Ghost Town

by Cherie Claire

  “Portia,” Mimi admonishes her, but I interrupt by saying, “I did drive in from Lafayette and had to go through Baton Rouge, you know, that town that absorbed all those Katrina evacuees and now has a tremendous traffic problem.”

  Portia squints her eyes at me. “Yeah, I think mom knows all about that since she has to commute there twice a day.”

  I glance at mom, waiting for her to take the bait and launch into a diatribe of how horrible it is to drive the seventy miles to the capital city to teach ingrates basic English, but she says nothing. Now, that I notice it, she looks pale.

  “Mom, are you okay?” I ask.

  “No, she’s not okay,” Portia says. “And if you came into town more often….”

  I’m so done with this argument. I close my eyes and can hear my teeth grinding against each other.

  “I’m a little busy, Portia,” I say when I look back at my aggravating sister. “I’m working my ass off trying to stay alive because I am my own business, I don’t have a husband who brings home six figures, and there’s a recession on.”

  She leans across the table prepared for a fight. “You think you’re the only one suffering.”

  I smile sarcastically. “Oh, of course Portia. How silly of me. I forgot you lost everything in Katrina, got stuck on your roof for two days, had to move into a three hundred square foot apartment. Oh,” I say as I throw down my napkin, “you lost your job and benefits, started a business from scratch, and had to stay married to a man you don’t love anymore just for the health insurance.”

  “Vi,” I hear my aunt say with concern, and know she wants me to stop but I’m on a roll.

  “How about the fact that I can’t pay half my bills this month thanks to Wall Street? Or that my car out back has faulty brakes, not to mention miles from traveling back and forth from New Orleans all the time even though you think I never visit.”

  “Vi,” my aunt repeats, harder this time.

  “And I guess you lost a child, too, after spending years watching her suffer through chemotherapy.”

  Now, Portia throws down her napkin. “Jesus, Gawd, Vi, how long are you going to beat that horse?”

  I can’t believe my sister uttered those words. I vaguely hear my mother admonish her and instruct her to apologize but Portia’s busy defending her statement, claiming how they all cater to me because of what happened and it was years ago and I need to move on. I’m stunned, devastated, and I can’t breathe. I feel Aunt Mimi’s warm hand on my forearm but if I don’t get out of here fast I will unravel on the spot.

  “Sweetheart,” Aunt Mimi whispers in my ear, but I rise and move my arm away, trying desperately to find some air. I stumble backwards, my chair tipping over, and turn. It’s then I realize that TB has been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, listening to every word I just said.

  “Oh shit,” I whisper, but I still can’t breathe so I push past him and head through the house, running out the front door and leaving it open in my wake. I dash through the neighborhood, climbing the lake levee that separates the homes from Lakeshore Drive. I pause at the top, gazing out to the glistening waters of Lake Pontchartrain, an enormous body of water that destroyed my hometown only two years before but now sits peacefully, smiling at me.

  I fall onto the grass, thinking about how Lillye loved visiting the lakefront. Every time we visited Nana’s house — my mom refused to be called grandma — we would walk out here, roll down the lake side of the levee, cross Lakeshore Drive and sit on the seawall, watching the sailboats fly past and search for jumping fish.

  Until she got sick, that is. Even then, there was that one day after a visit to Ochsner Hospital, the day our doctor said to prepare ourselves for the worse since the latest round of therapy had failed. TB and I were driving to my mother’s for Sunday dinner, much like today, when TB started crying and couldn’t stop. Poor Lillye, pale and weak in the back seat, asked why daddy was upset; she always thought of others. I pulled into a parking spot by the lake’s edge and retrieved her from her car seat, then the two of us sat on the seawall, watching the waves, her limp in my arms and me holding her tight as if I could physically keep her on this earthly plane.

  “Is daddy okay?” she had said.

  “He’s fine,” I lied, knowing that neither TB or I would ever be the same. “He’s just sad because you don’t feel good.”

