How Lulu Lost Her Mind

by Rachel Gibson

  “Jim made it sound like y’all were torturing him over here.”

  Mom’s the only one left in the room, and I take her dirty cake plate and cup. “Poor Jim pulled out the boob bottle and got so red, he almost burst into flames,” I tell Simon.

  “What’s a boob bottle?”

  “It’s in there,” Mom says, and points to the baby bag. “It’s for trickin’ babies.”

  Simon sticks his hand in the bag and pulls it out. “This tricks babies?” He studies it from all angles like it’s a science project. “It doesn’t look like any boob I’ve ever seen.”

  Again, not going to ask the obvious question.

  “I have a glorious bosom,” Mom announces.

  I could argue, but I won’t. “Do you want to write something in the Advice for Parents book you got for Lindsey?” I hold it up for her to see. “I can write down a message, then you can sign it.”

  She motions affirmatively, and I grab a pen. “I want to say…” I sit beside her, pen suspended above the page. “Hmm, I want to say…” She looks up at the ceiling and yawns. “I want to say, ‘I like you more than Wynonna.’ ”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep. She never steals my shoes or tries to kill me.”

  “Any advice about having a baby?”

  “No.”

  “Okay…” I write it down, and Mom signs it. She obviously doesn’t understand the concept behind the book, but, hey, at least she had something nice to say. I return to the table across the room and grab a garbage bag. “Mom, do you know where Lindsey and Jim are?” I ask as I throw away dirty plates and cups.

  “No. Where?”

  “No. Do you know— Never mind. It’s an hour past the time you usually take a nap.”

  “I don’t need a goddamn nap!”

  “Okaaay. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  She thinks about it for a moment, then scoots to the edge of the sofa. “I need my rest.”

  Simon holds out his hand for her. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you, foxy man.”

  “Have a good rest, Ms. Patricia.”

  She winks at him. “I’ll be good as new.”

  I drop the garbage bag and walk with Mom from the room, but halfway down the hall she stops. “I forgot something,” she says, and retraces her steps.

  I can hear her muffled voice and the deep timbre of his laughter. I don’t even want to imagine what she might be proposing, but she’s smiling and has a Little Peanut party box when she comes back.

  “Did you have a good time today?” I ask Mom as we continue to her room.

  “Oh yes. That was a good cake,” she says, and sets the favor box on her side table.

  “The frosting was excellent.” She sits on the side of the bed, and I kneel down to take off her white orthopedic shoes. “You have a birthday in about six weeks. We should get your cake from the same place.”

  “Carrot,” she says. “Carrot cake is my favorite.”

  Until half a second ago, her favorite has always been angel food with fresh strawberries. I put her shoes to one side and stand. “Do you need anything?”

  She lies down on one pillow and puts a hand on her stomach. “Just go out and shut the door.”

  Rude, but I don’t take it personally. When I return to the parlor, Simon is stuffing the last of the wrapping paper into the garbage bag. “You don’t have to do that.” I pick up the remaining dirty plates and dump them with the used paper.

  “Lindsey and Jim just left to look over a car in Slidell that Lindsey found on Craigslist. They shouldn’t be gone more than a couple of hours.” He ties the bag closed and looks at me. “Is your momma settled?”

  “I think so, but with you here, who knows? She might suddenly remember something else.” I tie the bag and grab a bottle from the ice bucket. “Wine?”

  “Been that kind of day?”

  Raphael laughs from his cage. “I’m a lucky son of a bitch.”

  “That’s enough, Ray-feel.”

  Simon gets the birdcage cover as I fill two Little Peanut cups with a Washington Chablis.

  “Good night, Raphael,” I say, and hand Simon a blue elephant cup. “Cheers.” I tap my cup to his and give my wine a little swirl for good measure before I take a sip. “Mm, that’s good.”

  “I like a good wine but…” He looks into his elephant cup. “Do I have to swirl and smell it?”

  I chuckle. “No, but my agent, Margie, is a real connoisseur, and it’s kind of funny to watch her do her thing. She inhales as she takes a sip and kind of swishes it around in her mouth before spitting it in a bucket.”

