Setting up my office in the library should be just as easy. The desk looks like something out of the Oval Office, but the Empire chair is as lumpy as the mattresses. Easy, the desk stays, the chair goes, but I run into a big problem with the electric sockets that only fit two prongs. I know there are three-prong sockets in the kitchen, and I’ll need to run an extension cord all the way to the back of the house until I can figure something else out.
I have to write a blog by the end of the week, and that can’t happen without power. I try to imagine where I’ll find a long cord and head out to the garage. Of course, the door doesn’t open right away. I shove my sore shoulder into it, but unlike the front door of the house, it swings open and bangs into a wheel of the big horse-drawn carriage parked where I’d planned to park the Escalade. It’s a surrey with the fringe on top. I’ve seen carriages like this in museums and old movies, but this is longer, with three rows of seats. I imagine it was the family station wagon of its day. Mom would love this, but I don’t think I’ll tell her about it. No doubt she’d want to take it out for a spin, and I don’t trust the cracked wheels. Not to mention, I haven’t the slightest desire to rent carriage horses.
I flip on the light and move to the other side of the garage, where I find two cords: an orange hundred-foot extension and another fifty-footer. I grab both to be on the safe side, but the orange cord is more than I need. I spend the next few hours working and take a break from my writing long enough to sign up for weekly food delivery from Rouses and hire the Cajun Maids to come twice a month.
When the Cadillac is delivered, I find Lindsey in Mom’s room, insisting that she continue her daily exercise, which mostly consists of Mom doing arm and leg lifts with a big rubber band while seated.
“I already did this one!”
“We have to do three repetitions, Patricia.”
Exercise used to be part of Mom’s daily routine, but that was a while ago. These days she prefers watching TV and eating Pirate’s Booty. “No,” she says, and throws the big rubber band across the room. Both women have their arms folded across their chests in what appears to be a stalemate. Lindsey’s jaw is set, and my money’s on her. She’s bigger and more determined, and I’ve seen her battles with Mom about drinking enough water. She usually wins.
“We need to get going to the mattress store,” I say. I know I shouldn’t undermine Mother’s health care, but this could go on for hours. “It’s five already, and the store closes at six.”
Lindsey glances at me and relents. She wants a new mattress as much as I do. Mother, however, wants to continue the battle. “I’m not going.”
“You have to go and pick out a new mattress.”
“I don’t want a new mattress.”
“All the mattresses here are bad, Mom.”
She points to Jasper’s bed. “That one is good.”
I sat on that mattress and I know better. “Uncle Jasper died on that one.”
“I don’t care.”
She’s being stubborn, and I’m forced to think up a quick lie. “It won’t fit the bed frame you want.”
“Bring down the mattress with it.”
I said it was a “quick lie,” not a good one. “It was thrown out years ago,” I fib again, and don’t feel the least bit bad. I expect her to argue, but she rises, and I quickly usher her out the back door before she can change her mind.
“What a waste,” Mom says as I help her down the wooden steps. The overgrown shrubs make the same clicking sounds as they did the day before and I say a prayer for my Manolo heel, in there somewhere but as good as gone. No way am I crawling into those bug-infested bushes. “When Grandmere couldn’t have kids right off, she had a voodoo queen cast a fertility spell on that mattress. After a few years and a whole lotta practice, she birthed Jed and Jasper and Momma right on that mattress. I was born in New Orleans, where Momma and Daddy lived before he left.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mom sucks in a breath and lets out a dreamy sigh. “But I did practice on it a time or two with Jean Oliver and his cousin… What was his name?”
That gets my attention and I turn to Mom. “At the same time!” Gross. I slept—or tried to sleep—on that mattress last night. Lindsey’s eyes are filled with horror.
“He sure had a big—”
“I don’t want to know!”
“—mustache,” she continues.
Thank God.
“That mattress had magic powers.” She stops as I open the car door and the lighted running board slides out. “Now you’ll never have magic powers like me.”
