calming glasses of wine before I board. Flying with Mother, I’d have to drink a few bottles.
“I have to be near my kin.”
That’s the same “kin” who’d disowned my grandma Lily and my grandfather Bob—aka first-cousin-twice-removed Bob—and forced them to leave Louisiana. They’re also the same kin who welcomed Grandma Lily back only after her father died. Well, most of them anyway. Her frowny-faced brother Jasper usually stayed at his galley house in the French Quarter. On the few occasions that he was at Sutton Hall, the two didn’t speak. His twin, Jed, passed the same year as Bob, so no one knows if he would have been as cold to his only sister.
“That’s a long way to visit your kin, Mom.” I don’t remind her that there aren’t any “kin” left to visit. Not that I know of, anyway.
“I don’t want to visit. I want to live there.”
“What?” That’s insane. So insane I’d have to be out of my mind to agree to it. “We can’t move there.” The thought of actually moving Mom clear across the country is so daunting, my mind recoils with horror. “My life is here. Your life is here. What about Earl?” Suddenly, a visit doesn’t sound so bad. “We can vacation there for a few weeks. Stay at the Ritz, where it’s nice and air-conditioned, and drive to Sutton Hall as often as you’d like. We’ll get a two-bedroom suite with a balcony that overlooks the city.”
“You have to bury me with Momma and Grandmere,” she persists.
“We don’t have to worry about that for a long time.” I know the disease that has taken her memory will take her life, but I don’t want to think about burying my mother.
“I need to rest in Sutton soil.”
Technically, she wouldn’t rest in soil but in an aboveground vault.
“Suttons always return to our soil.” This is the first time I’ve heard of Sutton “soil,” but it would explain why Grandmother chose to be buried in the Sutton cemetery rather than in Tennessee next to the man she’d married over her family’s objections. I’ve always thought that the man who smiled and laughed and overfed anyone in his vicinity deserved better than an eternal blank spot under BELOVED WIFE on his gravestone.
“Please, Lou. I have so much left to do.”
There is fear in her voice, and we look at each other across the pillow. Through the darkness, her eyes are shiny with tears, and she isn’t smiling. Sometimes she cries out of confusion. Other times her mind is clear enough that she knows what is happening to her. I don’t know which is worse.
“You have to help me with my final resting spot.”
That is the last thing I want to do with my mother. No matter her shenanigans, I can’t imagine a life without her. I want to dog-paddle in the river of denial for as long as possible. “Mom, we have lots of time before we have to think about that.”
“You have time. I don’t.”
I let that sink in. Lower and lower until panic twists my stomach in a knot. If she doesn’t have time, I don’t have time with her.
“I can’t get there on my own.” She squeezes my hand, and it feels like she’s crushing my heart. “Promise to take me home before I forget. Please, Lou.”
“I promise.” Because what else can I do? My heart is crushed beneath the weight of my sadness. I want to make new and lasting memories before time runs out. I want to write them all down so I won’t forget.
“Mon mouche a miel, cher,” Mom whispers, and rolls to her other side.
She hasn’t called me her honeybee love since I was a child, and I raise a palm to cover the thumping coming from my heart. I can’t imagine my life without my mom, and I take a deep, shuddering breath. I’ve always known the time would come when I needed to focus less on work and more on my mother. I’ve known since her diagnosis that I needed to have plans in place for this eventuality, but I don’t. Maybe because planning for it would make it too real.
Memories are more important than ever, and I know I’ll deeply regret not writing them down once she is gone, but I also know myself and know I won’t. I’ll start out with great intentions, but I write for a living almost every day. Writing in a journal or diary will feel like a lot of pressure and