“Tell me, are you being a handful?” Simon turns the bird to face him as if he expects a reply.
“That’s a nice way to put it.” Lindsey scoots back further into the sofa and turns an evil eye on her nemesis. “He screams and chases people.”
“That’s true. He likes to antagonize Lindsey.”
“He whistles at me,” Mom says from across the room.
I lower my voice and say, “He doesn’t whistle.”
“No?” He touches his finger to Raphael’s beak to get his attention and whistles as if a hot girl just walked into the room. After two more tries, the bird mimics the catcall. I look from Raphael to Mom in disbelief. She’d been right all along.
“But he doesn’t talk,” Mom adds.
Simon scratches the top of Raphael’s head. “Bonjour, bon ami.” Raphael closes his eyes, but Simon persists until the bird repeats the greeting, sounding very French, like he could be wearing a magenta beret to match his vest.
Mom claps her hands. “What else does he say?”
“Bonjour, mon vieux,” rolls off Simon’s tongue and the dang bird replicates it perfectly.
“What’s he sayin’?” Mom shouts, like we’re all hard of hearing.
“Hello, old man,” Simon answers.
“I didn’t know he was a French-speaking bird,” I tell him.
“He speaks four languages: English, French, Cajun, and gambler. Shake your tail feathers,” he says, and Raphael repeats it right down to the Southern drawl. “I’m feeling lucky. Call my bookie,” he squawks. Next in his repertoire, he mimics the front door’s squeaky hinges as it opens and shuts. He squawks random words and sentences. He bays like a hound dog, and follows it up with “Merde! Shut the fuck up, Boomer!” sounding remarkably like Simon.
“I think that’s enough for now. Quiet down, Ray-feel.”
Surprisingly, the bird shuts his beak. “I take it you have a dog named Boomer.”
“He’s a good huntin’ dog, but just as hardheaded as Ray-feel.” Simon chuckles. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t explain before he reaches for my hand and raises it next to Raphael. The bird takes a few steps sideways and wraps his talons around my finger. It feels really weird, reptilian and bony. Simon supports the bottom of my hand with his palm and warms my wrist. Raphael’s black eyes stare into mine without blinking. “Is he going to bite me?”
“Probably not.”
My gaze shoots upward to the heavens, and Simon laughs. Another big, boisterous laugh like when he told me about Uncle Jasper’s mattress. Neither is as funny as he seems to think.
“Scratch his head.”
Reluctantly, I raise my free hand to the fine red feathers on the top of Raphael’s head and lightly scratch. He tilts his beak up and purrs. “He sounds like a cat.”
“What?” Mom yells from across the room.
“He sounds like a cat when you scratch his head,” I yell back.
Lindsey says something grouchy that I don’t catch.
“He’s heavy.”
“He’s gained some weight since I brought him back home.” Simon takes Raphael onto his finger and returns him to his cage. I can almost feel Lindsey’s relief. “He likes you.”
“Me?” I doubt that.
“He hates me,” Lindsey says while keeping her eyes on the cage door.
“Ray-feel chases you because he can smell your fear.”
I picture her running from the naked bird, and me running interference. I can’t help but chuckle.
“It’s not funny.” Lindsey has no sense of humor when it comes to Ray-feel. “Aren’t you going to shut his cage door?” she asks, her brows rising up her forehead.
“Sure, but he’ll let himself right back out when he feels like it.” Simon closes the wire door so that Lindsey can relax. “He likes to unscrew bolts with his beak. So you might want to check your chairs before you sit.”
I thought one of the dining room chairs wobbled more than it had the day before. “Do you have an estimate for the rail?” I ask him.
“I have to look at it yet.”
“We passed a good time.” Mom’s scarlet lips turn up in a coy smile.
“It won’t take me long,” he says, and true to his word, he’s back within ten minutes. He spends another ten minutes saying goodbye to Mom.
“That was fast.” I walk with him to the front door and out onto the porch. “Did you look at everything?”
