Wouldn’t Change a Thing

by Stacy Campbell

  “Willa, will you watch the booth? I’m going to speak to someone.”

  “Who do you know in this town after all these years?”

  I point to Ethan. Willa’s expression is a question mark. “He’s Mama’s social worker. He was at the meeting two weeks ago.”

  “Go ahead.” She hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Bring me a pretzel dog and some popcorn, please.”

  The streets are swollen with people. I snake my way through the maze and tap Ethan’s shoulder. “How are you? It’s good to see you.” He pauses a few seconds. “I’m Toni. Greta’s daughter. We met a few weeks ago.”

  “I—”

  “It’s the hair, isn’t it? I had it out and flowing the first time. These braids are necessary for this weather. October in Georgia is still warm.”

  “Dad, I’m going to mingle. Cuties abound.” Ethan and his son do a fist pound.

  “Son, you’ve got two hours to roam free. Meet me on the courthouse steps in two hours.”

  Ethan turns his attention to me again. His left finger is void of its ring. It’s too soon to be trouble in paradise. “Do we know each other?”

  “Hello. We met at GMH.”

  “Oh, you mean—”

  “Harassing the ladies, bro?” a voice asks.

  Humiliation fills me. They stand next to each other and my mouth is agape.

  “I’m Evan. I think you thought I was my twin brother, Ethan. He’s the educated big head in the family. I’m just a handyman.”

  Ethan greets me again with his wife and children in tow. “Toni, when you mentioned the festival, I had no idea you’d be front and center.” He points to my apron and quickly acknowledges his family. “This is my wife, Madeline, and my son, Calvin, and my daughter, Cheris.” They shake my hand. Calvin and Cheris sport braces and preteen acne. Madeline smiles as well and looks lovingly at Ethan. “Toni is a relative of one of my clients.”

  “I’m sorry for the mix-up,” I tell Evan. “You must have thought I was a bumbling idiot.”

  “Happens a lot. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “We’re just starting with our booth search,” says Ethan. “We’ll leave you two alone.”

  They walk away and I realize I’m in the presence of a man again. Ethan and Evan are identical twins, and the electricity I felt at GMH returns. My face warms as I take in Evan’s rugged good looks. I reach in my pocket, feel the ten-dollar bill, and look at our booth. Willa glares at me and pretends to shovel food in her mouth from an invisible plate.

  “I have to get food for my sister.”

  “Let me help you.”

  We stand in line and I smell Evan’s cologne. It’s not Ethan’s and Lamonte’s, but I like it on him.

  “Are you from here?”

  “I was. I moved away years ago to Atlanta. And you?”

  “We moved to Milledgeville from Athens our eighth-grade year. Our parents split and Mom moved closer to her relatives.”

  Children of divorce. Commonality number one. “I’m sorry, Evan.”

  “Don’t be. They’re much better friends than husband and wife.”

  “My parents are divorced and haven’t spoken in years.”

  “Hopefully, you won’t be like me when you get married. I’m divorced like my parents. My ex and I sound like your parents, no love lost between us.”

  “At least someone married you. Imagine getting dropped at your engagement party.” I say this louder than I meant and the sarcasm-laced comment isn’t lost on Evan. I try to rein the bitterness back in. “That didn’t come out right.”

  “Still tender, huh?”

  “Today would have been my wedding day.” TMI, Toni. TMI.

  We move a few spaces up in the line. “You’ll thank him for it later.”

  “Everyone says the same thing. I’m not convinced yet.”

  “Takes time to get over a relationship. Enjoy being single.”

  Finally, we get to the front of the line. I order Willa’s food and Evan pays for it before I can protest.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  “I’m not really hungry, but thank you.”

  “How about dinner another time?”

  The reason Lamonte left me comes to mind again. What man wants to date someone with crazy all up in their genes? Not Lamonte, and probably not Evan. Dating is good until you uncover the ins and outs of your life with someone. That’s when men flee.

