Southern Discomfort

by Tena Clark

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor continued, “but there’s more. There’s a large tumor in the right lung, and an even larger one in the left. Surgery is out of the question. Even if we were to remove one of the tumors, inflicting that much trauma would be catastrophic, given your mother’s age, and almost certainly deadly.”

  Her only option was intensive chemotherapy. And even with the toxic doses of chemo, her life expectancy was only two to six months. Two to six months. I barely comprehended the words.

  We drove back to Waynesboro mute with shock, each of us trying not to audibly sob. Meanwhile, Mama was calm.

  “It’s gonna be all right. If it’s my time to go, it’s my time.”

  Mama was at peace.

  “Girls, I’m ready, if the Good Lord will have me.” She sounded like Virgie.

  She sat back in the seat, her purse on her lap, looking out the window at the passing fields and farmhouses.

  * * *

  Two days later, I returned to California for Cody’s fourth birthday, eager to distract my mind from the idea of losing Mama. When I saw Cody running toward me in LAX, her little legs pumping as hard as they could, I once again lost it, and I buried my face in her hair, hoping it would absorb my tears. Cody adored her memaw, and she’d only had four years with her. Four short years, not enough time for her to remember Mama for who she was—her grace and strength and humor and beauty.

  On the day of Cody’s birthday party, I excused myself from the preparations and went to a nearby park that I visited often because it was lovely and quiet and almost always deserted. There, I sank onto a picnic table bench and then onto my knees, clasping my hands in front of my face, pressing them against my mouth.

  “Please, God, I can’t do this. Not now,” I said, the words muffled against my clasped hands. “Please give me and Cody ten more years with her. I want her to know Cody and Cody to know her memaw. Ten more years. I want to be able to let Mama go gracefully, Lord, and I can’t. Not now. But in ten years, I’ll be able to do it. I promise. But I need ten more years.”

  I begged with every ounce of my being, the tears running down my face. Then I stood up, collected myself, and went back to my daughter’s birthday party.

  For the next six months, Mama underwent the kind of chemo and radiation you wouldn’t wish on your archenemy, suffering grueling indignities of body and soul. After her last treatment, we four sisters once again gathered and drove Mama down to Hattiesburg for the results and her prognosis.

  The doctor walked in and beamed at Mama. Like every single person she’d ever encountered, he had gotten a little sweet on my mother.

  “Vivian, I don’t know how or why, but your tumors are gone. Both of them. I’ve never seen anything like this, and I don’t know how to explain it.”

  But I did. I’ll always believe He heard my prayer.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  * * *

  With Mama in remission and growing stronger every day, I focused on raising Cody, running my company, and getting my first musical written, produced, and performed.

  It was my interpretation of a black Oliver Twist, and told the story of a boy in Prohibition-era New Orleans. It was a bear to stage, but I did it and was thrilled when its premiere was scheduled in Philadelphia’s historic Walnut Street Theatre.

  The previews went really well, and I invited Mama, Georgia, Penny, and Elizabeth to come see it before it opened. Mama and Georgia came and loved it. In a show of great faith, Elizabeth and Penny said they’d wait and see it on Broadway, thank you very much. As Mama and Georgia left to head back to Waynesboro, I asked them if they thought Daddy might come to the opening.

  “He’s never seen me perform professionally or heard anything I’ve ever written,” I said, my voice flirting with a whine.

  They looked at each other nervously and then at me like I was crazy.

  “Well, honey, don’t count on that,” Mama said, fussing with her purse so that she didn’t have to look me in the eye.

  “All we can do is ask, Tena,” Georgia said, one foot already in the cab that would take them back to the airport.

  The next week, I was shocked to the core when Georgia called to tell me Daddy was in fact coming to the opening, that following Wednesday.

  “He’s coming with Shirley, just so you know.”

  I didn’t care if he was coming with the Grim Reaper. He was coming.

