How Lulu Lost Her Mind

by Rachel Gibson

  “I’ll need more reminding than that. Once or twice a day should do it.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yep. Unless you think it should be more.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “Don’t curse.”

  “I can’t remind you to die. I love you too much.”

  She turns toward me and takes my hand in both of hers. “If you love me, you’d do this one little thing.”

  One little thing? I’m angry and hurt and lash out, “Ask Tony. He’s the son you never had.”

  She lets go of my hand, and I can make out Rattlesnake Patty in her narrowed eyes. “You broke up with Tony.”

  Now she remembers.

  “I have a right to die. You want to keep me around until I am just bones and skin and my mouth hangs open.”

  The backs of my eyes sting from hurt and anger. “Mom—”

  “You want me to drool on a bib like a baby, and no one will come spoon me in my hour of need.”

  “Of course I don’t want you to suffer, but I’m not going to help you kill yourself.”

  “You’re selfish!” she shouts, and attempts to stand.

  I try to assist her to her feet, but she shakes off my hand. “Don’t touch me.”

  The mood on the walk back to the house is icy on account of Mom’s cold shoulder, but I try to ease the tension. “Mom, let’s get along. I love you.”

  “Well, I don’t love you. Go away from me.”

  Her words plunge deep into my heart, and I stop to let her walk ahead without me.

  15

  Return of Rattlesnake Patty. Bob’s gone.

  Raphael is MIA—again.

  BY THE time I make it back into the house, I’m hot, clammy, and exhausted from fighting off horseflies with the shovel until I finally gave up and ran.

  Lindsey is in the kitchen making lunch and wearing one of her flowing sundresses. She looks young and happy and is chatting with the skinny guy from Simon’s crew. His name is Jim Poulet and he is so Cajun, I can hardly understand a word out of his mouth. Lindsey smiles and laughs as if she doesn’t see me leaning against the door, gasping for breath.

  Somewhere in the house someone is banging a hammer, and my head pounds in time with it.

  Mom returns to the kitchen long enough to announce, “I want lunch in the parlor.” Her gaze narrows and she points a bony finger at me. “I don’t want to see her face.”

  Everything stops, and the kitchen goes silent as my face flushes deeper. My shoulders are sore from carrying those stupid tools in that stupid bucket that we never even used, my feet hurt, and I can feel tiny gnats in my throat. The day started off so good, which makes this turn of events all the harder to bear.

  I want off this roller coaster. I thought I could ride it out, but I can’t. I’m not as strong a person as I’d always believed. I don’t have it in me to help Mom kill herself.

  I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and walk out the back door before I burst into tears or yell f-bombs. I stand at the top of the step and open the bottle. The Escalade is parked next to several work trucks, and for a few moments, I let myself get lost in the fantasy of jumping in the SUV and driving away. I take a long drink and clear my throat of unshed tears and bugs. I don’t know where I’ll go. Just away. Someplace cool and dry with room service and a stocked bar.

  Simon stands by the tailgate of his truck wearing jeans and a white T-shirt like the first time I saw him. One hand is on his hip, and he’s having a heated conversation with someone on his phone. I don’t know what he’s saying, because it sounds like he’s speaking French. I duck my head and walk toward the garage; his conversation grows quiet as I pass.

  I don’t turn on the light inside, because the cool darkness feels better. I’m living in a two-hundred-year-old money pit to make my mom happy. I made sure she had the bedroom she wanted (perhaps not in the right location), and I regularly haul family mementos from the attic to keep her brain active. I listen to Jelly Roll Morton until I want to stab my ears with a paintbrush. I braid Mom’s hair and help her bathe, but no matter what I do, she’s never happy for long.

  I turn sideways and slide past the surrey. My tears catch up to me and roll down my hot cheeks. I’m responsible for Mom’s health needs and quality of life. I’m responsible for making sure she is happy and comfortable for the rest of her life. I’m her daughter. I gladly take on those responsibilities, but now she wants me to take on the added responsibility of killing her, too.

  I need a place to hide other than the hot attic. I climb into the surrey and take a seat on the front bench. The tufted velvet is worn and itchy in places, but no springs poke my butt.

