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I doubt something so simple as watching a fishing line will help me relax, but much to my surprise, the tension at the base of my skull slowly begins to ease. My gaze is fixed on the hypnotic rocking dips of my bobber. I think of my original goal in bringing Mother to Sutton Hall. Every step forward is two steps back. I just can’t make her happy. Not even when I toss man bait her way. “Sorry Mom yelled at you earlier.”

“You don’t have to apologize for your mother, tee Lou.”

“I feel like I do. She’s angry with me and took it out on you.” I lift my hair off the back of my clammy neck. “She gets angry when I do something to her and angrier when I don’t. Half the time, she doesn’t remember why she’s angry, just that I’ve done something to make her angry.” I shake my head. “I don’t know if I’m making sense.”

“I understand. Jasper could be fine one moment, and the next, his vicious streak would get the best of him. One second, he’d be happy ’cause I brought him paint samples, and the next, he’d yell and throw things because the samples were only eight ounces.”

“What would you do?”

“Walk out the door and go back to work.” He spins his reel and takes up some slack. “Or I’d come down here and poach on Sutton property.”

Sounds like Jasper had some Rattlesnake in him, too. “When Mom says she hates me, I believe her. She hates me for days and sometimes weeks, long after she’s forgotten why.” I feel like I’m betraying Mom, but once I start, it just pours out. “She can be very hurtful and rarely gives anyone else a thought.” I let go of my hair. “But when she’s not angry, she’s great to be around and often surprisingly present. I love being with her. She’s my mom. She’s all I’ve got.” I think about our conversation in the cemetery. “I’m not in denial about her Alzheimer’s. I know she’ll die, but I’m not ready for her to go. It’s not time.”

“Not up to you, tee Lou. It’s in God’s hands, and your momma will pass on his watch, not yours. C’est la vie.”

“I know, but life sucks sometimes.”

“When life sucks the hardest, you survive by finding someplace to sit still and clear your head. Breathe fresh air and lose yourself in life’s simple pleasures. That’s the beauty of fishing, or, in your case, bobbering.”

The air could be fresher but sitting here in my crab T-shirt and Simon’s lucky guts hat, I’m more relaxed than I’ve been since the day Mom got kicked out of Golden Springs. “I prefer bobbering. It’s not as cruel as hooking a poor innocent fish and yanking it out of the water.”

The end of his pole dips and he stands and yanks it back at the same time. “You say cruel and I say, ‘Hot damn, I’m having poor innocent fish for supper.’?” He laughs as sunlight pinwheels off his spinning reel.

“You’re cruel and heartless.” I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “And way overpriced.”

“And you’re a bossy pain in the backside. Mouthy to boot.” He glances over his shoulder and his eyes lock with mine. “Make sure you don’t lose yourself down here, tee Lou. I’d hate for that to happen.”

17

June 13

Where’s my mom?

MOM’S STILL a little chilly toward me, but at least we’re back to most of our routine. This morning, while she painted happy trees, I rummaged through the attic and came across a trunk filled with Confederate war bonds and paper currency. I thought it was fascinating, and so did Lindsey. Mom, on the other hand, was underwhelmed. After lunch I redeemed myself by hauling down scrapbooks and jewelry.

I’m back to brushing Mom’s hair and watching game shows with her at night, but she doesn’t want me to climb in bed with her like before. At least I’m not completely banned, and I leave when Lindsey comes to give Mom her sleeping medication. The chasm between us hasn’t fully closed since the euthanasia drama. I’m not surprised, since we’ve maintained a degree of distance for most of my life, but I hate that—ironically—I’m the only one willing to sweep the past under the rug. It’s always up to me to keep pushing forward, but not tonight.

Tonight, I’m in my office, reading over several rough outlines Fern sent for the possible relaunch of Lulu. We invited guest bloggers, but followers are confused by the differing views and are picking favorites and taking sides. I can’t believe it’s come to this. The business I built from nothing but a legal pad is slipping through my fingers. All I can do now is hold tight and poise myself to bounce back.

I think about what Simon said that day at the bayou: “When life sucks the hardest, you survive by finding someplace to sit still and clear your head. Breathe fresh air and lose yourself in life’s simple pleasures. That’s the beauty of fishing, or, in your case, bobbering.”

I haven’t taken his advice yet. Maybe tomorrow. I rub my eyes and push back from my desk when Lindsey knocks at the door.

“I’m sorry to bother you when you’re working, but your mother has a temperature of a hundred and two.”

“What?” I quickly follow Lindsey to Mom’s room, where she’s sitting on the side of her bed in leopard pajamas.

“I’ll have hot pastrami,” Mom tells no one in particular.

She’s pale and her eyes are crazy—relatively speaking. “What is wrong with her?” I ask Lindsey as she whips out her stethoscope. Just a few hours ago, Mom was her normal self, angrily telling people that I want her to die, and conveniently leaving out the part about me refusing to kill her.

“And a beer!”

“I’ll tell you what I suspect in a minute.” She takes Mom’s blood pressure, then listens to her heart and lungs.

All I can do is fold my arms across my chest to hold in my panic.

“Your heart and lungs sound good, Patricia.” Lindsey hooks the stethoscope around her neck.


Tags: Rachel Gibson Fiction