Light from the front porch spreads out across the patchy grass and up the foot of a live oak. I’m not just going to try to get along with Mother. I am going to get along with her. I have to remember she can’t help her attitude and behavior. Not when she accuses me of stealing her shoes and all her money. Not when she screams about falling out of the sky or when she tells me I’m a lousy driver.
Not even when she mentions that rat bastard Tony. Obviously, her mind retains the good and forgets the bad. She remembers that she often called him when she needed something but forgets that he tried to destroy me. She remembers that she was included in our wedding plans but forgets that I called it off three days before I was supposed to walk down the aisle at St. James. She remembers that she loved him like a son but forgets that he’d cheated on me—her actual daughter—the entire two years we were together. She has no recollection of the day I dropped by his house to show him a copy of the wedding vows that Father Nick had given me and found him in bed with a barista from the Starbucks where we’d first met. Evidently, he’d never stopped schmoozing women over his triple-shot soy espresso macchiato.
As if the cheating itself wasn’t devastating enough, he monetized it for the sleazy talk show and tabloid circuits. Tony is a lawyer in private practice and knows how to give interviews that barely skirt slander laws. He tweeted and Facebooked just enough truth to make his side of the story seem believable. He Instagrammed photos of me in colorful lingerie that I’d sent for his eyes only. At the time, when the photos were being consumed exclusively by the man I loved, they’d seemed artsy and chic, but when posted publicly, they just looked tawdry. He removed them after my lawyer contacted him, but the damage was done. I was publicly humiliated, and people called me a hypocrite for not following my own rules. Specifically, the rules from my 2016 book, Inner Sassy, Outer Classy, in which I dedicated several chapters to the dos and don’ts of selfies, sexy pics, and nude photos.
Fern issued several statements on my behalf, but there wasn’t a lot I could do to stop his media assault—especially not after he wrote an article for a women’s magazine titled “The Truth about Lulu the Love Guru,” in which he blatantly lied about every aspect of my personal and professional life.
He was sent a cease-and-desist letter by my attorney, but he ignored it and shot off his mouth to TMZ. Finally, I had enough to prove defamation.
From the time I called off the wedding to the day Tony settled out of court, my life was a daily hell. Thirteen months of trying to salvage my reputation and keep Lulu and myself from taking a dive off the deep end.
I don’t know how I could have known Tony but not seen him for who he really is: a narcissist who hates to lose at anything. What might make him a good attorney makes him a horrible person.
It took me six months after the nightmare was finally over to relax, and another year to forget him completely. Now Mother reopens the wounds each time she mentions his name. Taking Mom to the condo triggered her memories of him. I hope living at Sutton Hall will encourage her to forget Tony so I don’t explode and swear like a teenage boy again.
Still clutching the duvet about myself, I return to the bedroom, praying for a few hours of calm.
Mom’s the queen of chaos, the high priestess of shenanigans, the executive chef of fruitcake—calm is not on her menu. Finding calm in the center of chaos is up to me, so I download a meditation app Lindsey suggested. It’s called Out of Your Mind: Meditation for Beginners.
The house is nice and quiet. No yelling or crying, and Mom has stopped snoring like a hibernating bear. I strike a meditative pose in the middle of the lumpy bed and take in a deep breath.
The session starts with soothing music until a man begins to speak in a sedated tone. “Find a comfortable position.”
That’s easy for him to say because he’s not on his family’s “practice mattress.”
“No cell phones or outside noise.”
But without my cell phone, how would I listen to the app?
“Let your eyes close and observe your breath. Observe if your breath flows in your belly.”
Doesn’t he mean lungs? Okay. Okay, I’ll stop overthinking and observe my breath in my belly.
“Imagine filling your belly like a balloon—”
Balloon belly? I take Midol for balloon belly.
“As you exhale, allow your breath to leave your belly in a gentle way. Observe how that feels.”
Oh, I didn’t listen and already exhaled.