He pauses a moment like he’s going to say something, but he just shakes his head and continues down the steps. “I know this house inside and out. I could have given an estimate over the phone, but I wanted to bring by Ray-feel’s vest.”
I’m hoping the latest estimate is lower than the first. “How much?”
“Give or take… sixteen grand,” he says over his shoulder as he walks toward his truck.
“What?” I chase after him. “You said fourteen.”
“I said at least fourteen, tee Lou Ann.” He opens the driver’s door and turns toward me. “If you want the best, it’s sixteen, maybe more.”
More? I shade my eyes with my hand and look up at him. I’ve negotiated contracts for years now. “I only have your word that you’re the best.”
“Ask around.” He shrugs. “Call down at the Historic Preservations building, then get back to me. Don’t take too long. I’m busy.”
The longer we talk, I know the more he’ll raise his price, but I risk it. “If we agree, how long will the project take?”
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “From soup to nuts, best guess…” He tips his head to one side and thinks about it before he answers, “Hard to say.”
“Gosh, that is a good guess.” I fold my arms beneath my breasts. “Do you think you can be a little more specific?”
“I won’t know what I’m looking at until it’s down and at the shop.”
“You said you know this house inside and out.”
“That’s right, but there are always surprises and most of them aren’t good. If I have to replace a baluster, I can’t predict how long it will take to find what I need.”
“So you can’t tell me how long or exactly how much it will cost.”
“I told you the probable cost, and I imagine if I can find period mahogany… maybe three months.”
“Three months!”
“The library restoration took two years and cost four or five times what I’m charging for the rail.”
I’m starting to get a clearer picture, and it looks like a pain in the ass and mind-boggling money. “We’ll split the difference. Fifteen grand and a month and a half.” I stick out my hand to seal the deal.
He doesn’t reach out. “C’est fou.”
I’m not sure what that means, but he’s pointing to his head and making a circle with his finger like I’m crazy. “I think you’re trying to take advantage of me because I’m a woman.”
He laughs, and fine lines crease the outside corners of his green eyes. “I don’t take advantage of women. I let them take advantage of me.” He gets in his truck and shuts the door. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”
“Wow, I feel special.”
“For you, I just might change my bedsheets.”
“Sweet talker.”
The engine fires and he adds, “You have my number, cher.”
I watch him wave and drive away, and I’m not certain, but I think Mom’s boyfriend just made a pass at me.
I move toward the porch but glance back through tree limbs heavy with moss as he pulls onto the road. I’m Lulu the Love Guru, and I’ve written books and blogs on how to read a man’s body language and interpret his actions so you can gauge your reaction. When it comes to Simon, I have a difficult time interpreting or reading anything. When I think he’s serious, he laughs. When I think he’s joking, his voice lowers and he says “cher” as if he’s thinking about rolling me around in those clean sheets, his hot skin sticking to mine. Or maybe I’m overthinking it.
I open the front door and shut it behind me. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about hot, sticky skin in a good way. Maybe I’m not as immune as I’d like to think.
“It’s called a memento mori,” Lindsey says as I walk into the front parlor. She and Mom are thumbing through scrapbooks.
“What are you two looking at?”
“Memento mori,” Mom says without looking up.
“I saw it in Post Mortem Mary.”
Mom points to something in the book. “Postpartum Mary,” she says, and I don’t tell her that postmortem and postpartum are two totally different things.
I sit next to Mom and look at the photo she finds so fascinating. It’s a daguerreotype of five siblings standing in a row, like stair steps. The two girls have ringlets and big bows in their hair and the boys are in suits. No one’s smiling, but that’s typical of Victorian photos.
“This is the dead one,” Mom says, and points to the boy who’s fourth in the row.
“What?” On closer inspection, I see that the boy’s eyes are closed, and his head tilts a bit to one side. The littler girl on the end looks a little freaked out, and I don’t blame her.
“That’s morbid.”
