and pack them and the dress away. The trunk has lots of little drawers and boxes, some filled with old sewing needles and thread. Others contain old photos of Lily and Louis, lots of random keys, and a stack of letters tied up with blue velvet ribbon. I fan the corners of the envelopes and see they contain letters that were written by my grandparents, postmarked from 1950 to 1953. I toss the bundle on the couch, figuring I can read the letters on nights I can’t sleep.
The drawer to the jewelry box is open, and I shut it before getting dressed and heading off to Mom’s room to hide the dreadful earrings. Even if Wynonna lived next door, I think it’s safe to say the gaudy clip-ons would be safe from her evil grasp.
There are so many places in Mom’s room to hide the earrings, and I glance around for a “spot where no one will find them.” But it has to be easy for me to remember, like Mom’s underwear drawer. Not surprisingly, Mom’s beat me to the punch. I find cash folded up with her panties and a long-lost remote control hidden in her compression socks. I wonder what else she’s hoarded and find the spare key to the Escalade in a pocket of her jogging pants. She’s stashed seven sterling pickle forks with her pajamas, and a thin box of matches from the Belle of Baton Rouge Casino and Hotel in with her bras.
I slip the matches and spare key into my back pocket, doing my due diligence to prevent arson and grand theft auto, and my gaze falls on the brass coal box I found in the attic last month. It’s about the size of a small trunk and weighs a ton, and of course Mom wanted it by the fireplace. I lift the lid and discover three bags of Pirate’s Booty, two rock-hard bagels, an open sleeve of saltines, half a bottle of water, and a pack of toilet paper. I close the box tight, shocked it hasn’t attracted ants. If hoarding pickle forks and toilet paper gives her comfort, I’m all for it.
The hunt for a hiding spot continues, and I pull open a drawer in Mom’s bedside chest. It’s not a spot that no one can find, but I’m more worried about my memory than about Wynonna’s sticky fingers. Inside is Mom’s red velvet jewelry box, round and small enough to fit in my palm. When I was a kid, it seemed magical with its colorful jewels, collection of wedding rings, and Great-grandmother’s watch pendant. A press of a tiny gold button makes the top flip up.
It’s empty. No jewels or rings or watch pendant. Just four red pills. I poke them with my finger and wonder why Mom’s bedtime medication is in her nightstand. Lindsey keeps all medications in a lockbox in her bedroom. Mom can’t take so much as an aspirin without Lindsey giving it to her, and Lindsey keeps track of everything in her little notebook. At night she transcribes her notes into Mom’s electronic medical chart. If anything was missing, anything outside the routine, Lindsey would know it.
Where did these come from?
That day in the cemetery, Mom talked about killing herself with pills. She wanted my help and then got angry when I refused. She was horrible and mad for several weeks, but I thought she’d gotten over it. I thought she’d gotten over her death-with-dignity plan of several years ago, too, but apparently she’s never let it go. She can’t get her hands on four Flintstones vitamins without someone noticing, so I’ve rested comfortably in my belief that she has neither the opportunity nor the mental capacity to follow through without my assistance.
I empty the pills into my palm and notice that some of the red coating looks like it’s been rubbed off, like the pills sat in water or someone’s mouth. Like someone is slipping her medication under her tongue and then slipping it out when no one is looking to create a lethal stockpile. But when? I’m with her at night… except when I’m banished or leave before Lindsey gives her the medication. If Mom can hoard bags of Pirate’s Booty and toilet paper without notice, I suppose she’s capable of hiding little red pills too.
My knees buckle and I drop to the edge of the bed. She’s more resourceful than I’ve given her credit for, more determined than I imagined. Mother is planning to