“Fuck you,” I say to the cell phone and turn off the power.
“Auntie Marilyn, did I just hear you say a bad word?”
“No, you did not, Tiecey.”
“Yes, I did. I thought you was nice and didn’t say those bad words.”
“I’m sorry. And I just lied. I did say a bad word, but I promise you will never hear me say another one.”
“Do you keep your promises?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m glad somebody do.” She slides down the hallway. I drop the cell into my purse and just sit there on the couch looking at the map of my face between the gold veins on the mirrored wall. I don’t want anyone to come down or do anything. I just want to do what I need to do and take my mother and these kids home.
She’s had strokes. Probably more than one. They’re called ministrokes. They’re sneakier. That’s what the MRI showed as the main cause of my mother’s dementia: it’s only going to get worse. The neurologist suggested that I honor Lovey’s instructions and consider placing her into an assisted-care facility since technically she is unable to care for herself. But I’m not sure that it needs to be done so soon. She conveyed her concerns to me because she said I was already going to be a caregiver to two youngsters and Lovey would probably require even more supervision and patience than they would, and that I would most likely not have much energy left for myself or my husband. I had forgotten all about Leon, but since he’s going to be out of the picture soon anyway, I didn’t bother to say anything about him or our situation. Whatever it is. In fact, she said that many adult children of Alzheimer’s parents very often end up suffering from depression and guilt because there’s not much they can do to help restore their parents back to the healthy beings they once knew, and watching them deteriorate mentally is not only painful, but often so heartbreaking that in the long run the adult children appear to suffer more than the parent. This frightened me. It’s what I’d spent the last twenty-two years of my life doing: taking care of everybody and seeing to it that most, if not all, of their needs were met to the point that I ended up not having much left to meet my own. Did I clear the table only to have to set it again?
I’m confused about my devotion. Lovey is my mother. LL and Tiecey may not share my bloodline but they might as well. Hell, they’re just babies. And my babies are grown. This time around I have to learn how to nurture Marilyn or I’m going to resent these kids. It has taken me a long time to recognize that I’ve never put myself first, I’m always on the bottom of my things to do list and I keep getting carried over to the next day/month/year. But not this time. I think I finally get it. You don’t have to give up everything to own your life. And you don’t have to give everything you own to fuel someone else’s. This time I’m not going to pretend I’m the quarterback or the goalie or the last handoff in a relay or the referee. I’m just an older, more experienced member on the team who wants to do her part to make sure we all win. Volunteers welcome.
Chapter 29
I ain’t staying but a minute,” Lovey says when we get to our house in Oakland.
“That’s fine,” I say, trying to help her get out of the car, but she snatches her arm away.
“I ain’t no invalid. I can walk. Whose house is this anyway?” she asks, looking at it as if she’s never been here before. Tiecey has gathered up all the McDonald’s wrappers and cups from the backseat and has stuffed them into a bag while also dragging her pathetic purple suitcase across the concrete floor of the garage but I’m afraid it’s not going to make it.
“This is one ugly monstrosity of a house, don’t you think?” Lovey asks, looking at me as if she hopes I’ll agree.
I look up. She’s right. It has no curb appeal. But neither do I, so what does that make me? “It’s a big old house, Lovey, but we might be moving into a new one.”
“Hold your horses, little sister. Who said anything about moving? Why is it because something gets old everybody thank it loses its value? A little paint with some pizzazz would sure help matters. And do something about this yard. It’s missing a lot. Grass ain’t enough. Don’t nobody around here believe in flowers?”
“I used to.”
“Used to? You ever dig your fingers in the dirt and it’s so cool you just don’t want to stop? Don’t you have a husband around here somewhere?”
“He’s not home.”
“Where is he then?”
“He should be here sometime tonight.”
“Well, I won’t see him. Ain’t his name Leroy or La-Verne or something?”
“Leon.”
“Oh yeah. I remember now. You married him in college. Didn’t you?”
“Yes I did. See your memory is good, Lovey.”
“Whoever said it wasn’t?”
“Nobody.”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t you marry one whose name started with a G? He wasn’t no Harry Belafonte, but he was a good man. What was his name?”
“Gordon.”
“Good guess, Marilyn. You was only married to him for about five or ten minutes, is that about right?”
“I suppose.”
“You didn’t have no babies by him, though, did you?”
“No.”
“What ever happened to him?”
“Well—”
“Oh, never mind, girl, ’cause I really don’t care one way or the other. Where is Leonard again?”
“He should be on his way home,” I say, just because.
When we finally make it inside, the kids are already reacquainting themselves with the premises by giving themselves a whirlwind tour. Tiecey, of course, is the tour guide. By the time Lovey and I get into the foyer, the two of them are leaning over the railing looking down at us. “Hi, Grandma Lovey!” LL says.
