Mom refuses to look at me, and I realize this impasse could last for d
ays if I let it. I remind myself that I’m the fully functional adult and join them as if everything is peachy.
“I like your dress,” I tell Lindsey.
“Thanks. I like it, too.” She touches the light fabric and smiles. “Come look at this.” I hesitate, waiting for Mother to say she hates me. Instead, she just turns another page without looking up.
“We’re giving captions to the old photos.” I sit next to Lindsey, and she points to a faded tintype. “Grumpy woman with a doily on her head.”
Mom’s up next and says to Lindsey as if I’m not in the room, “Baby passing a good time in a buggy.”
I look closer and stare at the buggy from the attic. It was creepy even back then.
Lindsey pokes me with her elbow. “Your turn.”
I point to a black-and-white photo with the caption of Salty Joe. “Another damn horse picture.”
Mom won’t look at me, but at least she’s not yelling. I’m good with that.
Lindsey makes up several more, and we fall into a pattern. Lindsey’s captions are funny, mine are dry, and Mom’s are “passing a good time” with this or that.
I point to a woman standing beside the fireplace in the yellow office. “She’s a long cool woman in a black dress.”
Lindsey groans. Mom points to a new photo. “Passing a good time in a sugar field.”
Lindsey and I push our faces closer to the tintype. The black men and women in it do not look like they’re passing a good time in a sugar field. The men are naked from the waist up, the women have babies on their backs, and the children are barefoot. “Mom, they’re not having a good time.”
She scowls and sticks her chin up. “They’re smiling like they are.”
Perhaps there are a few smiles, but I’m not mistaking them for a good time. Mother is a seventy-four-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s, and I’ve never heard her say anything racist. She’s never looked at color when choosing a partner. All that has ever mattered is gender. So is it worth explaining the meaning of the photo? Do I risk another rattlesnake strike?
“Look at those poor little kids. They don’t have shoes,” Lindsey says just before she bursts into tears. I’m taken aback, and all I can do is stare. This is a side of Lindsey I’ve never witnessed. I’ve seen her all business with Mom, happy about her new driver’s license, laughing with Cajun Jim, and scared shitless by ghosts and Raphael. I’ve never seen her this emotional. I suppose, coming from her family, it’s understandable that she would have a soft spot for children trapped by the circumstances of their birth. My heart aches for her, and I wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders. “It’s okay,” I tell her, because I don’t know what else to say.
“No one gave them shoes,” she sobs through her fingers. “That’s hor-rible.” I rub her back and wish I could do more. “People can be so meeeean.”
“What’d you do to Lindsey?” Mom is finally looking at me, and her eyes are snaky at the edges.
“Me?”
“You’re always bossy and mean.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, you must have done something.”
“I didn’t!” I look at Lindsey, then back at Mom. “What did you do?”
“Nothin’.”
“Sor-ry,” Lindsey manages between hiccups.
Mom’s chin goes up even further. “It’s the baby.”
I give her a warning glare.
Of course she doesn’t notice. “Babies make women emotional.”
“Mother!” She’s gone from calling Lindsey fat to saying she’s pregnant.