  My vision blurs, and I don’t realize I’m crying until I wipe tears away with the back of my hand. My life is a three-ring circus with Mother’s roller coaster at the center. Raphael and his bird antics share the next ring with Simon and the house restorations. Lulu Inc. fills the remaining circle like a rudderless ship in a storm-tossed sea.

  I’m the circus ringmaster, jumping through hoops to control chaos, direct disorder, and manage time. I am failing at all three. Mom doesn’t love me. Raphael has taken screws from two dining room chairs and hidden them somewhere. Sutton Hall is a mess. My subscriber growth is near stagnant, and Lulu merch is down. Our organic clicks have hit new lows, and people are opting out of notifications.

  The release we sent out in February, asking for patience and understanding, apparently had a time limit, and followers have run out of both. Margie thinks we need to remind followers why they love Lulu with a splashy relaunch. That sounds all fine and dandy, except I don’t have the time to invest in a big splashy relaunch. With everything else going on in my life, I don’t even have the time to think about something so mentally taxing. On the other hand, I don’t have the time to not think about it. Lulu’s my baby—I’m not ready to let her die, just like I’m not ready to let Mom die either. I’ll figure it out, but not right this minute. All I want to do right now is sit in the old buggy and let the world pass me by.

  The back door creaks open and the light flickers on. I dry my wet cheeks on the shoulders of my T-shirt and wipe my nose for good measure.

  “Are you hiding, tee Lou Ann?”

  “Yes.” I hear the tread of heels on concrete before Simon appears beside the carriage. I turn my face away to hide my red eyes.

  “Ms. Patricia bein’ a pill?”

  More like a snake. “That’s one way to put it.”

  The surrey dips to one side as Simon climbs aboard.

  “Nice boots.”

  “Thank you. They match my eyes,” I joke.

  He sits next to me and lays one arm across the back of the seat. “Your hair looks good.” He tugs a curl. “I like it.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It’s kind of…”

  I look across my shoulder at him. “Kind of what?”

  “Well, that braid you wore made you look buttoned up.”

  “Now I look unbuttoned?”

  He smiles. “Yeah.”

  “That’s me. Unbuttoned and falling apart.”

  His smile wavers. “How long’s it been since you had a break?”

  I laugh without humor. “What’s that?”

  “When was the last time you got away by yourself?”

  That’s easy. “The night I ran into you buying groceries. It was like a mini vacation.”

  “Gator’s Grocery isn’t a vacation. It’s a last resort when the Piggly Wiggly is closed for the night. It’s not my idea of a good time.”

  “It seemed like you knew everyone.”

  “Not everyone, but I was born and raised around here. Only left long enough to get my degree at Georgia Southern. I figured out real quick this is where I belong.”

  I guess that’s the difference between living in one place and moving every few years. “What’s your degree?”

  “Civil engineering and construction, but we’re not talkin’ about me.”

 
; Simon isn’t touching me, but I can feel his testosterone invading my personal space. On a normal day, I might feel intimidated by the bombardment. Today it’s oddly comforting, and I lean back until I feel the length of his warm arm across my tense shoulders.

  “You need a break. I took care of Jasper when he got real bad. There was nobody else and I about lost my mind.”

  “That’s nice.” My brain is filtering through the past, trying to recall the last time sitting next to a man just felt easy.

  “What?”

  I finally look over at him. “What?”

  “He didn’t have anyone else to take care of him.”

  Oh yeah. Jasper.

  “You need to take time for yourself.”

  “You sound like a therapist, and I should know.”

  “Jasper could be cantankerous.” He shrugs, and his shoulder brushes mine. “I went to some support group meetings in Terrebonne Parish.”

  He went to caregiver meetings for a man who wasn’t family? “That’s a lot to take on for a ‘cantankerous’ old man not even related to you.”

  “Not by blood. Jasper was my parrain, and he didn’t have anyone else.”

  “What’s a pa-ra?”

  “Godfather.”

  “Oh.” Well, that explains why he opened the house for us the day we arrived. “He didn’t have friends?”

