Now she remembers.
“I have a right to die. You want to keep me around until I am just bones and skin and my mouth hangs open.”
The backs of my eyes sting from hurt and anger. “Mom—”
“You want me to drool on a bib like a baby, and no one will come spoon me in my hour of need.”
“Of course I don’t want you to suffer, but I’m not going to help you kill yourself.”
“You’re selfish!” she shouts, and attempts to stand.
I try to assist her to her feet, but she shakes off my hand. “Don’t touch me.”
The mood on the walk back to the house is icy on account of Mom’s cold shoulder, but I try to ease the tension. “Mom, let’s get along. I love you.”
“Well, I don’t love you. Go away from me.”
Her words plunge deep into my heart, and I stop to let her walk ahead without me.
15
Return of Rattlesnake Patty. Bob’s gone.
Raphael is MIA—again.
BY THE time I make it back into the house, I’m hot, clammy, and exhausted from fighting off horseflies with the shovel until I finally gave up and ran.
Lindsey is in the kitchen making lunch and wearing one of her flowing sundresses. She looks young and happy and is chatting with the skinny guy from Simon’s crew. His name is Jim Poulet and he is so Cajun, I can hardly understand a word out of his mouth. Lindsey smiles and laughs as if she doesn’t see me leaning against the door, gasping for breath.
Somewhere in the house someone is banging a hammer, and my head pounds in time with it.
Mom returns to the kitchen long enough to announce, “I want lunch in the parlor.” Her gaze narrows and she points a bony finger at me. “I don’t want to see her face.”
Everything stops, and the kitchen goes silent as my face flushes deeper. My shoulders are sore from carrying those stupid tools in that stupid bucket that we never even used, my feet hurt, and I can feel tiny gnats in my throat. The day started off so good, which makes this turn of events all the harder to bear.
I want off this roller coaster. I thought I could ride it out, but I can’t. I’m not as strong a person as I’d always believed. I don’t have it in me to help Mom kill herself.
I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and walk out the back door before I burst into tears or yell f-bombs. I stand at the top of the step and open the bottle. The Escalade is parked next to several work trucks, and for a few moments, I let myself get lost in the fantasy of jumping in the SUV and driving away. I take a long drink and clear my throat of unshed tears and bugs. I don’t know where I’ll go. Just away. Someplace cool and dry with room service and a stocked bar.
Simon stands by the tailgate of his truck wearing jeans and a white T-shirt like the first time I saw him. One hand is on his hip, and he’s having a heated conversation with someone on his phone. I don’t know what he’s saying, because it sounds like he’s speaking French. I duck my head and walk toward the garage; his conversation grows quiet as I pass.
I don’t turn on the light inside, because the cool darkness feels better. I’m living in a two-hundred-year-old money pit to make my mom happy. I made sure she had the bedroom she wanted (perhaps not in the right location), and I regularly haul family mementos from the attic to keep her brain active. I listen to Jelly Roll Morton until I want to stab my ears with a paintbrush. I braid Mom’s hair and help her bathe, but no matter what I do, she’s never happy for long.
I turn sideways and slide past the surrey. My tears catch up to me and roll down my hot cheeks. I’m responsible for Mom’s health needs and quality of life. I’m responsible for making sure she is happy and comfortable for the rest of her life. I’m her daughter. I gladly take on those responsibilities, but now she wants me to take on the added responsibility of killing her, too.
I need a place to hide other than the hot attic. I climb into the surrey and take a seat on the front bench. The tufted velvet is worn and itchy in places, but no springs poke my butt.
My vision blurs, and I don’t realize I’m crying until I wipe tears away with the back of my hand. My life is a three-ring circus with Mother’s roller coaster at the center. Raphael and his bird antics share the next ring with Simon and the house restorations. Lulu Inc. fills the remaining circle like a rudderless ship in a storm-tossed sea.
I’m the circus ringmaster, jumping through hoops to control chaos, direct disorder, and manage time. I am failing at all three. Mom doesn’t love me. Raphael has taken screws from two dining room chairs and hidden them somewhere. Sutton Hall is a mess. My subscriber growth is near stagnant, and Lulu merch is down. Our organic clicks have hit new lows, and people are opting out of notifications.
The release we sent out in February, asking for patience and understanding, apparently had a time limit, and followers have run out of both. Margie thinks we need to remind followers why they love Lulu with a splashy relaunch. That sounds all fine and dandy, except I don’t have the time to invest in a big splashy relaunch. With everything else going on in my life, I don’t even have the time to think about something so mentally taxing. On the other hand, I don’t have the time to not think about it. Lulu’s my baby—I’m not ready to let her die, just like I’m not ready to let Mom die either. I’ll figure it out, but not right this minute. All I want to do right now is sit in the old buggy and let the world pass me by.
The back door creaks open and the light flickers on. I dry my wet cheeks on the shoulders of my T-shirt and wipe my nose for good measure.
“Are you hiding, tee Lou Ann?”
“Yes.” I hear the tread of heels on concrete before Simon appears beside the carriage. I turn my face away to hide my red eyes.