“Who?”
“Simon.”
“Really?” I guess it’s possible, but his truck has the name of a construction company on the side. I grab the card and read for myself:
Broussard LLC
House Doctor
Renovation and Restoration
There are two different addresses and three phone numbers on the card. He’s a busy guy but, “He’s not a doctor.”
“I saw it on the card.”
“It says, ‘House Doctor.’ Not like a doctor doctor. Not like a heart doctor.”
Her brows pull together. “He comes to the house.”
I’m not calling a construction contractor because Mom thinks she’s having heart flutters, but I don’t want to get into an argument that could turn our good day rotten. “He can’t come right now.”
“Why?”
“He’s operating and saving lives.”
Her forehead clears: Rattlesnake avoided. “I always wanted to marry a doctor,” she says through a sigh. “But I’ve been married several times already.”
Yeah, five. “Who’s counting?” I laugh and grab my left shoulder and roll my head from side to side. “The doctor’s a little young, don’t you think?” I have aches all over my body that two Advil haven’t knocked out.
“Some men like mature women. Earl does. He’s seventy.”
I could point out that there is a considerable age difference between Earl and the House Doctor. The old me—the me of yesterday—would have cringed and covered my ears. The new me—the patient me of today—pushes up the corners of my mouth and forces myself to say, “You’re a cougar.”
She likes that and smiles. Not a fake smile, but a real Patricia smile. At seventy-four, she still has teeth that are white and perfect. Mostly because she goes to regular dental visits so she can flirt with her dentist. “Lord, Lou Ann.” She waves away the notion with false modesty. “What would I do with…” Her smile wavers, and she points to the sideboard again. “With him?”
She’s forgotten his name. Normally, I’d breathe a sigh of relief and take the opportunity to change the subject, but the new and improved Lou Ann pretends I’ve forgotten, too. “I think it’s Simon.”
“Yes, Simon.”
To prove to myself that I am turning over a new leaf, that I can get beyond Mom’s mood swings and embarrassing man-prowling, I put my arm around her shoulders and choke out the words, “I’m sure you’d figure out something to do with the House Doctor.” The mental pictures make me want to stab my eyes out, but she laughs, and I tell myself it’s worth the pain to see her real smile.
“Well, I have a passionate nature.”
“That true.” She’s happy now, so I test the waters and ask, “How do you want to decorate your bedroom? We can paint it any color you like.”
“It’s always been red.” I help her to her feet, and she actually lets me. I’m surprised and worried at the same time.
“We can paint it blue like Great-grandmother’s room upstairs.” Usually she’d tell me she can stand on her own and shoo me away with her hand. I don’t know if she forgot she doesn’t like my help, or if she truly needs it. Neither is a good sign, but at least she’s forgotten that she hates me.
“I don’t want it painted at all.” She shakes her head and says, “I want Grandmere’s bed and all the other stuff in her room.”
I slept in that horrible, lumpy bed last night. It’s made of ornate walnut and has a golden damask canopy and faded tassels.
“I remember naked-lady lamps with red velvet shades.” The naked ladies in question are on the fireplace mantel upstairs. The white porcelain is faded, and the shades are indeed red velvet with long red tassels. Clearly, Mother is going for a bordello theme like her grandmother.
I leave Mom with Wink Martindale and Banko and take a shower in the handicapped bathroom beneath the stairs. There are five bedrooms and four bathrooms upstairs. Each bedroom is painted a different faded color, with varying degrees of damage to the walls and moldings. The bathrooms have claw-foot tubs and ornate pedestal sinks. Each is in some form of disrepair and, according to Lindsey, the water is tepid at best.
Mom’s shower stays warm the entire time, and I suspect it’s because the hot water doesn’t have to travel as far through the old pipes. There are clean, fluffy towels in a warming drawer in the small vanity, and I make full use of them as I take out my hair dryer and defog the mirror. I lean closer and touch the bruise on my forehead. It may not look like much, but it hurts like hell.