  “I am tender. I’m not ready to date yet.”

  He feigns disappointment and covers his heart. “I. Can’t. Make. It.”

  His antics generate laughter from us and the woman taking our order.

  “You got a real comedian there, hun.”

  “He’s not mine.”

  “Yet,” Evan tells her.

  I ignore his comment as we head back to the booth. We continue small talk as I give Willa her food.

  “Toni tells me you’re our mother’s social worker. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Strike the earlier comment. This is his twin, Evan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Evan. You do have a last name, don’t you?”

  “Sutton.”

  He exchanges pleasantries with everyone and Aunt Mavis is just as shocked to learn Ethan has a twin.

  “I feel like I’ve worried you enough. Let me find my son. He thinks he’s the Don Juan of Central Georgia. I have to watch him like a hawk.”

  Willa nudges me to mingle with Evan. She gives me a slight push, but I push back. The butterflies in my stomach make me uncomfortable, and it’s too soon to entertain the thought of being with someone else. I sense something in his countenance as well. He hasn’t made a move to find his son yet.

  “Would you walk me to my truck?”

  Aunt Mavis speaks for me. “She’ll go with you.”

  I’m outnumbered. I stroll around the courthouse square with Evan until we reach his F-150, parked near a car wash.

  “Was I too forward earlier? If I was, I apologize.”

  “You were serious about dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “People small talk and speak in jest so much, I don’t know when they’re sincere.”

  “I am.” He slips me a business card. The S in Sutton dangles from a hammer. Beneath his last name are his business and cell numbers. I read aloud, “Evan Sutton. Carpenter, Remodeler.”

  Commonality number 2. He’s a building man.

  “Evan, you don’t know me from Adam’s housecat. What makes you so sure you want to go out with me?”

  “I dated Rhoda, my ex-wife, for fifteen years. We only stayed married three. I go for what I want now. There’s something special about you and I want to get to know you better.”

  “I’ve got more baggage than Hermès. I’m not the one for you.”

  “Think about it, okay?”

  I retie my apron straps. “I have to get back to the booth. It was nice meeting you.” I head back to my selling duties at the booth.

  “Call me when you have some time,” he says to my back.

  I’ll call, all right. When I’m over this heartache and when my mother is schizophrenia-free.

  Chapter 21

  I sign the discharge papers and pack Mama’s suitcase in the trunk, then go back in the building and wait for her to come down. My nerves are on edge, so I go outside, sit in the car, and wait. She finally emerges from the building carrying her teaching bag Daddy bought. Her gait is slower than usual, and for a split-second, I want to march her back to her room, drive to Atlanta, and pick up where I left off, damaged reputation and all.

  Nurse Whipple escorts Mama to the car.

  Mama’s flat countenance scares me. “Is everything okay, Nurse Whipple?”

  She points to an upstairs window, and a young woman presses her face against the glass. Annalease.

  “She had dose of Depakote this morning. It’s an extended release drug, so she’ll be sleepy later. I’ve given you a list of her medications, dosages, and times she should take them. If she becomes
noncompliant, call us immediately. As her guardian, and with her documented history, you can have her involuntarily hospitalized. Dr. Wells can sign the ten-thirteen if necessary.”

  “Ten-thirteen?”

  “It’s a form allowing Greta to be involuntarily transported to a treatment facility. That is, if she becomes a threat to herself or someone else.”

  “I doubt we’ll need anything like that. She’ll be okay.”

  I guide Mama to the passenger door and open it. Her gaze is fixed on Annalease. I back out of the parking lot and head home.

  “What are we doing today?” she asks.

  “We’re going home and you’re resting.”

  “What home?”

  “The home-house. I was able to get it back for us. How does that sound?”

  Her mouth twitches and she smirks. “You outwitted Mavis, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did.”

  “It’s not falling in, is it?”

  “No ma’am. It’s been painted and restored to its old glory.”

