The last time I saw Simon, he called me tee Lou Ann, his voice kind of low and sexy, but I’m sure it’s just a natural reflex for him and it doesn’t mean we’re friends. He hasn’t noticed me over here hiding behind tropical fruit, and therefore a friendly hello is not required: chapter seventeen (“Keeping It Classy and Staying Sassy”), rule twenty-four.
I set the pineapple in my basket and turn toward the coffee aisle. I need to stock up on French roast and chicory so that I don’t ever have to face another day without my morning jolt of caffeine… but I get sidetracked again. This time by ten-pound bags stuffed with live crawfish in the refrigerated meat section. I lean in for a closer look. Little antennas and claws poke out of the blue mesh as tiny black eyes stare back at me, begging for freedom. I am guilty of “pinching the tail and sucking the head”—Mardi Gras 2012. I turn away shamefaced, but I know my shame isn’t strong enough to make me amend my carnivorous habits.
I move past rows and rows of exotic sausages. Some I’ve heard of, while others are a mystery. Behind the glass in the butcher’s counter are even more sausages, along with cuts of beef, fresh chicken, and… “What the hell is that?”
I step closer and once again lean in for a better look. It takes several long seconds before my brain catches up with the shocking display in front of my eyes. I jump back and raise one hand to my chest as I stare in horror at alligators wrapped in cellophane. Whole alligators, skinned, except for their scaly heads and feet. “Gross,” I whisper, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the pink flesh and skeletal bones. Their feet are extremely scaly, and lethal-looking claws stick out from webbed toes. Their eyes are half-open and one of them has lemon slices down its back.
GATOR’S GATORS, the price sticker reads. $35.00. FARM FRESH.
They have alligator farms around here? Alligators live in the swamps and bayous, randomly killing animals and people. They’re a danger to society, like mountain lions, poison frogs, and scat music. The first two will kill you; the last will make you kill yourself.
“Careful you don’t get bit.”
I gasp and about jump out of my skin. Over the pounding of my heart, I hear Simon’s all-too-familiar laugh. The one that means he thinks he’s really funny.
“You scared the crap out of me.” Without thought, I punch his shoulder. Somehow, that makes him laugh harder. “You’re not funny.”
“No?” He shakes his head. “You should see your eyes.”
I shift the basket to my other elbow and fold my arms beneath my breasts. Dark stubble shadows his square jaw, and instead of his usual T-shirt, he’s wearing a white dress shirt tucked loosely into his jeans. Men’s magazines call this combination “classic casual.” I call it business up top, party down below, and it looks good on him. I wonder if he’s been on a date and where the two blondes are, but even if we were friends, neither is my business. I point to the glass case instead and ask, “Are there really alligator farms around here?”
“Sure are.”
“They’re dangerous. Why not get them from the swamp?” I look up into his green eyes.
“It’s illegal to hunt out of season.”
There’s a season? “An alligator killed a dog not far from Sutton Hall just last week.” Mom and I watched it on the local news. She’d shrugged and said, “It’s the circle of life.” I’d gotten on the internet and ordered alligator repellant.
“That happens with animals near waterways, yes. Gators like to hide just beneath the surface out in the weeds.”
I think of the chest-high grass and weeds at home. “The bayou is practically in my backyard!”
He glances down at me and folds his arms across his chest. “How fast can you run, tee Lou Ann?”
“Me?” I point to myself. I’m five foot one and until recently, I wore at least three-inch heels most days. “Not very fast.”
“Gators go for the slow ones. You might wanna learn to zigzag.”
I think he’s joking, but it makes sense. “I don’t want to zigzag. I don’t want to get attacked at all!”
“Don’t worry too much about it. Caimans run in short bursts.” He shakes his head and tries not to smile. “He’ll probably just take a few chomps out of you before he’s worn out.” He gives up trying and his smile creases the corners of his green eyes. I think he’s about to start laughing again, but someone calls out his name.
He turns toward the cookie aisle and shouts back, “Laurent. How’s ya momma and ’em?”