  “Ray-feel was his only real friend. He ran most folks off. All the others owed him money and made themselves real scarce.”

  If Raphael was his only real friend, that doesn’t speak well of Jasper. I’m not sure I would have stuck around. “You could have made yourself scarce.”

  “I owed him.” He turns toward me, and his eyes turn a deeper shade of green beneath the weak garage light. “He taught me how to strip antique furniture the right way and how to make plaster casts of old moldings and cornices. Most everything I know about restoration comes from Jasper.”

  I let that sink in and then ask, “If Jasper restored homes for a living, why’d he let his own house fall apart?”

  “Restoration was his hobby. He made his living from gambling.”

  That explains a lot about Raphael, too.

  “And Sutton Hall isn’t falling apart. I’ve restored homes that were actually uninhabitable.”

  “I bet that cost an arm and a leg.”

  He grins and rises to his feet. “An arm and a leg and a few other body parts, too.” He grabs the pole holding the carriage top with the fringe on it. “We put Jasper in this thing and hauled him over to the cemetery.” He shakes it like he did the balcony railing. “I imagine y’all will use it, too.”

  “That’s Mom’s plan, but on days like today, I’m thinking more of hauling her behind it.” I expect him to frown at me for saying such a horrible thing, but instead he chuckles and jumps to the floor.

  “Come see.” He holds up a hand like he’s planning to help me down, but I don’t know if I’m ready to leave yet. I’m suspicious of what he might want to show me, and I look around.

  “Come see what?”

  “Come here.” He motions for me. “I’ll help you down.”

  “You should have said that.”

  “I did. Everyone knows that ‘come see’ means ‘come here.’ Just like we don’t go to the store and buy groceries. We go to the store and make groceries.”

  “What? Why would you make your own groceries when they’re already packaged?”

  He shakes his head like I’m confusing. “I forget you’re from the North and talk funny.”

  “Me?” I take his hand, even though I know I’ll have to turn around and give him an eyeful of butt cheeks as I climb down. “I talk like a normal person.” He wasn’t a gentleman that first day when he found me shoving chips in my mouth. I guess he’s reformed. “Move back so my behind isn’t in your face.”

  He laughs and puts his hands on my waist. “As tempting as that sounds…” He lifts me from the surrey and I instinctively grab his shoulder. In those few seconds, several things happen all at once. My pulse jumps, my heart booms, and my skin flushes. My brain says, Ohh, this is nice, but my mouth says, “I’m too heavy.”

  He sets me on the ground but keeps his hands on my waist. “You’re far from heavy, tee Lou.”

  I’ve gone from tee Lou Ann to tee Lou. I like it, and I’m not going to analyze the situation to death. With his green eyes and dark hair, and his smooth southern Louisiana accent, he could talk a girl into some real trouble.

  “You don’t weigh much more than the catfish I pulled down the bayou last weekend.”

  Or not. “You seriously need to work on your pickup lines.”

  His thumbs brush my stomach a second before his hands drop from my waist. “You don’t like being compared to a catfish?”

  “No.”

  He chuckles, and we walk toward the door. “You’re the expert.”

  “I suppose it’s better than swamp rat, though.”

  “Who called you a swamp rat?”

  “You.” He moves behind the carriage first and reaches for my hand. “The first day we arrived.”

  “How do you remember that?” He pauses at the back door and turns to me.

  “It was memorable.”

  “Mais, I must have meant it as a compliment.”

  “Uh-huh. You totally blew my image of a Southern gentleman.”

  He raises my hand to his mouth and kisses the back of my knuckles. “Swamp rat est belle, yes?”

  I look up at him, his eyes staring into mine, waiting for an answer. Maybe I make him wait for a few heartbeats longer than necessary. “No.”

  He laughs and lets go of my hand. “You’re the expert.”

  I follow him out the door and raise a hand to shade my eyes against the sun. “I’m too tired to be an expert on anything these days.”

  “Even more reason for you to get away and relax.”

  The knots of tension have eased from my muscles, and my ears no longer ring. “I’ll work on it,” I say as I head up the steps.

