Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (20 page)

“She’s dying,” she whispered.

“What makes you think that?”

“The Hospice doctor came in. He told me Maum is in something called the ‘active stage of dying.’ She called out for Paw Paw all last night. The not eating at all and sleeping so much are both part of it. Her body’s just shutting down.”

I spend a lot of time with people who are already dead, but I admit that I’d never experienced death, never been there when someone actually died. I couldn’t see much difference between today and the past few days except that Maum lay even more still and was less responsive when Rizzie or I spoke to her.

Lots of people accuse me of being flippant, a smart aleck, and my mouth does get away from me often, but for once in my life, I had nothing cheeky to say. Buh-leeve me. My mind was in serious mode and my heart ached with pain.

“Don’t you think I should get Tyrone?” I asked.

“No, just bring him this afternoon like we planned. They say this will probably take several days.”

• • •

By the time I returned with Tyrone that afternoon, Miss Owens had been moved to another room. In place of her bed, there were three more chairs—one for each of us plus a spare. Maum was quiet and still. Rizzie didn’t say anything to Tyrone about the prognosis.

As we left Peaceful Pines, Tyrone said, “Don’t you think she might be just a little better? She wasn’t crying and calling out like she has been.”

I think my next words were the hardest I’ve ever spoken. “No, Tyrone,” I said, “Maum’s not better. She’s weaker. She probably won’t last much longer.” Though she’d looked frail for some time, her condition was now more apparent—Maum was wasting away.

He was silent all the way to the apartment and had little to say that night through dinner and television. At bedtime, he asked, “Do you think we should go back and stay with Rizzie?”

“She told me that she’ll let us know when she needs us and that your and my job is to see that you’re in school every day, which reminds me. Have you done your homework?”

“Callie, it’s Sunday. You know teachers don’t assign homework on weekends.”

• • •

The following days weren’t very different until early Wednesday morning. I’d stopped by Peaceful Pines after dropping Tyrone off at school. Maum and Rizzie appeared to be sleeping. Rizzie had lowered the hospital bed and straightened the reclining chair so they were level with each other. She lay in the chair with her arm reached out holding Maum’s hand as they slept, and they both seemed peaceful.

Linda came in quietly. Rizzie looked up and asked, “Oh, is it morning?”

I stayed in the room while Linda bathed and dressed Maum. She talked to Maum the whole time she worked with her, complimenting her and saying, “Gotta keep that beautiful skin soft and pretty,” while she rubbed in lotion. She’d shown us how to hold a finger over the top of a straw and dip it into water to suction liquid into it. The liquid falls into the patient’s mouth when the straw is put there and the finger is taken off. At first, that worked well to get a few drops into Maum’s mouth, and she’d swallow. Now she didn’t swallow at all. The straw had to be put far enough in the back of her throat to drip down like when the nurse gave Maum the morphine she was back on from a syringe. The morphine came at more frequent intervals and with regular increases in the dosage.

Maum’s face contorted, and Linda pressed the call button. The nurse came immediately and squirted the morphine into the back of Maum’s mouth. “Call me if there’s any change,” she said.

I’d brought coffee and pumpkin spice muffins, planning to eat with Rizzie, then head to the funeral home, but before we’d finished eating, Maum’s breathing changed. I knew what that was. I’d never heard it before, but I’ve heard
of
the death rattle often enough to recognize it. Maum sounded like she was choking. I pressed the call button.

“I’ll get some atropine for her,” the nurse said. “The rattle is caused by saliva accumulating in her throat because she’s not able to swallow. A few drops of atropine will clear it up.”

Sure enough, she came back in a few minutes with another dropper, which she used to give Maum the medicine way back in her throat. The rattle eased and then stopped.

Rizzie is an impressive woman, usually confident and sure of herself. Right then, she looked like a confused little girl.

“It’s really happening, Callie. She’s leaving us,” Rizzie whispered. She added, “The night nurse said they think hearing is the last thing to go, so I don’t want to talk about her dying loud enough for her to hear me.”

She stroked Maum’s forehead and leaned close to her. “I love you,” she said, “You’re the best grandmother anyone could ever want.”

“I’m going for Tyrone.” I was scared to wait until school let out that afternoon.

“It may be several more days,” Rizzie protested, but not adamantly, “and Maum wouldn’t want him missing school.”

“He has the right to be here and tell her how he feels about her.” I’ve heard too many mourners at Middleton’s wish they’d had a chance to say goodbye.

On the way to the high school, I called and explained to Otis why I hadn’t arrived at work.

“Stay with those kids. I’ll cover for you.” His tone was as kind as his words.

Those kids? Rizzie and I are in our early thirties—grown women to elderly men who want to be our sugar daddies, kids to men like my daddy and the Middletons who view us as needing protection.

• • •

When the school secretary called Tyrone to the office, he must have thought Maum was already dead. Sorrow and disbelief filled his face.

“Did my grandmother die?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, “but she’s worse. The time is near, and I knew you’d want to see her to tell her goodbye.”

“Is she dying now?”

“The nurse said it could be another day or so, but she’s definitely worse.”

• • •

Maum’s rattle was so loud that we heard it before we opened the door to her room.

Rizzie looked up. She was standing by the bed with her arm under Maum’s neck, supporting her head.

“The atropine’s not helping anymore. The nurse has gone to get an electrical suction pump to clear the saliva.” She stroked Maum’s forehead and said into her ear again, “I love you, Maum. You’re the best mama and grandmamma anyone could ever have. Tyrone and Callie are here with me. We all love you.” She motioned to Tyrone. He stepped to the other side of the bed and said, “I love you, too, Maum,” while stroking her hand.

The death rattle stopped.

