by Webb, Peggy
“Maybe I will, Mama. But first, we have things to do.”
*
There’s only one personal-care home we haven’t seen in this area. Please, please, I pray as I drive because I’m not willing to put Mama in a place fifty or sixty miles from home. Both Jean and I want her close enough so that she can call and say come, and we can be there in fifteen minutes.
We’re skirting Tupelo on the 45 bypass, heading to a place five minutes south of the city. It’s called Belle Gardens, but I’m too smart to let a lovely name fool me again.
“I just have a feeling about this one,” Mama says.
“Good or bad?” I ask.
Before she can answer Jean says, “If they don’t offer private visiting rooms so the family won’t have to sit in one of those awful reception rooms that looks like a bowling alley, I’m voting against it.”
“Who says you get a vote? I’m the one staying, not you.”
“But Mama, we don’t want you to have to sit around in a place full of people in wheel chairs.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I’m planning to get one, myself, soon. Electric. With designer hubcaps and a souped up engine. I might even fly the rebel flag off the back.”
Oh…. My heart hurts. I’m going to miss Mama’s tart tongue and sassy mouth. Maybe I’ll ask if they have a room for two and move in with her.
Jean’s sniffling, and Mama says, “Perk up. After we look at Belle Gardens I want to go shopping for baby stuff. I want to pick out the nursery furniture. Oh… and the coming-home-from-the hospital outfit and the christening gown.”
“Are you going to leave anything for me and Walter, Mama?”
“I don’t plan on it.”
Belle Gardens rises out of the mists, a gracious white-columned mansion with a circular drive sweeping around a two-acre lot. There are trees here - ancient magnolias and massive black jack oaks shading a walking track and a wide front porch – and masses of roses with the tended look of a garden cared for by somebody in a wide-brimmed summer hat and white cotton gloves.
I park in the shade and hold my breath as we walk through the front door. Sunlight streams through French windows and bookshelves line the walls, and in the corner a women with white curls and red fingernail polish is sitting at an upright piano playing “Tennessee Waltz.”
At last I can breathe. And as the air slowly expands my lungs, it feels as if I haven’t breathed in a very long time. It feels like grace.
*
On Saturday Mama moves to Belle Gardens amidst laughter (hers), tears (Jean’s) and lots of huffing and puffing (mine and Walter’s). Only two things mar this move: dogs aren’t allowed and a private room won’t be available until the fifteenth of August.
“Two weeks won’t kill me,” is what Mama says. And then after we’ve hung her clothes and put her family photographs on her side of the double dresser, she says, “Maggie, take care of Jefferson till I get back home.”
Her roommate, Carolyn West, watches from her rocking chair in the corner by the window. “Nobody leaves this place,” she says, and I want to strangle her.
Instead, Jean and I settle onto Mama’s bed and glare at her while Mama arranges her lap robe over her recliner.
“I’ll just head for home,” Walter says. “Take your time, honey.”
He kisses Jean and leaves us in this bare-walled room with a stranger who will be sleeping next to Mama at night, listening to her breathe.
If Mama has a heart attack, will this woman punch the call button? Will she hog the bathroom? Turn the light off while Mama’s still working crossword puzzles?
Now is the big moment, leaving Mama behind. Suddenly I don’t know what to say.
“Well…” Jean begins, and for once even Mama is speechless.
I crumple the bedspread between my fingers, then smooth it out again. The faucet in the bathroom is dripping - Niagara Falls - and I get up and twist the handles back. Hard. I’ve stopped the drip, but I can’t go back into the bedroom just yet. Instead I anchor myself to the cool porcelain sink and hang on.
Okay, I say to myself. Okay. What next?
I thought I was doing great. Making a list of changes and marking them off. First a job search and then Mama.
How awful is that? Marking off your own Mama? I look at my flushed face in the mirror, my sweat-frizzed hair. Well… I didn’t actually mark her off.
Did I?
This is insane. How can I feel guilty about finding a beautiful place where Mama will receive the best of care, where she can settle in and be happy while I work?
Where? The prissy principal never called. No surprise there, and I don’t know where to turn.
“Maggie?”
“Coming, Mama.”
She looks so fragile sitting in that big chair that I want to scoop her up and carry her home, fold her in her white fuzzy blanket and sit by the bed holding her hand.
“It’s time for supper.”
“We’ll take you out, Mama. To Harvey’s. You like their shrimp.”
“No, I want to meet everybody.”
“You’re sure? We can bring you back after dinner.”
“You and Jean go on. I’ve got to put on some lipstick. I plan to knock their socks off.”
*
Our footsteps echo on the tile-floored hallway of Belle Gardens. I can’t bear to look back, can’t endure the thought of seeing Mama standing in her doorway on her walker. Brave and alone.
The Jeep is blazing hot, in spite of the shade, and I crank up and turn on the air conditioner. We sit there with it blowing our faces, not speaking, not daring.
Finally I say, “Are you ready to go home?”
“Not yet. Let’s go somewhere, get a drink. Then we can come back and check on Mama.”
I nod and don’t even ask where. It doesn’t matter. What matters is marking time.
