“We didn’t run out of gas, Mom.”
“We’re going to die.”
I put a hand to my throat and feel my pounding pulse. “Don’t say that.”
“Yep, we’re going to die, all right.”
I think I might actually faint again. I need water. I need a paper bag to breathe into.
“Lou Ann.”
“I think we’re going to crash.”
I need one of those little bottles of vodka.
“Yep, we’re going to crash.”
“Lou Ann!”
I turn my head and look at Lindsey. “Here,” she says, and I release my grip on the arm of my chair and lean across the aisle to take a prescription bottle from her hand.
It’s Xanax. The plane shudders and dips to one side. God bless that girl. I need Xanax.
“We’re going to crash, all right.”
I’m so tempted to just say, “Forget it,” and numb the pain with booze or Xanax, but I can’t. I have to keep white-knuckling it, and I try to hand the bottle back to Lindsey. “No, thanks.”
“That’s for Patricia. Put two under her tongue.”
5
Mom needs glasses. I need a drink.
She swears she’s in heaven. I swear like a lunatic.
I’M HOME.” Mom sighs. “Isn’t that just a sight for sore eyes?”
I slap the insect feeding on my jugular instead of answering her. I’m afraid of what might happen if I open my mouth. The drive from the airport sobered Mom up somewhat, but she’s still a bit blissed out on Xanax, and I’m still wound so tight that I’m fighting to keep it all together. I don’t want to come apart. It could be ugly.
The airport limo pulls away, leaving us in the yard and our luggage lined up on the porch.
Mom’s sigh is drawn out this time. “It’s so beautiful and grand.”
I’ve been to Louisiana many times. The Windsor Court Hotel in New Orleans is a real favorite of mine. Its architectural details are stunning, and it’s close enough to the French Quarter that I can grab a café au lait and a beignet in the morning, but far enough to allow me to escape the craziness of Bourbon Street at night. Another favorite is the Hilton in Baton Rouge with its magnificent views of the Mississippi River, but those beautiful views are a world away from the patchy lawn beneath my feet.
While Mom sees grandeur, all I see is a massive money pit with missing green shutters and a row of dirty Grecian pillars surrounding the house and holding up a balcony and dormered roof. The wrought-iron railing looks okay from here, but I wouldn’t lean against it.
“It’s just like I remember.”
Yeah, and that’s the problem. One of the dormer windows is boarded up, there’s an old television antenna on top of the roof, and the stained glass in the transom above the double doors is cracked. Veils of Spanish moss fall to the uneven cobblestone walkway from the bent and twisted limbs of live oaks and towering cypress trees. While Mom hears Dixie, all I hear is the incessant buzz of cicadas and God knows what else. In Seattle bugs aren’t a big problem, but this is the South, where insects grow bigger, live longer, and breed more. Where creepy-crawlies invade at night and where my mother wants to live out the remainder of her life.
“I’m so happy. I love you. You’re a good daughter.” And that’s why I’ve been killing myself for the past month to make it happen. I want to make Mom as happy as I can for the rest of her life, and I want to make new memories to last me the rest of my life, too. I can work here as well as in Seattle, and I can spend my free time with Mom, instead of paying her visits at memory care facilities that often get postponed because of my work.
“Did you see The Skeleton Key?” Lindsey asks.
“No.” Beyond potty language at the dinner table, I’ve learned several things about Lindsey. She rarely wears anything but nurse’s scrubs and she listens to loud country music in her room. She hates peas and loves horror movies almost as much as Mom loves ’70s game shows.
“This looks like that house.” Then she whispers, so Mom doesn’t hear, “Super creepy.”