by Debby Mayne
Years ago, Dad told me that love is different for everyone. He used examples of the difference between his and Mother’s love for me and my love for them. “Our love for you is more of the protective variety, while you love us because that’s all you know.” Then he explained his love for Mother. “Once upon a time, we got all excited about every little thing we discovered about each other, but over time that’s changed. We’ve become comfortable, and our expectations are low.” Even if he tried, he couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes, and it broke my heart.
I always used to assume I’d eventually find the right guy, get married, and have at least one kid, all the while working on my business plans. After all, that’s what adults do, right? I’m not sure at what point my vision for myself changed. All I know is that the image of being a wife and mother seems as foreign as life on Mars, and I realize my vision wasn’t really my own. It was what Mother planted in my head. We made amends five years ago, but at some point I think we started sliding backward.
When I arrive at my townhouse, I have to step over boxes on the front porch. Looks like UPS and FedEx had a party while I was gone.
It takes me less than five minutes to drop my luggage on the floor in my room and go back downstairs to push the boxes inside. I plop myself down on the floor with my box cutter in hand and start the arduous task of getting into them. I only know what’s inside one of them—some of the competitors’ products from the TVNS channel I ordered before I left town. I never expected to see them arrive so quickly.
Since that box is clearly labeled with the network logo, I push that one aside for last. Each box holds something completely different. One is a tin of designer cookies from Tim. I smile as I open it and pull one from the top. It’s delicious with its buttery, melt-in-your-mouth texture and chunks of chocolate, but I doubt it’s worth whatever he paid for it.
The next box has Mother and Dad’s return address, written in her extremely neat cursive. Inside there’s a note. Dear Priscilla, I cleaned out your grandmother’s personal items before we took her to the assisted living residence, and these are the things she said she wants you to have. Love, Mother.
As I lift hand-crocheted doilies, tarnished costume jewelry, and a moth-eaten wool coat, my eyes sting with tears. Granny was always so independent and remained on the farm until she wasn’t able to carry on with her normal life anymore. She once told me that as long as she could pick her own butterbeans, she was perfectly self-sufficient. I sure hope they have butterbeans in that place where she now lives.
A couple more of the boxes are from mother with even more stuff from Granny’s farm. I’m happy to have all this memorabilia, but I wonder why Mother mailed it to me instead of waiting until I came to town for the class reunion. It would have saved her a boatload of money.
As I pull things from the boxes, I place them into piles—one to display, one to store, and another to decide what to do later. My first inclination is to donate them to Goodwill, but knowing Mother, she’ll ask about the things next time I see her, and I’ve never been one to lie.
The last box is from Hugh Puckett, Tim’s uncle, with his New York City return address clearly printed on top. I have no idea what he’d be sending to my home address, and now that I think about it, I don’t remember ever giving it to him. I need to have a chat with Tim about not giving out my personal information to anyone. I realize this is his uncle, but all my dealings with Jerry have been professional, so there’s no reason for him to send stuff here.
A formal looking card rests on top of the bubble-wrapped item, so I open it first. Priscilla, congratulations on adding to your growing stable of salons. May you have a future filled with success and beauty. This is a small gift that you can take with you during all your travels to visit your salons. Your supplier and friend, Jerry Puckett.
I lean back and read it again and again. Isn’t that the sweetest note?
Since the box is tall, I stand up and gently pull out whatever is inside. It’s a little bit heavy, but I manage it by bracing the box with my feet while tugging with both hands. It’s squishy.
I finally get the item out and place it on the coffee table. With enthusiasm and force, I rip the bubble wrap from the item to expose a large leather tote. An obviously expensive large leather tote. It’s buttery yellow leather, my favorite color, with my initials embroidered on the side in a deep hunter green. I run my hands over the soft, pebbled walls of the bag and luxuriate in the feel. This is something I never would have bought for myself, but I absolutely love it.
Throughout my childhood, Mother insisted on providing the most economical wardrobe we could find for me because, in her words, “It’s silly to spend much money on clothes you’ll only wear for a little while. Either you’ll outgrow them, or they’ll go out of style.” The few times I dared to beg for something with a label I could proudly display, she sternly put her foot down. “No one will ever know the difference unless you tell them.”
But they did. Everyone knew most of my clothes and handbags came from the big-box discount store on the edge of town or one of the charity thrift shops in Hattiesburg, even though both of my parents had good jobs and could afford more. I babysat a few times so I could buy my own clothes, but small children intimidated me, so that didn’t last long. I was never proud of my clothes and accessories, but because I wasn’t paying for them, I learned to put some of my cheap wardrobe pieces together in a more fashionable way. I did the most with what I had, including cutting my own hair and adding a little color to my face with dollar-store makeup. Mother insisted I study my brains out, which she said I would be grateful for later. I have to admit it was sort of nice to be called up on stage and presented the “Most Likely to Succeed” plaque.
I caught myself stroking my new tote as though it were a kitten. Even though I’ve been buying much nicer handbags since being out on my own, I knew this one was special. So special, I doubted any of the stores in Hattiesburg—or Jackson, for that matter—carried anything like it.
