Mama's Comfort Food

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Mama's Comfort Food Page 26

by Rhett DeVane


  “Another weird dream.” She shared the details of the nightmare. “This thing with Mary Elizabeth is really beginning to send me over the edge.”

  “Thought you went there awhile ago.”

  Jake heard Karen snort on the other end.

  “Funny.”

  Jake grabbed his cane and walked to the back porch. “I’m not trying to make light of what you’re going through, doll. Lord only knows, I’ve had my share of identity crises. You remind me of something I heard in a class I took one time on romance novel writing.”

  “You write? I didn’t know that.”

  “Not anymore. That was a few years back. I was god-awful at it. Anyway, the instructor told us that, when we hit a point in the story where we didn’t know how to proceed, that we should torture the heroine.”

  “And that reminds you of me?”

  “In a fashion. Just when I think you’re making progress, some ethereal author writes a new element of torment into your life story.”

  “What can I do to shake my past, Jake? I’m seeing a shrink, for God’s sake. We’ve picked my life to pieces twice over. Still, there must be a part of me that’s deeply disturbed.”

  “Otherwise, the dreams would stop, eh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jake sipped from a mug of herbal tea. “You ever think about allowing Mary Elizabeth to be a part of it all? From what you’ve told me, most of her antics sound like a spoiled child trying to get attention.”

  “I’m not sure I get you.”

  Jake cleared his throat. “Sorry. Allergies. Okay, this British lady’s pissed at you for coming along and ripping the expensive Persian rug right out from underneath her feet. You have just, overnight, become someone else—a log-cabin, southern-drawling hick from North Florida, to boot.”

  The hiss of dead air met his comment.

  Jake continued. “Work with me on this, will you? Here’s an example. Say, you are in love with this wonderful man, have a home with him, blah, blah, blah, and you die. Your ghost hovers around to check on how your beloved is taking the whole thing. To your surprise, he throws all of your gee-gaws out in the next morning’s trash and moves a blonde floozy into his house. Nothing of you remains in his life. Now, if you could stick around and be a thorn in the man’s side, wouldn’t you?”

  “Wait. You’re implying Mary Elizabeth is jealous?”

  “Perhaps. In a manner of speaking.”

  “What do you suggest, oh great swami?”

  Jake chuckled. “I would try making peace with her. She ruled your life for twenty or so years. Maybe she doesn’t think she deserves to be thrown out on her British bum. Be considerate with the part of your life she shared. Perhaps, if you don’t keep all of the material things she was attached to, you can make sure they go to good homes.”

  “She did have incredible taste.”

  “You have incredible taste. Remember, she is you, when you come right down to it. Maybe if you stop trying to see her as separate, the two of you can bury the hatchet once and for all. If not, I suggest you stock up on prescription sleeping pills.”

  Maizie Clark’s Tea Cakes (Grandma May-May)

  ½ cup butter, softened

  1 cup white sugar

  1 egg

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ cup milk or buttermilk

  In a medium mixing bowl, cream together butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in egg and vanilla. In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Beat into the creamed mixture a little at a time, alternating with the milk.

  On a greased cookie sheet, drop by rounded spoonfuls, allowing a little room between the dough balls. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in a preheated 350º oven.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Karen listened for the familiar series of mechanical clicks and beeps overhead. Soothing finger-style guitar sounded through her earpieces. The room: semi-dark. Not a place to fear or hate now. Just a space she had visited Monday through Friday for six weeks. Same routine: undress, cotton gown, being positioned carefully by experienced hands, the radiation session, redress.

  On some days, when energy levels approached normal, she visited the local bookstores before returning to Chattahoochee. One of the few places she felt welcome—meandering between rows of fiction—a haven with thousands of opportunities to lose herself in someone else’s drama for a few precious moments.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the final minutes of solitude. In the reception area, her mother, father, and Simpy waited to share and document the last radiation treatment. Karen imagined her mother’s filmed interview. Evelyn would comment on her relief that one phase of follow-up treatment was coming to a close. Life could return to normal. Her father would nod, holding his wife’s hand as she wiped a tear.

