18
June 18
Hard decisions.
Birds of a feather.
Twisted Twister.
MOM IS wheeled out of the big pneumatic doors like the day she got kicked out of Golden Springs, but this time she’s pale. Her white, almost translucent skin sets her Renegade Red lips apart, and her eyes look a bit sunken.
She’s been gone for five days, and I had the air-conditioning unit replaced this morning before I picked her up. Besides her complexion, there are other changes I notice once we’re home. She walks slower and tires quicker. She says she’s hungry, but she eats next to nothing. We have to avoid using the word remember when she’s around. According to my Alzheimer’s books (and backed up by Lindsey), some sufferers become irritable when reminded of their memory loss. This behavior can happen at any stage, but we’re especially sensitive to the possibility now.
The good news is her UTI is getting better. The bad news is her swearing is getting worse. It’s like she has seventy-four years’ worth of cuss words stored up inside and she’s determined to say every last one of them before she dies.
When Simon dropped by to see how she was doing the other day, she’d looked up from a scrapbook and said, “Holy shit, you’re a foxy man.”
I hadn’t seen him since the night he kissed me senseless on the front porch and jumped in his truck and drove off. I don’t know how long I’d stood there staring at the empty driveway before snapping out of it and returning inside. Too embarrassingly long is all I know. Simon is smooth, and I need to watch out for his slick moves. Enough is going on in my life. Especially now that Mom has added swearing to her act.
Lindsey managed to get Mom an appointment with her neurologist only a few days after her discharge. Before we left, I put her hair in a bun and helped her with her lipstick. I try to be optimistic at the clinic, but her mental and cognitive evaluations show a three-point drop since the last time she was tested, shortly after we arrived in Louisiana. Three points closer to end stage. I can’t say I’m surprised.
“You’re as healthy as can be and pretty as a picture,” the doctor tells Mom in a smooth Southern drawl.
She smiles and bats her eyelashes like her old self. “You’re a rascal.”
Rascal? That’s a new one.
“A goddamn rascal.”
They both laugh while a little piece of my heart dies. This can’t happen. Not now. Not when I’ve only had four relatively good months with her. I want more good months and more good years.
Along with her new swearing habit, she won’t brush her teeth unless Lindsey or I stand in the bathroom and watch her. Suddenly the toothpaste she’s used for years burns her gums. We try everything from organic to Sensodyne to Baby Orajel, but she complains about them all and blames Wynonna for the heinous act of stealing all the good toothpaste. “That nasty bitch Wynonna took it. She’s a filthy whore and loves to burn my mouth.”
“Yeah, nasty bitch,” I say, to reinforce that Wynonna is to blame and not me.
“Don’t curse, Lou Ann. You were raised better,” says the potty-mouthed hypocrite. On the bright side, she doesn’t hate me anymore, and we’ve returned to our equilibrium. At bedtime, I brush her hair while she berates contestants on Family Feud and calls Wink “that handsome son of a bitch.” She turns the volume up so loud, I swear they can hear it in the next parish. One night, she loses the remote and I have to stand next to the television and change the channels manually.
Most of my mornings are spent painting with Mom and Bob again. After lunch, Mom takes a nap and I head to the attic, where I have become enmeshed in the history of Sutton Hall—the nearly two centuries’ worth of recorded births and deaths and receipts for bags of flour, crocks of butter, and casks of Charlie’s Fine Whisky. Jasper’s gambling ledger was packed away with his gold tie bar and cuff links, and it appears that Simon was right. It was either feast or famine with old Jasper.
The day I brought Mom home from the hospital, I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. I had to choose between Lulu and my mom. Mom’s hospital scare made it clear that I can’t split myself between the two. They each suffer from the lack of my attention, and I feel guilty neglecting one for the other. But when it came down to it, the choice was clear. Mom is more important, and spending as much time as possible with her is my only priority.
I still have my boss-lady moments, even down here in Louisiana, but Lulu deserves better than I’ve given her lately. She needs a new voice. Someone young and talented who has her finger on the pulse of the dating world. Someone fresh, but most important, someone who is as excited as I was when I first started the company. The day I chose Mom, I asked Fern to start vetting potential replacements, and since then she’s sent me videos by the dozen. No matches yet, so the guest blogging will have to continue for now.
Five days after the neurologist appointment, I force myself to pull a wardrobe steamer trunk from the attic. The canvas is torn and the locks are broken. The only thing holding it closed is a cracked leather buckle. It isn’t easy, but I drag it downstairs. It thumps each step of the way, and a yellowed lace sleeve escapes through a crack. I fear the whole thing will bust apart before I get to the parlor.
Raphael hangs upside down from the grand chandelier in the entry. It’s been cleaned and rewired, so there is no danger of electrocution. Sometimes I have to remind myself that that’s a good thing. “Shake your tail feathers,” he squawks.
That’s tame compared to some things that come out of him. Since the day Simon made him talk, the bird hasn’t shut up. I’d like to blame Jasper for Raphael’s potty beak, but he’s added a few more words to his lexicon, courtesy of Patricia Jackson.
“Tony’s an asshole.”
Okay, maybe me too.
I’m breathing hard by the time I finally slide the trunk into the front parlor. Lindsey looks up from rubbing her belly. “Are you okay?” she asks while practicing her who-who breathing. She’s been doing that a lot lately, saying she has to practice so she won’t forget to breathe while she’s pushing out Frankie.
“I’m fine,” I grunt while tugging at the trunk.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks as she enters behind me, wringing her hands. She’s remembered her lipstick, a rich cabernet that complements her chartreuse dress. Just below her knees, she’s pulled on her beige support socks and white orthopedic shoes. “Did Tony bring that?”