me up in her perfumed linen and lace and gush, “Awwww, cher baby.” It sounded so beautiful in my ear, but I was only Grandmother’s dear baby on her own schedule. For an hour or two, I’d be the center of her attention, and she’d shower me with love and praise. Then it was like she was ruled by a kitchen timer that only she could hear; when it rang, she was done. No more kisses and hugs or storybooks. Just, “You run along, cher, go.” I felt like a doll she put up on a shelf. Forgotten until she took me down again. As a kid, I was confused and hurt. I wondered what I’d done wrong. I wanted her to care about me. As a teenager, I stopped caring.
No doubt Grandmother’s push-and-pull impacted Mom’s life and shaped who she is. It explains Mom’s relationships with everyone in her life—especially me.
I stop next to a bench dedicated to Suzanna “Sugie Bee” Verot and rock back as if I’ve been slammed with a big bag of duh. Mom’s also ruled by a timer that only she can hear.
In my sociology class in college, I wrote a paper on Mom and determined that her male attention-seeking and hypersexuality, as demonstrated by her ability to fall in and out of love seemingly on a whim, was due to severe daddy issues. I’d thought I had her all figured out, but I didn’t. At least not fully. Mom falls in and out of love not necessarily on a whim, but according to a capricious timer that only she can hear. When it rings, she’s done.
I shift the heavy bucket back to the other hand and catch up with Mom. I understand her more than I did just a few moments ago, and I certainly understand that she’s a better mother than Lily.
“You’ll need to tell Earl about my passing.”
“You might outlive him.”
“A lot of people will want to know. We have to make a list.”
I agree, but I’m all too happy when the subject turns to songs she learned as a child and she belts out, “In 1814 we took a little trip, along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.” I push a swag of moss aside with my shovel and join in the choir, our voices rising up past the high branches.
“That was fun. Your voice is almost as good as mine.”
“Thank you, Mom.” That wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I’ll take it. Not only do I have a better understanding of her, but I feel a deeper connection with her, too.
We stop in front of the four graves in the corner, the Sutton outcasts, all of whom are women. I’m fairly certain there are some Sutton men buried around here who deserve a plot in this corner of the cemetery, if for nothing else than for the numerous paintings of their horses and dogs I’ve found in the attic.
I drop the bucket and shovel in front of a white marble vault with a life-size weeping angel on top.
Lillian Elizabeth Sutton Jackson
Born into This World 1921
Beautiful Daughter, Wife
Beloved Mother, Grandmother
Taken Too Soon
Too soon? She was almost ninety.
She points to the ground and sighs. “This needs to be cleaned up.”
“Grandmother’s last name was Cooper for over forty years. A lot longer than Jackson.”
“We can’t have Stepdaddy’s name on Momma’s tomb. It wouldn’t be right.” She grabs the wreath from my elbow and places it on the angel’s foot. “Lily married a Jackson, then a Gaudet; one wore an army uniform, the other a green beret.”
What? “Pawpaw Bob was a Green Beret?”
“No, but he made gator gumbo.”
That logic hurts my head, so I reach for the shovel and attempt to remove a clump of grass. Grandmother’s vault is one of the showiest in the cemetery, let alone in this corner of sinners. Grandmother was never brash or loud and probably would have been a little embarrassed by the over-the-top angel. I understand why Mother wanted her to have one, though.
“I want to be buried here.” She points to the locked door of the vault. “With Momma.”
Even though I’d rather talk about anything but Mom’s burial, it’s part of the reason she insisted we come here. I put my boot heel into the effort and shovel a clump. “Do you want me to add another weeping angel?”
“No.”
Surprising.
“I want my angel gazing up, with her wings wide like she’s flying.…” There she is. A frown wrinkles her brows, and she points to the sky. We’ve