  “Let’s get him some ice cream.”

  I smiled, fighting back my own tears because it’s what we always did for Lillye after a cancer treatment. “I think Nana has some.”

  Lillye raised her head slightly to gaze out over the lake. Her body was half the size it should have been, so tiny and frail, yet she acted as if nothing was wrong.

  “I love water,” she had said, and I remember seeing a turtle raise its nose above the water while dragonflies flitted past. I spotted our reflection in the waves as they beat against the concrete steps of the seawall, our feet dangling over the edge. Such a beautiful moment underlined by enormous sadness.

  “Yes, it’s nice sweetheart.”

  “No, I mean I really love the water.” She grabbed my chin in an effort to make me intently look at the lake. “It’s in one place but it’s everywhere.”

  I close my eyes at the memory and begin to sob, my chest raking with the pain. I want to believe she’s with me now, want to believe like everyone else that Lillye exists in my heart forever. I do know that to be true, but I want to feel that child pressed against my bosom, hear her voice, smell the top of her head one more time.

  Silently, I ask for her. Beg her within my mind to come forward, to ease my constant pain, to assure me that life on the other side is comforting and peaceful. Instead, two strong arms encircle me from behind, hug me close. I spot TB’s legs stretched out on either side of my body and I lean back into his embrace.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….”

  “Shhh,” he says and I continue sobbing while he kisses the side of my head. We remain like this for what seems like an eternity, me crying until my emotions are spent. When I finally get control, I wipe the tears and snot with the hem of my shirt.

  “That’s lovely,” TB says, and we both laugh. It’s then that I turn around and notice that he’s been crying, too.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, like that will repair the damage I have done to this sweet man, this excellent father, and the person who gave me the most joyous of gifts.

  He hugs me once more and I place my head upon his chest, swing my legs over one of his and nestle there like Lillye had nestled into me that day so long ago.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me anymore,” I tell him. “I’m so angry.”

  “I know, Babe.”

  “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He’s not believing me, mainly because it’s true. Or at least I have convinced myself of that fact. I close my eyes, hating that I yelled to my family that I no longer loved my husband, and that the one person who understands my pain heard me say it.

  “We married too young,” TB says, stroking my hair. “And then we had this beautiful person who got taken away.”

  I sit up and pull back enough to look him in the eyes. “We were too young. We barely knew each other when I got pregnant. I just feel like I have to….”

  “…sow some wild oats, see what else the world has to offer.”

  My normally clueless husband nails it, but I hate to admit as such, to myself or to TB.

  “Honestly, all I know is I want to keep traveling,” I tell him. “It’s what I love to do. And talk to Lillye, but I guess that’s a pipe dream.” I swallow hard because I’m beginning to think that Carmine, Mimi, Annie, and TB are right. I’m a water SCANC and Lillye remains off limits.

  The tears threaten again so TB pulls the hair from my face and rubs his thumb over my cheek. He smiles but it’s a sad one. “She’s always with us, Vi. You just have to believe that.”

  I nod, and TB pulls me back into his embra
ce. We both look toward Lake Pontchartrain and somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I swear I can feel Lillye smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  TB and I stay on the levee until the sun slips near the horizon and Mimi arrives, carrying three wine glasses and a bottle of cabernet.

  “Are we allowed to do this in public?” she asks, joining us on the grass.

  “Are you kidding?” I reply. “It’s New Orleans.”

  She hands us each a glass. “In that case, I should have brought the weed.”

  TB laughs, thinking she’s kidding, and takes the bottle from beneath Mimi’s arm and starts pouring us each a glass. “What’s going on back at the house?”

  Mini settles back on her elbows and stares at the water. “Sebastian went out with friends, Portia and the kids went home after Demi started a temper tantrum, and your mom is watching Masterpiece Theatre.”

  I sigh, take a long drink from my wine and watch the sunset paint colors on the tips of waves. “Great, that’s two people I don’t have to face.”

