My back aches from lying so still. I’m too tired to work, but my mind is too restless for sleep. I download a new app, Powerful Guided Meditation, Wish Manifestation. The others haven’t worked, but I’m willing to keep trying. I figure I can concentrate better if I’m fulfilling some wishes, but after fifteen minutes, I think of a perfect addition to Mom’s routine. She needs more than family photos and mementos to keep her mind active. I grab my phone and less than a minute into my internet search, I find The Joy of Painting website. I order everything Mom will need to beat the brush with Bob Ross and, because I’m the queen of swag myself, I add a pair of “Let’s Get Crazy” socks. Mom’s going to love painting happy little clouds again.
I think about tapping a few sentences in my day planner, but I yawn and toss my phone on the bedside table. I finally fall into a deep sleep and wake the next day feeling restored.
The new clothes Mother and I bought at Nordstrom online arrived several weeks ago, and I packed away my winter wool and flannel in favor of summer cotton and knits. I join Mother and Lindsey in the dining room wearing my black Alice + Olivia cuffed shorts and a black jersey tank.
“Why do you always wear black?” Lindsey asks as I grab one of great-grandmother’s silver coffeepots.
This from the girl who wears scrubs 90 percent of the time. “I don’t always wear black.” Only 90 percent of the time. “It’s versatile and perfect for business trips.” I pick up one of the royal-blue-and-gold cups I’d carried down from the attic a few days ago.
“You’re not traveling now.”
I shrug. “Habit.” I like black and don’t see a problem.
“I like pink.” Mom looks up from the matching Staffordshire plate. “It’s a good color,” she adds, and points to the sleeve of her pink seersucker dress. Of the three of us, Mom is the resident fashion maverick with her rebellious choice of white sandals before Memorial Day. Her hair is pushed back from her face with a flower headband and her lips are bubble-gum pink.
After she finishes her mushroom omelet and toast, we jump in the Escalade and head toward a small strip of brightly painted stores. I “kink” Mom’s neck only once, but it’s hard to take her seriously when her hair is flying around her head like Medusa.
“Do you want to roll that window up now?” I ask for the third time.
“Nope.” She breathes deeply through her nose. “The air smells like the river.”
And touches of swamp.
Monique’s Chic Boutique is such a bright fuchsia that I find it without getting lost. The old stucco clothing store is sandwiched between the neon-green Lagniappe BBQ and the red Boots ’N’ Roots.
Even before we pulled into the small parking lot, I didn’t have high expectations for Monique’s Chic Boutique. I didn’t expect that we’d share the same definition of chic. I was right, but it hardly matters. Monique takes one look at Mom and me and hears ka-ching in her head. She masterfully herds us into separate dressing rooms divided by a pink curtain, and despite a slight language barrier, she sets about selling us everything from matching crawfish T-shirts to Mom’s high-cut swimsuit with a mesh insert.
“Dis’ll look fabulous on you, cher. Très bien.” Monique’s chubby hand parts the curtains, and she shoves a cheetah-print one-piece into Mom’s side. “It’s on trend dis season.”
I adjust a tank top with the outline of Louisiana on it and wait to hear Monique walk away. “Mom,” I whisper, but when she doesn’t answer I say a little louder, “Mom!”
“Is that you, Lou Ann?”
Who else? “Yes.” I pull my braid from the back of the shirt and lean closer. “You don’t have to try on a swimsuit if you don’t want.”
“I got it on one leg already.”
Monique’s hand appears again and pushes a pair of jean shorts at me. “Dis is da last pair of dese cutoffs. Vonda Richard, she called and had me put dese aside for her, but she has a flat bottom like me. Dese are made fo’ a woman with a pretty figure like you. Très bien. Hot hot.”
“Thank you,” Mom and I say at the same time.
I don’t know if I even own jean shorts. I think I gave them up years ago, and so I’m really surprised at how much I like them. The hemline is raw, and the back pockets are distressed enough that they look worn-in. I’m not really a shredded-edge girl, but Mom’s not the only fashion rebel in the family.
“How do dey fit?” Monique asks through the curtain.
“Good.” I look at my butt in the mirror. Really good. “Too bad this is the last pair.”
“Lou Ann?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t hook this thing. I need help.”
I stare at the curtain for several long seconds before I gather the courage to push it open. Mom’s back is to me and she’s holding her hair aside. I quickly hook the ends around her neck and say, “There you go.” She spins around and poses with a hand on her waist, and I fight the urge to throw an arm over my eyes.
“What do you think?” she asks, as if she doesn’t have eyes in her own head.
The suit is cut high on her hips and shows way too much of her Attends. On the other hand, it’s also cut high on the top and is tight enough to keep her boobs in position halfway to her belly button. “It’s one of your favorite animal prints.”