if we put the new duvets and pillows on the old lumpy mattresses, we’ll be able to get through the night.
But I figured wrong. The duvets and bedspreads aren’t thick enough to compensate. At least not for me, and I find myself not being able to sleep again. For the second night in a row, I stare up at a cracked ceiling medallion and a chandelier that’s missing a few crystals.
Another crappy night on a crappy mattress. I am hot and sticky but at least Mom is asleep. Lindsey double-dosed her early enough that her huge snores practically rattle the monitor on my nightstand.
I move to the side of the bed and peel off my flannel nightshirt. I’ve packed five of them, along with my shearling robe. It isn’t that it’s too warm for flannel at night; it’s too humid and sticky. I toss it onto the floor and turn on one of Mother’s naked-lady lamps that sits on a side table. I remember this room from my childhood. It is even more faded now than it was then, but at one time it must have been truly stunning. The walls would have been a deep blue, the moldings and cornices a stark white with gold leaf. The white marble fireplace is flecked with gold and carved with angels.
The sitting room was converted into a big bathroom, and as a kid, I remember thinking the pink toilet, sink, and tub were fabulous. As an adult, I think the room looks like a time capsule from the 1920s or ’30s.
Mom’s snoring gets even louder, and I tell myself that I will miss the sound of her snoring one day, but I am tired and today is not that day. I stand and wrap the duvet around my bare shoulders. The old wood floor creaks as I move across the room and throw open the double doors to the veranda, feeling like the mistress of the manor. Perhaps there’s an ounce of Scarlett in me yet.
I start to shut the doors behind me but pause with my hand on the cut-glass knob. Raphael is on the lam. For a few seconds I ponder the likelihood of him surviving on his own. How long could he last before a heron snapped up his naked little body? Would I hear his scream?
Probably. I shut the door and lean back against it. When we returned from our mattress-store adventure, I’d discovered the cage door open and Raphael across the entrance hall in the library, swinging upside down from a chandelier and chewing on the crystals. Getting him down from the chandelier had been fairly easy, but getting him to return to his cage was a whole different story. I’d chased him around the house for an hour, trying to shoo him toward the front parlor, but he was having none of it. He squawked and flew from spot to spot, his bright green wings carrying his naked bird body until I lost sight of him somewhere near the dining room. For the rest of the evening, Lindsey walked around as if the damn bird might fall from the sky and peck out her eyes. Mom kept insisting on calling the “doctor.”
Neither happened, and Raphael is still hiding somewhere in the house like a prison escapee. The plaster is cool beneath my bare feet and the moist, scented air brushes my cheeks. I haven’t examined the balcony in the light of day, and I hope it doesn’t give way under my weight. If it does, I’ll probably break some bones and end up in the hospital. The prospect doesn’t sound too bad, like a vacation maybe, complete with turndown service and intravenous pain medication.
I find an old rocking chair to my left and carefully sit, waiting for it to fall apart. When it doesn’t, I tuck my cold feet beneath me. The air smells different here than it does in Seattle, sweet magnolia and jasmine blending with the earthy high notes of the muddy Mississippi.
The sky is filled with streaks of purple and orange, and if I look really hard, I can see long strings of lights. They blink and disappear as a riverboat paddles up the Mississippi.
I know things got a little stressful during the drive to the mattress store, but I have to say that Mom and I had a relatively good day. She randomly asked about her fifth husband, Buzzy Doyle (I don’t know why he was called Buzzy when his real name