“But, Monsieur Landry, that’s not fair,” Erin protests, straining forward in her desk. “Some of us have worked really hard.”
I shrug. “Most of you have worked really hard. All of you are taking the exam.”
A groan rumbles through the room, but from the back corner, I see that unassuming Greta Richard is wearing the slightest of smiles. She loves French. I don’t have to ask her to know that she wants to take the final exam. She wants to answer any question I could ask of her to prove that she has mastered everything we have covered. She doesn’t have to take French III next year, but she will.
And with any luck, I’ll get to teach her again her senior year in my AP class.
I know all of this because I recognize that self-satisfied smile. It’s the same one I’d wear every time I answered a question in French, or took a French test, or, the best ever, woke up after dreaming in French with the knowledge that I had achieved fluency.
“Madame Richard, êtes-vous prêt à passer l’examen?”
Greta keeps her smile in check. “Oui, Monsieur, je suis prêt.”
Yeah, I could exempt her. And Erin. And Charlie. And half a dozen others. But where would the fun be in that? Grading their finals will be the reward after a long and, honestly, shitty year.
Grading their exams will remind me that even though most things get worse, sometimes things—skills, circumstances, even people—get better.
The bell rings, and my students bolt from their seats like they’re electrified.
“Étudiez. A lundi. Bon weekend.”
En masse, they scrape books off their desks and crowd the door, eager to leave even if they aren’t eager for their next class.
Fourth hour is right before lunch, and I have Paula Gill, my department head, to thank that it’s also my off-hour. So, like I do every Wednesday and Friday after third period, I tuck my laptop and gradebook into my satchel, lock the classroom door, and head to Camelia Court.
I have my pick of parking spots, but instead of parking close to the entrance, I stop in the shade of the live oaks at the corner of the lot.
It’s hot, and while I’m here, the car will get hotter, and I don’t want to get back for fifth hour with pit stains.
“Morning, Beau,” Rosie greets me from behind the sign-in desk. But she isn’t smiling, so I know it’s been a rough morning.
Damn.
“Gina okay?”
She wrinkles her nose. “She’s been asking for Grant again. Thought I should warn you.”
I scribble my signature in the guestbook. “Thanks, Rosie.” And then I’m headed down the east hallway.
The door to Room 172 is open, and I can hear the TV from the hall. I hesitate for just a moment until I catch Mikhail Baryshnikov’s accent and sigh in relief. White Nights. The coast is clear.
I wrap my knuckles on the door frame, and Mom looks up from her spot on her loveseat. A smile breaks over her face. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Halting mid-step, I study her face, her gaze. She’s focused on me, looking at me directly. She tilts her head to the side, assessing me.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Come in, Beau.”
Relief is swift and almost embarrassing. She knows it’s me. I cross the room, bend down, and press a kiss to her cheek. “How are you today, Mom?”
“Today?” She tucks back a lock of hair that has escaped her scraped back bun. When she readies for bed tonight, she’ll take out the pins she’s carefully arranged—a lifelong ritual—and brush out the length that falls to her waist. Only then will the few gray streaks she has really show against her still black mane. She pats the bun as though checking it’s still there. “What day is it today?”
“Friday, Mom.”
She looks down with a frown. “Friday? But… yesterday was Tuesday, wasn’t it?”
I sit down on the loveseat beside her, pick up the remote, and pause her movie. “Yesterday was Thursday. I called while you were watching Singing in the Rain, remember?”
“Mm.” She flicks a furtive gaze to mine. She’s embarrassed because she doesn’t remember. I hate that she’s embarrassed.
“You ready for lunch?”
A relieved smile settles over her face. “Yes, where are we going?”
I stand and offer her my hand. “Just to the dining hall today.”
She takes my hand, rises with grace, and tucks her arm around mine. “We’re not…” She looks up at me, and I can read her hesitation. “We’re not going to Riverside Inn?”
I shake my head but put on a smile. “Not today. I’ll take you on Sunday, okay?”
Mom frowns again. “What day is it today?”
I hold my smile in place. “Friday.”
She mouths the word as if committing it to memory.
We leave her room, and I steer her down the hallway toward the dining room. The smell of fried food blankets the air, and Mom perks up.
“Is it... You know…” Grasping for the word, she gestures with the hand not clutching my arm.
“Yeah. It’s catfish. Catfish Friday.”
“I love catfish,” she murmurs.
“I know.” Honestly, it was one of the reasons Val and I chose Camelia Court over the other assisted living options we looked at last year. The rooms are sunny and overlook a well maintained courtyard; it’s just a five-minute drive from Northside; they serve catfish on Fridays.
And they hold dance classes every Tuesday and Thursday mornings.
I sit Mom down at an empty table and grab us each a tray. The cafeteria staffers smile. Some of them greet me by name, and they know to add the cost of my plate to Mom’s account. She’s not the only one who likes catfish.
I set down the trays and get us each an iced tea before joining her again.
She looks around, studying the faces of the other diners, all of them at least ten years older than she is. “Where’s David?”
My Uncle David is Mom’s older brother and one of her three favorite people in the world.
I pick up my fork. “Nonc comes on Mondays.”
