “The perfume. Familiar, but faint. Tropical flowers with a spicy undertone. Stronger now, more pungent. Almost choking.” Karen rocked back and forth.

  “Talk to me, Karen. What do you see?”

  Karen focused on a spot in the deep darkness—the origin of the scent. A figure stood in the shadows. “Come out! Let me see you!” She suppressed a rising wave of fear and anger. “Please—come out.”

  A tall woman stepped into the dim circle of yellow light. Beautiful, her chin held at a haughty angle, blue eyes glinting. Long blonde hair drawn severely into a single tight ponytail. Tailored clothes, diamond studs on her ear lobes.

  Karen drew a sharp intake of breath. The emotion bubbling from the figure was a toxic mixture of fear, anger, and pain: the jilted lover, the one left behind. Karen began to weep, tears rolling down her cheeks in a steady stream.

  “As I count backward from five to one, you will emerge. Five, four . . . breathing deeply . . . three, two . . . your awareness returning to this safe place . . . one. Open your eyes.” Krystle handed her a tissue. “When you’re ready, you can share with me if you would like.”

  Karen opened her eyes and took a shaky breath. “Mary Elizabeth. The person in the dream was Mary Elizabeth Kensington. I’ve dealt with the dragon of cancer. Now it seems she’s stepped up for a turn.”

  “When I’m down with a bad chest cold, Lucille does something my own dear mother used to do for me. First, she makes up a little warm tonic water and makes me drink it all—that’s sipping whiskey, watered down, with just a bit of honey and lemon: comfort in a cup. Then she smears great big gobs of Vicks VapoRub on my chest and covers it with a warmed mammy cloth. Whew! The scent of that warm camphor drifts from my chest and opens my head up. Course, Mama didn’t use Vicks—that came along a few years later. She made up some other concoction, but it had much the same scent and effect. As for Lucille’s liquor mix, it puts me right to sleep. Don’t believe the Good Lord minds it used for medicinal purposes.”

  Reverend Thurston Jackson

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Will Cooke snoozed through the national evening news in a La-Z-Boy leather recliner, his bare feet propped up.

  His wife, Sharon, jostled his arm. “Honey, wake up. Look!”

  He grunted and yawned. Sharon pointed to the big screen plasma high definition television.

  “Isn’t that the Truman woman who used to work for you?”

  Will snapped the recliner upright and stared unblinking at the monitor.

  “Turn it up!”

  “An arrest has been made in the suspected terrorist mail attack at National Informant’s offices,” the announcer said.

  Will whistled. “I’ll be damned.”

  Two armed officers led the hand-cuffed, bubble-headed blonde down the front steps of the duplex office building to an awaiting cruiser. The final frame showed a frowning, tearful Trisha Truman peering through the rear window.

  “ . . . evidence linking Miss Patricia Truman to the suspected mail tampering plot. She will be held without bail. In other news . . . ”

  Sharon shook her head. “I’m certainly glad she’s not working for the station anymore.”

  Will grabbed the phone headset. “Looks like she’s really stepped in it this time. I’d best call my people.”

  He knew it wouldn’t be too long before the press came sniffing around Georgia Metro.

  In the dream, Karen’s safe room looked the same: inviting furniture, sleeping cats, gleaming polished wood, and the muffled trill of birds outside the tall windows. Except for Mary Elizabeth Kensington, who paced the woven rag rug in front of the hearth.

  “What are you doing here?” Karen asked.

  Mary Elizabeth stopped and cocked her head. “You invited me, remember?”

  Karen shook her head. Had she really sounded so irritatingly arrogant? Small wonder she had so few close friends in Atlanta. She plopped into the denim chair and propped her feet on the matching ottoman. “Take a load off, Mary. Obviously, you and I need to hash a few things out. That is why you’re here.”

  Mary Elizabeth glared at her double, then chose a wooden rocking chair. “You can’t just pretend I never existed, Karen.” She spat Karen’s name out, a hard edge to her voice.

  Mary Elizabeth glanced around the spacious room. “A bit too earthy for my tastes, this place. Looks like you’re expecting Elly Mae Clampett to drop by.”

  Karen smiled. “I like it. Suits me perfectly. Your taste in furnishings is too patrician for me.”

  “Refined. Suppose this means you’ll be ditching the antiques at the townhouse, then?”

  Karen shrugged. “Haven’t really given it much thought. Now that you mention it—”

  Mary Elizabeth snatched a throw pillow from the couch and hurled it toward her, missing by inches. “You bitch!” She ducked her head and began to cry. The sound ripped through Karen’s soul. She awakened in a sticky, cold sweat.

  Joe Fletcher peered into the darkness. He reached over and brushed his sleeping wife’s shoulder, then eased from his side of the bed. The nights had taken on a predictable pattern: exhaustion by nine thirty and wide-eyed at three a.m. When was the last time he had slept the night through without chemical help? As he slipped down the hall, the sound of muffled weeping emanated from behind his daughter’s closed door. Joe rapped softly. “Karen? Honey?” He opened the
door a crack. Karen was huddled on the bed cradling a pillow. “Baby? What is it? You feeling sick at your stomach?”

  Karen reached for her father and curled into his embrace. “Oh Daddy, I’m such a mess.”

  Joe rocked back and forth, patting her on the back, much as he had when she was a wounded little girl. “You want to talk about it?” His voice was soft.

  Karen’s nose dripped. She snuffled and grabbed a tissue. “Not really.”

  “I was on my way to the kitchen. Why don’t we go find some of that tea Pinky made for you? Unless your mother’s eaten them, there should be a few ginger cookies left.” He kissed the top of her bald head.

  Arm in arm, they walked quietly down the hallway.

  “Daddy,” Karen said when she was seated with her cup. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

  “Oh, honey. I hope you’ll get past feeling guilty for all of this. That’s what families are for. You’ve just hit a bad spot. We’ll make it through.”

  The Jacksons’ modest brick ranch-style house on Wire Road was surrounded by a thick well-manicured lawn. A row of clipped boxwood hedges lined the gravel circular driveway and property lines. Patches of seasonal flowers stood beneath the windows. Karen parked and sat for a moment before leaving the car.

  “Hi, Karen. Come on in.” Lucille Jackson welcomed her into a cozy living room furnished with a pastel floral-upholstered sofa and matching chairs.

  “I’ve made a fresh pitcher of tea. Will you join me?”

  “That would be nice.” Karen glanced around the comfortable room. Except for a handful of religious icons, little pointed to the occupation of the owners. She walked over to a wall filled with framed family photos.