Mad Girls In Love (53 page)

When Dorothy woke up, her sense of time was disjointed. She wasn't sure where she was, but she suspected that Mack had either sent her to a spa or had slapped her into another asylum. She glanced at the window. The blinds were drawn, so she couldn't tell if it was day or night or if there were bars. From a far-off place, she heard a television playing the theme song for
The Young and the Restless.
When she'd been a girl, she'd known all the Cole Porter songs; now she kept up with rock and roll, but in her heart of hearts, she preferred soap opera music. It was just so soothing, even if the story lines were depressing. It was a mystery why she liked TV shows that promoted desperation, lunacy, and backstabbing, not to mention vitamin deficiencies—but she ate them up. Personally, she thought the daytime actresses were way too skinny. Dorothy just bet they all took laxatives. What was wrong with a little flesh? Dorothy had survived mental illness and a bad personality, but she'd always eaten three square meals a day, and when she felt the need for regularity, she took Metamucil.

Women in white uniforms padded in and out of the room, asking Dorothy if she was comfortable, if she needed anything. She hoped they were hotel maids. “Water,” Dorothy croaked. “Or a glass of champagne, if you've got it.”

“Champagne?” The maid-woman looked shocked.

“Isn't this the Holiday Inn?” asked Dorothy hopefully.

“Hardly,” said the maid-woman. “You had a panic attack, Mrs. McDougal. You are in Crystal Falls General. Don't you remember?”

“You're not the maid?”

“I have a bachelor's degree in nursing, Mrs. McDougal.” The nurse drew herself up.

“Sorry. I'm just a tad confused.” Dorothy rubbed her bald forehead.

“Try and relax,” said the nurse, tucking the sheet around Dorothy's shoulders. “I'll be back in a minute with your water.”

After the nurse left, Dorothy glanced around the room. A panic attack? No, that couldn't be right. She had been dizzy, and she'd acted a little dramatic. One of these days she'd push herself into an actual stroke. She wondered if she should pick out her coffin before somebody else did, like Mack—God love him, he was a sweetheart, but he had wretched taste.

Flight 1279 made an emergency landing at Shannon Airport. The PA system crackled and the pilot announced that the plane needed a “bit of work,” including a fuel valve for the third engine. He said that the maintenance crew was looking for a spare part; if one couldn't be located, an alternative would be found.

The woman in front of me stood up and said, “What does
that
mean? Are they going to put us in rafts? Whenever I take my car to the dealership, it always comes back with a new problem. What if that happens now? Just how good are these Irish mechanics? They could all be on drugs, or in the IRA.”

The stewardess, who was squatting in the aisle picking up my letters, glanced at the woman and said, “Ma'am, try and relax. Would you like some pretzels?”

“No,” said the woman, “but I'll take a Xanax.”

“Ma'am, I can assure you that the pilot won't fly this plane unless it's safe. He has a family.”

“Well, so do I.” The woman turned to me and added, “I'm never flying again. Will you?”

“Yes,” I told her, shoving letters into my bag. At least with air travel, I was willing to take risks. Three hours later, a valve was located and installed, and the plane took off. It was the smoothest flight I could remember.

 

It was dark when I angled the rental Jeep up the driveway. The headlights swept over the two houses, one pink, one purple. I looked up at Aunt Clancy's old house—now Dorothy's. A chain-link dog fence ran the length of the yard. In the grass, the headlights reflected against metal pie plates, which appeared to be littered with dog chow. Wind chimes jingled in the trees, and a rusty metal glider—one from Miss Gussie's era—was angled beneath the hackberry tree. These old items comforted me in a way that I could not explain. Despite the circumstances, I was delighted to be home.

I glanced next door. Mack's security light illuminated the bricks that Earlene had long ago painted pink. The paint had worn off in places, making the house look as if it was shedding its skin. I climbed out of the Jeep, pulled my luggage from the back, and walked toward Dorothy's house. The screened porch was full of shadows, but I knew every nook and cranny. I clicked on the light and found the key under the mat. Mack had left a note taped to the front door.

On the other side of the door, I heard frantic barking. I hesitated, then let myself in and shoved my bags into the hall. The air smelled of over-cooked meat and burned corn bread. Five Pomeranians charged toward me, barking and dancing on their hind legs.

“You're fine little watchdogs, aren't you?” I knelt down to pet them and peered into the living room—it hadn't changed since my last visit, except for another layering of clutter. The green velvet sofa still stood against the long wall with the rectangular Italian mirror hanging above it. All around the mirror's frame, Dorothy had crammed letters, newspaper articles, and photographs. I recognized my own handwriting on dozens of postcards, and I had a sudden vision of standing in front of a rack in Mont-St.-Michel, choosing the prettiest card to send my mother.

