“Come on!” Maggie tugs at my elbow, shouting above the bacchanalian cacophony. “Eva and Jean-Pierre saved us a spot in front of the coffee shop!” She points up the block.
“I can’t take you seriously in that wig,” I tell her, fighting a grin.
She’s wearing a bright green beehive that’s a third as tall as she is. Her face is painted in a rainbow of colors. She’s already got a neck full of beads, and a few of them are battery powered and flash spastically, making her look sort of manic.
She touches the wig—the side of it since she can’t reach the top—and gives me a grin.
“You’re just jealous,” Luc tells me, looking as ridiculous as she does in an extra-tall top hat striped in purple, green, and gold. He’s paired that with an oversize purple sequined bow tie and green sequined suspenders. He has face paint, too, although his is more subdued than hers is.
There are a lot of things about New Orleanians that I get. But their fascination with costuming isn’t one of them.
“Here.” Maggie hands me a pair of sunglasses with lenses shaped like hearts. “Put these on.” The frames are covered in hot pink glitter with purple and pink feathers glued around the edges. In a word, absurd.
I stare at the sunglasses with a frown. “Number one, it’s night. Are we truly prepared to be the kind of assholes who wear sunglasses at night? Number two, isn’t it a big no-no to wear the throws of the krewe we’re going to see? Like sporting the T-shirt of the band whose concert you’re at?”
By way of answer, she slides on her own set of sunglasses. They’re cat-eye-shaped and covered in peacock-blue rhinestones with small gold pompons at the corners. Maggie hands Luc a pair of glittery green sunglasses covered in gold metallic fleur-de-lis, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip them on. I recognize the pair. I caught them for Maggie the first year we were dating.
She kept them.
All this time.
The knowledge is a seed in my soul that takes root and grows into a large tree. The branches are covered in wide and varied leaves, each representing a separate feeling. There’s relief that, despite the thing between her and Luc, there will always be a place for me in her heart. There’s sadness that I can’t give her more than I have. And there’s even a bit of envy.
There. I admit it. I’m not jealous of her and Luc. But I am envious.
Despite them being careful to hide the change in their relationship, I haven’t missed the fleeting smiles of longing they send each other when they think I’m not looking. Or the frequent touches of their fingertips because they can’t keep their hands off each other.
They’re in love.
The kind of love that moves mountains and crosses oceans and is written about in sappy books. The kind of love most of us spend our whole lives looking for. The kind of love only a few of us ever actually get.
It truly is a thing to behold.
“Maggie May and I needa talk to you after the parade,” Luc said to me outside her bar while we were waiting for her to finish her shift so we could walk to Canal Street to watch the parade.
“That worries me,” I told him, wondering if the two of them had finally decided to take a stand against the booze.
But now I think they probably picked today to finally admit to me that they’re seeing each other. And sleeping together. And are thinking about a future. You know, all the mundane and wonderful things that come with being dick over balls in L-O-V-E.
I’ve been waiting for them to confess. That and telling myself it shouldn’t hurt that they wanted to keep their secret-that-isn’t-really-a-secret for as long as they have. Considering the secret I’m keeping from them, I’d be a hypocrite to have any ill will.
Still, I’m glad Luc gave me the heads-up. I needed some time to perfect my poker face and to remind myself that true love is putting the happiness of the people closest to you before your own.
And it’s not that I’m not happy for them. Want to put that on the record here and now. It’s simply that I’m not happy. In general.
You try being all sunshine and rainbows when your head feels like it’s constantly caught in a vise. When the buzzing in your ear is so loud that sometimes you fantasize about shoving a sharpened pencil in there to stop it. When your left arm goes numb so often it mostly hangs useless at your side.
That’s what truly gets me. The lack of control.
Dr. Beckett told me when I went in to see him last week that most of his patients don’t fear death itself. It’s the dying process that terrifies them.
I get the shit out of that. Dying is your body mutinying against you, turning fucking traitor. Where once you held dominion over it, it holds dominion over you. And it’s a merciless bastard.
That’s why I’ve decided to meet death on my own terms, with dignity.
Got it all worked out too. How I’ll do it. Where I’ll do it—I hope Luc will forgive me for choosing the swamp house. Dotted all my i’s and crossed all my t’s with the help of Violet Carter—who would have ever guessed she would come to be my confidant here at the end? Anyway, the only thing left is to pick the day.
But first, I have a few more memories to make…
“I take your silence and the fact that you’re both grinning at me like idiots who wear sunglasses at night to mean we do wear the throws of the krewe we’re going to see.” I sigh and obediently put on the pink heart sunglasses. Since I refused to dress up or paint my face, it’s the least I can do to humor them.
Pushing our way through the crowd, we find Eva and Jean-Pierre with a front-row spot on the corner of St. Charles and Canal. Eva looks amazing in a fairy costume, and Jean-Pierre is wearing a court jester hat and a glittery gold smoking jacket. Once again, I can only shake my head.
Someone passes me a beer in a go-cup, and then the crowd breaks into a cheer when the sounds of a brass band echo up the street. All of us on the corner crane our heads to see the start of the procession heading our way.