  The door opened. “That’s it, Karen.” The radiation therapist: Lisa of the soft voice and kind, warm hands. “You’re done with us.”

  Karen swung her legs around to one side and slipped from the table. “I’d love to say it’s been fun, but—”

  Lisa rolled her eyes. “I know. Nothing personal, right?”

  Karen hugged the therapist. “You, Stephen, and Dr. McDowell have made it bearable. Don’t think for a second I don’t realize that. Thank you. And please tell them for me too, will you?”

  The therapist nodded. “I always wish—well, with some patients, anyway—that we could meet under less stressful circumstances.” She shrugged. “Best of luck to you, Karen. I hope I get to see you again, just not in here, except for the occasional follow-up visit, of course.”

  Karen smiled. “Amen, sister.”

  She took her time getting dressed, relishing the finish line at the end of one set of hurdles. When she stepped into the brightly-lit waiting room, her mother and father stood to greet her. Simpy grabbed the video camera and jockeyed for a good angle. The three Fletchers hugged, only vaguely aware of the nods of approval and smiles around them.

  Evelyn Fletcher rummaged in her purse. “Oh, where did I put that list?”

  “What list, Mama?” Karen handed her e-ticket confirmation and driver’s license to the Delta representative.

  “I wrote all the phone numbers down for you in case you need to find me or your father in a hurry.” She snapped the purse closed. “I must’ve left it on the kitchen counter. I swannee! I’d lose my head if it wasn’t tied on.” Evelyn grabbed a blank baggage identification tag and scribbled. “Here. The spa, your daddy’s place, Elvina’s, Jake’s, Hattie’s, and—you can remember the house number?”

  “I have most of these programmed into my cell phone already, but if you insist.” Karen folded the tag and stuck it into the carry-on bag.“I’ll be okay. I wish you’d stop worrying.”

  “You’re just so weak. I should be going with you.”

  Karen envisioned her mother tearing through the Atlanta townhouse, questioning her every move. “No, no. Please, Mama. Donald will be with me.”

  Joe rested his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Ev. That boy would take a bullet for her, I do believe.” He leaned over and kissed Karen on the cheek. “We’ll be here to pick you up next week.”

  “Guess it’s just gonna be you and me again, Joe,” Evelyn said.

  He gathered his wife in his arms and ran one hand across her hair. “I’m all you started with, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Evelyn glanced toward the security gate where ticketed passengers stood in line. “Used to be, we could go all the way to the gate with you. I just hate it, all this high-alert business! What it’s done to our country.”

  “I’d strip naked for them if it meant not being blown to bits by some terrorist,” Joe said.

  Evelyn reached over and smoothed a wrinkle on her daughter’s collar. “Don’t forget to call us now, the minute you get there.”

  “I will. I will.” Karen extended the handle on the rolling carry-on
case. “Bye. Love you.”

  Evelyn enveloped her in a suffocating embrace and kissed both cheeks. Her father bussed the top of her scarf-wrapped head. Her parents watched until she passed through the security area, waved, and disappeared around the corner in the direction of Gate A-7.

  When Karen emerged at the gate, the first person she spotted was her fiancé standing behind an airport wheelchair. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

  D. J. smiled. “Your chariot, Madam.”

  “How’d you manage this?” she asked, taking a seat. “They usually don’t allow anyone past security without a ticket.”

  Donald pointed to the clip-on badge. “Special permission. I knew you wouldn’t ask for assistance, and it’s a long way to baggage claim, even with the people-movers.”

  “I’m okay, Donald, really.” Karen felt irritation budding and forced it down. “You’re right, I don’t have a lot of excess energy. I feel a bit foolish, but this is probably a good idea.”

  “You check any luggage?” he asked as he maneuvered the concourse.

  “All I have is this carry-on.”