  She will never hear Daddy’s scheme from my lips. Nor will she see the booby traps I’ve planted to keep her in line. Mavis, Edwina, and her mental health professionals tell me I’m in for a bumpy ride. If she had been given more love and less meds, she might not be in this predicament. I placed a camera or two in the house to monitor her, and I’ll spend time with her as she transitions to the mother I knew before the Hatcher Square Mall incident.

  “Stop a minute over the hill.”

  We are across from the chapel again, in front of the pecan tree. The tree gives her life and she perks up. She pulls several reusable Piggly Wiggly bags from her briefcase. Lamonte and I never went to the grocery store without them and I’m impressed she ditched plastic.

  “I’m going to pick us a few bags of nuts for pies and bars.”

  “Good. I missed your desserts. You know my baking and cooking skills are a little off.”

  “I’ll fix that this time around.”

  We head toward the scattered nuts and pick several bags. She hums a familiar tune, rests, then continues.

  “Go back to the car and let me finish this. You seem tired.”

  “I’m a little sleepy. I can finish picking my nuts, though.”

  “Mama, rest in the car. You’ll have plenty of time to do all the things you like doing.”

  “How long am I staying with you?”

  “Three months. This is a trial stay. If all goes well, we’ll work on a permanent stay.”

  She beams. “I don’t ever want to come back to this place.”

  “If I have my way, you won’t.”

  With hesitance, she trudges back to the car. I watch her sit down, recline the seat, and close her eyes. She is not in a catatonic state, and I want to ensure she’s not confined to the house. Aunt Mavis sat down with me a week ago and wrote out an activity plan for us to follow. I don’t want a bunch of outsiders intruding on us, but I did agree to let cousin Edwina stop by to check on us since she is aware of the situation. Mama’s been gone a long time; the Shirleys of Sparta can stay away from us with their gossiping and rumors.

  The moment I open the door and place the pecan bags on the backseat floor, her eyes spring open. She is in a chatty mood. She opens her bag and hands me a piece of paper. I look at the document and recognize its purpose.

  “This is my Voc Rehab completion certificate. I did their job training program over a year ago when I was taking my medication. I hope I can find a job. At least do something until I can get back in the classroom again.”

  I can’t burst her bubble so soon. She’ll never set foot in a classroom again. Not to teach, anyway. Aunt Mavis told me to avoid the topic if possible.

  “I planned to surprise you with the job news later tonight. We have a job lined up for you starting two weeks from today.”

  “In the classroom?”

  “Not exactly. It is at a local factory—”

  “Factory? I don’t want to do factory work.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  She sighs and scratches her arms. She’s so irritated she diverts her attention to the window. She lets it up and down until I lock it.

  “A local philanthropist rehabbed the Payback Factory. They contracted with a printing company and farmed out the work to Ray of Hope.”

  “Ray of Hope?”

  “Your new job. You’ll have a four-hour shift, Monday through Friday. I’ll drop you off at eight in the morning and pick you up at noon. They make posters, calendars, bookmarks. Assembly tasks.”

  “Sounds like baby work to me.”

  “It’s not baby work. You’ll get adjusted to the routine of working again.”

  “Then I can teach?”

  I cross my fingers so tight they’re damn near a Celtic knot. “We’ll see.”

  “I miss being in the classroom. The smell of chalk, the feel of the chalkboard, the kids’ inquisitive eyes and questions. Do you know how it feels to explain a concept and see eyes light up when a person gets it?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t want this work assignment to stretch out too long. I’ll go to the Board of Education if I have to, and discuss getting a teaching assignment. Will you help me decorate my room?”

  “I’m not good at decorating classrooms. Houses, yes.”

  “It’s the same principle. You cut out decorative borders, block letters, all those things that make the classroom appealing to the students.”

  “Decorations have changed. A lot of those items are pre-cut now.”

  “You saying I’m ancient?” she snips.

  “I didn’t mean anything negative.” This is going to be a long journey. Her students were like her children. Her brows are furled, a clear indication I’ve offended her. “Give Me Five.”