What you need to understand about the Carnival parades in New Orleans is that they might be named for the krewe that builds the floats and tosses the beads and the throws, but they’re also filled with dance troupes and high school marching bands, cheerleaders and kitschy performers who have their own special shtick. Like the group of guys who ride by us reclined in wheeled and motorized La-Z-Boys while smoking cigars and drinking bourbon.
Next comes a local dance team made up of middle-aged men with beer bellies and hairy legs. They wear the tiniest baby-blue shorts, gym socks pulled up to their knees, and sweatbands around their heads. Some of their moves are hilarious—making the crowd laugh—but others are actually quite good, proving that at least one of their members knows what’s what when it comes to choreography. A group of women parade in front of the dancers holding a sign that reads “610 Stompers. Ordinary Men. Extraordinary Dance Moves.”
I pound my beer and fill the empty go-cup with a triple shot of whiskey from my flask when the first high school marching band parades by. The sound is immense. Each blare of a horn is a dagger into my skull. Each bang of a drum is a blow to my brain stem.
I’m the only one who seems bothered by the wall of sound, however. Luc and Maggie are clapping to the beat and calling encouragement to the kids. Jean-Pierre and Eva are dancing, and when Jean-Pierre puts his fingers between his lips and whistles, the high-pitched sound is almost enough to bring me to my knees.
I throw back the whiskey and then immediately reach for the pills I stuffed in my pocket. Not sure how many I take. I simply toss them into my throat and swallow.
“Y’okay?” Luc’s voice sounds close to my ear.
My throat is too tight for words, but I manage a smile and a nod.
He eyes me skeptically, but then the first float turns the corner and snags his attention. “Throw me somethin’!” comes the traditional chant from the crowd, and a barrage of colorful beads are tossed from the float riders to the spectators, who yell and clap when they catch a string.
Signs are lifted
to snag the attention of the riders. Some are simply drawings of sunglasses, others have slogans like “Sunglasses, please!” and “Who dat throwin’ dem sunglasses?” And when one of the riders actually tosses out a pair of the coveted, garishly decorated trinkets, there’s a mad scramble to be the one to catch them.
Every krewe has their own signature throw. For the Krewe of Zulu, it’s a glittery coconut. For the Krewe of Muses, it’s a decorated high-heeled shoe. The Krewe of Tucks tosses out bedazzled toilet bowl plungers.
It’s a great honor to catch one of the krewes’ throws, and people come from all over the world—and go to two weeks of parades—to try to collect them all. Only in this city do human beings actually enjoy having shoes and coconuts and plumbing accessories thrown at their heads.
I’m in the middle of pouring more whiskey into my go-cup when a sharp pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced drills through the top of my skull. My breath wheezes from me. My vision goes bright and crinkly around the edges.
Then it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving me staggering.
Luc’s hand is on my shoulder. “Easy, man.” There’s concern on his face. Or at least I think that’s what I see. My vision is fucked, so it’s hard to tell. “Maybe you should go light on that stuff tonight.” His chin hitches toward my cup.
“Right,” I say with no intention of going light on anything. But neither am I in any shape to put up an argument.
Then I see her.
It’s a fleeting glance. Out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn to look, she’s walking away from me, and all I can make out is the back of her head.
It’s not her. Of course it’s not. I’m imagining things. But my heart is still pounding. Blood roars in my ears to compete with the loud buzzing.
She turns, and for a moment I’m looking at the face of a stranger. Then it morphs, and it is her. There are those same sad gray eyes I remember so well. Those same slashing eyebrows she passed along to me.
It’s crazy. It’s not real.
And yet my feet carry me toward her through the crowd.
“Cash!” Luc calls to my back, his voice barely carrying above the music of the parade. “Where the hell you going, man?”
I don’t turn back. She’s gaining ground. Slipping away. And I have to see her even though it’s not her. It can’t be. I know it can’t be, and yet…
People grunt indignantly when I shove past them. I go up on tiptoe to see above their heads. There. Just past the coffee shop window.
I don’t realize I’m running until I have to skid to a stop or risk plowing into her back. My hand is shaking—not the numb one; the other one—when I lift my arm to tap her on the shoulder. She turns, and my breath strangles in my lungs. It’s not her. Then it is. Then it’s not.
I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, it is her. Isn’t it? And all those old feelings from childhood rush through me. The helplessness. The sadness. But most of all, the love.
“Mom?” My voice is a rough, strangled parody of itself.
Then the world is tilting, sliding off its axis.
Or…that’s only me, I guess. Because suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I don’t feel the pain of my landing, although I hear the terrible sound my head makes when it bounces off the concrete. I can’t make out the words Luc is saying when he rolls me over, but I see his lips moving.
I try to sit up, but my muscles won’t cooperate. I try to talk, but my tongue refuses to move, and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a weird grunting sound.
So much for facing death with dignity.
Over Luc’s shoulder, I see the shocked face of the woman I thought was my mother. I see the crowd and the floats and a little boy who’s sitting on his dad’s shoulders, clapping as the parade rolls by. Above it all, high in the black sky, a lazy yellow moon shines down.
That feels right. That the moon is looking down, bearing witness.