“The atropine must be working,” Rizzie said.

I looked warily at Maum’s chest and face for what seemed like several minutes but could probably be measured in seconds.

“No,” I said, “she’s gone.”

We all stood motionless—Rizzie and Tyrone on each side and me at the foot of the bed. I’d thought Maum looked dead earlier, but now I saw the difference. I’d said she was gone, and she was. The essence of Maum was no longer there.

The nurse hurried in carrying a small pump.

“She left us a few minutes ago,” I said. The nurse looked surprised, but she set the pump down on the bedside table and removed her stethoscope from around her neck. She listened to Maum’s chest for several minutes, then said, “Her heart’s stopped.”

Tyrone shrieked. His face contorted, not in sorrow, but in rage. His fists clenched rock-hard. He stepped back away from the bed.

“I’m gonna
kill
that doctor!” Tyrone roared. “That bird surgeon did this. He didn’t take care of her operation. I
hate
him.
I’ll kill him!
”

Rizzie and I both moved to embrace Tyrone, to comfort him, but he shoved us away and stumbled toward the door. His balled-up right fist shot out and smashed a hole in the wall. A security guard ran up and grabbed the teenager, trying to restrain him, but Tyrone broke away from him and stormed through the lobby headed outside. Sight of the key pad by the door stopped him. He didn’t know the new code. He crumpled to the floor and wailed. The elderly patients in their wheel chairs directed sympathetic smiles at him. They’d been around life long enough not to be surprised or scared of genuine grief.

17

Late Wednesday afternoon, Lizzie, Tyrone, Otis, and I sat around the conference table and planned the funeral. Since Rizzie wanted to combine Gullah traditions with some modern burial practices, I needed to e-mail Maum’s obituary to the newspaper and post it on our Internet site as quickly as possible. The telephone had been ringing constantly as Gastric Gullah customers inquired about plans, beginning almost before we got Maum to the funeral home. In a lot of ways, St. Mary still functions like little towns of yesteryear. Someone at Peaceful Pines must have spread the word.

As soon as we’d filled in the form with details needed for the obituary, I excused myself from the planning session. Since Rizzie and I were friends, I didn’t think it was my business to listen to the financial arrangements, but Otis had already told me he planned to give the Profits a discount. He knew Rizzie’s restaurant had been closed during Maum’s illness, but it was also good business for Middleton’s. We’d never had many dealings with the Gullah community. Doing exactly what Rizzie wanted and being financially reasonable would benefit Middleton’s in the long run.

Besides, I needed to get the announcements written. The newspaper obit would come out Thursday morning, but the information on our web page should be made available immediately.

The write-up was different from most of the ones I do. For one thing, though they knew that Maum’s name was Hattie Mae, neither knew her last name before marriage. Rizzie nor Tyrone knew the names of Maum’s parents. I asked how they’d gotten past that requirement at the hospital and was told, “We said we didn’t know.” Chalk up a duh for me.

What we did know was that there would be no visitation at a church or Middleton’s. The family would receive friends and relatives at their home Thursday night. A procession from the house to the Surcie Island Gullah Cemetery would begin at eleven o’clock Friday morning.

By the time I’d posted and e-mailed Maum’s obituary, Rizzie had left. I drove one of Middleton’s vans with chairs in it to Surcie Island to deliver a guest register even though Rizzie had declined any folding chairs. She refused them again at the house. The first thing she did was hand me a new red silk dress for Maum. I put it in the van so I wouldn’t forget it.

“I need some information about the cemetery,” I said. “We’ll need to mark the grave that’s to be opened.”

“Well, walk over there with Ty and me now. I need to check it out anyway.”

• • •

Large conch shells with deep pink throats outlined areas covered with crushed oyster shells. Though they varied in size, all the bordered patches were rectangular, the shape of graves. Some had homemade wooden markers or big stones with names and dates painted on them. Only one had a granite headstone—small, but obviously professionally made and engraved. Rizzie had told me the first time I’d been there a few years back that Maum had ordered the marker and had it brought to the island by row boat.

Each site was topped with lots of “gifts.” A cornhusk doll and tiny wooden bowl sat on the smallest grave. Liquor bottles, homemade pipes, tools, perfume bottles, baskets, and broken pottery covered many of the adult graves. On my first visit, Rizzie had explained that the pottery was broken and scattered around intentionally. The handmade sweetgrass baskets were filled with weathered packages of snuff, chewing tobacco, and other small offerings. She had also stressed that Gullah people would never steal grave gifts out of respect for the dead and fear of supernatural retaliation.

Rizzie led the way to the only spot that was marked with a granite headstone. She looked down.

“This is my grandfather’s grave,” she said. “Maum will be laid to rest beside him.” She looked around. “I’ve been negligent putting grave gifts here. Before Maum began working at Gastric Gullah, she brought presents to Paw Paw here every week or so.

I leaned over the one granite marker and silently read that Methusalah Profit had been dead over twenty-seven years. I thought again of the first time I’d seen this graveyard. Until then, I’d thought Rizzie’s name was “Prophet,” but she’d explained that it was P-r-o-f-i-t. Slaves had no last name before emancipation. When they were freed, some of them took their owners’ names while others simply chose a name they wanted. Lizzie claimed her family chose Profit because they wanted to make money. Another time, she said that was a joke and “Profit” was a misspelling of the word “Prophet” because her ancestors could foresee the future.

She waved her arms around and told Tyrone, “We’ll get the weed-eater and clip these plants and grass tomorrow morning. Can’t have this place looking like this.” He nodded yes, and she continued, “You’re lucky, Ty. Years ago, we would have had to use a sling-blade.”

“I can have the men clean the cemetery when they come to open the grave,” I said.