  On countless occasions, Karen had frequented the Hartsfield International Airport. The rush of humanity never ceased to fascinate her. A steady stream of harried travelers moved in myriad directions: a freeway at rush hour with no rules. Frazzled mothers dragged screaming toddlers and suited businessmen darted between eddies of loiterers at bathroom entrances, food retailers, and departure/arrival monitors. Expressions ranged from bored to bewildered. Snippets of conversations in a dozen languages filled the air, overridden in spots by terse loudspeaker announcements. Karen smiled, recalling the observation her grandmother Piddie had made about the Atlanta airport after the family’s trip to Alaska, the place looked for all the world like a kicked-over fire ant hill.

  Karen stood on the cold Italian tile. The first thing she noticed was a lingering scent—tropical flowers with a spicy undertone. Mary Elizabeth’s cologne. Something brushed against her cheek and she shivered.

  “Man, it’s cold in here!” D. J. checked the thermostat in the foyer. “No wonder. I left it on seventy. Sorry. Want me to find a sweater for you?”

  Karen shook her head. She walked past the kitchen into the living room. In the dim light, a shadow appeared in one corner. Her same size, same height. She caught her breath and froze in place. The shadow mimicked her stance.

  “Mary Elizabeth?” she whispered.

  D. J. flipped on the light. The shadow disappeared. “Who you talking to, hon?”

  Karen shrugged. “No one.”

  D. J. clapped his hands together. “Okay if I leave you here and go pick up some boxes? I have a few in the trunk, but the guy at the liquor store has some of those heavy lidded ones he’s holding for me.”

  “Sure, go ahead.” Karen offered a weak smile. “I’ll be fine, D. J.”

  Donald kissed her quickly on the lips and started for the door. “Hey, what say I pick up some Chinese take-out on the way back?”

  The townhouse was eerily silent after he left. An antique wall clock in the dining room ticked off the seconds. She wandered through the elegantly decorated rooms like a wary intruder.

  “This is silly, Karen.” She shook her head. “It’s your own damn place. You have every right to be here.”

  She touched a brocade high-back chair, ran her fingers across the buttery leather couch and loveseat. Stopped to admire an original Japanese-inspired watercolor painting in the living room. She stepped onto the porch. The décor—straight from an issue of Southern Living—featured cool beach-house shades of sherbet and white with airy rattan furniture and billowy ferns. Music of splashing water tinkled from a nearby fountain.

  Karen took a shaky breath. The most intimate part of her town home loomed—the master bedroom. A queen-sized, pillow-top mattress beckoned with layers of coordinating pillows. Rich mahogany shone in the muted light: an armoire, dressing table, two end-tables, and a sleigh-bed frame. Beautiful thick fabrics in jewel tones adorned several pieces, drapes of semi-sheer flocked voile hung at tall windows, and a wool area rug floated atop shining wood floors.

  The walk-in closet held organized rows of designer clothing—the trappings of a successful businesswoman: a cedar shelf loaded with shoes in every shade, heavy plastic-wrapped coats and cashmere wraps. Karen hugged a pair of worn running shoes to her chest. The rest belonged to a woman who no longer existed.

  Next, she turned her attention to the jewelry armoire. The double doors swung open to a series of small drawers, laden with rows of gold earrings, bracelets, and lapel pins. The bottom drawer held a selection of diamond and gemstone rings in various sizes. Karen slipped one of Mary Elizabeth’s favorite bands on her finger and admired her hand.

  “This is going to be a little like cleaning out a house after a death,” she said aloud. “Help me, Mary. I can’t see me wearing your clothing.” She glanced down at her thin body. “Wouldn’t fit me, anyway. I’ll give them away to a good charity. Maybe one of those places where underprivileged women go to find career clothes. You always liked the idea of helping people in need.”

  Karen looked upward, as if the spirit of the house loomed in the air just above her head. “I want to keep reminders of you, Mary Elizabeth. I think that would be good, don’t you? Personal things.” She glanced down. “Like this ring. Things you would want to stay with me. Things that have some meaning.”

  Karen sat on the edge of the soft bedding. “I can’t take all of this with me. It wouldn’t be healthy. Don’t you see? I have to make a new life just for me. But I want to remember you, the person I became when you existed.”