“Byen. Tee Larry is fixin’ to leave for college and it’s breakin’ Shawnda’s heart.”
I wait for a pause in the casual back-and-forth to excuse myself, but just as Laurent says, “Bonsoir,” someone else calls out to Simon.
I glance across my shoulder at a man in a Bass Pro Shops T-shirt, hoisting a bag of crawdads. “Where ya at?” he asks the obvious.
“Busy,” Simon answers, which makes no sense.
Before moving to Louisiana, I’d shopped at the same H Mart for years and never ran into anyone I knew. Simon’s up to four in twenty minutes; it’s like he’s at a high school reunion. This conversation is shorter than the last and I say, “Bye, Simon,” while I have the chance. I take a few steps back and add, “I’ve got to get home with Mom’s grits.”
Simon looks down and points at my basket. “Those aren’t grits.”
“Really?” I stop and glance at the box next to my pineapple. “The box says grits.”
“Instant grits aren’t real grits. No respectable Southerner would be caught dead with instant grits.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Instant or not, Mom won’t know the difference. “Good thing I’m not a Southerner.” I walk toward the coffee aisle and say over my shoulder, “Au revoir, Simon.”
He smiles because I’m sure my pronunciation is horrible. “On va se revoir, tee Lou Ann.”
His is not. If I wasn’t immune to classic shirts and party pants, the sweet words rolling off his tongue might make me play with my hair like the blondes in the produce aisle.
I grab three bags of coffee and make it home before Lindsey turns in for the night. She’s in the kitchen filling Mom’s pill minder. “How were things while I was gone?” I ask as I set the pineapple on the counter.
“I gave Patricia her meds and haven’t heard a peep from her.”
“Have you ever cooked grits?” I pick up the box and read the back.
“I’ve never even seen a grit. Are they good?”
I hand her the box. “No.”
She reads the directions and shrugs. “Doesn’t look hard. All I need is water and salt.”
That sounds bland. “Maybe some butter or sugar, too.” But I don’t know much about it. “What you really need is a driver’s license so you can go to the pharmacy or grocery store.” She looks up from the box. “And there are going to be days when I can’t take Mom to her appointments,” I add, but it isn’t Mom’s appointments that I can’t take. It’s her back-seat driving, and I don’t see why I have to be the target of torture when Lindsey is a paid victim.
Lindsey hands me the box. “Where do I go to get one?”
“Google it.”
“How much does it cost?” she wonders as she grabs her phone.
“Don’t know but I’ll pay for it.”
“Really?” She smiles and it lights up her eyes. “That’s so nice. Thanks.”
I shake my head. “It’s part of my plan to trap you. Remember?”
“Yeah.” Her smile gets even bigger. “Is the Escalade part of your trap?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” I learned in an old Taurus. Not an eighty-five-thousand-dollar Cadillac. “Just get all the information first and we’ll talk about the Escalade later.”
I leave her to search the internet for the Louisiana DMV, and by the next morning at breakfast, she seems to have it all worked out.
“I need to establish residency and study for the written test.”
I stare at my plate of lumpy grits and scrambled eggs, muste
ring the courage to take a bite.
“I’ll need to practice for the driving part.”
“You can practice in the driveway.” I reach for an antique coffee cup and glance at Mom sitting at the head of the table. We’re dining off hand-painted Dresden today. “You’re not eating your grits.”
“They taste like instant grits.” She shakes her head. “No Southerner eats instant grits.”
12
April 3
Money pit. Melvin Thompson.
Boots ’N’ Roots incident.
MOM HAS started brushing her hair “one hundred times, till it’s silky.” Every morning she puts on her brightest shade of red lipstick and waits for the arrival of more “family treasures” and “foxy men.” At first, I’d worried that men working on the house—coming in and out all the time and dropping tarps and using loud machinery—would make Mom upset. I should have known better.
