“Never let a handsome face cloud good judgment,” I say, before I realize I’ve inadvertently slipped into Lulu mode.
“Huh?”
She’s obviously never read my rules or listened to Lulu podcasts. Which she should, so she can avoid the traps of good-looking men.
“Did you see his eyes?”
Now she’s starting to sound like Mom.
Lindsey follows me into the house and shuts the door behind us. The boxes we sent ahead are stacked in the center of the room, and Mom’s latest Bob Ross painting sits on a table in the breakfast nook. The smell of old appliances and even older wood brings me back to the last time I stood in this kitchen. We’d come for my great-uncle Jed’s funeral, and the scowls on grown-up faces had made me uncomfortable. Even at ten, I’d known we were personae non gratae, but Mother had acted as if we were welcomed into the warm bosom of our family. Although to say we’d been welcome might be overstating things. It’s more like we were tolerated because Mom’s real daddy had died a war hero and was possibly related to Stonewall Jackson. And of course, her stepdad wasn’t also her second cousin by blood.
From the front of the house, I hear my mother’s giddy voice and Lindsey brushes past me. I toss my blazer on a box marked LINEN and take a deep breath filled with dust and family history. Mom wants to be buried in the backyard next to my grandmother. I don’t understand either woman’s attachment to this overgrown plot of land in southern Louisiana. It must be the Scarlett O’Hara gene that I didn’t inherit.
The central hall runs from the kitchen straight to the front of the house. The worn rugs covering the wooden floors do nothing to muffle my lopsided footsteps, so I kick off my shoes. If my memory serves, each room is a different color and is framed with white molding, cornices, and the occasional Grecian column. Most rooms have a fireplace with grand mantels. A few have pocket doors that disappear into the walls to create more open spaces for family gatherings.
Generations of Suttons stare down at me from white plaster walls as I pass. I know it was the style in previous eras to appear somber, but they look downright angry. Perhaps they’re not smiling because they’re missing teeth. I wouldn’t smile either if I had missing teeth.
Oral hygiene is important to me.
The man in the white T-shirt is setting our luggage inside; I already don’t recall his name. Mom is sitting on an overstuffed chair next to a mahogany sideboard and giving him her signature Patricia Jackson-Garvin-Hunter-Russo-Thompson-Doyle sassy smile. A portrait of a disapproving woman in a black dress and white bonnet stares down at Mom as she flirts outrageously.
“You’re a foxy man.”
Why am I embarrassed by her when she’s not and has never been? She used to flirt with my high school boyfriends so much that I quit bringing them around her.
“I love a big foxy man around the house.”
Does she think Mr. Foxy Man is going to jump at the chance to be her new boyfriend? An Earl replacement? She doesn’t know what day it is, but she knows how to corner a man. It’s instinctual. Like breathing, it’s hardwired into her primitive lizard brain.
“It’s time for your medication, Patricia.”
Mom looks at Lindsey as if she’s just been reminded that she’s seventy-four and not twenty-four. It’s a look of sadness, and I feel bad that my reaction to her flirting was a wince of horror. I blame it on my lizard brain.
Mom places a hand on the sideboard. Mr. Foxy Man and Lindsey move to help her to her feet, but she shoos her away. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Serious girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“That’s good. I’ll come back in a minute so we can get better acquainted.” She puts a little sass in her walk, but the effect is not quite what it was when she lived in heels. She can’t get the same sway of her hips in orthopedic shoes. I wish she’d give it up before she breaks a hip.
“If you tell me where these bags go, I’ll put them in y’all’s rooms and be on my way.”
“I don’t know, actually.” Mom and Lindsey disappear into the kitchen and I turn toward him. “I was ten the last time I was here.” He sets my carry-on next to Mom’s large suitcase and closes the front door. Lindsey is right. There is no denying he’s a big, handsome man, but I’ve dated a lot of handsome men. Handsome men are vain and have entitlement issues. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ll admit that I haven’t quite gotten over my “men are assholes” phase since Tony.