We go to Harvey’s and sit in a corner booth, me with a big strawberry daiquiri and Jean with a safe and nutritious strawberry milkshake.
“This is horrible,” she says, and I know she’s not talking about the drink.
“It’s life,” I reply.
“Well, it’s shitty.”
“Yes.” I lift my glass and feel the cool iced liquor slide down my throat. “But not always.”
“That’s what Aunt Mary Quana said.”
“You told her about Belle Gardens?”
“Yes. She’d be mad as a wet hen if I hadn’t.” Jean unrolls the big linen napkin, dumps the silver and blows her nose. “Can we go back now?”
“It’s too soon. Let’s give her time to finish dinner.”
“We’ll take her back home if she hates it.”
“Absolutely.”
While Jean toys with her milkshake, I sip my drink, miserable, second-guessing myself, wondering if I could have found a better solution.
“I have Walter…and the baby. What are you going to do, Maggie?”
“Take care of Jefferson and Mama’s house and… I don’t know.”
“Walter has contacts. He can get you a job.”
How do I say I have to do this alone and make my sister understand? I don’t want merely a job. I want a future, one I’ve discovered, created, worked for, carved out and earned. Not one that has been handed to me by somebody with power.
“Thank you,” is what I finally tell my sister. “If nothing else works out, I’ll let you know.”
“He’s leaving tomorrow. For London. I could kill him.”
“It’s his job, Jean.”
“Well, if he doesn’t change so he can stay home with me and the baby, I’m going to divorce him.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Every baby deserves two parents, and if Walter’s not willing to be the other one, then I’ll find somebody who will.”
“You sound like Mama. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I didn’t either until just now.” She reaches for my hand. “And so do you, Maggie. You’re going to get out there and wow
somebody.”
Do women my age get to have two great careers in a lifetime? Two good men? Is there a god of second chances?
The waitress comes and we pay for our drinks. Then I link arms with my sister and say, “Do you know something? You ought to be in charge of the world.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let’s go check on Mama.”
The sun is down and the Jeep is cooler when we climb in this time. I wait through two lights behind the Saturday night dinner crowd, and then head south on Gloster Street.
“Oh lord,” Jean says. “Wait.”
“What?” I’m thinking miscarriage, and it takes a strong will not to slam on the brakes and cause a six-car pileup.
“I’ve got Harvey’s napkin in my purse. We’ve got to go back.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack.” I keep on driving south. “We’ll drop it off the next time we’re there.”
“What if they miss it and send the cops? I don’t want my baby to have a jailbird mother.”
“Good grief, Jean.”
“Well, I don’t.”
I turn around and go back to Harvey’s, not because I’m afraid Jean will go to jail but because we put our mama into a place that locks the front doors at night so nobody can get in. Not even family.
*
Finally we make it back to Belle Gardens, and Jean and I reach for each other’s hands before we walk inside.
The first thing we hear is laughter. Mama’s.
She’s sitting on the faux velvet sofa between two women – one amply padded and lively-faced, the other petite and spry-looking with a face as brown and wrinkled as a peach pit. And in the chair opposite sits Aunt Mary Quana, her hair the vivid color of a redbird.
Mama waves us over. “Look who just breezed in from Atlanta. And I want you to meet my new friends, Mert and Sarah.”
We say hello, and then Aunt Mary Quana, who always jumps straight to the point says, “How do you like my hair?” Don’t you think it looks natural?” Forget explanations about when she got here and how long she’s going to stay. “I’m going to quit coloring it when I’m a hundred. That gives me forty more years.”
“It does not,” Mama argues. “It gives you thirty, because I’m only five years older than you and I’m seventy-five.”
“How can I lie about my age if you won’t? Just speak for yourself, Victoria.”
“I didn’t see your car, Aunt Mary Quana,” I say.
“That’s because I didn’t want you to. I’m parked out back in the overnight guest lot. You didn’t think I’d let Victoria have all the fun without me, did you?”
We stay until the day shift leaves and the night staff starts locking doors.
On the way home Jean says, “The hospital is only five minutes away. And they told us they’d call an ambulance. If they need to.”
“Hush, Jean. Just be grateful.”
Cocooned in darkness, the tires of the Jeep swishing against pavement damp from a late-afternoon rain, I remember Mama laughing, and suddenly everything seems possible.
______________
Chapter Sixteen
______________
“These are the last dog days of summer, hotter than the hinges of Hades, but fall is just around the corner. If you’re driving, don’t let the heat get to you. Road rage is a dangerous thing.”
Rainman
I feel guilty walking up in Mama’s house with nobody to tend to except the dog. It has been so long since I’ve had time to myself that I can’t think what to do first. Job hunt? Work on my unicorn fantasy? Work on revisions for my mystery? Cook breakfast? Eat cake?
Why not? A woman whose whole house smells like stargazer lilies deserves cake for breakfast. Maybe I’ll sit on a silk cushion to eat it.
I go into the kitchen, turn on the radio and start making a four-layer, double-chocolate cake, my specialty. Jefferson thumps his tail, expecting a bite, but I give him a doggy treat instead.
“No chocolate for you, boy. It’ll make you sick.”
