One day, we just never saw them again, but that wasn’t unusual. It happened a lot. Mostly because Mom couldn’t get along with women for very long. She still can’t, but I always thought the Pulaskis stopped coming around because they got tired of saving me on Sundays. I never suspected it had to do with naked Twister.
19
Mom’s stash.
The plan.
What’s wrong with this picture?
HIDE THOSE someplace where Wynonna won’t find ’em.” Mom pulls the earrings from her lobes and shoves them toward me. “A spot where no one will find them.”
“Okay.” I have to fight to keep my eyes from rolling.
“Damn her.” Mom shakes a dramatic fist as she rises from the sofa.
Lindsey and I make brief eye contact over the top of her head. Mom has enough Pirate’s Booty to last her several months. She’s stashed it somewhere and can’t remember where now. I shove the earrings up my tight lace sleeve because I don’t trust Raphael not to take off with them if I set them down.
It’s nearing noon, and Mom gets grumpy around this time every day. Before her bladder infection, her mental and emotional slide started around four in the afternoon. Now it starts sooner. Lindsey and I help her out of the old skirt and jacket, but she insists on keeping the hat. “It’s a good hat,” she says, and follows Lindsey to the kitchen so she can boss her around. “I want roast beef.”
“If you want roast beef, you’ll have to make it yourself. I’m making halibut for lunch.”
I gather everything and return to the parlor. Raphael is still hanging from the chandelier and screams as I pass, but not like someone’s stabbing him this time. No, this scream is filled with terror and happens to sound remarkably like Lindsey’s.
“Not funny,” I say, but he laughs anyway.
I return Mom’s skirt and jacket to the trunk
and pull Grandmother’s wedding dress over my head. I gather the gloves Mom tossed about and pack them and the dress away. The trunk has lots of little drawers and boxes, some filled with old sewing needles and thread. Others contain old photos of Lily and Louis, lots of random keys, and a stack of letters tied up with blue velvet ribbon. I fan the corners of the envelopes and see they contain letters that were written by my grandparents, postmarked from 1950 to 1953. I toss the bundle on the couch, figuring I can read the letters on nights I can’t sleep.
The drawer to the jewelry box is open, and I shut it before getting dressed and heading off to Mom’s room to hide the dreadful earrings. Even if Wynonna lived next door, I think it’s safe to say the gaudy clip-ons would be safe from her evil grasp.
There are so many places in Mom’s room to hide the earrings, and I glance around for a “spot where no one will find them.” But it has to be easy for me to remember, like Mom’s underwear drawer. Not surprisingly, Mom’s beat me to the punch. I find cash folded up with her panties and a long-lost remote control hidden in her compression socks. I wonder what else she’s hoarded and find the spare key to the Escalade in a pocket of her jogging pants. She’s stashed seven sterling pickle forks with her pajamas, and a thin box of matches from the Belle of Baton Rouge Casino and Hotel in with her bras.
I slip the matches and spare key into my back pocket, doing my due diligence to prevent arson and grand theft auto, and my gaze falls on the brass coal box I found in the attic last month. It’s about the size of a small trunk and weighs a ton, and of course Mom wanted it by the fireplace. I lift the lid and discover three bags of Pirate’s Booty, two rock-hard bagels, an open sleeve of saltines, half a bottle of water, and a pack of toilet paper. I close the box tight, shocked it hasn’t attracted ants. If hoarding pickle forks and toilet paper gives her comfort, I’m all for it.
The hunt for a hiding spot continues, and I pull open a drawer in Mom’s bedside chest. It’s not a spot that no one can find, but I’m more worried about my memory than about Wynonna’s sticky fingers. Inside is Mom’s red velvet jewelry box, round and small enough to fit in my palm. When I was a kid, it seemed magical with its colorful jewels, collection of wedding rings, and Great-grandmother’s watch pendant. A press of a tiny gold button makes the top flip up.
It’s empty. No jewels or rings or watch pendant. Just four red pills. I poke them with my finger and wonder why Mom’s bedtime medication is in her nightstand. Lindsey keeps all medications in a lockbox in her bedroom. Mom can’t take so much as an aspirin without Lindsey giving it to her, and Lindsey keeps track of everything in her little notebook. At night she transcribes her notes into Mom’s electronic medical chart. If anything was missing, anything outside the routine, Lindsey would know it.
Where did these come from?
That day in the cemetery, Mom talked about killing herself with pills. She wanted my help and then got angry when I refused. She was horrible and mad for several weeks, but I thought she’d gotten over it. I thought she’d gotten over her death-with-dignity plan of several years ago, too, but apparently she’s never let it go. She can’t get her hands on four Flintstones vitamins without someone noticing, so I’ve rested comfortably in my belief that she has neither the opportunity nor the mental capacity to follow through without my assistance.
I empty the pills into my palm and notice that some of the red coating looks like it’s been rubbed off, like the pills sat in water or someone’s mouth. Like someone is slipping her medication under her tongue and then slipping it out when no one is looking to create a lethal stockpile. But when? I’m with her at night… except when I’m banished or leave before Lindsey gives her the medication. If Mom can hoard bags of Pirate’s Booty and toilet paper without notice, I suppose she’s capable of hiding little red pills too.
My knees buckle and I drop to the edge of the bed. She’s more resourceful than I’ve given her credit for, more determined than I imagined. Mother is planning to kill herself and she doesn’t need me to help her. She’s going to do it on her own. She wants to cut her life short but I want more. More time, more memories, more Bob Ross paintings, more nights braiding her hair, and even more twisted Twister stories.
This is so typically selfish of her.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. An annoying little voice in my head reminds me that I believe people have a right to die. Just not my mom. If that makes me a selfish hypocrite, I don’t care. I know she will die from Alzheimer’s, but she can’t die now. I don’t care what Simon said about it not being up to me. God can wait until I’m ready to let her go.
I hear her and Lindsey walk past the door. At some point Mom will notice her pills are missing, but I can’t leave them here. I toss the ugly earrings in the jewelry box and replace it in the chest. My heart pounds in my head, and yet I am numb as I wait for Mother and Lindsey to move into the dining room before I slip into Mom’s bathroom. I hold the pills over the elevated toilet seat with Mom’s new drainage bag hooked to one padded arm.
“Lou Ann,” Lindsey calls from down the hall to me. “Lunch.”
I hold Mom’s life in my palm. All I have to do is tilt my hand and flush. You want to keep me around until I am just bones and skin and my mouth is hanging open. She’s accused me of wanting her to drool on a bib, too. None of that is true. I love my mom. I know what’s best for her. She’s been happier since we moved here. Yes, she’s lost some cognitive skills, but she has a while yet before the end stage. Just this morning she was laughing and having fun.
“Lou!”