  A few days later, I went to meet Daddy and Shirley at their hotel and found them waiting for me on the front sidewalk. Daddy was pacing and as soon as he spotted me, he stubbed his cigarette on the pavement and announced, “Okay, then, let’s get going.”

  So much for hugs and kisses and “Congratulations, I’m so proud of you!”

  Ah well, baby steps. At least he had come.

  It wasn’t until he was seated next to me, front row center, that I realized my mistake in wanting him there, particularly at the opening. On what should have been one of the highlights of my professional life, I felt like I was about to have a heart attack right there in the seat. I was more nervous about him being there than I was about the critics.

  Daddy’d always been fidgety, but he was downright spastic in his chair next to me, his legs bouncing like a puppet’s on a string and his cigarette-less fingers typing on invisible keyboards. When the curtain rose, things only got worse as I focused on the stage and began to see the play through Daddy’s eyes.

  Holy shit, I thought, what the fuck was I thinking? I begged Daddy to come to a musical in which a black and white couple kiss in the first TWO minutes?

  I couldn’t look at him as the actors lingered in their lip-lock, but out of the corner of my eye I caught him wince. I barely remembered that this was my opening night, my musical, my songs, my heart on the stage. All that registered was Daddy. Once again, it was all about him.

  Finally, intermission came and I jumped up, glad to be able to shake my anxious nerves out of my legs and shoulders.

  “You want a drink, Daddy?” I asked, wishing I could disappear into the crowd so I could buy myself about four shots of the strongest booze and down one after the other, slamming the shot glasses on the bar.

  He said no, but that he’d follow me out to the lobby to stretch his legs and have a cigarette.

  As we stood under the theater’s chandelier, people came up to me and swooned the way people swoon when they meet the artist, songwriter, or composer who wrote the show. We get swoons whether we deserve it or not. But in the presence of my scowling father, the praise and congratulatory remarks slid off me like melting butter off a stack of hot pancakes.

  I tried my damnedest not to suffer through the second half, but when the curtain finally fell and the play was over, I felt a huge wave of relief, so strong it took me a moment or two to realize the audience around me was on its feet. As I rose and clapped for the cast and the orchestra, I looked down at Daddy: He was still in his chair, putting his hands together with limp enthusiasm.

  The cast motioned for me to come onstage, so I scooted out of the row and clambered up to join them. As the ovations continued and a bouquet of fifty roses was put in my arms, I finally allowed myself to breathe, and smile, and receive the applause.

  When things calmed down, and the audience started filing out of the theater, I made my way back to where Daddy and Shirley sat waiting for me.

  Daddy rose from his seat and leaned toward me, and I waited for his words of praise.

  “Where can ah-ah-ah-I get a t-t-taxi?”

  The shock must have shown on my face because Shirley shot him a look, and I registered a flicker of respect that she dared do even that.

  I looked at him, swallowing the words that were screaming in my head: You sonofabitch! I have worked my ass off on this, and all you can fucking say is ‘Where can I get a taxi?’ You can’t give me an ounce of approval?

  Instead, I quietly chuckled, shaking my head and letting a huge sigh release itself from my tight chest.

  “Out front, Daddy. You can get
a taxi out front.”

  After he and Shirley were gone, I found myself alone. I sat down in the empty theater, willing myself not to shed even one damn tear because of him. Why I thought this time would be different, I don’t know. I had so wanted him to see my work, maybe even appreciate that I had made the right choice in sticking with music, that I had talent and worth to share with the world. But I had gotten so much less than zero from him that rather than bask in the praise of my peers, the press, and the audience, I was consumed with what I didn’t have—Daddy’s praise—and angry at myself for still craving it.

  The next morning my phone rang early.

  “M-m-m-mornin’,” Daddy said, sounding uncharacteristically nervous, even for him. “Ah-ah-ah-I wanted to come t-t-talk to you. Maybe we c-c-c-can have a little breakfast b-b-before Shirley and me head to the airport?”

  Oh shit, I thought, he’s going to tell me he was right all along, and this is why he didn’t want me to dedicate my life to music: because I would fail. Shit, shit, shit. Dread flooded through me as I quickly dressed and ran downstairs to meet him in the hotel café.