“Go with it. Allow it to be a pleasure. Let it quiet your body. Let it quiet your mind and let go of the counting.”
I was supposed to be counting?
“As we begin our journey, imagine yourself in a white room. The walls are white. The floors are white. The ceiling is white. You are surrounded by white light. You are wearing white flowing clothing. Breathe into your belly and imagine you are a part of this white place.”
This guy sounds extremely beta.
“Allow the white surroundings to fill your center.”
The kind of beta who can’t figure out why he never gets the hot chick of his dreams. Men like this guy usually never get married and are very difficult to coach. They insist that women want beta men, but they don’t listen when I tell them that beta shouldn’t mean wimpy. Wimpy attracts wimpy. Not hot chicks. They need to step up and grow a pair or they’ll never attract the woman of their dreams. Too bad they usually don’t listen.
“You are walking past a smooth-flowing stream.”
Wait. How did I get to a stream?
I give up and toss my phone on the nightstand. I consider trying a meditation app by a woman next time as I search for the least lumpy place on the mattress. Without Mom yelling and snoring, the house is so quiet and still. I would say “like a tomb” if I weren’t haunted by the presence of the actual tombs right outside in the Sutton cemetery. I know Mom wants to “visit” her kin, but I hope she forgets about it for a while.
The creaking sound of footsteps draws my attention to the closed door. It can’t be Mom because no alarms have gone off. I wait for Lindsey’s knock, but she’s pacing up and down the hall. The creak of her footsteps is followed by slow squeaks and groans of the old wood floors. I’m wondering if she has restless legs or something when a sudden thump has me out of bed and heading for the door. I am afraid she’s fallen, but the hall is so dark I won’t be able to make out the outline of her body on the floor.
“Lou Ann,” she whispers.
I look toward her bedroom and think I see her head poking out the door, looking back at me. “Yeah,” I whisper back, although I don’t know why we’re whispering.
“Was that you?”
“No. I thought it was you.”
“No.”
The creaky footsteps continue from the bottom of the long, curved staircase now. “Is that Mom?” God, I hope she isn’t up and raring for round two. I’m exhausted and afraid I’ll break my vow of patience. “Did you set her alarm?”
“You were the last one out of her room.”
Crap. Maybe she just wants to spoon. Not ideal, but I’d rather do that than get yelled at again.
There’s a scraping sound like someone is dragging a shovel in the foyer. “That’s not Patricia! Someone’s in the house!”
I might have forgotten to set Mom’s alarm, but I made sure all the doors were locked before I came upstairs. It’s possible someone’s come through a window, but I need to stay calm and not give in to my fear. Scared shitless is not my best look. “Hold on,” I whisper just in case, and run to the mantel to grab at the outline of a candlestick. It’s heavy in my hand and could deliver a lethal blow to the head. Of course, that would mean I’d have to swing at close range in the dark and I’d rather not. I turn around and let out a startled little scream as Lindsey runs into me. I almost fall backward into the fireplace but catch myself in time.
“It’s headed up here again,” she whispers, and I can see the fear in the whites of her eyes. I tiptoe into the hall wi
th Lindsey close behind. She puts her hands on the back of my shoulders as if I’m a human shield.
“Why am I first? You’re taller and stronger.”
“I have a lot more years to live than you.”
A lot? I’m only twelve years older than she is, and it makes more sense for her to be the shield. Over the sound of Lindsey’s breathing and my own heart palpitations, I hear the creak-creak-squeak of footsteps coming up the old steps. “Mom?” There’s no answer and I’m formally scared shitless now. I raise the candlestick over my head.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry,” I whisper as I run my free hand along the wall and flip on the lights. I can’t see anything and call out, “I’ve got a really big gun. I’ll shoot a really big hole in you if you don’t get out of this house.”