“Bummer.” And yet, somehow, I’ll find the strength to live on.
8
Mom’s a horrible back-seat driver.
Raphael’s a horrible bird.
Lindsey’s a horrible chicken.
THE “PASSION RED” Escalade was the shorter option, but it’s still bigger than my Land Rover. I would have preferred a smaller SUV, but Mother loves a Cadillac. The center console is so loaded with buttons and gadgets that it takes Lindsey and me a good ten minutes to figure out the GPS. Once we enter the information correctly and don’t have to delete it ten times, we buckle ourselves into the beast and take off. Not so much like a racehorse, but more like a turtle.
I’ve been in Escalades more times than I can count, but always in the back, with media escorts at the wheel. Everything looks a whole lot wider and longer from the driver’s seat. I feel like I’m driving a short bus with touchy gas and brake pedals. I turn corners too wide and at the best of times I am horrible at gauging distance. Three miles always feels like five to me, and ten feet might as well be fifteen. I have a hard time with measurements, too. I don’t know how many centimeters are in an inch, nor do I care. Tony used to tell me he was six inches, but even I knew that wasn’t true.
Yuck. I’d blocked out Tony from my head for quite a while. Now he’s back, thanks to Mom.
“You’re kinking up my neck!” Mom complains.
“It’s called whiplash,” Lindsey piles on.
I do not appreciate her help and momentarily take my eyes off the road to glare at her in the passenger seat. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Would either of you ladies like to drive?”
“I will,” Mother volunteers.
“I don’t have a driver’s license.”
I look at Lindsey, who shrugs at having left this vital information off her résumé. I’d just assumed that she always took the bus in Seattle because she didn’t own a car. “Since when?”
“Since never. My parents don’t think women should drive.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. My dad and brothers have licenses, but Mom and I and my sisters don’t.”
“You could have gotten your license when you moved out.”
She shrugs again. “I only just moved out, and I knew the Spokane bus system like the back of my hand.”
This is all news to me and reminds me of how little I know about Lindsey.
“Turn left in three hundred feet,” the guidance system directs. I turn too soon and end up in an Arby’s parking lot. The soothing female voice tells me to make a U-turn, and I whip the big SUV around.
“You’re kinking my neck,” Mom says again, but I ignore her.
“You have to learn to drive, Lindsey.” I have to work and can’t always chauffeur Mom around or pick up prescriptions.
“I said I don’t have a license. I didn’t say that I don’t know how to drive.”
“Rebel.”
She smiles. “The girls in my family live at home until we get married.”
This explains why she’d accepted a job four hours from her hometown, but it doesn’t tell me why she’d jumped at the offer to move across the country.
“Turn left.” I turn left.
“Earl’s a better driver than you.”
“I know, Mom.”
Mother’s complaint gets a chuckle from the twenty-six-year-old with no license. “I’m the first girl
in my family to move out.”
“How many in your family?”
“Counting my parents, nine. I have three older sisters and one younger, and two younger brothers.”
To me, as an only child, that’s a lot of people. Her parents must be insane to want them all to stay at home long after they should be on their own. Then I remind myself that they couldn’t be too bad if they let Lindsey go to college. “You do have a bachelor’s degree from WSU.” Just for good measure, I add, “Right?” because, at this point, I’m not sure of anything.
She nods. “I was supposed to find a husband there like two of my sisters did.”
“Women have a hard enough time finding a good date in college. For God’s sake, how can you be expected to find a good husband?”
“I don’t know. I never did.”
“Turn left in six hundred feet.” I guesstimate the distance and am shocked when I actually get it right. “You know that saying about kissing a lot of toads before you find true love.” I pull to a stop at a red light and step on the brakes only a little too hard. “It’s true, but keep in mind that finding true love isn’t about the pool of toads, but rather about the toads in your pool,” I quote myself. “So, date broadly but be selective, and you’ll find your prince.”
“Why haven’t you found yours?”
