door. I pull up an extra chair for Mom, and we sit at my desk so I can write everything down on a yellow legal pad.
“Cocktail peanuts and those butter mints.” Mom taps a finger on the legal pad. “Diapers. Lots of damn diapers. Babies poop a lot.” Mom laughs, and I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.
I turn on my computer, and we cruise the internet looking for ideas. Mom wants me to write down everything she sees, but I draw the line at a bottle that looks like a boob. It might be just the three of us, but we begin to assemble quite the list.
“Diaper rash ointment,” Mom says, and I write down Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.
I add cake and flowers to the bottom of the legal pad, and my eye catches a shadow creeping beneath the door.
“Mom,” I whisper, and point. “Lindsey’s standing at the door trying to listen in.”
“Huh.” Mom looks but doesn’t bother to whisper. “That’s her?”
“Shh.” I put a finger to my lips. “Say ‘dunk tank.’ ”
“Why?”
“Lindsey’s being snoopy, and so she deserves to get a little freaked out.”
“Dunk tank!” Mom’s looking forward to the party, and her excitement reassures me more than ever that it’s not time for her to die.
“Good idea,” I say just as loud. “And a Slip ’N Slide.”
“Oh, I like the Slip ’N Slide.”
Of course she does. “Cornhole. Who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned cornhole?” The shadow wavers and disappears.
“Me.” Mom’s lips purse, and she sits up straight. “I don’t like the cornhole.”
Well, I guess she has her standards.
Once we’ve finished our planning, Mom heads to her bedroom for a nap. I wait outside her door, listening for the sound of an opening drawer and the axe to land on my neck. It doesn’t happen, and I blow out a relieved breath.
“Are you okay?” Lindsey asks as she passes me in the hall.
Now is the time to tell her. “Yeah.” Mom’s nurse needs to be informed of what’s been happening when she walks out of Mom’s bedroom, but I know Mom would feel conspired against and turn Rattlesnake on both of us. “Just thinking about your party.” Lindsey would become the new Wynonna. “What do you think of a diaper relay race?” I totally make up. “Instead of a baton, you hand off a diaper.”
Lindsey opens her mouth but shuts it again. “Great.”
There’s no reason to ruin the baby shower. I can keep an eye on Mom, and Lindsey and I can discuss Mom’s pill stashing after the party.
For short periods during the rest of the day, I forget the pills are in my pocket. I give Raphael fresh food and water and do laundry. Then something reminds me and I get jumpy, watching and waiting for something to happen.
When Mom goes to bed, I brush her hair and watch her shows and stay with her until she falls asleep. If I’m with Mom when Lindsey gives her her medication and insist on staying until she starts snoring, she can’t do anything with her pills.
I shake her shoulder for good measure before I leave her room. She doesn’t respond, so I drag myself up the long staircase and shut my bedroom door behind me. My shorts hit the floor as I undress for bed; the pills are still in the pocket. I’ll get rid of them tomorrow. No rush. Tonight, I just want to sleep. I am emotionally exhausted, but of course my mind races and I stare at the heavy wooden tester above my head, tossing and turning, thinking of problems without solutions. I still haven’t found a Lulu replacement, and Margie thinks it’s because subconsciously I can’t let go. I don’t think that’s the reason, although perhaps I am looking for someone just like me and that’s not realistic.
After an hour, I give up and turn on the light. I brought the letters I’d found in the steamer trunk upstairs with me and I untie the blue ribbon that binds them.
The first is from Grandmother. I carefully take it from the envelope and unfold the yellowed paper. Her words and handwriting are as flowery as her stationery. She calls Grandfather “beloved Louis” or “darling Louis” or “Louis, my love.” She writes that “Patricia is getting to be such a big girl and talks up a storm. Her favorite words are ‘gimme dat,’ spoken like a barefoot Cajun.” She ends the letters with, “Your loving and faithful wife, Lily.”
My grandmother’s early life sounds just like her—lively and whimsical.