She’s doing so much better, in fact, that we are leaving the house tomorrow to shop. Nothing big or potentially overwhelming. Lindsey won’t be with us, so I planned a small foray close to home.
While our daytime routine is good and getting better, our nighttime routine is the best. After Mom changes into her nightclothes, I brush and braid her hair while she chomps on Pirate’s Booty, watches game shows, and yells answers at the TV.
Lindsey checks in on us around eight to take Mom’s blood pressure and dispense her sleeping medication. She keeps a little notebook and pen in the front pocket of her scrubs. She’s also expanded her wardrobe; on her days off, she wears flowing sundresses. Due to a kernel-related choking incident that happened a few days earlier during I Love Lucy, Lindsey takes Mom’s popcorn with her when she leaves. If I tried to take her Booty, Mom would fight me over it, but she doesn’t even argue with Lindsey. She’s nicer to Lindsey, but she does talk about her weight after she’s left the bedroom most nights. It’s rude and I’m grateful that she at least waits until Lindsey can’t hear her. Then we crawl into her bed and get cozy like when I was young. I always reach for her hand, but sometimes I wonder if she knows it’s me next to her, with my warm palm pressed into hers.
Tonight, Mom and I sit on the edge of the big canopy bed as Lindsey comes in to do her usual, squeezing the blood pressure bulb and listening through her stethoscope.
“Melvin Thompson,” Mom yells.
I haven’t thought of Melvin Thompson in years, and I wonder why she’s decided to shout her fourth husband’s name. I look up from my fingers braiding her hair to Family Feud.
Richard Dawson is leaning toward a red-haired woman and repeats the question “Name something that has white balls.”
Mom’s answer is suddenly extremely disturbing.
The contestant says, “An old sweater,” and a second X flashes on the screen.
“That was dumb,” counters the woman who expected her fourth husband’s nuts to be nationally recognized.
Lindsey lets go of Mom’s arm, reaches into her pocket, and hands Mom her medication. “Did you hear the footsteps last night?” The question is directed at me.
I did, but I don’t want to freak Lindsey out, so I say, “I heard something, but the house is old.” Generations of ghosts might roam around at night, but after spending so much time in the attic, I’m fairly unaffected. “Nothing like the first night.”
“Yeah, that was bad.”
“Melvin Thompson!”
I suppress the urge to gag and remind myself that she can’t help making me want to vomit. “No one wants to hear about Melvin.”
“Here you go, Patricia.” Lindsey hands her a glass of water from the bedside table and writes something down in her notepad. “Good night,” she says, above the game show buzzer, and leaves with Mom’s empty popcorn bag.
I barely get “good night” out of my mouth before Mom yells, “They were droopy, too.”
“Mom!” She looks at me, and I can see she’s mid-fade. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to hear about Melvin’s droopy white balls.”
“I don’t blame you. They were practically to his knees.”
I rub the veins popping out on my forehead. “Mom, stop!”
She shrugs and returns her glass to the bedside table. “Lindsey has a big belly.”
I glance at the empty doorway to make sure Lindsey is gone. “Stop talking about Lindsey’s weight.” I remember how hurt I was when she accused me of getting fat my freshman year, and she’s my mother.
She shrugs and yells, “Melvin Thompson,” and I’m actually relieved the subject returns to old Melvin.
I feel veins popping inside my head, too. I’m tempted to run from the room, but I crawl back into Mom’s bed next to her.
“I read in an article that birds mate for life.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” Mom shrugs. “That Raphael loves me.”
Of course he does. I look across at Mom and see her old smile. Maybe she’s not as faded as I suspected. “How can you tell?”
“He whistled at me.”
I stand corrected. That bird makes only two sounds: a shrill scream when I tell him to behave or a nasty screech when he dive-bombs Lindsey. “He has good taste in women.” I play along.
Mom’s smile turns into a yawn as she rolls on her side toward me. “He doesn’t like Lindsey.”
“True, but I don’t think he likes me very much either.”
“Probably because you’re in a hair rut.” She tosses my braid out