God, I hate that question. The answer is that I’ve dated broadly and selectively. That’s one of the big differences between Mom and me. She dated broadly but wasn’t very selective.
The one time I thought I found Mr. Right, everything blew up in my face in a very horrifying and public display of greed and dishonesty that threatened to destroy my company. Thank God it didn’t. “I’ll find my Mr. Right.”
“Sounds to me like you need different toads in your pool.” Lindsey tries not to smile as she leans forward and tunes in to a country music station.
Smart-ass. I don’t have any toads, and I’m not searching for any, either. Which is another difference between Mom and me: she’s still on the hunt to restock her pond.
Even though the love guru business is booming, I’ve privately taken myself off the market. No one knows that quite a few of the “dates” I’ve written and spoken about for the past three years have been fictional—not even Margie. I’m thirty-eight, and a lot of men my age want younger women. Men older than me have baggage that I don’t want to deal with. Fiction is easier than real life.
The trip to the mattress store that should have taken thirty minutes takes almost an hour, and I’m worried it’ll be closed by the time we arrive. An hour of Lindsey singing along to the radio (I’ve heard better noise coming from a pissed-off cat) and the back-seat driver yelling, “You’re kinking up my neck!”
Patience, I tell myself. Mom doesn’t mean to annoy me.
“Turn right,” the navigation system directs, but I’m busy trying to make out the names of streets and almost overshoot the intersection.
“Where are we going?” Mom asks, her tone growing more agitated by the minute.
I don’t blame her. I’m agitated, too. “To the mattress store,” I remind her so patiently I should get an award.
“I already got a mattress.”
“You need a new one to fit Great-grandmother’s bed.”
“I want the mattress that’s on it.”
I repeat my earlier lie. “It got thrown out.” I glance at her in the rearview mirror and feel like her parent. “If you want that bed, you have to get a new mattress.”
Our gazes meet and her eyes are sad. “Momma was born in that bed.”
“Turn right in three hundred feet, then proceed one mile to West Gonzales.” I return my gaze to the road, slow down, and manage the right turn. “Maybe you can find one that massages your back.”
“Or I’ll get one of those adjustable mattresses like Earl has,” Mom says, kind of grumpy.
Earl’s Craftmatic isn’t a memory I want stuck in my head for the rest of my life, and I quickly change the subject. “We have to let Raphael out of his cage for a bit when we get back.”
“Earl’s mattress was perfect for spooning.”
Well, it could be worse.
“And sweet love.”
Damn it. I jinxed myself.
Lindsey’s screechy-cat singing comes to a sudden halt, and we look at each other, eyes bugging out, ears ringing from the trauma we’ve just endured. Mom might wear lipstick and the latest in jogging couture, but under it all, she’s sporting a big droopy bra, black-lace thong over her Attends, and geriatric compression shocks. Lindsey makes a distressed sound and shakes her head. I just shrug.
“Make a U-turn, then proceed to the route.” Crap, I overshot the turn like before, but this time I hear a hint of judgment in the navigator’s sugary tone.
“Earl’s a better driver,” Mom says again, as if trying to see if I’ll snap.
“Make a right turn, then proceed to the route.” I’m in the wrong lane to turn. “Proceed to the route.”
“Why does that woman keep saying that?” asks the other woman in the car who likes to repeat things.
“We’re lost,” Lindsey piles on.
“We’re not lost.” I point to the map. “We’re almost back on the blue line.”
We make it to the mattress store as the manager is locking the front doors. I yell at him through the glass to please open, and I promise to buy three mattresses if he lets us in. Luckily, greed rules the day.
The store is like a warehouse, and Mom has to check out practically every mattress. She lies on her back and stomach, then flops from side to side like a fish before moving to the next one. I don’t tell myself things could get worse. I try not to even think about it.
After much flopping by both Lindsey and Mother, I make an executive decision to order three Sealy queen-plus Posturepedics. I love a good pillow-top, and, just as important, they are in stock and can be delivered tomorrow.