Okay, this is ridiculous. I place the tote on the coffee table, stand up, and break down all the boxes for recycling. The temptation to do an Internet search on the brand name on the label hovers in my head, and I resist as long as I can. That lasts all of thirty minutes. I finally plop down in front of my laptop, flip the top to wake it up, and type the name of the designer in the search engine box.
Oh my. It’s an even nicer tote than I thought. As in four-digit nice.
I gulp and slowly turn around to face my new tote. Now that I know how much that thing is worth, I’m going to be paranoid about carrying it. It also makes me uncomfortable to get something so lavish from a vendor.
But that’s silly, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter how much it costs, it’s still just a handbag. I remind myself that Jerry’s not just a run-of-the-mill vendor. His products just happen to be the best in the industry, and one of the lines he couldn’t make successful is one I’ll probably use for my own private label.
I cross the room, pick it up, and pull it closer. Yes, I’m hugging my bag. A bag like this one deserves a little extra love.
11
Laura
As much as I don’t want to, I actually pity Celeste. Her patient passed away, and now the medical agency she works for has informed her that there are no new people needing to be sat with. Her only other option is to go back to being a nursing assistant in a home.
“I hate doing that.” She shudders. “Too much lifting and too many people hovering.”
“It doesn’t have to be permanent,” I remind her.
She lifts her top lip and bares her teeth in a way that reminds me of one of them dogs Mama and Randy used to keep in their yard to protect their double-wide. I thought it was cruel to the dog, until he bared his teeth at me—just like Celeste is doing now.
“All righty,” I say. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
Her shoulders slump. “I don’t see any other option. I have to make a livin’. It’s not like I have a
man supporting me.”
I plant my fist on my hip and give her a double head bob—the kind my young’uns do to annoy me. “Just what are you trying to say, Celeste?”
“I’m saying you don’t have to worry about workin’ all day every day, just to pay the bills.”
That does it. I can’t let her get away with thinkin’ I don’t work. “What in the world do you think I do all day? I got a house to clean, young’uns to feed, and a husband who doesn’t do a thing but come home wantin’ his supper.”
She drops her scary look and smiles. “I really got your goat, didn’t I?”
“You sure did, and I suggest you don’t do it again. I’m sick and tired of people assumin’ things about me, just because I choose to be a stay-at-home mama. It’s honorable, and it’s good for the young’uns. They’ll grow up knowin’ I was willing to make sacrifices for them. They’ll—”
Celeste holds her hands up as she takes a step away from me. “Whoa there. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up like this. We got work to do, so let’s get off this tangent and do it.”
I hand her a stack of busy work—mostly name matching, place card making, and vendor phone numbers for following up to make sure they’re gonna have stuff ready on time— hoping she won’t make any more personal comments. She takes a look at what I shove at her and squints as though she’s thinking of something then slowly looks up at me. I have a hard time holding eye contact with her glaring at me like that.
“Seriously?” she says.
I blow a breath upward, and my bangs fly up. “What, Celeste?”
“Any monkey can do this. In fact, you can probably get your kids to do it.”
Rage surges. “Are you callin’ my young’uns monkeys?”
“Stop it right now, Laura. I wasn’t doin’ any such a thing. All I’m sayin’ is that I want to do some of the important stuff.”
“Like what?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes as she flaps her arms. “How should I know? You won’t let me see anything but this . . . this . . . ”
“Okay,” I say as I reach into my canvas bag and feel around for the pack of envelopes. “These are the reminders we need to send out a week before the reunion.”
“Reminders? Are you kidding me? Why are we wastin’ our time remindin’ people of somethin’ they already said they was plannin’ to attend?”
She obviously doesn’t remember that a bunch of people who said they were coming to the last reunion were no-shows. “I wanna make sure they don’t forget. We wasted our budget on food no one ate last time ’cause folks forgot they said they’d be here.”
“Maybe something came up at the last minute.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “But that’s just downright tacky if they don’t at least let us know things have changed.”
She looks back and forth between the envelopes and me. “I don’t know about this.”
“Just do it, Celeste. You said you wanted more important work, and I’m givin’ it to you.”
One more dirty look my way, and she picks up the envelopes. “I best be gettin’ home ’cause I gotta get up bright and early to go down to the nursin’ home for a job interview.”
As I walk Celeste to the door, I wonder why she has to make everything so difficult. If she’d just do what I tell her without arguing, we would’ve been done by now.
After she leaves, I lean against the door, close my eyes, and allow the pent-up energy to flow from my body. Seems folks always like to talk about what they wanna do, but when push comes to shove, they balk when they think they’ll have to work. Case in point, Celeste keeps hounding me to give her more work, but she thinks every job I give her is unnecessary. And she’s always correcting me on how I deal with folks.
I walk back into the kitchen and see that Celeste has left the cards on the table. I’m not sure, but I think she’s what folks call passive aggressive to the point of being downright tacky.