I hurried past a glass case filled with Hummels and dog figurines, then paused beside a bookcase that was jumbled with scrapbooks. A photograph protruded from one and I pulled it out. It was a picture of me and Louie posing in front of the Basilica of St. Nazaire at Carcassonne. It had been taken in 1982, the year before I'd left him.

I shoved the picture back into the book and stepped into the kitchen, thinking a cup of tea might revive me. The counters were jumbled with cereal boxes, Cheetos bags, jars of dog biscuits and rawhide chews. Folded paper bags were jammed into every crevice. A twisted sack of flour sat on the counter, next to an open jar of Coffee-Mate. Fine white powder was scattered over the green Formica. How long had Dorothy been living in squalor? I didn't know if I should start cleaning or just buy a can of Raid.

I lifted the tarnished copper teakettle and filled it with water. Inside the refrigerator, I found a carton of two-percent milk. I glanced at the expiration date—eight days ago. After pouring the milk down the drain, I searched in the cabinets for tea bags. In my mind I could hear Dorothy accusing me of being wasteful, lecturing about calcium deficiencies and humps on the back. She had never paid attention to expiration dates.

“I'm a child of the Depression,” Dorothy would say. “It's sinful to waste anything.”

I glanced at the green wall phone, with its ancient rotary dial. Behind the phone, numbers had been written onto the wall in red ink. Jennifer's number was scrawled in my mother's spiky script, next to ones for my old house in New Orleans and my flat in London. It was three in the morning over there—too late to call Ian; but Jennifer was probably still awake. I placed my hand on the receiver, hesitated for a moment, then dialed. Jennifer answered on the second ring.

“Hi, honey. It's your mother. I just got into—”

The line clicked in my ear. I replaced the receiver, then walked over to the counter. Standing on my toes, I opened a cabinet door and grabbed a pink mug with Happy Mother's Day 1977 written on the side. I remembered that spring—Claude had begrudgingly allowed Jennifer to visit the day before Mother's Day, and I'd taken my daughter to the Hallmark store to buy Dorothy a gift. We had decided on a mug, and the clerk had let Jennifer pick out the paper. I had watched my daughter lean over the counter, her frilly dress bunched up around her legs, showing ruffled panties. She'd lifted one tiny finger and had pointed at the purple foil. “Give me that one,” she'd commanded in Claude's mother's voice.

I reached for the phone and dialed Jennifer's number again. “Wait! Don't hang up,” I cried, talking fast, trying to get out all of the facts before my daughter hung up again. “Dorothy's in the hospital.”

“Oh, my God. What is it?”

“I'm not sure, exactly.” It was the truth, despite Mack's note. “I just got to her house.”

“You're
here
? In Crystal Falls?”

“Yes.”

“You
flew
in from London?”

I started to say,
No, rowed,
but I stopped myself. “Yes, I flew in from London to Altanta, then took a commuter plane to Nashville.”

“It must be serious for
you
to come.”

“She's my mother,” I said. “I don't have a spare.”

 

The next morning, I was sitting on the screened porch with Byron Falk, drinking coffee and listening to robins fussing in the trees. Byron's hair was mostly silver, grained with fine strands of brown. He was Clancy Jane's age, fifty-five, but according to Dorothy, his latest girlfriend was a year older than Jennifer.

“Dorothy looked good last night,” I told him. “I got to the hospital after visiting hours, but the nurses let me stick my head in. She was complaining about the food.”

“She's back to normal—if such a thing exists for your mother. The CT and MRI showed nothing. I even ran cardiac tests, just to make sure it wasn't her heart. Every inch of her body has been probed and scanned. I believe this was another panic attack.”

“What a leg-pull,” I said. “But I was coming back anyway for Jennifer's wedding.”

“Yes, I got an invitation,” he said, tapping his spoon against the green saucer. “And I saw her picture in the paper. She's pretty. Are you two still at odds?”

“Of course. We're like Kilkenny cats,” I said. “That's an Irish legend about two cats. They fought each other so savagely that nothing was left but their tails.”

Byron threw back his head and laughed. “You should tell that story to Clancy Jane.”

I smiled and stirred sugar into my coffee. Then I stared down at my hands—so much like Violet's, and Dorothy's. I laid down my spoon and smoothed out the wrinkles in my dress. I'd found it in an upstairs closet.

“Didn't Clancy Jane have a dress like that?” Byron asked, his brow furrowing again.

“This
is
hers.” With two fingers, I pinched the fabric. “She left it behind when you guys moved.”