  “Do you do that?”

  “No, I’m not a connoisseur. I don’t spit.” I shake my head. “I swallow.”

  22

  There aren’t words.

  THE DOUBLE meaning of my words hangs in the air as a red-hot flush works its way up my chest to my cheeks.

  “Good to know.” There’s laughter in Simon’s voice, but thank God he’s a grown-up. “I’ll remember that if I’m ever at a fancy wine tasting.”

  I clear my throat as if nothing happened and we settle on the chesterfield. “I think Lindsey had a good time.”

  Simon takes a drink of wine from his elephant cup and sits beside me. “That girl looks like she’s going to have that baby any minute.”

  “Another six weeks or so.” I pause a moment to think about that. “I’ve never lived in the same house as a baby.”

  “It’s gonna be a busy time for y’all. That baby’s gonna be screamin’ just down the hall from you.”

  “I know.” I groan. “And for such a tiny person, his stuff takes up a lot of space. And he’s not even here yet!” I pull my headband from my head and toss it aside. “Can you soundproof that room for me?”

  “No, but you’re in luck, because lath-and-plaster walls are about two inches thicker than drywall.” He points to the ceiling. “But you got some problems upstairs with cracking and deterioration, and that affects the sounds that get through.”

  “Of course it does,” I say through a sigh.

  “Jasper always talked about renovating those bedrooms. He had me take pictures of them and the ceiling in the hall. I gave him an estimate, but he never got around to it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have an arm and a leg to give you.” I take a sip of wine. “Or a few other body parts.”

  “Nah, he just didn’t want the upstairs touched.” He lifts his cup and takes a big swig. “Especially the big corner bedroom.”

  “Why?”

  “His brother died in that room. Probably other family members too.”

  I sit up straighter, and the hair on my arms stands up. “In the room across from me? No wonder I hear creepy sounds at night. How many people have died in this house?”

  “This is an old house… best guess…”

  “Hard to say.”

  He laughs. “A cemetery full.”

  “Great.” I turn my body toward him and rest my cup on my bare knee. “Speaking of Jed, did you know him?” If there is any living person on the planet who might know something about his relationship with my grandfather, it would probably be Simon.

  “Barely. He was friends with my family and ’em, but he died before I started coming around and working with my parrain.”

  Damn. “Did Jasper talk about him?”

  “Sometimes, yeah.”

  “Did he mention if Jed had a… lover?”

  “Mais, no. Jasper was old-school and didn’t talk about his personal business.” He shakes his head. “Why are you asking about that?”

  Instead of answering, I go to the library and grab my grandmother and grandfather’s letters. When I come back into the parlor, I say, “I found these bundled together like this.” I move across the room to the table and lay them out. “Come look.” Once he stands beside me, I say, “These were written by my grandparents during the Korean War.”

  “What do you think?” I ask after he’s had a chance to skim a few.<
br />
  “I think your grandmere sounds like mine, and your grandpere was uptight and wrote boring letters.”

  “Exactly! Now read this.” I give him the last one. “All the other letters are in envelopes except this one.”

  Simon lifts a brow as he reads. “I guess he wasn’t a stiff all the time.”

  “I don’t believe he sent that last letter to Grandmother.”

  Simon looks at me, then returns his attention to the letter. “You think he had a side piece?”

  “Yes! Jed Sutton.”

  “Is that your first bottle of wine this afternoon?”

  I lean closer to him and point to the different penmanship. “This is Grandfather’s handwriting. This is Grandmother’s.” I slide the empty envelope toward him like I’m a lawyer laying out a case. “The love letter belongs in this envelope addressed to Jed.”

  “So Jed could give it to another woman.”

  “No!”

  “Mais, wait.” He looks at all the evidence on the table before him. “So you think your grandpere wrote this letter”—he holds it up—“to someone other than your grandmere?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think whoever scribbled this note”—he pauses to point at the article—“wasn’t your grandmere.”

  “Yes! You got it.”