Granted, I don’t always know proper etiquette since Mama wasn’t the best role model. I’m not putting her down. I’m just being real. Back when other girls’ mamas were helping them choose a china pattern or teaching them the fine art of making the perfect centerpiece, my mama was busy canoodling with some pit-crew guy in Daytona. Even after returning to Piney Point, it was obvious Mama was more concerned with her own love life than my future happiness and standing in the community.
Some folks might say I married up when Pete and I said I do, and they’re probably right. Back in high school, he hung around with the popular kids, and everyone wanted him at their parties ’cause he was the only person with the nerve to end the night with a tabletop song, or if the occasion called for it, a mooning. The big problem holding him back from snagging a more appropriate mate for life was his drinking. And that’s where I came in. Pete knew back then that I loved him no matter what. He still knows that. He might be a drunk, but he’s no dummy. Having me in his life keeps him fed and worry-free ’cause I do all the worrying for the both of us.
I’m the one who totes the kids to and from school, team practice, and the mall. When they were little, I was the one they came to for snacks, Band-Aids, and a listening ear. Now that listening ear is starting to go deaf, but I pretend to hear what they’re saying, while my mind races over my to-do list for the rest of the day.
Lord knows if it weren’t for me, my young’uns wouldn’t get a bit of Christian learning. Pete hates going to church, but he does it for me—mostly ’cause he knows if he doesn’t get up and get dressed on Sunday mornings, he won’t get his honey-baked ham or fried chicken dinner later that afternoon. Sunday dinner is the one meal I splurge on nearly every single week. I even pull out all the stops with Mama’s potato salad, one of the few recipes she has that doesn’t make my family gag. Mama’s not the best cook in the world, but one thing she always says is, “Women need to know how to make good potato salad, how much sugar to put in the sweet tea, and how to sit over a public toilet seat without touching it.” The last item on her list is a whole ’nother topic that doesn’t need exploring at the moment.
“Laura!”
The sound of Pete’s voice reminds me where I am and the fact that my family has sacrificed enough, and now it’s time to give them the attention they demand. Every. Single. Night. I have to drop my jaw to keep from clenching my teeth.
“Coming!” I holler right back.
“Where’s my white T-shirt?”
I blink as I try to remember where I last saw it. “Have you checked the hamper?”
I hear the sound of creaking floorboards as he stomps across the bedroom and enters the bathroom. “Yeah, it’s in here. Never mind.”
The thought of him pulling that smelly old T-shirt from the dirty clothes hamper and wearing it to bed makes me gag. “I’ll be right up there to find you something else, Pete.”
I’ve made it up three steps when he appears at the top of the stairs, wearing his old white T-shirt. “But I like this one.”
“I bought you another three-pack. Wear one of those.”
He shakes his head. “They ain’t worn in yet.”
“How do you expect them to get worn in if you don’t wear them?”
He doesn’t grace me with an answer, so I make a mental note to do whatever I can to distress his new T-shirts. I can’t have him sleeping in something that’ll wake me up from the stink every time he does his whale-flopping in bed.
“At least take that thing off and let me spray some fabric freshener on it,” I say as I follow him into the bedroom.
He scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. “Phewee, no thanks. I hate that stuff. Makes me smell like a girl.”
I would threaten to sleep on the couch if I thought he’d either give in and change shirts or at least argue with me. But he won’t, so I don’t.
Until I fall asleep, his T-shirt’s manly smell wafts over me every time he rolls over. I’m definitely doing laundry tomorrow, and I’m going to make sure he can’t tell the difference between his worn-in shirt
and his newer ones.
The remainder of the week goes by fast, between laundry, carpooling, packing lunches, throwing meals together, and breaking up fights between my young’uns. The boys aren’t so bad this week. The girls are a mess.
Renee wakes me up hollering for me. “Hurry up, Mama, I’m dyin’.” Then she lets out a shriek like I’ve never heard in my life.
I jump out of bed, my heart racing, and rush to Renee’s room, not knowing whether I’ll see her on the floor with broken bones or someone standing over her with a knife. When I get there, I see her writhing around, moaning. I sit down on the edge of her bed.
“I hurt so bad, Mama, make it go away.”
“Where does it hurt?” I feel her forehead and gasp at the clammy skin.
She screams and thrashes, kicking off the covers, and that’s when I see the dark stains on her sheets in the dim light coming from the full moon outside her window. “Honey, I think you got your period.”
“Make it go away. I hate it.”
“It’ll go away in a few days, but in the meantime let’s get you cleaned up.”
I help her into the bathroom where I have supplies stashed for this very moment. I just wish it hadn’t happened in the wee hours. Once she’s taken care of, I change her sheets and help her back into bed. By now it’s less than an hour from when I need to be up, so I don’t bother going back to my own bed. Instead, I go downstairs to have some quiet time. An hour later, I hear the first alarm clock blaring that crazy music the kids like. First young’un downstairs is Bonnie Sue, and she doesn’t even bother with a good-morning greeting. Renee is right on her heels.
“Mama, tell Renee to stop talkin’ to me in the hallway at school. She’s embarrassin’ me.”
Renee plants her face inches from her sister’s. “I just wanted to know if you were comin’ straight home after sixth period.”
“You shoulda asked me before we left the house.”