Byron lowered his gaze. He lifted his cup, took a sip of coffee. I wanted to say, Why didn't you fight for your marriage? Didn't you love her? But this was none of my business. Byron was free to love anyone he pleased, although I wished he still loved Clancy Jane. But men could be unforgiving when it came to the Hamilton women—Albert, Claude, Byron—even old Walter Saylor Jr.

“We'll be running more tests today, just to make certain that I haven't overlooked anything,” Byron was saying. “I'll know more by this evening. But I don't expect to find anything. I'm sure she'll be able to go home tomorrow. Dorothy's a tough old bird. She claims to be sixty-two, but she seems much younger. She's got a few good years left.” Byron smiled. “Her health problems are minor.”

“To her they're not problems,” I said, “they're solutions.”

 

An hour later, I stepped into Dorothy's hospital room and found her sitting up in the bed, yelling at a technician. “I felt that—ouch! Stop sticking me!”

“I'm sorry,” said the technician. “I'm almost finished.”

Dorothy was wearing a gray hospital gown, one shoulder of which was splotched with a rusty stain. Through gaps in the gown, circular white patches were visible on her chest, recording her heartbeat, sending the patterns to a little monitor, which hung from the ceiling. On the screen, a white dot skipped up and down like the pinpoint on
Name That Tune.

I can name that tune in three notes.

I leaned over the bed and kissed her cheek. “I talked to Byron this morning. He says you can leave soon, maybe tomorrow.”

“I hope so. I feel like I'm in China getting acupuncture.” Dorothy swatted the technician's hand. “I
said
stop that!”

The technician sighed and began packing up her equipment. Dorothy reached up and touched my hair. “I know you didn't mean to come home this soon, but I'm glad you did. We've got to start planning what we're going to wear. Oh, we're going to have the best time. It'll be just like the old days, won't it?”

 

At the sound of my key in the back door, the Pomeranians charged into the kitchen, skidding across the linoleum. When I stepped inside, hugging a bag of groceries, they followed me around the kitchen. I poured fresh milk into a pan, set it on the burner, and then rummaged for a spoon. Stuck in the back of the drawer was an engraved invitation to my father's second wedding, the paper darkened with age, crinkled in the corners. I'd heard that June McDougal had remarried and moved to Texas.

I shoved the invitation back into the drawer. The milk was ready. I poured it into a mug, then looked for a place to sit down in the living room. Sipping my milk, I glanced at my watch. It was six
P
.
M
. in London. Ian was probably at a pub. I longed to smell him on my hands, to press my head into the crook of his arm.

The phone rang, and I hurried back to the kitchen and snatched the receiver. It was Jennifer. “I know you're here and everything, but I haven't changed my mind. Feel free to skip my wedding. I don't need you there.”

I shut my eyes, tried to collect my thoughts. I loved her, but I would not be a martyr to that love. “Why do I feel like I'm in a kangaroo court?” I said. “No matter what I do—or even what I
don't
do—I'm guilty.”

“That's not my fault.” Jennifer sighed.

“Your aunt Violet told me something a long time ago, and now I'm going to tell you. I don't love you because I
need
you, my darling. I need you because I love you.”

“Whatever that means. Thank God that
she's
not coming to my wedding. I don't need any more psych-bullshit. Look, do what you want. You always do. You can come to the wedding or stay away. I'm hanging up now. Oh, one more thing. If you've brought me a wedding present—and you probably didn't—just leave it at Dorothy's house.”

 

The next morning, I prowled through the upstairs. During my last visit, I'd tried to get rid of some of the junk, but Dorothy had stopped me. “Where are you going with that Waterpik?” she'd asked, raising her fake eyebrows.

“To the trash. It's broken.”

“It's
not.
If you jiggle the cord, it'll work just fine.”

This was my chance. I sorted until I heard a noise downstairs. The dogs started barking and then a door slammed. My brother's voice echoed up the stairwell. “Sis? Yo, Sis!”

“Up here,” I called.

Mack climbed the stairs, left foot, left foot, his artificial leg hitting each riser. The Pomeranians couldn't climb the stairs, and they began to whine. Mack limped down the narrow hall and poked his head into the messy room. “Aunt Clancy would shit if she could see her old house.”

“Has anyone called her yet?” I asked.

“What for?”

“To tell her about Dorothy. And to see if she's coming to the wedding.”

“Don't look at me, Sis.” Mack peered into the vanity mirror, wiping one finger down the grimy surface. Then he stared at his blackened fingertip. “I'm tired of Mama's spells. One day, she'll have a real one. I don't think she's been taking her medicine like she should of.”

“She probably hasn't.” I stood up, brushing my hands together. “She's let the house get out of control.”