We don’t hear anything in response and move closer to the top of the stairs to meet our fate. I peek over the banister, my heart in my throat. There’s nothing there. “Hand me the sawed-off,” I say really loud, just in case. I keep still and listen. Nothing but the sound of Lindsey’s breathing. “I think they’re gone,” I whisper over my shoulder.
“Are you sure?”
Not at all. “Pretty sure. I don’t see anyone.”
Lindsey drops her hands and moves out from behind me to take a look for herself. “I don’t see anyone either, but we both heard it. Right?” I take this as a rhetorical question until she repeats herself like she’s frantic for confirmation. “Right?”
I lower my candlestick. “Right.” I grab her arm as she leans out further. “Be careful. The banister is loose.”
“I don’t think anyone is down there.”
“Right.”
“They must have left.”
“Right.”
“We’re safe now.”
“Then why are we still whispering?”
“Ghosts.”
My legs feel weak, so I take a seat at the top of the stairs. My heart rate is dropping to normal, but I still have a healthy grip on the candlestick. I can’t explain what’s just happened. I know what I heard, but I don’t believe in haunted houses or spooky stuff in general. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation, like the old house is settling or wind or, God forbid, an actual swamp rat. “You watch too many horror movies,” I say, at a normal volume this time.
“I’m never watching another scary movie as long as I live.” Lindsey sits next to me and shakes her head with conviction. “I’m done with ghosts and witches and demon possessions.”
This is southern Louisiana. The heart of voodoo queens and hoodoo curses. “You didn’t mention zombies.”
“Oh, I love zombies. Zombies aren’t real. Not like chain-saw massacres and evil birds.”
9
March 18
Mom’s DNA and man buffet.
HOW MANY men does it take to move a four-poster bed made of solid walnut?
Five. Four to do the work and one to tell them how to do it. That one person is Simon. “When you boys are done passing a good time,” he hollers down the stairs, “these old mattresses aren’t going to haul themselves out.”
Apparently, I’d paid the mattress store for delivery but not for setup and removal, and no cash bribe could induce the two deliverymen to haul the new ones up the curved stairs or take the old ones out. They’d dumped them in the middle of the parlor and said, “That’s not part of the job,” as they’d walked out, practically slamming the door in their haste, leaving me and Mom and Lindsey staring at the mattresses and box springs. Sleep-deprived and on the brink of an emotional breakdown, I couldn’t think of a solution.
“Call the doctor,” Mom suggested, as if the man who’d called me a swamp rat and saddled me with an obnoxious bird was going to do me any favors.
I ignored her and looked to Lindsey, who still seemed a little pale after last night’s creaking-house shenanigans. “Suggestions?”
“This is above my pay grade,” she said, like I was going to tell her to haul the mattresses upstairs on her own back.
“Call the doctor.”
Too tired to argue, I dialed the first number on Simon’s business card and handed the phone to Mom. To my shock and Mom’s delight, Simon arrived within an hour with three beefy men and a redheaded guy so skinny his wrists and elbows poked out of his skin.
“This isn’t a debutante come-out party,” Simon hollers down again, sounding like a drill sergeant with a fresh crop of soldiers. “We gotta lot of work before you get your cucumber sandwich and Sprite.”
“Ohh.” Mom sighs. “I wore blue at my come-out party.” She stands next to me near the bottom of the stairs, transfixed by the buffet of men before her. She’s wearing her yellow velour tracksuit and white sneakers, and I fixed her hair in a braided bun. She painted her lips a bright flamingo pink in anticipation of “our guests.”
“Our guests” are charging me a hundred dollars per man, and because I am more my mother’s daughter than I like to admit, I pulled on a pair of fabulous black jacquard pants with just a hint of dark-blue plaid. My blue silk blouse could use a touch-up with an iron, but I didn’t pack one so I’m out of luck. I “put on my face” and braided my hair and shoved my feet into ankle boots with a modest two-inch heel. A lifetime of Mom’s warning to “always look your best just in case” is embedded in my DNA.