Mom flips the page. “This one’s dead,” she says, and points to the bride in a Victorian wedding photo. Her eyes are closed, and she’s resting her head on the groom’s shoulder like she’s drunk or tired and passed out while standing up. Once you look at it enough, the dead ones are easy to spot.
“This is disturbing.” I close the book.
“These are kin.” Mom flips the pages back open. “Look at this.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It was taken right over there.” Lindsey points to the fireplace across the room.
Despite my aversion, I glance at the photo of a white casket draped in flowers. The photograph was taken from just far enough away to capture the silhouette of a woman in white lace. I’m horrified, and I wonder how many people in the creepy book wander the halls and slam doors at night.
“I want a white coffin like this one,” Mom announces.
“We don’t have to worry about that for a long time.”
“With gold handles.”
I can’t take any more and leave the room to get Raphael a seed stick and some dried fruit cocktail. When I return, she’s still at it, but now she’s fixated on people in caskets and determined to talk about it, no matter how many different ways Lindsey and I try to change the subject. Even when I mention her boyfriends and remind her that Simon and his men will be back to work on the banister.
“A white one with gold handles and a blue pillow to match my eyes.”
I carefully pull my hand from Raphael’s cage. “Your eyes won’t be open, Mom.”
“I want to wear blue.”
Raphael yawns like he can hardly keep awake. “Do we have to talk about this now?”
“Earl says I look good in blue.”
“Earl won’t be here.”
“Earl loves me. He gave me a Christmas card with a cactus on it.”
Yeah, I remember. “Earl lives in Seattle.” I shut the cage even though I know he’s an escape artist.
She points to Lindsey. “Look on the Google net.”
“For what, Patricia?”
“One of those places.” I can feel her anxiety building as she can’t remember the word she wants to use. “The casket places.”
“Funeral homes.” Lindsey and I look at each other as she reluctantly pulls out her phone.
“We have a long time before we have to think about that,” I tell her again.
“You have to take me.”
I shake my head. It’s morbid and unsettling, and if she picks out a coffin, it’ll all feel too final.
“Before I forget.”
Those three simple, self-aware words have a lot of power behind them. They had the power to make me move across the country when that was the last thing I wanted to do. Now they have the power to make me load Mom into the SUV and take her casket shopping when that’s the last thing I want to do. The last place I want to go to is Bergeron Funeral Home, but I do it because of those three powerful words.
As I soon discover, it’s not called coffin shopping. It’s called preplanning and involves a lot of paperwork that I have to fill out while Mom and Lindsey push on the coffin mattress, testing the spring of every casket in the showroom. They ooh and aah at the “shock absorbers,” and I feel sick in my stomach. Mom gives a thumbs-up or thumbs-down like she’s Goldilocks, and I try to swallow past the big lump in my throat.
Mom chooses flowers and music and a guest book with a matching quill pen. Her casket has to be specially ordered with her name embroidered on the overlay, and Bergeron will store it until she “takes her heavenly journey.” Everyone is acting like we’re planning a party and picking out portieres.
I’m the only one who is broken inside. I’m the only one who wants to scream at the top of my lungs. I’m the only one who wants to cover my ears and rock myself back and forth.
I’m given a pamphlet, and we go over the instructions on what to do if Mom dies at home, and by the time we return to Sutton Hall, I’m a wreck. I’ve held my pain inside, mostly in the form of frustration, but as I kneel behind Mother, brushing her hair as I do most every night, I can’t hold it in any longer. It rips me apart. The brush falls from my hand, and I double over. My arms cover my bowed head, and the more I try to control my stuttering sobs, the worse they get. I am a ball of raw misery. I can’t do this. It’s too hard. It’s too much for me.