  He was already there, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Ah-ah-ah-ah-I didn’t say the right thing last night,” he began. “I’ve never b-b-b-been to one of those things,” he continued, “and I d-d-don’t know about these things. I just didn’t know how to act. I guess it was g-g-g-good, right? I mean, people seemed to like it? And, ah-ah-ah-I liked it too.”

  I stared at my father. I was almost forty years old and he seventy-six, still dapper in his fedora, tailored suit, and Italian leather shoes, a cigarette held firmly between two fingers. I had waited a lifetime to hear these words from him, and I doubted he had ever in all of his years uttered anything like them before, and probably never would again. And yet he wasn’t finished.

  “I j-j-just want you to know, I’m p-p-proud of you.”

  And there it was. Finally. It wasn’t “I love you,” another sentence I’d never heard him say to anyone, but I’d take it.

  Without a word, because I couldn’t speak, I got up and walked around to where he sat on the other side of the table and bent down to hug him. He was never a hugger, but I felt his hand come up and pat me a few times on the back.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  * * *

  I wish I had been able to leave it there. But a few months later, and struggling to raise capital for my music and media company, I gathered every ounce of nerve I had to ask Daddy for a loan. It had been a few years since I turned him down on returning to Waynesboro and running his business, and I figured because he had seen my musical, and maybe even appreciated what I did, he would support my next venture. As always, Georgia acted as my go-between, telling me if he was having a good day or a bad day, and whether he’d had his nap. I finally called him one morning after she had given me the green light.

  “He’s in a good mood,” she assured me.

  “HAY-L NO!” his voice roared through the phone after I had explained the company and why I needed the money.

  “No? Just no?” I stammered. “Can you tell me why not?”

  “Why not? I’ll t-t-tell you why not. You have never done a G-G-G-GODdamn thing I ever wanted you to do. You have done n-n-n-nuthin’ but disappoint me. You’ve b-b-been nuthin’ but a disappointment.”

  I felt the blood drain out of my veins. I had truly thought he was going to be happy that I’d finally asked him for money, finally bowed to his great dictum that “everybody has a price,” that I too could be controlled through his pocketbook. I also had a little girl’s belief that after all the drama, after all the divisiveness he wrought between Mama and me and my sisters, that he really, truly loved me and, what’s more, loved me the best.

  Staggering, I tried to rally my defense.

  “But, Daddy, I’m not asking for you to give me the money. I’m asking for a loan. I’ll pay it back.”

  “Nope, no way,” he said, his voice tight and mean.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “I told you to g-g-git your head out of your ass about this music s-s-s-stuff, that you’d never make a d-d-damn dime. Wouldn’t have t-t-t-two nickels to r-r-rub together. But you’re just like your m-m-mama, thinkin’ like a girl. I wouldn’t give you a G-G-G-GODdamn dime because you can’t make ch-ch-ch-chicken salad out of chicken shit,” he spat.

  I felt my blood start to boil as it never had in an argument with Daddy. I was, after all, a forty-year-old executive, music producer, award-winning songwriter. I had already made it, on my own and without his sorry help. But here he was, that sonofabitch, who had tricked me into believing he loved me and respected my work and only wanted the best for me.

  “Daddy, how have I disappointed you?”

  “You’ve never done a G-G-G-GODdamn thing I wanted you to do.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I’ve never done a drug in my life, I graduated from college, I make a great living, I’m a workaholic, just like you! I’m a good mother to Cody. What else could I possibly do?”

  “I never wanted you to go out to G-G-G-GODdamn California with a bunch of crazies, but you did. I wanted you to come back and run my b-b-b-business, but you didn’t. And you show up down here with no m-m-m-makeup and your hair cut short . . .”

  Whoa, I thought, here it comes. I bent at the waist taking his assault like blows.

  “. . . you have been nuthin’ but a d-d-disappointment and a f-f-f-failure to me.”