Tiecey pops him upside the head. “You know we don’t need to be leaning over this railing now back up before one of us flip over like they do in the movies and this ain’t no movie, boy. Hi down there, Aunt Marilyn and Grandma Lovey!” She backs away from the banister and pulls him toward her.
“Do we get to pick which room we want?” Tiecey asks.
“Do this look like a hotel to you, Tiecey?”
“No, Grandma Lovey.”
“Everybody stop moving for a minute,” I say.
Poor things. They try to freeze like mimes, but of course they can’t hold it.
“I just meant to relax. Anyway, do you guys say your prayers at night?”
They both shake their heads no. “We don’t know how to pray.”
“Well, there are lots of ways to pray but we’ll try to find some that you like. We’re going to say them every night.”
“You, too, Aunt Marilyn?”
“Me, too.”
“What about Uncle Leon?”
“I’ll ask him the next time I see him.”
“Is he still fat?”
I try not to bust out laughing. “I’ll let you know the next time I see him. Anyway, Tiecey, you can have Sabrina’s old room. It’s the one with the walls that look like cantaloupe.”
“You mean orange?”
“Okay, then. Orange. And, LL, you can take the room across from that one.”
“What color is those walls, Aunt Marilyn?”
“Last time I checked I think they were North Carolina blue.”
He lifts his short knee up to his chest and yanks his little Yolo fist down and says, “Yes!”
“Why is everybody so worried about where they sleeping is what I want to know?”
“Well, Lovey, since Joy is gone the kids are probably going to live here.”
“You will live to regret it. They will drive you to drink. Do you drink, Marilyn?”
“A little now and then.”
“You’ll be a alcoholic in a few weeks.” And she starts laughing uncontrollably. “You remember that time that fella from Stockton made me some apple wine and I let you drink a glass full ’cause you thought it was apple juice?”
“Sort of.”
�
�You was singing and Lord knows you ain’t never been able to carry a note but you was just carrying on and doing some kind of jitterbugging until you just stopped dead in your tracks ’cause you wanted to know why the living room was going in circles. Poor thang. You made it to the bathroom and let go all that juice in the face bowl and then you plopped your little narrow butt down so hard on the toilet that it went right through and you was stuck! It took me at least ten minutes to get the hinges off and then I rubbed your little narrow ass with some Crisco and it slid right off!”
“And I was how old?”
“Nine or ten. Maybe. Do you eat many apples these days?”
“Can’t stand them,” I say, and then we both laugh. And now I know why.
LL and Tiecey reappear and almost tiptoe until they reach the bottom step, where they sit with what looks to be a newfound grace. “We like living here already, don’t we, LL?”
He nods his head up and down. “Can I get my Nintendo hooked up pretty soon?”
“No!” Tiecey says. “Aunt Marilyn said you and me gotta read more books so you ain’t going to be pressing them buttons all day and all night until you can read something besides SPLAT, KILL, and DIE! Got it?”
“Where’s the book at?”
She looks at me. Scrunches her shoulders up, as if to say: “Help me out here, please.”
“You don’t have to start reading right this minute, LL, but the video games can stand to cool off a little while.”
“They ain’t hot,” he says.
Tiecey pops him upside the head again. “We can’t say ‘ain’t’ no more, right, Aunt Marilyn? Ain’t that what you said?”
“Okay,” Lovey says. “This has been a lot of fun up to now but I’m hungry and want to go home so I can eat.” And then she turns, heading for the front door, but stops dead in her tracks. “Well, isn’t that lovely,” she says, and walks over to the lamp I made that once made Prezelle a little jumpy.
“Thank you, Lovey.”
“You’re welcome. Did you get this at Costco?”
“No. I made it.”
“I don’t believe you made that lamp with your own hands, Aunt Marilyn,” Tiecey says with a huge grin on her face that screams, “How was that?”
“I did. But not the whole thing. Just the shade.”
“Stop lying, Marilyn,” Lovey says. “And don’t worry, I ain’t running down to Costco to get one just like it.”
“You can have this one, Lovey, if you want it.”
She looks at me with a softness I haven’t seen in years. These are the eyes I remember. “I’ll take it! Tiecey go on over there and unplug it and go put it in the car before she change her mind. Hurry up. And, LL, you go help her. Thank you, Marilyn,” she says walking around the room apparently looking for other things that she might fancy. “You ain’t got no more nice thangs around here you made that you want me to have? Is that it?” she says, pointing to the entire lamp being tugged toward the garage.
“I’ve got a room where I make things. I can show you later. You guys, just set it by the door for now.” And then I wink at them. Tiecey winks back, like she gets it, and LL is having difficulty winking with one eye, to the point where he stomps his foot and crosses his arms in disgust.
