Lindsey lets go of Mom’s arm, reaches into her pocket, and hands Mom her medication. “Did you hear the footsteps last night?” The question is directed at m
e.
I did, but I don’t want to freak Lindsey out, so I say, “I heard something, but the house is old.” Generations of ghosts might roam around at night, but after spending so much time in the attic, I’m fairly unaffected. “Nothing like the first night.”
“Yeah, that was bad.”
“Melvin Thompson!”
I suppress the urge to gag and remind myself that she can’t help making me want to vomit. “No one wants to hear about Melvin.”
“Here you go, Patricia.” Lindsey hands her a glass of water from the bedside table and writes something down in her notepad. “Good night,” she says, above the game show buzzer, and leaves with Mom’s empty popcorn bag.
I barely get “good night” out of my mouth before Mom yells, “They were droopy, too.”
“Mom!” She looks at me, and I can see she’s mid-fade. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to hear about Melvin’s droopy white balls.”
“I don’t blame you. They were practically to his knees.”
I rub the veins popping out on my forehead. “Mom, stop!”
She shrugs and returns her glass to the bedside table. “Lindsey has a big belly.”
I glance at the empty doorway to make sure Lindsey is gone. “Stop talking about Lindsey’s weight.” I remember how hurt I was when she accused me of getting fat my freshman year, and she’s my mother.
She shrugs and yells, “Melvin Thompson,” and I’m actually relieved the subject returns to old Melvin.
I feel veins popping inside my head, too. I’m tempted to run from the room, but I crawl back into Mom’s bed next to her.
“I read in an article that birds mate for life.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” Mom shrugs. “That Raphael loves me.”
Of course he does. I look across at Mom and see her old smile. Maybe she’s not as faded as I suspected. “How can you tell?”
“He whistled at me.”
I stand corrected. That bird makes only two sounds: a shrill scream when I tell him to behave or a nasty screech when he dive-bombs Lindsey. “He has good taste in women.” I play along.
Mom’s smile turns into a yawn as she rolls on her side toward me. “He doesn’t like Lindsey.”
“True, but I don’t think he likes me very much either.”
“Probably because you’re in a hair rut.” She tosses my braid out of her way and slides her arm across my abdomen to snuggle. “You’re too pretty for bad hair.”
“Thank you.” I think. I stiffen and refuse to roll onto my side. If I don’t escape now, I’m afraid she’ll spoon me until sunrise. I have to work and can’t play Earl tonight.
“Pretty and smart and a good girl. Not a bit like Wynonna’s girl.”
I don’t believe Wynonna had a girl, but that’s beside the point. Mom paid me three compliments in a row. I don’t think she’s ever done that before. Not that I can recall, anyway. My insides melt. I am reduced to putty and turn on my side. Mom takes advantage of my weakened state and molds herself against my back.
“I love a good snuggle,” she says, and I melt even more at the warm breath on the back of my neck.
I tuck this evening away with the other good memories of Mom and me to be recollected and relived after she is gone.
I wait until Mom is snoring to carefully extract myself from her arms. I check on Raphael and find him asleep in his cage. If Mom wants to believe that dumb bird whistles at her, who am I to burst her bubble?