to have a stroke. Who would take care of Mom? I reason.
Not long after I’d ended my conversation with Margie and Fern, Mom walked into the living room, wringing her hands above a wet spot in the crotch of her pants. “I need underwear,” she said.
She’d wet through her Attends and needed more than underwear. A warm shower—not a full-service bath—seemed the easiest solution for both of us, but Mom’s rarely chosen easy.
“My dress was blue organza.” I wash her neck and armpits, and she sighs. “I was fifteen, and Daddy said I was the prettiest girl in Nashville.” She chatters as if she is still a debutante in blue organza, seemingly oblivious of our mother-child role reversal. I turn off the water and pull the drain plug. I’m glad she’s oblivious and can slip into her girlhood memories while she still has them.
“Robert Gaudet was my second daddy,” she says, rolling her r’s and pronouncing it Ro-bare Go-day like she’s sitting in Cajun country.
Robert Gaudet was the only grandfather I’ve ever known. I called him Papa Bob, and he called me petite boo or little sweetheart.
“My real daddy died when I was seven. His name was Louis Jackson, and he was a war hero.”
“Yes.” I’m named after a grandfather I never knew and, growing up, I hated that I was named after a man. I wanted to be named Jennifer or Brittany or She-Ra. I stand and sling a big fluffy towel over my shoulder. I don’t hate my name anymore and prefer it over the alternative, Ro-bareta, after the grandfather I did know.
“Momma got Daddy’s Purple Heart.”
“Yes.” But I know little else. I know my biological grandfather was from Charleston and died in Korea, a war hero. Anytime I’ve asked, Mom just shakes her head and says he died when she was little. Grandmother always said it was so long ago she didn’t remember. I was always curious about the man I’m named after, but it’s as if he never existed.
Mom reaches for the grab bar bolted to the tile on one side while I clamp a removable rail on the other. She stands up okay, but I have to help her lift one leg, then the other, over the side. I try to avert my eyes as much as possible, but there is no unseeing Mother’s massive ’70s bush and flat butt.
“Robert was Momma’s first cousin.” She wraps the towel around her and lowers her voice to a whisper. “We don’t mention that.”
And with good reason. Grandmother’s elopement with Papa Bob broke both sides of the family into pieces and started a feud that lasted decades.
Mother dries herself while I grab a pink jogging suit I bought her last year. She lets me help her with her soft slippers, and I hold my breath. The doorbell rings, and I practically run from the room before she can accuse me of throwing away all her “good” shoes.
Dinner is inside a takeout bag hanging from the doorknob and my stomach growls even before I get to the kitchen.
“Was that Earl?” Mom walks into the kitchen, bath cap still on her head, lips burgundy now.
“No. It’s dinner.” She opens her mouth to protest, but I head her off. “I know. You were supposed to have dinner with Earl.”
“Where is he?”
I take utensils out of the drawer and close it before I am tempted to grab a knife and slit my wrists. “He went to Mexico,” I say because she’s going to forget and ask again anyway.
“Oh.”
I set everything on the small kitchen table, and we eat in blessed silence. So much has happened in this one day, it feels more like a week has passed since I woke this morning. And so much more has to be done before I crawl into bed. Number one on the list is to find an experienced in-home nurse to take over Mother’s medical needs and care.
I point my fork at her cheetah cap. “Do you need help getting that off?”
“No.” She raises a hand and pats the side like it’s the latest rage. “It’s a fabulous hat.”
Fabulous. My whole life, everything was “fabulous” or “amazing” or “to die for.” Whether it was a fabulous hat, an amazing bikini, or to-die-for kitten heels, Mom made sure that she owned it, just as she always made sure she looked fabulous before she left the house. Waiting for her to “put on her face” just to go to the grocery store was annoying, but I loved