“I won’t be here much longer. So show me now,” Lovey says.
I thought I just heard the garage door. But Leon didn’t drive to the airport. I was trying to beat him home. Especially after I learned I could make all the arrangements for Joy’s cremation online. I couldn’t believe it when the coroner’s office told me this option was available and one that more and more people were using. They’re even supposed to send her ashes in a box that was available in a multitude of styles and gave me a choice of using UPS Ground or FedEx. It felt more like I was ordering something from Sharper Image or Amazon.com. Living is definitely hard but apparently dying and being put to rest is a whole lot easier these days. Too easy. I did it because I needed to simplify some part of the entire sequence of events yet to come that would require the long version, not a shortcut.
“Tiecey, where is LL?”
“Him in the garage pushing that button so it go up and down up and down.”
“Please go and tell him I said not to do that because he can break it.”
“Okay,” she says and opens the door that leads out there. I’d forgotten I had turned the chime back on. “What’s that sound?”
“That’s to let us know that someone is opening a door or a window.”
“Don’t that get on your nerves?”
“Well, no one really goes in and out of it a lot.”
She just looks at the door as if she’s looking through it at LL and then she looks back at me. LL sticks his head inside. “LL, Aunt Marilyn said this squeaking noise will drive her nuts if we be running in and out of here so we should think about what we want to do and how long we wanna do it or back to Fresno we be going. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I don’t want to go back to Fresno. I’m sorry, Aunt Marilyn.”
“Well, I’m ready to go now,” Lovey says, after having made a circle walking from the living room through the dining area, the kitchen, and here, the small hall area leading into the family room from the garage.
“But we just got here, Lovey. Aren’t you a little tired?” I say.
“I am tired as hell, but didn’t nobody ask me if I was tired or not. Ask me if I’m hungry?”
“You just had six McNuggets, small fries, and a whole vanilla milkshake!” LL says.
“Shut up, LL. Are you hungry, Grandma Lovey?” Tiecey asks with a sneer. I think they play this game a lot.
“I might eat you if you don’t get outta my way!” And she’s smiling! I can’t believe it. The thought came too soon because now she’s squeezing her lips together when she turns to look at me. “Would it trouble you to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and do you have any cocoa?”
“Mama, I’ve got—”
“What did you just call me?”
I can’t believe I just called her that. “Mama,” I said quietly.
“I guess that would make me your mama, then, right?”
“That’s right,” I say.
“Then what took you so long to say it?”
“You said you wanted me to call you Lovey.”
“I must not’a been in my right mind, girl. But let me hear you say it again.”
Now I feel silly. “Mama, how would you like to have a delicious nutritious meal for dinner?”
“Yes, Mama Lovey,” Tiecey says, now imitating my diction and intonation, “you know what Oprah says about good nutrition, remember?”
“Tiecey, ain’t nobody talking to you, child. And what Oprah don’t know won’t hurt her.” She turns to me. “Your mama and Lovey both want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some chocolate milk. And do you have a empty bed I can lay my head on until I get it?”
“I do.”
“Good, and hurry up. We got a long drive back.”
I point to Arthurine’s old room and Tiecey leads Lovey into it. And in the blink of an eye, she’s back, standing next to me in the kitchen. “I can’t lie, Aunt Marilyn, I done been tired of making ’em seem like every day and ain’t—I mean isn’t—but one way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“You know, Tiecey, right now, you keep using all the words you’ve been using, okay?”
“I thought you said some of them was not right.”
“That’s true, but you know what I’ve been thinking about for a long time?”
“No, I do not.”
“That maybe over the summer I can teach you and LL right here in this house how to talk so no one will have to correct you, especially when you go back to school in the fall.”
“You mean we would be having school right here?”
“Yep. But just for the summer. Not all day. And not every day.” I take a deep breath. I have a busy summer ahead, but I’m looking forward to it all: my art and yoga classes
, and walking up these hills no matter what. The other school the kids are going to attend is on Sunday mornings, and I’ll go more often. Maybe I’ll get a social life.
“But what about recess?” Tiecey asks.
“You’ll have time to play.”
“But me and LL ain’t in the same grade.”
“I know that.”
“What grades you know how to teach?”
“Actually, none.”
“Then how we supposed to learn something from you if you don’t know how to be no teacher?”
“The school district gives guidelines for summer school.”
“Do we got to sit next to each other? LL just learning letters in kindergarten and I already know mine and I don’t wanna sit and listen to him saying his a-b-c’s and counting to a hundred over and over till it’s my turn. Can’t you find somebody my age to be in my class? And when do we start?”
“Slow down, Tiecey. First things first. We may have to go back to Fresno for a few weeks until you guys finish this school year.”
The Interruption of Everything Page 33