  She sat for a few minutes, allowing her thoughts to drift back to the hectic mornings when she donned Mary Elizabeth’s persona like an expensive theatrical wrap. Up at five a.m. Running two miles in the park. Karen then, thinking her own clandestine thoughts as if in a foreign language. Mary Elizabeth hated exercise. Karen was the one in charge of keeping the physical body in fashion-model shape.

  Coming home to freshly-brewed strong coffee. Two cups, black. The morning paper, sprawled on the couch, or outside on the rattan porch swing in pleasant weather. Thinking thoughts of home. Wondering what her parents, her grandmother, her brother, were doing at that very moment.

  Then, back inside. Showering. Shaving her legs. Going through the elaborate beauty ritual to transform her girl-next-door features into something more exotic and refined. Putting on the make-up. The clothes. The expensive pumps. Looking in the mirror as her alter-ego emerged. Feeling the Karen-self sink into the background so that the woman she had created could take over and run her life. Pursing her lips to apply a tasteful shade of lipstick. Staring in the mirror at a person so unlike Karen in every way. Finally, the cologne. A strong personalized blend of exotic scents made especially for Mary Elizabeth Kensington.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the door bell. She hurried to the front door, peered through the peep-hole, and opened the door.

  “Will! Sharon!” She hugged her boss and his wife.

  “Hope we’re not interrupting,” Sharon Cooke said. “We came to help you and D. J. pack. I know how exhausting moving can be.”

  Karen smiled. In the years she had known her boss’s spouse, she had never noticed how kind and motherly her features were, or how the gray-tinged hair soft around her face made her appear worthy of complete trust. “Oh, that would be great.” She gestured them inside. “I haven’t even begun yet. D. J. went to round up some boxes.”

  Will jangled his car keys. “We brought a few, too.”

  Sharon smiled. “How was your trip?”

  “Fine. Tiring.”

  “You just leave the packing up to us,” Sharon said, “All you have to do is sit back and motion as to what you want to keep, and what goes. Between the three of us, we should be able to at least put a dent in things this afternoon.”

  “Talked to D. J. on his cell. Told him to pick up some extra Cashew Chicken and as many egg
rolls as he could tote.” Will grinned and dropped a stack of folded cardboard boxes on the kitchen floor. “Packing up takes a lot out of a person of my girth.”

  “I love surprises, Donald. But won’t you give me any idea where we’re going? I mean, am I dressed appropriately for this place?” She glanced down at the faded blue jeans and plain cotton T-shirt.

  D. J. smiled. “You could wear a toga and feel dressed for the spot I’m taking you, Karen, my love. I promise you—you will feel perfectly at home.”

  D. J. negotiated the multi-lane Atlanta bypass until he reached the exit for Interstate 85 heading north away from the city.

  “Wait.” Karen poked him playfully in the shoulder. “Are we going up to the foothills? Kind of late in the day, isn’t it?”

  D. J. winked. “You’ll see. You’ll see.”

  After a few miles, D. J. exited the four-lane expressway on State Road 20 leading toward Lake Lanier.

  “You found a new restaurant up here, didn’t you? Boy, I leave for a few months and everything changes.”

  Donald didn’t answer. He followed the familiar route to the small park he had frequented many times. Two houses down, he turned into the driveway of a large cypress log home and shut off the engine.

  Karen’s brows knit together. “What a beautiful house. Looks a lot like the one I want to have one of these days—well, no need to go there. What gives? Do you know these people? Are they expecting us or something?”

  “There’s a basket in the back. Will you get it for me?” He flipped the trunk release.

  Karen shrugged, grabbed the wicker picnic basket, and followed him to the front porch. Donald pulled a set of keys from his pocket.

  “Oh, now I get it! You rented this place for a couple of days. How sweet!”

  Donald swung the heavy wooden door open wide and flipped the light switch. The massive great room was barren except for a red and white checkered cloth spread in front of the granite fireplace.

 

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