She puts a hand to her brow, cringing. “Oh, right.” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry… You must get…so… “
She trails off, and I wait. I wait because I want her to find the words. But they are getting harder and harder for her to find. When she gives me a helpless look, I shake my head.
“It’s alright, Mom. David’s probably at the studio.”
And that one word makes her straighten. Her eyes glint. “Oh, he is?”
“Yeah, it’s Friday. He’ll have classes until six.”
She blinks up at me, the look in her eyes all hope. “Can we go?”
I should have known better. She always asks to go to the dance studio when I mention it. Sometimes even when I don’t.
“I have to go back to school after lunch, but we can go on Sunday.”
The hope dims just a little. “Is that tomorrow?”
I stifle a sigh. Impatience and frustration don’t do any good. “It’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, I... I....” She looks down at her plate, spears a piece of her filet, and takes a bite. “Mmm. This is such good… such good...”
“It’s really good catfish.”
After our plates are cleared, I walk her to the courtyard. There’s a path around the perimeter and a network of walkways around benches, shrubs, and a fountain. She’s free to come out here on her own, but her aides say she never does.
I think she’s afraid she won’t be able to find her way back to her room. So I always take her. The sun and fresh air help keep her spirits up. A little.
She squeezes my arm. “Tell me about… Tell me…”
I cover my hand over hers and wait. Screwing up her face, she taps her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“You know,” she prompts, frowning up at me.
“About what, Mom? About school?”
She smiles, relieved. “Yes, school.”
“Wel
l, final exams start Monday. My A-students are upset that I won’t exempt them,” I say with a shrug, and her smile widens.
“I’m sure they’re ready… ready for…” We make the curve in the path that leads toward the fountain. “You know… the… time.”
“Summer,” I say. “Yeah, they’re all ready for summer.”
“And you?” She looks up at me, her brow creasing with worry. “Are you going… back…”
I frown. “Back to Sainte-Anne’s? No, Mom. I did that last year.”
The summer teaching program at Université Sainte-Anne in Church Point, Nova Scotia is a top-notch professional development opportunity for francophone education. Because of a grant Paula wrote, all of the French teachers at Northside took part in the four-week session last July.
While I was gone, Mom drove her car into a dry cleaner’s.
She could have hurt someone, but she didn’t. The physical damage was mostly broken glass and her scuffed up Honda, but she was a wreck. Nonc stayed with her until Val could fly in from Atlanta. Before the accident, my sister and I had both noticed her forgetting words. Repeating stories. Seeming a little confused.
But she was only sixty-two.
Sixty-two-year-olds don’t get Alzheimer’s. Except when they do.
Val had forbidden me from coming home from Sainte-Anne’s early, saying she could take family leave for a few weeks to help sort things out. She started making lists of assisted living communities and looking through Mom’s finances.
They were a mess.
Mom had felt so guilty about the accident, she didn’t resist at all about giving us power of attorney or moving her into assisted living.
But she flat-out refused Val’s offer to go to Atlanta.
She couldn’t leave her friends. She couldn’t leave David. She couldn’t leave the dance studio.
She never said it—not in front of us—but she couldn’t leave Grant either.
Grant Landry. My father. The man who left her six years ago.
She doesn’t ask for him every day. Just the bad ones.
We make the turn around the fountain. “How’s… your… lady?”
This is something else she asks about. “Rebecca and I broke up, Mom.” I don’t add that it was almost a year ago.
She squeezes my arm. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Beau.”
I don’t tell her this isn’t the first time she’s told me she’s sorry. I don’t tell her again that Rebecca is working on a Disney cruise ship in a job that my mother would, to this day, kill for.
“And when do you dance?” Mom asks, eyes shining. If she loses all her words, dance will be the last to go.
“I taught ballroom last night, and I’ll teach Cajun Saturday afternoon.”
Mom beams as though this is the greatest news in the world. It’s hardly new. I worked at La Fête Dance Studio through high school and college, and I only stopped when I started teaching full-time.
But when Mom got sick, Nonc needed some help covering all the studio’s classes, and the extra money isn’t bad. I don’t need much because I don’t have much, but Mom’s IRA isn’t as solid as it could be, and her social security check doesn’t cover the full cost of her expenses at Camelia Court. So Val and I kick in a little every month.
Val insists on kicking in a little more. She’s a CPA who married a tax attorney, so I didn’t argue too much about that. Besides, I know she wishes she could visit more often, but she and Will have two kids younger than five and two careers on the fast-track, so it’s hard.
But we’ve worked it out. Val calls Mom on Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. I visit on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays—and call when I can—and Nonc comes on Mondays. Mom’s covered. We didn’t put her in Camelia Court so we could forget about her. If she skips breakfast, we know about it. If she stubs her toe, we know about it. If she cries all morning for my dickhead father, we know about it.
And it means we all see that she is steadily getting worse.
But right now, the sun is shining. Mom is smiling, asking me about last night’s ballroom dance class. She asks me twice if I taught the Samba, one of her favorite dances, but she’s just as happy to hear me say that I did the second time.
And this is how we move around the courtyard, walking in big circles. Talking in smaller and smaller ones.