“Don’t lean on that rail. Y’all’ll be in a world of sufferin’ if it gives out,” the drill sergeant warns. “Where’s Jim?”
“Sure hope no one breaks a neck,” Mom says.
“Comin’.” The skinny guy with fuzzy red hair runs from the parlor and grabs the tail end of a mattress.
“Someone might break a neck.”
The last time I glanced into the parlor, Lindsey had set herself up in the corner of the couch, where she was texting while keeping an eye on the empty birdcage as if Raphael might materialize like it was an intergalactic portal.
The stupid bird is still at large, but he did leave evidence of his continued existence: a clue dropped on the white table in the breakfast nook. A disgusting bird-poop clue that made Lindsey gag and run for the bathroom.
“That skinny fella is gonna break his neck.”
“He’s stronger than he looks.” I glance at Mom and see she’s wringing her hands as she watches the “skinny fella.”
“Yep, he’s gonna break his neck, all right.”
Before I am tempted to break someone else’s neck, I follow behind the mattress. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, Simon is in Great-grandmother’s room, pointing and barking out orders to the two men staring at the bed. He’s wearing a black polo shirt and has a ball cap stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. I sneeze from all the dust in the air, and he looks over his shoulder at me.
“You sure you want to keep the canopy?” he asks.
“Mom wants it.” I sneeze again and grab a tissue from the box sitting atop the delicately carved dressing table. Two more sneezes and I grab the whole box. The slender heels of my boots tap across the room and I slip outside onto the balcony. I debate whether to close the doors. I doubt Raphael is hiding in the bedroom, and there’s a hundred years of dust that needs an outlet. I leave it open and when the men fire up their drills, I figure another hundred years’ worth is about to get stirred up, too.
I blow my nose and stuff the tissue in my pocket. If the bird wanted to escape, he would right about now, but his naked bird body is nowhere in sight.
Simon pokes his head out the door. “I hear Ray-feel is on the loose somewhere,” he says as if he read my mind. “If he gets out, a heron will get him for sure.”
I look across at him. “If you’re worried, find Ray-feel and take him with you when you leave.”
He walks across the balcony and shakes the wrought-iron-and-wood railing like he’s testing it. “Solid,” he says.
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
His hair shines like black coal and a filigree shadow cuts across his wide chest as he turns toward me. “What subject?”
“The bird.”
“What bird is that, Ms. Lou Ann?” His grin is full of cool charm and hot intentions that reach the corners of sun-creased eyes. I have to wonder how many times he’s practiced that lady-killer smile in the mirror. I’m immune, but even I have to fight the urge to check my breath and reach for a Tic Tac just in case.
I decide to let the subject of Raphael go—for now. “I need to talk to you about the staircase railing. Obviously, it’s a safety issue.” Dust rolls out the door and I sneeze and grab a tissue.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks.” It settles on my silk blouse, reminding me that I need to find a laundry service. “Do you also repair stair railings?” I ask, and toss the Kleenex box onto the old rocker.
He nods. “What do you have in mind?”
“A railing,” I answer slowly because I don’t know exactly what he’s asking. “With wood… and nails.”
He cocks his head to the side and squints one eye against the sunlight. “Thanks for clearing that up. I thought you might want peppermint sticks.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Wood and nails are fine.”
Simon grabs the hat from his back pocket and slides it onto his head. “Do you want to replace it completely? Or do you want it repaired or restored?”
I understand the first option. “What’s the difference between repair and restore?”
“At least ten grand.” I stare at him, waiting to hear that he’s joking. Instead, his green eyes stare back at me from beneath the bill of his cap. “We can repair it for about four thousand. A full restoration takes quite a bit longer and costs a whole lot more.”
“Ten thousand more?”
“At least,” he repeats himself. “It’ll look beautiful when we’re done, but it won’t match the oxidized varnish on the stairs or floors. I recommend you have those done at the same time.”
“Are the stairs and floors included in the ten grand?” I rub the kink in my neck and wonder what to do.
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 9