We buy a bunch of bedding and load up the back of the Escalade. I figure if we put the new duvets and pillows on the old lumpy mattresses, we’ll be able to get through the night.
But I figured wrong. The duvets and bedspreads aren’t thick enough to compensate. At least not for me, and I find myself not being able to sleep again. For the second night in a row, I stare up at a cracked ceiling medallion and a chandelier that’s missing a few crystals.
Another crappy night on a crappy mattress. I am hot and sticky but at least Mom is asleep. Lindsey double-dosed her early enough that her huge snores practically rattle the monitor on my nightstand.
I move to the side of the bed and peel off my flannel nightshirt. I’ve packed five of them, along with my shearling robe. It isn’t that it’s too warm for flannel at night; it’s too humid and sticky. I toss it onto the floor and turn on one of Mother’s naked-lady lamps that sits on a side table. I remember this room from my childhood. It is even more faded now than it was then, but at one time it must have been truly stunning. The walls would have been a deep blue, the moldings and cornices a stark white with gold leaf. The white marble fireplace is flecked with gold and carved with angels.
The sitting room was converted into a big bathroom, and as a kid, I remember thinking the pink toilet, sink, and tub were fabulous. As an adult, I think the room looks like a time capsule from the 1920s or ’30s.
Mom’s snoring gets even louder, and I tell myself that I will miss the sound of her snoring one day, but I am tired and today is not that day. I stand and wrap the duvet around my bare shoulders. The old wood floor creaks as I move across the room and throw open the double doors to the veranda, feeling like the mistress of the manor. Perhaps there’s an ounce of Scarlett in me yet.
I start to shut the doors behind me but pause with my hand on the cut-glass knob. Raphael is on the lam. For a few seconds I ponder the likelihood of him surviving on his own. How long could he last before a heron snapped up his naked little body? Would I hear his scream?
Probably. I shut the door and lean back against it. When we returned
from our mattress-store adventure, I’d discovered the cage door open and Raphael across the entrance hall in the library, swinging upside down from a chandelier and chewing on the crystals. Getting him down from the chandelier had been fairly easy, but getting him to return to his cage was a whole different story. I’d chased him around the house for an hour, trying to shoo him toward the front parlor, but he was having none of it. He squawked and flew from spot to spot, his bright green wings carrying his naked bird body until I lost sight of him somewhere near the dining room. For the rest of the evening, Lindsey walked around as if the damn bird might fall from the sky and peck out her eyes. Mom kept insisting on calling the “doctor.”
Neither happened, and Raphael is still hiding somewhere in the house like a prison escapee. The plaster is cool beneath my bare feet and the moist, scented air brushes my cheeks. I haven’t examined the balcony in the light of day, and I hope it doesn’t give way under my weight. If it does, I’ll probably break some bones and end up in the hospital. The prospect doesn’t sound too bad, like a vacation maybe, complete with turndown service and intravenous pain medication.
I find an old rocking chair to my left and carefully sit, waiting for it to fall apart. When it doesn’t, I tuck my cold feet beneath me. The air smells different here than it does in Seattle, sweet magnolia and jasmine blending with the earthy high notes of the muddy Mississippi.
The sky is filled with streaks of purple and orange, and if I look really hard, I can see long strings of lights. They blink and disappear as a riverboat paddles up the Mississippi.
I know things got a little stressful during the drive to the mattress store, but I have to say that Mom and I had a relatively good day. She randomly asked about her fifth husband, Buzzy Doyle (I don’t know why he was called Buzzy when his real name was Lester), and brought up Tony only once. I didn’t leave the room or lose my patience or yell the f-word.
I push my braid from my shoulder and wrap the duvet tighter around me. I think I made progress today, and I’m going to continue to change even if it kills me. I can’t expect Mom to change. Change has never been a priority for her, and it’s less than likely to happen now.
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 8