On the radio Rainman says, “On hot days like this, I enjoy ice cream. Preferably shared.”
Is he remembering the hayloft? Is he hoping I’m listening?
The cake turns out better than I’d imagined, perfect, really, and I go outside to pick three lush gardenias, August Beauty, which has a lovely habit of blooming all summer.
I arrange these on top of the cake, put it in a Tupperware carrier then grab two china plates and two silver forks and head out the door.
In the car I’m almost too giddy to drive. I can’t believe I’m doing this, streaking off to WTUP without calling ahead, the woman who has always hated surprises.
Will Joe be there? Oh, I hope so.
He is there, and he hugs me close and long, even before he notices the cake.
“I brought you something.” I lift the lid and the rich aroma of warm chocolate fills the room. “A man who listens to a woman cry and then sends stargazer lilies deserves cake for breakfast.”
“Wow! Maggie, I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re not supposed to talk. Just eat.”
I wish I could bottle the look he gives me and put it under my pillow. Suddenly this tiny room is fifteen degrees hotter.
“I’m going to enjoy that,” he says, and I don’t think he’s talking about cake.
Breakfast has never been this exciting. After we finish two huge chunks, Joe washes the chocolate off the stems of the gardenias and tucks them in my hair. “You should always wear flowers, Maggie.”
The important thing is not wearing the flowers, but having a tender man who gives them to me. Now I understand why my flying-apart sister never completely disintegrates: she has the luxury of tears because Walter is always there to pick up the pieces.
Not that I want to be as dependent as she is. Still, I want more than a job and a house with a yard big enough for a dog. I want a home with a sweet and tender man who also knows how to make me sizzle. A man like Joe.
“Can you stay, Maggie? I’m off at two.”
“I wish I could, Joe, but I have too many things to do. Can I take a rain check?”
“Anytime, Maggie.”
He kisses my cheek, and in the car, I sit with my hand over the spot, feeling feminine and hopeful.
*
As soon as I get home I write down the things I need to do by priority. Get a job tops the list. I’m going to do this or die trying. I haven’t depended on a man for financial support yet, and I’m not about to start. Mississippi has three major universities within a sixty-mile radius of Mooreville…and another in the southern part of the state. Maybe I’ll take Mama’s advice and start there. But which one first?
In the midst of my quandary, Jean calls to remind me of her doctor’s appointment this afternoon.
Here’s another thing…how can I look for a job much less do one, if I’m always behind the wheel taking my sister somewhere?
“I’m going to teach you how to drive, Jean.”
“Well, all right,” she agrees. Have aliens taken over my sister’s body, or has pregnancy given her a new-found confidence? If so, maybe I ought to go off and get pregnant. The thought makes me blush because it’s not the getting pregnant part I’m thinking about but the process. With Joe.
“But I’m warning you, it will take a while because I’m scared to death, and I’m not fixing to get out onto the highways because I don’t want to wreck the car and hurt myself.”
“All right, then. We’ll practice in Mama’s pasture.”
“Not today. I’m expecting Walter to call, and I’m laying down the law. He can either arrange to keep his butt at home or find somebody else to keep his baked chicken warm.”
“I’ve never heard it called that.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
After we talk, I close my eyes and point my finger, picking one of the three universities, blind. Mississippi University for Women, commonly known as “the W” is
the winner, and before I can change my mind, I pick up the phone and dial.
“English department,” I say. “The dean.”
I present my credential for teaching freshman comp and sophomore lit all the while realizing that this spur-of-the-moment call was not the way to do this. In person, that’s the way to get a job. I should have asked this Dean Raskin to set up an interview. Still, I know universities use students working on master’s degrees to teach these classes, and I’m infinitely more qualified.
With my fingers crossed behind my back and gardenias wilting in my hair, I wait for him to tell me, “You’re a godsend, just what we’ve been looking for.”
Instead I nod and murmur into the telephone that I understand, while he informs me how they already have everybody they need and can’t possibly use a Johnny-come-lately with bushed-out hair and the wrong degree. Of course, he doesn’t say that last part, but that’s what it feels like.
I stomp down the driveway, check the mailbox hoping for something wonderful, and pull out a flyer from Home Depot advertising aluminum siding at fifteen percent off. I rip it to shreds and then storm back to the house and fling the pieces into the garbage can.
It’s two hours before Jean’s appointment, so I open my computer. But the words are stuck inside me, blocked by wounded pride and the niggling fear that I can’t make it on my own. I know better than to force them, and so I put on Jefferson’s leash and try to reclaim myself on the farmland I love.
*
After Jean’s appointment, we stop by Belle Gardens. Mama is sitting in the library with Aunt Mary Quana, reading, the pockets in the carry-all on her walker bulging with tissue, crossword puzzle books and a box of chocolate covered cherries.
“I’m fixing to kill my roommate,” Mama says.
“I’ll help you,” Aunt Mary Quana offers.
“Why?” I’m not alarmed by her declaration. Mama uses this threat on everybody, from the hair stylist she declared made her hair look like a buzzard’s butt to her daughter (that would be me) for letting Jefferson lose his hair.
“She can’t keep her paws off my candy.”