When you’re young, you think time doesn’t exist. You think you have forever. But I’m here to tell you, you don’t.
It’s a cliché, but it happens to be true. Life is fleeting. And you only get one, so you better make it count. You better do it right.
I think… I hope… I did.
Chapter Eighty-eight
______________________________________
Luc
Fear and heartache have a way of aging a person more quickly than the passage of time.
Maggie May looks like she’s aged ten years, thanks to the tired lines around her eyes and the tight look of her mouth as she stares down at her phone and sips what has to be her sixth cup of tepid hospital coffee.
About three o’clock this morning, while we waited outside Cash’s hospital room, she excused herself to the restroom to wash off the face paint and remove her wig. Now the latter is sitting on the floor between her feet, along with my top hat and bow tie. (Strange how things that seemed so fun and festive a few hours ago have now turned tawdry and garish.)
I say we waited outside Cash’s hospital room, because the doctors and nurses refused to let us in or tell us anything about his condition on account of us not being his family.
I’m not too proud to admit that my anger got the better of me at one point, simply boiled to the surface and erupted. I ended up shouting at the attending physician, “Maggie May and I are the only fucking family he has!”
It might’ve turned ugly. That damned doctor had a Texas-sized chip on his shoulder. But thankfully, a seasoned nurse was on duty at the time.
She was able to calm me down by assuring me that as soon as Cash’s doctor arrived (apparently, Dr. Beckett was at a medical conference in Atlanta), we’d get our questions answered. She told me Dr. Beckett was catching the first flight out this morning, and we wouldn’t have long to wait.
It was enough to keep me from knocking heads together and probably finding myself in jail. Or, rather, back in jail. But it meant Maggie and I spent the night in hard plastic chairs outside Cash’s room, only getting glimpses of him when the nurses came and went.
This much I know to be true: He hasn’t regained consciousness.
That scares me shitless.
Especially when I think back on how he thought that woman was his mother. How he went down like a ton of bricks and couldn’t seem to move or talk. How he started convulsing and foaming at the mouth.
When the paramedics arrived on the sidewalk and opened his flannel shirt to attach some doodads to his chest, I saw for the first time how skinny he’s gotten. How his ribs show beneath his skin like keys on a xylophone. How his clavicles create divots deep enough to hold a cup of soup. It’s like he lost twenty pounds in the past week. But I’ve been so caught up with Maggie May, so radiantly happy, that I haven’t seen how far and how fast he’s fallen.
Guilt is a dog, and it’s been gnawing on me all night long until I feel raw. Ravaged. Until every heartbeat hurts, and every breath is a struggle.
There’s a window at the far end of the hall. Ever since the sun rose, it’s framed a sullen, overcast sky. But now the clouds part, and sunlight streams in through the glass. That golden glow seems out of place considering the dark turn our Carnival celebration has taken. Considering the dark turn Cash’s life has taken.
“Dr. Beckett called and said he’s on his way up,” a nurse at the station tells us. Her voice is officious, her expression annoyed.
She tried three times to get us to go home, since there was no chance we were getting in to see Cash without Dr. Beckett giving us the all clear (I reckon she didn’t like two folks sitting out in the hall and clogging up the thoroughfare.) But Maggie and I refused to budge. Eventually the nurse got the point and left us alone, although she never stopped sending us dirty looks.
Now Maggie drains the last of her coffee, and I swear what little color remaining in her face drains with it. After stuffing her empty cup in the sleeve of empty cups beside her chair, she takes my hand. Her fingers
are icy cold and clutch mine in a desperate grip.
“We’re finally gonna get some answers,” I tell her, trying and failing to smile encouragingly.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Her voice is hoarse. “I’m worried we won’t like the answers we get.”
She hasn’t cried all night. Not a single tear. But now her eyes are filled with wetness, and I hate that there isn’t anything I can do to stop it from falling. I hate not being able to fix things.
I pull her into my arms. That’s the only thing I can do. And when I cup the back of her head and turn her face into my neck, I feel the heat of her shaky breath and the warm wetness of her tears.
Her hands curl into the material at the back of my shirt. Even as she clings to me, I cling to her. Neither of us wants to, but we’re both imagining the worst.
Alcohol poisoning? Overdose? Liver failure? Brain hemorrhage?
“I’m so sorry, Maggie May,” I whisper.
“What are you sorry for?” Her voice is muffled.
“I hate seeing you hurting.”
She lifts her head, and despite the puffiness around her eyes, she’s never looked more beautiful. So raw. So open. So…loving.
Yes. That’s what I see in her eyes. It’s love. For me. She loves me. She’s in love with me. Sometimes I still have trouble believing it.
“You’re hurting too, Luc.”
“Yeah, but—”
She kisses the excuses from my mouth. “No buts,” she whispers against my lips. “We’re in this together.”
There it is again. That word. Those three wonderful syllables that mean everything.
“Master Sergeant Dubois?”
The sound of Dr. Beckett’s voice has us jumping from our seats. Maggie sniffles and wipes the wetness from her cheeks when the doctor extends a hand my way. “I wish we were meeting again under better circumstances,” he says, and then shakes Maggie’s hand in turn.
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 20