Chapter Three
IRIS
I step carefully—oh so carefully—out of my trailer and find Ramon and Sally waiting for me. Sally’s holding a cardboard tray with three takeout cups. I reach for the one with a tea bag tag fluttering beneath the lid.
The very last thing I need right now is coffee, but I’m grateful for the chamomile and lavender brew.
“Are you feeling any better?” Sal asks, wincing.
I pop off the plastic lid and blow across the surface of the steaming tea. “Well, let’s just say, I don’t recommend a mango-cayenne pepper juice cleanse the day after a Brazilian wax.”
“Girl.” Ramon closes his eyes with a shudder. “I’m standin’ right here.”
“I have three words for you.” I wait until my assistant recovers and meets my gaze. “Ring. Of. Fire.”
Ramon shields his eyes, groaning, “Iris.”
Sally hides her laughter behind the back of her hand.
“You think she’s funny?” Ramon accuses my best friend.
Sal shrugs. “I just got my master’s degree in early childhood education,” she says. “I’ve spent the last year researching in the field, which for me is the kindergarten classroom. My sense of humor may have actually regressed since I reached adulthood.”
“Not to mention she just spent two weeks in the woods with me without indoor plumbing,” I say, giggling.
Ramon waves his hands in a frantic plea. “I don’t want to hear about girls farting in tents or pooping in the woods. Preserve the illusion. Girls don’t fart or poop.”
“You only think that because you don’t date any of them long enough for them to drop the pretense of some kind of superhuman perfection.”
Ramon nods with vigor. “I want the pretense. I’m all about the pretense.”
I shoot Sally a look. “You still think he’s cute?”
She ignores me. “Just so you know,” she says, hooking a thumb in my direction. “It’s just her. She’s the only one who farts and poops. I don’t.”
Ramon’s smile is epic. “Of course, you don’t, gorgeous.” He grabs her hand and brings it to his lips. Sally actually sways toward him.
Oh, hell no.
“May I remind you of the night you ate those bean burritos?” I say, showing no mercy. “I thought I’d need a hazmat suit.”
“Iris!” Sally shrieks. Ramon drops her hand, and I beam in triumph.
We’ve caught the attention of some of the members of the crew who stand back from the set to watch and laugh. Good. I like making people laugh. But when it’s the crew, it’s even better. This is a totally new team from the series, and even though we won’t be with them as long, the last thing I want them thinking is that I’m some prima donna. It’s one thing to take the work seriously. Taking yourself too seriously is something else. And, unfortunately, this business is full of actors who take themselves too seriously.
If the crew sees that I can laugh at myself and joke around my friends, they’ll know I’m just a regular person, and they can relax around me and do their thing. The show will be more fun for everyone.
It was like that on the series. Like we were a little family. I miss it.
But before I can make myself the butt of this joke, Moira tears through the line of camera handlers and grips, glaring lasers at me.
“Iris. What are you doing?” she hisses at me, her voice sotto voce. “Are you making crass jokes on the first day?”
She grabs my arm and tugs me toward the trailer. “We have to discuss some scene changes,” she announces to everyone who’s watching before herding me up the steps.
I send Ramon a quick S.O.S., and he grabs Sally and brings
up the rear. Moira glares at them as they enter.
“I said I needed to talk to her.” At Moira’s tone, Sally’s eyes go wide, but Ramon’s expression flattens out.
“You said scene changes,” Ramon echoes smoothly. “You know I help her prep, and while Sally’s here, she’s running lines with us too.”
The part about Sally is a lie, but Ramon has worked for me long enough to know that when Moira’s in a snit, he’s not allowed to leave me alone with her. The fact that he excels at this is one of the many reasons I’ve kept him as my PA for three years.
Of course, another is that I love him like a brother. But I started loving him when he proved he could stare my mother down even though I know he’s afraid of her.
Who isn’t afraid of her?
But that’s exactly why I don’t want to be alone with her and exactly why he stays, God love him.
But Sally? Why put Sally through this?
“Have you signed an NDA?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sally squeaks. She wouldn’t be on-set if she hadn’t.
Moira huffs, dismissing Sally as not worth the effort, and she turns her scowl back to me. “What are you doing? Are you trying to get yourself labeled as white trash in the tabloids? Do you know how hard it was to wash that Oklahoma accent from your mouth.”
Speech lessons. Voice lessons. Acting lessons. Hell, yes, I know how hard I’ve worked. My accent is as cosmopolitan as club soda. “I didn’t hear myself drawl, Moira.”
She scoffs. “I heard you making tasteless jokes in front of the crew, and that’s even worse. You’re an actor. At least pretend to have some dignity.”
We’re crowded in the little trailer, and Moira stands between me and my friends, her back to them. But I hear their reactions. Sally’s soft gasp is like a whisper of silk. Ramon clears his throat. I can’t look at them. I can only imagine what I’ll find on their faces.
Ramon clears his throat again. “She’s due on-set in five minutes. What did you need to discuss about those scene changes?”
For a moment, Moira’s jaw tenses, and I’m afraid she’s going to turn and lash out at him, but then she presses her lips together and nods before stepping back and including Ramon and Sally in the conversation.
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