  “I’m confused.” He shakes his head like he’s clearing cobwebs.

  I wave at the evidence. “Grandfather was in love with Jed but married my grandmother.”

  He rubs his forehead.

  “Growing up, all I was ever told about him was that he was a war hero and got a Purple Heart.” I take a breath and continue. “I think Grandmother found out, and that’s why she would never talk about him again.”

  “Tee Lou, stop, stop.”

  I gasp as new thoughts spin around in my head. “Maybe Grandmother wasn’t disowned by her family as much as she disowned them.” He just stares at me. I get it. It’s a lot to take in at once. “Then, after Jed died, she came back. He deserves to be in the sinners’ corner with Grandmother, because I’m fairly sure it’s just as big a sin to have an affair with your sister’s husband as it is to run off with your first cousin. But he wasn’t buried there—either because it would have been a bigger scandal or because he was a man.” I throw back the rest of my wine. “What do you think?”

  He drops the letter and combs his fingers through the sides of his hair. “I think you make me crazy.”

  I shake my head. “Well, I don’t—”

  “I think you do it on purpose,” he interrupts, and his eyes are a darker green as he looks down at me. His lids are lowered as if he’s suddenly sleepy, and his voice is deeper when he says, “And I think you like it,” as he slides his hand across the top of my shoulder to the side of my neck. His thumb lifts my chin and his breath whispers across my cheek. “I think I like it too.”

  My own breath catches in the back of my throat, and I swallow hard. My mind is racing in all different directions. Then his mouth is just above mine and everything slows to the unhurried brush of his lips and the warm flush of my skin. “This makes things complicated.”

  He shakes his head and slips his free hand around my waist to the small of my back. “Nothing complicated about it.” He pulls me closer. “I kiss you, and you kiss me back if you feel like it. Easy.”

  That’s the problem. It’s too easy. Much harder to pull away than to fall into him until I’m in so deep that I don’t know where I end and he begins. My head says no, but every other part of my body is screaming Yes!

  “You’re overthinking it.”

  I’m still Lulu the Love Guru, and that’s what I do. I make lists and rules and… His fingers brush my back, sending shivers up and down my spine. I am a shameless hypocrite, but I slide my hands up his chest to his shoulders anyway. His muscles harden beneath my touch, and I like knowing what I do to him. I rise on the balls of my feet and say next to his ear, “I don’t want to make you crazy, Simon.”

  “Too late, cher.” Then he kisses me. Openmouthed kisses, hotter than the first time. A flash fire that I breathe in so deeply, I feel it in the pit of my stomach. I know he must stop, but I hope that he doesn’t. Not just yet. His hands slide into my hair and he holds my face to his and I never want it to stop. He wants me every bit as much as I want him, and I lose myself in his kiss that lasts forever but not long enough. Against my breasts I feel his deep groan just before he tears his mouth from mine. His labored breath stirs the wild curls resting on my forehead. “If you don’t stop me now, we’re going to finish this in your bed.”

  I lick my dry lips as my body wars with my head. It takes me longer than it should to make the decision I’ve preached for ten years. “I’m going to stop you now.” I expect him to cajole or get angry.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He kisses the top of my head.

  He sounds so sure, but he doesn’t know how much I want to grab his hand and take him upstairs. “I have a three-month rule,” I say as much to myself as to him.

  He pulls back and looks into my face. “A what?”

  “A wait-three-months-before-sex rule.”

  He grins. “When did we meet, tee Lou? Was it back in March, no?”

  “A three-month dating rule.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. It takes at least that long to get to know someone. Some men can’t handle it.”

  He drops his hands and steps back. “I can handle it, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “Patience is a virtue. It’s in the Bible.”

  “I spent twelve years in Catholic schools, tee Lou. I know what’s in the Bible.” He walks toward the front, or back, or whichever entrance. “Sin on Saturday and confess on Sunday.” He opens the front door and asks, “What are you doing next Saturday?”

  I laugh and follow him out onto the front porch. “Probably not sinning.” I stop at the top step and watch him walk around the back of his truck. “Simon.”