  When I could speak, I said, “Daddy, I’ve spent my entire life trying to please you and hold on to who I am at the same time. I’ve done that my whole life.” As I spoke, my voice rose until I was yelling into the phone. He yelled right back.

  “You have failed m-m-m-miserably. Because you have never p-p-pleased me one GODdamn day of your life.”

  “Okay, then I guess you don’t have to worry about me bothering you again. I’m glad you got everything out, Daddy. Sounds like you been holdin’ on to this shit for quite some time. I’m glad to finally know how you really feel.” I paused a minute to collect my ragged voice. “Daddy, this time it’s too much.”

  “I agree.” And bam, he hung up.

  I promised myself I would never again let my father hurt me. I was done. I. Was. Done.

  * * *

  My resolve lasted only a matter of weeks.

  “Tena, I got bad news.”

  It was Georgia. Before she said the words, I knew.

  “It’s Daddy. He’s sick, and it’s bad.”

  I gotta be honest. My absolute first thought was, That sonofabitch. He won.

  When he had refused to even consider giving me the loan, I had finally said what I’d been wanting to say my whole life: that I was through with his control and conceit and meanness. But how in hell could I write him off now? You can’t write off a dying father, right?

  Like Mama a few years earlier, his lifelong habit of chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes had finally caught up with him and cancer was eating away what was left of his lungs. Suspicious of doctors until the end, he had waited way too long for even chemotherapy to be of any use. His lungs were in terrible shape. The oncologist said the only people with lungs in worse shape than Daddy’s were lifelong coal miners. There was almost nothing left to save. As soon as he understood his diagnosis was terminal and that he had less than a month to live, he refused to go to the hospital and instead hired live-in nurses to tend to his medications and bedpans.

  His room stank of thick, sour rot and putrid tobacco that oozed from his skin. My sisters and I took turns sitting with him because none of us could spend a lot of time at his bedside, the stench was so overpowering. Daddy lay in the middle of it, his small body now emaciated from the cancer. It was almost impossible to reconcile the man who had struck fear into the hearts of many with the tiny shell in the bed.

  As his final days approached, I begged Mama to go visit him and say goodbye. I think I needed the closure more than she did. Mam
a agreed, and when she entered the room she was calm, even serene, and grand. She warmly greeted the nurse and Daddy’s wife, Shirley. My sisters and I all left the room, and then we stood peeking around the threshold.

  “Lamar, it’s me,” Mama said as she leaned over him, ignoring the stench, and touched his hand where it rested on the bedsheet. She cleared her throat. “It’s Vivian.”

  Without opening his eyes or speaking a word, he yanked his hand away, turned onto his side to put his back to her, and pulled the covers over his head.

  I was tempted to run in, pull back the sheet, and shout in his face, THAT’S MY MAMA AND SHE’S COME TO SAY GOODBYE AND YOU’RE GONNA BE NICE!

  I guess I’d romanticized their reunion and had hoped that when he saw her, he’d see the fifteen-year-old girl he’d married sixty years before. That maybe something would soften in him, that his young love for her would flame, and that they’d be able to have some sort of moment, or at least an acknowledgment of all that had passed between them. It was the fantasy of a child of divorce.

  I could barely look at Mama, the sting of his cruelty was so sharp. But Vivian Clark stood firm. Her face held no expression. She nodded once, reached out to touch his arm, and said softly, “I love you, Lamar.”

  She paused, and leaned in to him, as if giving him one more chance to make it right, but he remained on his side, the sheet over his head.

  “Okay, then, I’ll be going now. You take care of yourself, Lamar.” Then she turned and left the room.

  I followed her out and onto the front porch.

  “I’m so sorry, Mama. I never would have brought you here if I’d known he was going to act like that.”

  She reached out and put her arm around me, giving me the comfort I had tried to give her.

  “Don’t you worry, baby. I didn’t come here for him. I came here for me. Do you understand? I came here for me.”

  I nodded, squeezing her hand.