“I don’t want to visit. I want to live there.”
“What?” That’s insane. So insane I’d have to be out of my mind to agree to it. “We can’t move there.” The thought of actually moving Mom clear across the country is so daunting, my mind recoils with horror. “My life is here. Your life is here. What about Earl?” Suddenly, a visit doesn’t sound so bad. “We can vacation there for a few weeks. Stay at the Ritz, where it’s nice and air-conditioned, and drive to Sutton Hall as often as you’d like. We’ll get a two-bedroom suite with a balcony that overlooks the city.”
“You have to bury me with Momma and Grandmere,” she persists.
“We don’t have to worry about that for a long time.” I know the disease that has taken her memory will take her life, but I don’t want to think about burying my mother.
“I need to rest in Sutton soil.”
Technically, she wouldn’t rest in soil but in an aboveground vault.
“Suttons always return to our soil.” This is the first time I’ve heard of Sutton “soil,” but it would explain why Grandmother chose to be buried in the Sutton cemetery rather than in Tennessee next to the man she’d married over her family’s objections. I’ve always thought that the man who smiled and laughed and overfed anyone in his vicinity deserved better than an eternal blank spot under BELOVED WIFE on his gravestone.
“Please, Lou. I have so much left to do.”
There is fear in her voice, and we look at each other across the pillow. Through the darkness, her eyes are shiny with tears, and she isn’t smiling. Sometimes she cries out of confusion. Other times her mind is clear enough that she knows what is happening to her. I don’t know which is worse.
“You have to help me with my final resting spot.”
That is the last thing I want to do with my mother. No matter her shenanigans, I can’t imagine a life without her. I want to dog-paddle in the river of denial for as long as possible. “Mom, we have lots of time before we have to think about that.”
“You have time. I don’t.”
I let that sink in. Lower and lower until panic twists my stomach in a knot. If she doesn’t have time, I don’t have time with her.
“I can’t get there on my own.” She squeezes my hand, and it feels like she’s crushing my heart. “Promise to take me home before I forget. Please, Lou.”
“I promise.” Because what else can I do? My heart is crushed beneath the weight of my sadness. I want to make new and lasting memories before time runs out. I want to write them all down so I won’t forget.
“Mon mouche a miel, cher,” Mom whispers, and rolls to her other side.
She hasn’t called me her honeybee love since I was a child, and I raise a palm to cover the thumping coming from my heart. I can’t imagine my life without my mom, and I take a deep, shuddering breath. I’ve always known the time would come when I needed to focus less on work and more on my mother. I’ve known since her diagnosis that I needed to have plans in place for this eventuality, but I don’t. Maybe because planning for it would make it too real.
Memories are more important than ever, and I know I’ll deeply regret not writing them down once she is gone, but I also know myself and know I won’t. I’ll start out with great intentions, but I write for a living almost every day. Writing in a journal or diary will feel like a lot of pressure and I’ll put it off. Horrible guilt will add to the pressure, but if I give myself permission to skip days, I know I’ll be less likely to let weeks and months slip by. If I don’t place expectations on myself and keep it as simple and as easy as jotting a little something in my day planner on my cell phone, I can do this.
I’m Lulu the Love Guru and I can do anything.
Except move to Louisiana. I can’t imagine life without Mom, but I can’t imagine living in Louisiana, either. The last thing I want to do is move to the land of stifling humidity and attack bugs and live the next few years in a musty plantation house. Mom will have to adjust to a new routine just as she’s settled in and adjusted to living with me in my condo. I feel a little panicky until I realize that there is a real possibility that Mom won’t remember this conversation by morning.
4
March 16
Alaska flight 794. I lost my mind.
Mom lost her mind.
Hell in a handbasket.
MY BIGGEST fears in life are all related to control. More specifically, loss of control. When I fly, I control nothing but the peanuts I chomp and the wine I swill. I try to control the fine line between a few calming drinks and a few too many, but sometimes the line blurs. Things quickly go from Calm Town to Delusional Drunk-ville.
Running a very close second to my fear of flying is my fear of fainting. I’ve never fainted in my life. Sure, I’ve felt light-headed, but I’ve never actually blacked out. I’ve never fallen like a bag of laundry. I’ve never opened my eyes and looked up at people staring down at me. I am disoriented and confused, and it seems like everything is moving at a slower speed than usual. Someone calls my name, but I don’t answer.
“Goodness, Lou Ann. What are you doing down there?” Mom peers at me from her aisle seat.
“What happened?” My voice sounds weird, hollow and distant. I try to sit up, but my shoulders are firmly weighted to the floor.
“You fainted.”