  “You need to talk to your mother.”

  I glance at Mimi who has that take-your-medicine look again, so I nod. “I will.”

  “You really do, Vi.” Now it’s TB talking.

  “I will.”

  They give each other a look and I realize they both know something I don’t. “What’s going on?”

  Mimi sits up and places her glass on the ground between her legs. “She got fired from her job at the community college.”

  “What?”

  I look at TB and he nods. “Some of her students thought she was drinking on the job so they complained.”

  I’m stunned. My mother takes her career seriously. Too seriously if you ask me. “Mom would never do that.”

  Mimi rubs her palms across her knees. “Of course not.”

  I look at TB but he looks out at the water.

  “What aren’t you all telling me?”

  “I found out when Portia called to ask me to dinner,” TB says with a shrug.

  “Found out what?”

  “Deliah wanted to tell you herself,” Mimi adds.

  I shake my head, tired of this roundabout conversation. “Come on guys, tell me what?”

  Mimi takes my hand. “She found out she has Parkinson’s. Went to a neurologist in Baton Rouge but decided to get a second opinion from her doctor at Ochsner’s. He confirmed it.”

  “It’s why they thought she was drunk,” TB says. “She was slurring her words and stumbled a few times.”

  My mind is racing trying to make sense of this. I know that Michael J. Fox has this disease but he’s still alive and kicking, although not acting much anymore. Other than that, I’m confused. “Is it life threatening?”

  “Oh no, honey. She could live a very long life.”

  I exhale the breath I was holding. “So, why the big drama? I mean, if it’s not a big deal….”

  “It’s a big deal, Vi,” TB says. “I looked it up. It’s a degenerative neurological disorder and she’ll have to take medicines for life. Everybody’s different. Some do well on treatment, some don’t. It’s a crap shoot and we’ll have to see.”

  “They offered her the job back when she had her lawyer call and explain, but I think your mom is ready to find something better,” Mimi adds. “But, she may have to give up her career, eventually.”

  My heart sinks. My mother’s career is her life.

  We sit on the levee drinking our wine and discussing the matter until the light becomes bleak. We head back to the house and TB hugs me before hopping into his pickup truck to go home.

  “I’ll be in Lafayette Tuesday on a job,” he tells me through the car window. “But I can stay at a hotel.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I say. “You’re always welcome and the extra key is under the begonia by the front door. Besides, Stinky loves you.”

  “It’s the filet mignon I serve him.” He waves to Mimi who waves back from the door and then drives off.

  “Did my simple-minded husband just crack a good joke?” I ask Mimi.

  She smiles that grin she gets when she’s hearing someone wonderful on the other side. “He’s a sweetie, that one. Give it some time.”

  We enter the house and I hear Gillian Anderson explaining what’s coming up on Masterpiece the following week. Mimi hands me the bottle and glasses and heads to the guest room.

  “What does that mean, give it some time?” I ask her back and she waves me off without turning around.

  I reluctantly join mom on the couch, placing my wine stash on to the coffee table, hoping she doesn’t tear into me right away. She doesn’t say anything, watches the announcement of upcoming episodes of a Jane Austen movie.

  “It’s a rerun,” my mom finally says. “Saw those last spring.”

  “Good adaptations?”

  My mom shrugs. Austen isn’t her thing. “If you like sappy Victorian love stories.”

  “Actually, I love sappy Victorian love stories.”

  My mom shakes her head. “Are you sure you’re not Mimi’s child?”

  I laugh, because I sure as hell could be. “Are you trying to tell me something, Mom? Kinda weird, though, because I do have a twin and I’m positive he’s yours.”

  She smiles and my anxiety lowers. Maybe she’s not as pissed off as I think. I take her hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to blow up at Portia.”

  “Didn’t you, though?”

  I look up and she’s smiling again. I smile back hesitantly and add, “Okay, yes, I did.”