“I love foxy men with tool belts,” she coos every time they enter the house. I wish she loved the Cajun Maids as much, but she looks at them like they’re trying to steal her foxy men. It’s embarrassing, but at least she and I have found a comfortable routine. I wish I could say the same thing about Lindsey and Raphael. They’ve taken a real aversion to each other, and I’m afraid Raphael delights in antagonizing her.
Mom hardly seems to notice the ongoing feud and is happier than I’ve seen her in years. She wraps herself up in Sutton lore and history and loves sitting at the head of the table and using old family china and crystal and silver. We listen to old records and thumb through photo albums and scrapbooks. Inevitably something taps into her long-term memory, knocking loose nuggets from the past.
“Look, that’s me and Momma outside the Joy Theater on Canal.”
I push her further. “Do you remember when it was taken?” She looks up at the ceiling and gives it some thought. “No.” She shakes her head and returns her attention to the photo. “I’m seven or eight.”
“So it was taken in nineteen fifty-three or four. Sometime after your dad died and before Grandmother married Papa Bob.”
She shrugs. “Momma loved Charles Boyer.”
For most of today, her mind seems clearer than it has in a few years now. She wrings her hands less and mentions Tony only twice. That’s progress, but each time she does, it’s like Groundhog Day, and I feel compelled to explain—very patiently, I might add—the Tony chapter all over again.
If Mom is not repeating old Sutton lore, we talk about the bits and pieces of the past that she can randomly recall. Like the time she took me to a New Kids on the Block concert and bought me Jordan Knight sheets (don’t judge).
I remind her of when we lived in El Paso and she worked at an Elmer’s. She’d have the cook make my favorite for me after school: a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. For dessert, it was always vanilla ice cream with hot fudge and peanuts.
She remembers that she worked at the Drunken Beaver in Portland, Oregon, and recalls every detail of the fight that broke out over her there. “They broke a table and two chairs. One man had to have stitches.”
She doesn’t seem to recall that I’d been sitting on a keg in the back room eating bar nuts and a pickle at the time. Funny how she can remember that fight but not that I’d been ten and scared to death.
“They were so handsome and in love with me,” she says through a nostalgic sigh.
“Did either give you a card with a cactus on it, like Earl?”
“No.” She shakes her head as if it’s a serious question. “They were both married.”
This is not at all shocking. Mom loves men of all ages and marital statuses. Men have defined her life and still do. I imagine the memories of men will be the last to fade and her passionate nature the last piece of Patricia to recede before she sinks into the final stages of her disease. As much as it has driven me crazy all my life, I will hate to see it go.
I’ve cut my Lulu responsibilities in half and work around Mom’s naps, but it’s not enough time. I try to make up the difference at night when Mom’s asleep, but I’m usually too worn out. Before my decision to focus on Mom, I never realized the amount of time it took to run the business of Lulu Inc. I’d been driven and hyper-focused. Doing what I loved and loving what I did, producing creative content in hotel rooms between events. I’ve never taken a vacation where I didn’t work, and it never felt like a chore. I never procrastinated—so why now?
Lulu is my heart and soul. The question of why now has lodged like a burr in my soul and the answer is terrifying. What if I’ve lost the heart for Lulu? What if I don’t love it anymore? My life with both Mom and Lulu is a continual cycle of guilt and anxiety, and I don’t see any resolution.
I’ve tried a couple of more meditation apps, but I struggle to pay attention. A glass of wine might help, but I can’t have one because the wine rack is filled with water bottles, and besides, I’m afraid I might not stop with just a single glass.
We’ve settled into a daily routine and get more comfortable with it every day. Mom’s adjusting to her new surroundings and both her anxiety and her emotional outbursts have decreased. She still has them, but they are less frequent and less explosive. I’m not a doctor, just a daughter living 24/7 with her Alzheimer’s mother, but in the past few weeks I’ve seen a marked improvement. She’s calmer and happier, and I truly believe that her environment has had a positive effect on her memory and thought processes. She’s far from cured, but her mind is clearer. For longer periods of time, I look in her eyes and see the real her.