  Her facial muscles relax. “Hands to self, mouths quiet, eyes looking, ears listening, and hearts caring.”

  “You remembered!”

  “I’m shocked you remembered.”

  “You posted Give Me Five in our bedroom and made us learn those principles when we were small. You said we weren’t going to embarrass you and Daddy.”

  She’s solemn again. She reaches for the radio, but her fingers fall near the power button. She sits back and hums a tune. Panic fills me. The rise and fall of her voice as she hums takes me back to Sunday morning breakfasts. The tune is “God Put a Rainbow in the Sky” by Mahalia Jackson, and she played it over and over again after Daddy left. I lured her away from the overcooked eggs and burned bacon by telling her I wanted candy. I’d give her the laced M&Ms, two-step her to the La-Z-Boy, and run back to the kitchen in time to toss the burned food in the trash.

  We near downtown Sparta and I swing a left at the courthouse square. She needs to see her new place of employment, get a feel of the town again. A few people wave and some blow their horns. Ray of Hope is less than a mile, but she’s fallen asleep. I continue on to the house.

  We are secluded in the country, with a few neighbors here and there. The open farm and cattle land from my childhood is overgrown with trees. Willa and I looked out across the field in our yard to cows grazing most mornings. In the weeks I’ve been at our home-house, I cleaned and spray-painted the vintage glider and chairs, replaced the cushions, and bought a new table. We’ll spend our evenings on the front porch listening to cicadas and fanning fireflies when the summer arrives next year. It won’t be like the old days, but we can spend our time learning each other again.

  Someone has been in our yard. There are bags and boxes on the front porch. I coast into the yard and park while she naps. If someone has stolen something, or is pranking us, I’ll call the sheriff and we’ll move to Aunt Mavis’s.

  I tiptoe up the steps, half expecting someone to jump out from the opposite side of the wraparound porch. I’m awash in relief as I search the contents of each bag. Fresh collards, turnips, onions, tomatoes, and beets fill the bags. A potted mother-in-law’s tongue—her favorite plant—sits off to itself and is t
ied with a bright yellow bow. A box contains glass jars. I look for May and Ray’s Preserves labels, but these are Mason jars, not Aunt Mavis’s Ball jars. The top of each jar is labeled with a recipe and instructions. I turn the jars to find pancake, bread, seasoning, tea, and cocoa mixes. Gift tags with shaved red ribbons are wrapped around each jar. They read, To: Greta, From: All of Us. I rip open the envelope inside the box and read the handwritten message aloud.

  We heard Greta was coming home and we wanted to give you a little something to help out. You both are in our thoughts and prayers. We love you.

  Your friends and family in Hancock County

  Chivalry may be dead, but Southern hospitality isn’t.

  Chapter 22

  Greta

  I enjoy the concert. Jesus directs the choir as ’Halia plays the piano and sings. It is a floating concert, like when Jesus walked on the water. Everybody is on the water, but nobody sinks. She jumps from song to song in a royal-blue robe. Her shoulders and back whirligig and dip the harder she hits the keys. She sings “Move on Up a Little Higher,” then “How I Got Over” and after that, “In the Upper Room.” The pews show no trace of water, but the spirit is high. A big man in a green toga and a crown of fig leaves clashes silver tambourines so heavy they sound like thunderclaps. I am on the front pew, rocking to the music, feeling the spirit. My mother, dressed in her favorite peach suit and pillbox hat, sneaks peeks at me and fans her face, creating a flowing effect with the lace in front of the hat.

  The music stops, and Jesus motions for me to join him in the choir stand. As I rise, someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s Clark. He winks, slicks his hair, and wipes invisible lint from his suit.

  I float on the water toward Jesus. ’Halia does a quiet-down move with her arms, and the music stops. Toga man places the crown of fig leaves on my head and floats back to his spot near the drummers. I wait for Him to speak, but He is silent.