  “She’s a pain in the neck sometimes.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Doesn’t excuse your outburst at dinner, though.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We both look at the television where someone holding a Jane Austen DVD is asking for money. “It’s part of the grieving process, you know.”

  I was about to start asking about my mom’s diagnosis when she derails me. “What is?”

  “Anger.” She looks at me and pushes a stray hair behind my ear like she did when I was a kid. “I was so angry after your father left. Then when Katrina blew in and took away my job, made me go teach at that horrid community college, I could have bit everyone’s head off. But it’s a stage you have to go through, just like everything else.”

  “Stage?”

  She frowns. “I’m surprised your therapist never told you that. The stages of grief. Anger is number two.”

  I look back at the rows of phones ringing on TV while someone brags about the power of public television. I heard all about the stages but Lillye’s passing was years ago. “I’m past all that, Mom.”

  She laughs, which startles me again. “Hardly.”

  “You’re supposed to grieve for a year and a day or something to that effect. It’s been years.”

  My mom turns on the couch so she’s facing me. “Vi, everyone grieves differently and in their own time. And there’s no getting over losing our precious Lillye Bea. Surely you know that by now.”

  I nod and stare at my feet.

  “Besides, Katrina came along and now you have to grieve the loss of your life, your home, your hometown. And believe me, Katrina has made a mess of us all.”

  I need wine, I think, so I lean over and retrieve my glass and fill it up. “So, what’s next? Slitting my wrists?”

  “Denial is first,” my mom says quietly. “Then anger. After that you try to bargain with God and when he doesn’t grant you your wish, depression sets in. Finally, you come to acceptance.”

  I look over at my mom and realize, for the first time, that she went through every one of those stages when dad left. I remember because I felt abandoned by them both. He for leaving us and she for throwing herself into work and being so weird and unresponsive when she got home. And what has my mom been going through lately? A storm that took away her life, her town, her job, and now a disease that’s threatening to do the same.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I repeat, and this time I’m
talking about her. “I’m sorry about the job and the disease….”

  “Don’t go all sappy on me, romance lover. I won’t have it. I have this thing and I will deal with it. But,” and with that comment she looks me dead in the eyes, “it would be nice if you came home more often.”

  She says it with such force, I can only nod.

  “Don’t let Portia be the only one who helps me out.” Then, with an exasperated look, adds, “Please.”

  I can’t help but laugh because I know what she means. I get it now, and that feeling of being needed warms my soul. Mom laughs too, and I know the topic of her Parkinson’s is now closed. She looks back to the TV set, but I reach over and squeeze her hand and she squeezes back. We watch the telethon numbly until we realize what it is we’re watching, then switch over to The Wire on HBO.

  “Has an Eric Faust checked in?” I ask the front desk clerk when I receive my hotel room key. Unlike sweet Mississippi, this big-city gal’s not talkative at all. She looks through her computer and sure enough, I’m paired up with Eric again. The clerk gives me his room number, and I make my way to mine to drop off the suitcase and check out the place, then head over to his. He’s not expecting me so I wonder if I’ll find him in bed with another woman. I tell myself that it wouldn’t matter if he is, but I’m lying. I’m still not sure I like this guy, but I have questions and I wouldn’t say no to a drink.

  I got another hotel assignment, this time for a swank place in the heart of downtown Houston. Jacob called at the crack of dawn on Independence Day, and if he hadn’t sounded so desperate, I would have turned down the gig. Now, that I’m here and viewing the exciting new things happening in America’s fourth largest city, I’m thinking this could be my chance to nab some travel writing story ideas.

  At the moment, however, I’m exhausted from the eight-hour drive from New Orleans — two hours more than necessary due to road construction through Beaumont — and even though it’s mid-afternoon, I’m primed for a cocktail. I would also love to share my last review with Eric and watch his pride at me for taking charge in Baton Rouge and at the car repair shop, even though I feel like crap after the blowout at home.