“I’m Lou Ann Hunter.” I stick out my hand toward him. “Remind me of your name again?”
His gaze rests on my forehead and I think he’s going to ask about the red mark the size of a silver dollar above my left brow. “Simon Broussard,” he says, and gives my hand one quick shake before dropping it.
I’m still waiting for him to explain why he is in my mother’s house.
“I’m going to assume you want Ms. Patricia in Jasper’s room. We turned the front parlor into Jasper’s bedroom about six years ago when the stair railing got too loose.”
Of course it’s too loose. I look at the grand staircase curving downward against the wall, with its intricately carved balusters and railing. It doesn’t look as big and ominous as it did when I was a kid. “Mom sometimes wanders at night.” I have her alarm mats, but I think I’ll need several more just to be safe, and I put them on my mental to-buy list.
He points to the wall of wood paneling on this side of the stairs. “We converted the trunk closet under the stairs into a bathroom.”
“We?”
“I.”
“Are you a handyman?”
He chuckles. “Among other things.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I give up and point to Mother’s big suitcase. “That’s hers.” Boxes of her things are also stacked in the kitchen, but Lindsey and I can go through those later.
Simon picks up the large bag instead of lifting the handle and wheeling it down the hall like a normal person. His muscles flex, and I’m glad Mom and Lindsey aren’t here to fawn and coo or break out in prayer. “I thought you said front parlor.”
“I did.”
I point to the green room on my right. “The front parlor is at the front of the house.”
“You’re right.”
He’s obviously confused about the front and back of the house—not that it really matters. I follow him. The door handles are lower than normal, and he has to bend down to turn the knobs. Across the threshold, he flips a switch and an old crystal chandelier spreads weak light across the room. From what I can see, about half the bulbs are burned out. The walls are red, which makes the room creepy and drab at the same time. This won’t do for Mother. “Do you know if there are replacement bulbs around here?”
“The bulbs don’t need to be replaced.” He drops the suitcase on a wrought-iron bed shoved up against one wall and covered by a patchwork quilt. “They just need to be screwed back in.” The heels of his boots thud across the polished wood as he moves to a floor-to-ceiling window and pushes open the red drapes. Sunlight pours over him, and with his hands clutching the heavy drapes like that, he looks like he’s being crucified. The image fits with Lindsey’s religious experience.
“Why are the bulbs unscrewed?” I sit on the bed next to my mother’s suitcase.
“Respect.” He drops his hands and turns to face me. “It’s more peaceful without all that light.”
“Was Great-uncle Jasper a vampire?” He doesn’t laugh but I crack myself up.
“The bulbs should still work,” he says, as if he didn’t hear my funny little joke. “No one’s been in here since Jasper’s wake.”
I stop mid-chuckle and squint my eyes. “His wake was in this house?” Sure, it took place six months ago, but it’s still disturbing.
“Funeral too.” He points to the bed. “We laid poor old Jasper out right where you’re sittin’.”
“What?” I jump up like someone lit my tail on fire. Now he laughs, a great big shout of laught
er.
“He was ninety-seven, and we couldn’t lay him out in the front parlor on account of him looking like death.” He laughs even harder, and his accent gets thicker. “And scarin’ young’uns.”
“Who does that?” It’s a rhetorical question, and I glance at the bed as if I might see Jasper still lying there. “Haven’t you people heard of mortuaries?”
“You’re white like you’ve seen the rougarou.”
I don’t know what that means, but I’m going to take a wild guess that it’s not a compliment.
“What happened to the parlor?” Mother asks as she walks into the room. She slowly spins around, confused. “Where’s Grandmere’s furniture?” She points to the intricately carved fireplace. “Where’s the screen with the beagle painted on it?” Her confusion turns to agitation, and she wrings her hands. “Why’s it so dark in here? I can barely see.”
“It’s going to be all right, Patricia,” Lindsey assures her in a calm voice.
“The lightbulbs just need to be screwed in.” Simon walks across the threadbare rug. “We needed to get rid of all the clutter and—”
“I hate it.”