“Ahhh, baby.” I feel Mother’s warm hand rub up and down my back, soothing me like I’m a child again. “Baby mine, don’t you cry,” she softly sings. “Baby mine, dry your eyes. Rest your head close to my heart.” I remember the next lines and I cry even harder. “Never to part, baby of mine.” Mom always loved that movie, and I slept with a little stuffed Dumbo when I couldn’t sleep next to her. “Don’t cry, cher baby.” My heart breaks even more than I think is possible, and I lie next to her, hiccupping and wiping my nose across the back of my hand. I lie next to her long after she falls asleep, listening to her soft breathing.
She’s my mom, and I’ll take care of her until she’s placed in that shiny white coffin with the gold handles and blue pillow to match her eyes. I’ll take care of her before and after she forgets.
She’s my mother, and as difficult as she can be, she’s equally easy to love.
14
May 2
Happy trees. Moonlight Sonata. Mom’s proposition.
I KNEW MOM would love to paint with Bob Ross again. The day her supplies arrive, I set up an art studio in the morning room right off the kitchen. It’s painted teal with white trim and gets the most natural light. I’ve seen pictures of this room when it had fruit trees in large brass planters to scent the air with citrus for luncheon soirees, but it’s sat neglected for decades. I had to knock down cobwebs, vacuum out the dust, and wash the windows. That’s a lot of glass to clean, but it’s worth it. Especially in the morning when sunshine hits all those original windows. The room sparkles and shines, but in a wavy and otherworldly way, like we’ve stepped back in time.
Mom wants the old Victrola dragged into her new “studio” so she can listen to Bach and Beethoven and Jelly Roll Morton as she watches The Joy of Painting DVDs on a small TV. I often sit beside her at an easel I bought for myself, and we’re quite the pair in our smocks, watching Bob and listening to “Für Elise.” I do not have an ounce of artistic talent, but there is just something so peaceful about listening to classical music and making really bad art. When I should be working on Lulu business, I find myself painting or sorting through the attic for things I know Mom will enjoy. I keep pushing more and more work off my plate and onto other people. I feel guilty, but I’d rather spend time with Mom. That’s why we’re here, and painting is a nice start to the morning… but not this morning. Instead of retreating to the studio to paint with Bob, Mother announce
d we’re visiting the dearly departed.
I knew this day would come, and I dread every part of it. I dread the heat and humidity and bugs almost as much as I dread standing next to Mom while she points to her tomb. I don’t want another day like the one when she “preplanned” her funeral.
But I don’t have a choice, and I accept the can of Deep Woods Off! Mom hands me. I cover every part of me and choke on the cloud of poison. I spray my turquoise “Who Dat” boots inside and out and douse my cutoffs and the vintage-looking Rolling Stones T-shirt I bought from Nordstrom online. I know it’s too hot for boots, but it’s too buggy for anything else. I’ll risk sweaty feet over bites and stings any day, and just in case, I toss in my can of alligator spray.
Mom’s wearing purple pants, a pink floral blouse, and lavender lips. Her long hair is braided, and she’s stuck an old butterfly comb at the back of her head. She says it belonged to her mother and makes her feel close to her.
It’s been nearly three months since Mom crawled in bed with me and asked that I bring her to Sutton Hall. She was just as determined then as she is today, and nothing can distract her from her mission. Not even the prospect of Simon and his crew coming to remove the old staircase railing and replacing it with a temporary one can sway her.
I follow her out the back door, and we make a quick trip to the garage. “We’ll need these to clean up around Momma’s tomb,” she says as she grabs an old tin bucket filled with garden tools and shoves it at me. I toss in the can of alligator spray and we continue on.
“This is in fine shape,” she says as we slide past the old carriage taking up half the space.
“The wheels are cracked,” I point out.
“That doesn’t matter.” She grabs a wreath of plastic lilies and a small shovel. “It’s not going that far.”
I don’t know what she means, and she hands me the flowers and shovel before I can ask. I don’t expect her to carry anything, but the bucket isn’t exactly light. I hang the wreath from the crook of my arm and follow Mom outside. Tools clank around in the bucket as we hit the cobblestone path.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she says through a happy sigh.
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 14