  He stops at the bottom and looks up at me. “You should probably work on it before you get riled and holler ‘squirrel-dick shit taco’ again.”

  I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “You remember that?”

  “It was memorable,” he says as he turns on his heels and walks toward his truck.

  I might be tired these days, but I still recognize the dangers of men like Simon: a smooth operator, charming and handsome, with a really nice butt. Okay, maybe I just added that last part. I turn the doorknob and walk inside.

  The kitchen is empty, and I move to the equally empty hall. The temporary railing is finally up, and all the workers are gone. It took a day to put it up, but considerably more time before the old one came down. Simon’s men photographed and labeled each piece, cataloging even the smallest splinters before it was taken away.

  There’s a settling calm after workers and guests leave Sutton Hall. The house feels languid and relaxed, practically begging me to slide into a rocking chair on the squeaky porch and sip a cold mint julep. I have a new appreciation for the evening slowdown, especially when Mom has spent most of the day shattering calm like a hammer through glass.

  I hear Mom and Lindsey in the front parlor. I’m tempted to hide in the attic, but I force myself to join them. Mom is just going to have to get over her anger. I’m not going to apologize for not agreeing to kill her.

  The two sit on the chesterfield looking at pictures like many times before. They smile and laugh, and I feel like the odd man out.

  “Has anyone seen Raphael?” I point to his empty cage.

  “I haven’t seen the demon since you fed him last night.”

  Which means he could be swinging from chandeliers or taking apart chairs or hiding out until poor unsuspecting Lindsey walks by.

  “Maybe he’s gone for good,” Lindsey adds hopefully.

  “You’re not that lucky.” I laugh.

  Mom refuses to look at me, and I realize this impasse could last for d
ays if I let it. I remind myself that I’m the fully functional adult and join them as if everything is peachy.

  “I like your dress,” I tell Lindsey.

  “Thanks. I like it, too.” She touches the light fabric and smiles. “Come look at this.” I hesitate, waiting for Mother to say she hates me. Instead, she just turns another page without looking up.

  “We’re giving captions to the old photos.” I sit next to Lindsey, and she points to a faded tintype. “Grumpy woman with a doily on her head.”

  Mom’s up next and says to Lindsey as if I’m not in the room, “Baby passing a good time in a buggy.”

  I look closer and stare at the buggy from the attic. It was creepy even back then.

  Lindsey pokes me with her elbow. “Your turn.”

  I point to a black-and-white photo with the caption of Salty Joe. “Another damn horse picture.”

  Mom won’t look at me, but at least she’s not yelling. I’m good with that.

  Lindsey makes up several more, and we fall into a pattern. Lindsey’s captions are funny, mine are dry, and Mom’s are “passing a good time” with this or that.

  I point to a woman standing beside the fireplace in the yellow office. “She’s a long cool woman in a black dress.”

  Lindsey groans. Mom points to a new photo. “Passing a good time in a sugar field.”

  Lindsey and I push our faces closer to the tintype. The black men and women in it do not look like they’re passing a good time in a sugar field. The men are naked from the waist up, the women have babies on their backs, and the children are barefoot. “Mom, they’re not having a good time.”

  She scowls and sticks her chin up. “They’re smiling like they are.”

  Perhaps there are a few smiles, but I’m not mistaking them for a good time. Mother is a seventy-four-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s, and I’ve never heard her say anything racist. She’s never looked at color when choosing a partner. All that has ever mattered is gender. So is it worth explaining the meaning of the photo? Do I risk another rattlesnake strike?

  “Look at those poor little kids. They don’t have shoes,” Lindsey says just before she bursts into tears. I’m taken aback, and all I can do is stare. This is a side of Lindsey I’ve never witnessed. I’ve seen her all business with Mom, happy about her new driver’s license, laughing with Cajun Jim, and scared shitless by ghosts and Raphael. I’ve never seen her this emotional. I suppose, coming from her family, it’s understandable that she would have a soft spot for children trapped by the circumstances of their birth. My heart aches for her, and I wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders. “It’s okay,” I tell her, because I don’t know what else to say.