“Robert Gaudet was my second daddy,” she says, rolling her r’s and pronouncing it Ro-bare Go-day like she’s sitting in Cajun country.
Robert Gaudet was the only grandfather I’ve ever known. I called him Papa Bob, and he called me petite boo or little sweetheart.
“My real daddy died when I was seven. His name was Louis Jackson, and he was a war hero.”
“Yes.” I’m named after a grandfather I never knew and, growing up, I hated that I was named after a man. I wanted to be named Jennifer or Brittany or She-Ra. I stand and sling a big fluffy towel over my shoulder. I don’t hate my name anymore and prefer it over the alternative, Ro-bareta, after the grandfather I did know.
“Momma got Daddy’s Purple Heart.”
“Yes.” But I know little else. I know my biological grandfather was from Charleston and died in Korea, a war hero. Anytime I’ve asked, Mom just shakes her head and says he died when she was little. Grandmother always said it was so long ago she didn’t remember. I was always curious about the man I’m named after, but it’s as if he never existed.
Mom reaches for the grab bar bolted to the tile on one side while I clamp a removable rail on the other. She stands up okay, but I have to help her lift one leg, then the other, over the side. I try to avert my eyes as much as possible, but there is no unseeing Mother’s massive ’70s bush and flat butt.
“Robert was Momma’s first cousin.” She wraps the towel around her and lowers her voice to a whisper. “We don’t mention that.”
And with good reason. Grandmother’s elopement with Papa Bob broke both sides of the family into pieces and started a feud that lasted decades.
Mother dries herself while I grab a pink jogging suit I bought her last year. She lets me help her with her soft slippers, and I hold my breath. The doorbell rings, and I practically run from the room before she can accuse me of throwing away all her “good” shoes.
Dinner is inside a takeout bag hanging from the doorknob and my stomach growls even before I get to the kitchen.
“Was that Earl?” Mom walks into the kitchen, bath cap still on her head, lips burgundy now.
“No. It’s dinner.” She opens her mouth to protest, but I head her off. “I know. You were supposed to have dinner with Earl.”
“Where is he?”
I take utensils out of the drawer and close it before I am tempted to grab a knife and slit my wrists. “He went to Mexico,” I say because she’s going to forget and ask again anyway.
“Oh.”
I set everything on the small kitchen table, and we eat in blessed silence. So much has happened in this one day, it feels more like a week has passed since I woke this morning. And so much more has to be done before I crawl into bed. Number one on the list is to find an experienced in-home nurse to take over Mother’s medical needs and care.
I point my fork at her cheetah cap. “Do you need help getting that off?”
“No.” She raises a hand and pats the side like it’s the latest rage. “It’s a fabulous hat.”
Fabulous. My whole life, everything was “fabulous” or “amazing” or “to die for.” Whether it was a fabulous hat, an amazing bikini, or to-die-for kitten heels, Mom made sure that she owned it, just as she always made sure she looked fabulous before she left the house. Waiting for her to “put on her face” just to go to the grocery store was annoying, but I loved being seen with her. She was the most beautiful and stylish mom at any of the schools I attended. While other mothers picked up their children from school in minivans, my mom rolled up in a red Mercedes 560SL convertible, a gift from husband number three, Vinny Russo, just before she divorced him.
I wrap a flat noodle around my fork tines. There had been many times she’d driven that fancy car along the poverty line, but no one ever guessed, because she looked so damn good doing it.
“We ate this in China.”
I look up at Mom and smile. “Yes.” It was Bangkok, but who cares? I took her with me on my first world tour ten years ago, and it was one of the best times we had together. I’m happily surprised she recalls anything of that trip and raise my fork to my lips.
“I hope I don’t get the runs.”
Good God. I look at my fork and set it back down on my plate.
“Pork gives me the runs.”
Normally, my mother never would’ve talked about bodily functions at the dinner table and would have sent me to my room if I did. I guess this is her new normal and push my plate to the side. “We went to the outdoor market,” I say to distract her from her real or imagined pork issues. “You bought a pointy straw hat that was painted with elephants wearing the same kind of po
inty hat.”
“That’s silly.” Her brow furrows, and she shakes her head.
“You thought it was funny.” So had I. We’d laughed about it for months afterward, and I’m sad that she doesn’t remember that part.