“—we moved the furniture to the attic,” Simon continues as if Mother hadn’t interrupted.
“Why the heck did you do that?” Mother’s tone gets harsher, even with her new boyfriend.
“Mais, we had to move it so Jasper could sleep in here. Getting up and down the stairs was a problem for him.”
“Well, not for me!”
“The banister is loose. I’d hate for you to fall.”
“I’ll use the back stairs.”
“Those are piled high with a hoard of Sutton treasures.”
“Put the furniture back in here,” Mother demands as if she doesn’t hear him. “Who stole the fireplace screen?”
Please, God, don’t let her go on a Wynonna tirade.
“I’ll screw in those bulbs before I leave.” Simon’s voice is calm but firm, like he respects his elders but not enough to take their bullshit.
“This will be your room, too,” I tell Mom as Simon exits. “We’ll decorate any way you want.”
“No.” Mom crosses her arms and looks like she’s ready to pitch a fit. “I want my grandmere’s bedroom upstairs.”
“If you pick this room,” Lindsey joins in, “you won’t tire yourself out from walking up and down the stairs all day.”
“This is the parlor.”
“Mom,” I cajole, “you heard Simon. The handrail isn’t safe. I don’t want you to fall down the stairs. We’ll make this into the grandest room in the house.”
“This room is red.” Her eyes start to water even before she sits on the bed. “Grandmere’s room is blue.”
“We can paint it any color you want.”
“You won’t even let me have a real bedroom!”
“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” I don’t like to see her cry, but I don’t want her to take a tumble on the stairs, either.
“You don’t care. You want me to die.”
I take a calming breath and say, “If I wanted you to die, I’d set you up in Great-grandmother’s room so you could fall down the stairs and break your dang neck.”
“Why are you always mean to me?” she sobs, and covers her face with her hands.
So much for being a good daughter. Of course, this is the exact moment Simon enters the room with an eight-foot ladder.
“Lou Ann gave away all my shoes.”
I guess God heard me and she isn’t going on a Wynonna tirade. I’m in her crosshairs instead. “Not all your shoes, Mom.”
“All my good ones.”
When she says “all,” she’s talking about an old pair of marabou mules with three-inch kitten heels. Obviously, fuck-me pumps aren’t allowed in elder care facilities. I donated them to Goodwill three years ago, but that bee is still in her bonnet. I look sideways at Lindsey, who hasn’t heard the marabou mules complaint, but that’s one of the things I really like about her. She doesn’t need to hear it to figure out the backstory.
Lindsey sits next to Mom and rubs her back. “What can I do to help you?” It should be me comforting my mother, but I’m her target now, and she’ll likely push me away if I try.
I glance up at Simon, who is pretending not to notice the scene below him. At least he’s not scowling again, like he suspects me of elder abuse.
“Make her give me my good shoes.”
“Those are good shoes,” Lindsey reassures her.
I turn back as Mom points to her orthopedic sneakers. “They’re ugly.”
She’s right about that, but at least her feet don’t hurt and her ankles aren’t broken. The day will come when she’ll have to use one of those walkers with tennis balls on the front feet and she’ll still be complaining about those stupid mules.
“She hates me.”
With the hope of a new beginning, there’s always the danger of rejection or failure. Over the past few years, I’ve gotten used to her changing moods and her anger, but we’ve had a good month, and that makes this rejection much harder to take. I bite the inside of my lip and suck it up as Rattlesnake Patty takes over.
“She kicked me out of her place with Tony. She stuck me in a nursing home to get rid of me.”
“That’s not true,” Lindsey assures her.
Actually, it’s partly true. She was staying with me when I got engaged to Tony. He and I didn’t live together, but that was just a technicality. He was at my condo so much he might as well have lived with me. And I hadn’t “stuck” her anywhere. I’d found a nice place equipped to take better care of her than I could. I couldn’t take time off back then like I can now. And if I’m being honest with myself (which is twice now and totally annoying), I’ll admit I couldn’t hack it.
“You can buy new shoes.”