I hate bugs and spiders and flying insects. I hate that the humidity is sometimes higher than the outside temperature. Sutton Hall is an even bigger money pit than I’d thought at first glance, and I’m bleeding cash. I can’t stick to a productive work schedule, but despite all that, bringing Mom back to Louisiana was the right decision. She’s doing so much better, in fact, that we are leaving the house tomorrow to shop. Nothing big or potentially overwhelming. Lindsey won’t be with us, so I planned a small foray close to home.
While our daytime routine is good and getting better, our nighttime routine is the best. After Mom changes into her nightclothes, I brush and braid her hair while she chomps on Pirate’s Booty, watches game shows, and yells answers at the TV.
Lindsey checks in on us around eight to take Mom’s blood pressure and dispense her sleeping medication. She keeps a little notebook and pen in the front pocket of her scrubs. She’s also expanded her wardrobe; on her days off, she wears flowing sundresses. Due to a kernel-related choking incident that happened a few days earlier during I Love Lucy, Lindsey takes Mom’s popcorn with her when she leaves. If I tried to take her Booty, Mom would fight me over it, but she doesn’t even argue with Lindsey. She’s nicer to Lindsey, but she does talk about her weight after she’s left the bedroom most nights. It’s rude and I’m grateful that she at least waits until Lindsey can’t hear her. Then we crawl into her bed and get cozy like when I was young. I always reach for her hand, but sometimes I wonder if she knows it’s me next to her, with my warm palm pressed into hers.
Tonight, Mom and I sit on the edge of the big canopy bed as Lindsey comes in to do her usual, squeezing the blood pressure bulb and listening through her stethoscope.
“Melvin Thompson,” Mom yells.
I haven’t thought of Melvin Thompson in years, and I wonder why she’s decided to shout her fourth husband’s name. I look up from my fingers braiding her hair to Family Feud.
Richard Dawson is leaning toward a red-haired woman and repeats the question “Name something that has white balls.”
Mom’s answer is suddenly extremely disturbing.
The contestant says, “An old sweater,” and a second X flashes on the screen.
“That was dumb,” counters the woman who expected her fourth husband’s nuts to be nationally recognized.
Lindsey lets go of Mom’s arm, reaches into her pocket, and hands Mom her medication. “Did you hear the footsteps last night?” The question is directed at m
e.
I did, but I don’t want to freak Lindsey out, so I say, “I heard something, but the house is old.” Generations of ghosts might roam around at night, but after spending so much time in the attic, I’m fairly unaffected. “Nothing like the first night.”
“Yeah, that was bad.”
“Melvin Thompson!”
I suppress the urge to gag and remind myself that she can’t help making me want to vomit. “No one wants to hear about Melvin.”
“Here you go, Patricia.” Lindsey hands her a glass of water from the bedside table and writes something down in her notepad. “Good night,” she says, above the game show buzzer, and leaves with Mom’s empty popcorn bag.
I barely get “good night” out of my mouth before Mom yells, “They were droopy, too.”
“Mom!” She looks at me, and I can see she’s mid-fade. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to hear about Melvin’s droopy white balls.”
“I don’t blame you. They were practically to his knees.”
I rub the veins popping out on my forehead. “Mom, stop!”
She shrugs and returns her glass to the bedside table. “Lindsey has a big belly.”
I glance at the empty doorway to make sure Lindsey is gone. “Stop talking about Lindsey’s weight.” I remember how hurt I was when she accused me of getting fat my freshman year, and she’s my mother.
She shrugs and yells, “Melvin Thompson,” and I’m actually relieved the subject returns to old Melvin.
I feel veins popping inside my head, too. I’m tempted to run from the room, but I crawl back into Mom’s bed next to her.
“I read in an article that birds mate for life.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” Mom shrugs. “That Raphael loves me.”
Of course he does. I look across at Mom and see her old smile. Maybe she’s not as faded as I suspected. “How can you tell?”
“He whistled at me.”
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 12