  He pauses and looks across the distance at me.

  “Merci bien,” I say, having picked up a little Cajun French here and there. “You didn’t have to come today, but I’m glad you did.”

  “De rien. I had a good time.”

  “Me too. Almost as good as bobbering.”

  He chuckles and opens his truck’s door. “A good bobber is hard to beat.”

  After Simon leaves, I take down the party banner and carry everything to the outside garbage cans. Lindsey’s been gone for an hour and a half, and Mom’s been asleep the whole time, thank God. I would have hated for Mom to walk into the parlor to find me practically wrapped around Simon. I don’t know what she would have done. I don’t think she honestly believes Simon is her real boyfriend, but he is her “foxy man.”

  I shake my head as I walk toward Mom’s room. She is territorial and I probably shouldn’t risk making out with him a second time. Third, rather. I crack open the bedroom door and peek inside. Mom hasn’t slept long, but she hates to miss I Love Lucy on the Hallmark Channel and I call out, “Mom, it’s almost time for Lucy.” I walk farther into the room. “Mom, time to get up.” Her quilt is thrown back, and she isn’t in bed. Her shoes are in the place where I left them. “Mom?” I turn toward the TV and see her on the floor by the hearth. “Mom!” She’s on her back, and one leg is bent beneath her as if she crumpled in that spot. I drop to my knees and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Mom?” Her eyes stay closed, sunken into her pale face. I shake her and a small trickle of dark red blood runs from her nose. “Oh God! What happened?” I push two fingers into her carotid artery on the side of her neck. She is cold, her lips are bluish, and I can’t feel her pulse. I grab her wrist, but I can’t find it there either. “Wake up, Mom!”

  I look around, frantic. I can’t breathe. I need a phone. I have to call 911. My gaze falls on the bedside chest and I stand up and move across the room. My hands tremble so much, I can hardly yank open the drawer and grab the velvet jewelry box. I’m shakin
g so hard now I’m coming apart. My heartbeat pounds in my neck and head and I struggle to suck in huge breaths. I’m angry and scared and I can’t push the tiny button. “Damn it, Mom!” I get my fingers beneath the lid and rip it open. Four little red pills fly into the air before gently ping-ponging around the hardwood floor.

  I race to my office and grab my phone. I try to dial as I run back to Mom’s room, but I can’t even manage 911. In the few seconds I am gone, hope echoes in my brain. I hope she got up. I hope she’s in bed. I hope I’m having a horrible dream, but when I return, she’s right where I left her.

  “Momma!” I kneel beside her. Her skin is still pale, her eyes sunken, and her lips light blue. The trickle of blood has run down her cheek now. If she didn’t kill herself, what the hell happened?

  “Don’t leave me,” I beg, even though I know she is already gone. Nothing will bring her back. “Fuck!” I throw my phone across the room. She has a do-not-resuscitate order. She doesn’t want an ambulance or an autopsy. She has it all planned out with Bergeron Funeral Home.

  My vision blurs her dark hair and baby-blue tracksuit. The first sob rips apart my chest and turns into a long, painful wail. I fall backward on my butt. My mother didn’t kill herself like she planned. She got out of bed for some reason and fell. My cries are loud and uncontrollable and drawn from deep in my soul. I pull Mom into my lap the best I can. Her head falls to the side and blood drips in my lap. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a laborious “Mmmm… om.” Hot tears roll down my numb cheeks and neck. I pull her closer. Her head rests against my heart, and a Little Peanut party favor box sits beneath her bent leg.

  I bury my face in her hair. “Don’… leeeeeave me.” Why didn’t I hear her fall? I should have heard something, but I was making out with Simon. I could have helped her. “Mom… ma.” My back hurts, but I can’t stop wailing.

  “Ahhh, baby,” I hear. My vision is blurred, but there is no one in the room but me and Mom. “Shhh, Lulu.” Something weightless and warm touches my back that I know is my mother, soothing me like when I was a child.

  I try to say, “Come back. Don’t leave me, please!” It comes out garbled and disjointed.