“You have to take me.”
I shake my head. It’s morbid and unsettling, and if she picks out a coffin, it’ll all feel too final.
“Before I forget.”
Those three simple, self-aware words have a lot of power behind them. They had the power to make me move across the country when that was the last thing I wanted to do. Now they have the power to make me load Mom into the SUV and take her casket shopping when that’s the last thing I want to do. The last place I want to go to is Bergeron Funeral Home, but I do it because of those three powerful words.
As I soon discover, it’s not called coffin shopping. It’s called preplanning and involves a lot of paperwork that I have to fill out while Mom and Lindsey push on the coffin mattress, testing the spring of every casket in the showroom. They ooh and aah at the “shock absorbers,” and I feel sick in my stomach. Mom gives a thumbs-up or thumbs-down like she’s Goldilocks, and I try to swallow past the big lump in my throat.
Mom chooses flowers and music and a guest book with a matching quill pen. Her casket has to be specially ordered with her name embroidered on the overlay, and Bergeron will store it until she “takes her heavenly journey.” Everyone is acting like we’re planning a party and picking out portieres.
I’m the only one who is broken inside. I’m the only one who wants to scream at the top of my lungs. I’m the only one who wants to cover my ears and rock myself back and forth.
I’m given a pamphlet, and we go over the instructions on what to do if Mom dies at home, and by the time we return to Sutton Hall, I’m a wreck. I’ve held my pain inside, mostly in the form of frustration, but as I kneel behind Mother, brushing her hair as I do most every night, I can’t hold it in any longer. It rips me apart. The brush falls from my hand, and I double over. My arms cover my bowed head, and the more I try to control my stuttering sobs, the worse they get. I am a ball of raw misery. I can’t do this. It’s too hard. It’s too much for me.
“Ahhh, baby.” I feel Mother’s warm hand rub up and down my back, soothing me like I’m a child again. “Baby mine, don’t you cry,” she softly sings. “Baby mine, dry your eyes. Rest your head close to my heart.” I remember the next lines and I cry even harder. “Never to part, baby of mine.” Mom always loved that movie, and I slept with a little stuffed Dumbo when I couldn’t sleep next to her. “Don’t cry, cher baby.” My heart breaks even more than I think is possible, and I lie next to her, hiccupping and wiping my nose across the back of my hand. I lie next to her long after she falls asleep, listening to her soft breathing.
She’s my mom, and I’ll take care of her until she’s placed in that shiny white coffin with the gold handles and blue pillow to match her eyes. I’ll take care of her before and after she forgets.
She’s my mother, and as difficult as she can be, she’s equally easy to love.
14
May 2
Happy trees. Moonlight Sonata. Mom’s proposition.
I KNEW MOM would love to paint with Bob Ross again. The day her supplies arrive, I set up an art studio in the morning room right off the kitchen. It’s painted teal with white trim and gets the most natural light. I’ve seen pictures of this room when it had fruit trees in large brass planters to scent the air with citrus for luncheon soirees, but it’s sat neglected for decades. I had to knock down cobwebs, vacuum out the dust, and wash the windows. That’s a lot of glass to clean, but it’s worth it. Especially in the morning when sunshine hits all those original windows. The room sparkles and shines, but in a wavy and otherworldly way, like we’ve stepped back in time.
Mom wants the old Victrola dragged into her new “studio” so she can listen to Bach and Beethoven and Jelly Roll Morton as she watches The Joy of Painting DVDs on a small TV. I often sit beside her at an easel I bought for myself, and we’re quite the pair in our smocks, watching Bob and listening to “Für Elise.” I do not have an ounce of artistic talent, but there is just something so peaceful about listening to classical music and making really bad art. When I should be working on Lulu business, I find myself painting or sorting through the attic for things I know Mom will enjoy. I keep pushing more and more work off my plate and onto other people. I feel guilty, but I’d rather spend time with Mom. That’s why we’re here, and painting is a nice start to the morning… but not this morning. Instead of retreating to the studio to paint with Bob, Mother announce
d we’re visiting the dearly departed.
I knew this day would come, and I dread every part of it. I dread the heat and humidity and bugs almost as much as I dread standing next to Mom while she points to her tomb. I don’t want another day like the one when she “preplanned” her funeral.
But I don’t have a choice, and I accept the can of Deep Woods Off! Mom hands me. I cover every part of me and choke on the cloud of poison. I spray my turquoise “Who Dat” boots inside and out and douse my cutoffs and the vintage-looking Rolling Stones T-shirt I bought from Nordstrom online. I know it’s too hot for boots, but it’s too buggy for anything else. I’ll risk sweaty feet over bites and stings any day, and just in case, I toss in my can of alligator spray.
Mom’s wearing purple pants, a pink floral blouse, and lavender lips. Her long hair is braided, and she’s stuck an old butterfly comb at the back of her head. She says it belonged to her mother and makes her feel close to her.
It’s been nearly three months since Mom crawled in bed with me and asked that I bring her to Sutton Hall. She was just as determined then as she is today, and nothing can distract her from her mission. Not even the prospect of Simon and his crew coming to remove the old staircase railing and replacing it with a temporary one can sway her.
I follow her out the back door, and we make a quick trip to the garage. “We’ll need these to clean up around Momma’s tomb,” she says as she grabs an old tin bucket filled with garden tools and shoves it at me. I toss in the can of alligator spray and we continue on.
“This is in fine shape,” she says as we slide past the old carriage taking up half the space.
“The wheels are cracked,” I point out.
“That doesn’t matter.” She grabs a wreath of plastic lilies and a small shovel. “It’s not going that far.”
I don’t know what she means, and she hands me the flowers and shovel before I can ask. I don’t expect her to carry anything, but the bucket isn’t exactly light. I hang the wreath from the crook of my arm and follow Mom outside. Tools clank around in the bucket as we hit the cobblestone path.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she says through a happy sigh.
A big green fly circles my head, looking for a spot I might have missed with repellent. I swat at it with the shovel. A hint of sweetness hangs in the humid air, and as long as the spray does its job, I’m good.
Mom looks down at her feet as cobblestones disappear beneath wild honeysuckle and kudzu. “Please be careful, Mom.” I would help her, but I’m loaded down like a pack mule. “I don’t want you to fall.” Lindsey took the morning off, and she has the SUV, but it wouldn’t matter if she’d left it. I couldn’t get Mom back to the house by myself, let alone navigate us to the ER. I’d have to call 911, and the EMTs would have to strap Mom to one of those orange boards and pack her out.
She waves away my concern and adjusts her comb. “You’ll have to remove the seats when you get out the funeral buggy.”