“I want the mattress that’s on it.”
I repeat my earlier lie. “It got thrown out.” I glance at her in the rearview mirror and feel like her parent. “If you want that bed, you have to get a new mattress.”
Our gazes meet and her eyes are sad. “Momma was born in that bed.”
“Turn right in three hundred feet, then proceed one mile to West Gonzales.” I return my gaze to the road, slow down, and manage the right turn. “Maybe you can find one that massages your back.”
“Or I’ll get one of those adjustable mattresses like Earl has,” Mom says, kind of grumpy.
Earl’s Craftmatic isn’t a memory I want stuck in my head for the rest of my life, and I quickly change the subject. “We have to let Raphael out of his cage for a bit when we get back.”
“Earl’s mattress was perfect for spooning.”
Well, it could be worse.
“And sweet love.”
Damn it. I jinxed myself.
Lindsey’s screechy-cat singing comes to a sudden halt, and we look at each other, eyes bugging out, ears ringing from the trauma we’ve just endured. Mom might wear lipstick and the latest in jogging couture, but under it all, she’s sporting a big droopy bra, black-lace thong over her Attends, and geriatric compression shocks. Lindsey makes a distressed sound and shakes her head. I just shrug.
“Make a U-turn, then proceed to the route.” Crap, I overshot the turn like before, but this time I hear a hint of judgment in the navigator’s sugary tone.
“Earl’s a better driver,” Mom says again, as if trying to see if I’ll snap.
“Make a right turn, then proceed to the route.” I’m in the wrong lane to turn. “Proceed to the route.”
“Why does that woman keep saying that?” asks the other woman in the car who likes to repeat things.
“We’re lost,” Lindsey piles on.
“We’re not lost.” I point to the map. “We’re almost back on the blue line.”
We make it to the mattress store as the manager is locking the front doors. I yell at him through the glass to please open, and I promise to buy three mattresses if he lets us in. Luckily, greed rules the day.
The store is like a warehouse, and Mom has to check out practically every mattress. She lies on her back and stomach, then flops from side to side like a fish before moving to the next one. I don’t tell myself things could get worse. I try not to even think about it.
After much flopping by both Lindsey and Mother, I make an executive decision to order three Sealy queen-plus Posturepedics. I love a good pillow-top, and, just as important, they are in stock and can be delivered tomorrow.
We buy a bunch of bedding and load up the back of the Escalade. I figure if we put the new duvets and pillows on the old lumpy mattresses, we’ll be able to get through the night.
But I figured wrong. The duvets and bedspreads aren’t thick enough to compensate. At least not for me, and I find myself not being able to sleep again. For the second night in a row, I stare up at a cracked ceiling medallion and a chandelier that’s missing a few crystals.
Another crappy night on a crappy mattress. I am hot and sticky but at least Mom is asleep. Lindsey double-dosed her early enough that her huge snores practically rattle the monitor on my nightstand.
I move to the side of the bed and peel off my flannel nightshirt. I’ve packed five of them, along with my shearling robe. It isn’t that it’s too warm for flannel at night; it’s too humid and sticky. I toss it onto the floor and turn on one of Mother’s naked-lady lamps that sits on a side table. I remember this room from my childhood. It is even more faded now than it was then, but at one time it must have been truly stunning. The walls would have been a deep blue, the moldings and cornices a stark white with gold leaf. The white marble fireplace is flecked with gold and carved with angels.
The sitting room was converted into a big bathroom, and as a kid, I remember thinking the pink toilet, sink, and tub were fabulous. As an adult, I think the room looks like a time capsule from the 1920s or ’30s.
Mom’s snoring gets even louder, and I tell myself that I will miss the sound of her snoring one day, but I am tired and today is not that day. I stand and wrap the duvet around my bare shoulders. The old wood floor creaks as I move across the room and throw open the double doors to the veranda, feeling like the mistress of the manor. Perhaps there’s an ounce of Scarlett in me yet.
I start to shut the doors behind me but pause with my hand on the cut-glass knob. Raphael is on the lam. For a few seconds I ponder the likelihood of him surviving on his own. How long could he last before a heron snapped up his naked little body? Would I hear his scream?
Probably. I shut the door and lean back against it. When we returned
from our mattress-store adventure, I’d discovered the cage door open and Raphael across the entrance hall in the library, swinging upside down from a chandelier and chewing on the crystals. Getting him down from the chandelier had been fairly easy, but getting him to return to his cage was a whole different story. I’d chased him around the house for an hour, trying to shoo him toward the front parlor, but he was having none of it. He squawked and flew from spot to spot, his bright green wings carrying his naked bird body until I lost sight of him somewhere near the dining room. For the rest of the evening, Lindsey walked around as if the damn bird might fall from the sky and peck out her eyes. Mom kept insisting on calling the “doctor.”
Neither happened, and Raphael is still hiding somewhere in the house like a prison escapee. The plaster is cool beneath my bare feet and the moist, scented air brushes my cheeks. I haven’t examined the balcony in the light of day, and I hope it doesn’t give way under my weight. If it does, I’ll probably break some bones and end up in the hospital. The prospect doesn’t sound too bad, like a vacation maybe, complete with turndown service and intravenous pain medication.