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When she says “all,” she’s talking about an old pair of marabou mules with three-inch kitten heels. Obviously, fuck-me pumps aren’t allowed in elder care facilities. I donated them to Goodwill three years ago, but that bee is still in her bonnet. I look sideways at Lindsey, who hasn’t heard the marabou mules complaint, but that’s one of the things I really like about her. She doesn’t need to hear it to figure out the backstory.

Lindsey sits next to Mom and rubs her back. “What can I do to help you?” It should be me comforting my mother, but I’m her target now, and she’ll likely push me away if I try.

I glance up at Simon, who is pretending not to notice the scene below him. At least he’s not scowling again, like he suspects me of elder abuse.

“Make her give me my good shoes.”

“Those are good shoes,” Lindsey reassures her.

I turn back as Mom points to her orthopedic sneakers. “They’re ugly.”

She’s right about that, but at least her feet don’t hurt and her ankles aren’t broken. The day will come when she’ll have to use one of those walkers with tennis balls on the front feet and she’ll still be complaining about those stupid mules.

“She hates me.”

With the hope of a new beginning, there’s always the danger of rejection or failure. Over the past few years, I’ve gotten used to her changing moods and her anger, but we’ve had a good month, and that makes this rejection much harder to take. I bite the inside of my lip and suck it up as Rattlesnake Patty takes over.

“She kicked me out of her place with Tony. She stuck me in a nursing home to get rid of me.”

“That’s not true,” Lindsey assures her.

Actually, it’s partly true. She was staying with me when I got engaged to Tony. He and I didn’t live together, but that was just a technicality. He was at my condo so much he might as well have lived with me. And I hadn’t “stuck” her anywhere. I’d found a nice place equipped to take better care of her than I could. I couldn’t take time off back then like I can now. And if I’m being honest with myself (which is twice now and totally annoying), I’ll admit I couldn’t hack it.

“You can buy new shoes.”

“No, I can’t.” Mom points a finger at me, and her eyes are black with anger. “She cut up all my credit cards so I can’t go on the Google net!”

“Your stolen cards, you mean.” She has access to money in the joint account I set up for her, and I’m still baffled by the how and why. “Credit card theft is a felony, Mom. You wouldn’t like prison. The food’s bad, the shoes are worse, and there aren’t any men. No flirting or spooning or miracle healing.” I feel myself getting angry and press my fingertips into my skull. Mom drives me to feel as crazy as she is, but she has an excuse and I don’t. “I’ll go unpack your bedding.” I have to remove myself before my potty mouth takes possession of my body for the second time in an hour.

The wood floors are smooth as glass beneath my feet as I make my way down the hall, passing a sampler with a depiction of Sutton Hall stitched on it. The slate floor in the kitchen keeps the room cooler than the rest of the house. The cleaning crew I hired was here recently, but no amount of their scrubbing could turn the now-pink 1970s counters back to red.

The harvest-gold refrigerator appears to have seen better days, but when I open it, cool air brushes my throat. It’s stocked with fruits and vegetables and pudding. I grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge and a knife from a drawer.

I use it to cut the tape across the box labeled LINEN. The scent of freshly washed sheets and comforters rises to greet my nose and reminds me of my home in Seattle. There is a world of difference between Millennial Tower and Sutton Hall. One is my home and the other will never feel like home.

I hear laughter from the parlor/mortuary, but I don’t return. I feel as out of place now as I did when I visited as a kid. I want to make Mom happy. I want to be there laughing and talking with her, but there’s no talking to Rattlesnake Patty. I’ll just have to learn which words trigger her—besides shoes, Wynonna, credit cards, and Pirate’s Booty—and avoid them at all costs.

My gaze falls on two doors on the other side of the kitchen, and I realize I have hazy memories of them both. I set the knife down and walk past the stack of boxes. The first door is stuck, but with a little determination, I open it to the back stairs that use

d to scare the crap out of me as a kid. I guess a lot of things about this house scared the crap out of me, and these dim, narrow wooden steps rank alongside the mausoleums in the cemetery. Still spooky, they’re now stacked with books and newspapers and even a bed frame on its side. Simon referred to this mess as Sutton treasures. All I see is junk.

The second door swings inward to an old butler’s pantry, where I vaguely remember hiding once upon a time with tins of shortbread cookies and praline patties. On the other side of the pantry is another door leading to the dining room. Light from behind me pitches my shadow across cabinets and shelves on one side and a floor-to-ceiling wine rack on the other. I could use a nice red blend about now, and I’m a bit disappointed that the rack holds bottles of water instead. I turn my attention to the shelves stocked with groceries: bread, pasta, and soup. Boxes of crackers and cans of tuna. Canned fruits and veggies and a bag of potato chips.

What? My attention returns to the bright-yellow-and-white bag almost hidden within the variegated shadows. I walk forward, and the pantry door swings closed behind me. Junk food was not on the grocery list! The grocery list I made was filled with nutritious food—with the exception of Mom’s Pirate’s Booty, of course. I certainly never would have requested an ultimate bag of chip perfection, and I wonder how it got in here. I shove a box of crackers in front of all that salty goodness. Out of sight, out of mind, but the Lay’s potato chips know my weakness and seem to taunt me.

Lou Ann. Lou Ann. You know you can’t resist our salty yumminess.

I tell myself to back away slowly, not to reach for the bag, definitely not to rip it open. That’s what I tell myself, but of course I don’t listen, and the scent of greasy potatoes fills my nostrils as I tear it open.

“Just one,” I whisper. Crunching fills my ears, and my taste buds experience nirvana. I haven’t had an orgasm in a long time, but this is close. “One more, and that’s it.”

I need to unpack my clothes and set up my office in the library. I need to make beds, put up the monitors, and lay down the sensor mats. I have so many things I need to do, but I lean back and slide down the cabinet until my butt hits the hardwood floor.

I shove another chip into my mouth without bothering to lie about having just one. It’s been so long—years of dieting myself into a size 4 so I’d look like a size 6 on TV—and the chips taste even better than I remember. They even come with a quality guarantee right on the bag. It would be nice if men came with a SUPREME SATISFACTION stamp on their foreheads, although at this point, I’d settle for somewhat satisfying.

I like sitting in here in the dark, just me and the disappointing wine rack. I can lick my salty lips and fingers, burp like a beer-bellied trucker, swear like a parolee if I want, and no one will know.

I unscrew the bottle of water and take a big swig, then smash more chips into my mouth. I have to let Mom’s cutting words roll off me. I have to learn a better way to deal with the insanity she creates in my head. I can’t continue to hold it all inside until I blow and start yelling the f-word in public. Especially not when a certain person opens the back door and looks down at me as if he smells something bad. As if I’m a monster yelling at my poor, sick mother.


Tags: Rachel Gibson Fiction