“No, I can’t.” Mom points a finger at me, and her eyes are black with anger. “She cut up all my credit cards so I can’t go on the Google net!”
“Your stolen cards, you mean.” She has access to money in the joint account I set up for her, and I’m still baffled by the how and why. “Credit card theft is a felony, Mom. You wouldn’t like prison. The food’s bad, the shoes are worse, and there aren’t any men. No flirting or spooning or miracle healing.” I feel myself getting angry and press my fingertips into my skull. Mom drives me to feel as crazy as she is, but she has an excuse and I don’t. “I’ll go unpack your bedding.” I have to remove myself before my potty mouth takes possession of my body for the second time in an hour.
The wood floors are smooth as glass beneath my feet as I make my way down the hall, passing a sampler with a depiction of Sutton Hall stitched on it. The slate floor in the kitchen keeps the room cooler than the rest of the house. The cleaning crew I hired was here recently, but no amount of their scrubbing could turn the now-pink 1970s counters back to red.
The harvest-gold refrigerator appears to have seen better days, but when I open it, cool air brushes my throat. It’s stocked with fruits and vegetables and pudding. I grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge and a knife from a drawer.
I use it to cut the tape across the box labeled LINEN. The scent of freshly washed sheets and comforters rises to greet my nose and reminds me of my home in Seattle. There is a world of difference between Millennial Tower and Sutton Hall. One is my home and the other will never feel like home.
I hear laughter from the parlor/mortuary, but I don’t return. I feel as out of place now as I did when I visited as a kid. I want to make Mom happy. I want to be there laughing and talking with her, but there’s no talking to Rattlesnake Patty. I’ll just have to learn which words trigger her—besides shoes, Wynonna, credit cards, and Pirate’s Booty—and avoid them at all costs.
My gaze falls on two doors on the other side of the kitchen, and I realize I have hazy memories of them both. I set the knife down and walk past the stack of boxes. The first door is stuck, but with a little determination, I open it to the back stairs that use
d to scare the crap out of me as a kid. I guess a lot of things about this house scared the crap out of me, and these dim, narrow wooden steps rank alongside the mausoleums in the cemetery. Still spooky, they’re now stacked with books and newspapers and even a bed frame on its side. Simon referred to this mess as Sutton treasures. All I see is junk.
The second door swings inward to an old butler’s pantry, where I vaguely remember hiding once upon a time with tins of shortbread cookies and praline patties. On the other side of the pantry is another door leading to the dining room. Light from behind me pitches my shadow across cabinets and shelves on one side and a floor-to-ceiling wine rack on the other. I could use a nice red blend about now, and I’m a bit disappointed that the rack holds bottles of water instead. I turn my attention to the shelves stocked with groceries: bread, pasta, and soup. Boxes of crackers and cans of tuna. Canned fruits and veggies and a bag of potato chips.
What? My attention returns to the bright-yellow-and-white bag almost hidden within the variegated shadows. I walk forward, and the pantry door swings closed behind me. Junk food was not on the grocery list! The grocery list I made was filled with nutritious food—with the exception of Mom’s Pirate’s Booty, of course. I certainly never would have requested an ultimate bag of chip perfection, and I wonder how it got in here. I shove a box of crackers in front of all that salty goodness. Out of sight, out of mind, but the Lay’s potato chips know my weakness and seem to taunt me.
Lou Ann. Lou Ann. You know you can’t resist our salty yumminess.
I tell myself to back away slowly, not to reach for the bag, definitely not to rip it open. That’s what I tell myself, but of course I don’t listen, and the scent of greasy potatoes fills my nostrils as I tear it open.
“Just one,” I whisper. Crunching fills my ears, and my taste buds experience nirvana. I haven’t had an orgasm in a long time, but this is close. “One more, and that’s it.”
I need to unpack my clothes and set up my office in the library. I need to make beds, put up the monitors, and lay down the sensor mats. I have so many things I need to do, but I lean back and slide down the cabinet until my butt hits the hardwood floor.
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 6
