The Vigil (6 page)

“Did you get in touch with Melanie and Anthony?” Mama asked.

“I did. Anthony's shift change is today, so he'll be flying in tomorrow morning and will be here as soon as he gets in. Aunt Melanie was in Lake Charles; she'll be here soon. She texted me about twenty minutes ago saying she would be here in about half an hour. She said to tell you to hang on.”

Mama nodded and sipped from the steaming cup. “Cheryl, your grandmother is a rock. I've never seen her ill or hurting. I wish I had been more like her.” She stared out the window at an enormous live oak in the adjacent lot. Its large branches grazed the ground several yards away from its base.

I wanted to ask why she hadn't been more like Mawmaw, the woman who'd raised her. But Mama had been pampered, and I never understood why. Aunt Melanie's character traits and personality were more like Mawmaw's. Her fiercely independent nature contrasted sharply to Mama's constant dependence on someone. We sat in silence as the sun beamed through the branches of the large tree and into the window of the cafeteria.

My phone buzzed. “Aunt Melanie is here.” I texted, telling her where to find us.

Mama sighed, and I wasn't sure if it was a sigh of relief or frustration. With her, it was hard to tell.

Moments later, from across the cafeteria, a kaleidoscope of colors captured my attention. Aunt Melanie darted toward us in a dress of vibrant colors. “How is she?” Her cheeks, reddened from her sprint, matched the shade of red in her dress. Her disheveled auburn curls stuck out in odd angles around her temples. Panting, she came around the table and sat next to me across from Mama.

My mother's intense laser-like gaze bored into my aunt. “Where were you?” She spat the words. Unbridled venom laced her voice.

I shot a glance at Mama. Had she spoken to Aunt Melanie or me? Her eyes were on my aunt. Shock rendered me speechless as I gulped in surprise. Where had that come from? My mother had never spoken to my aunt that way. She usually saved those outbursts for me.

Aunt Melanie slid her hand across the table and with a gentle touch, took Mama's hand. “Viv, I was in Lake Charles.” While she was slightly out of breath, her soft voice carried no hint of irritation.

My mother placed her other hand over Aunt Melanie's. “Oh, Mel. I'm so glad you're here. I was so scared. Here alone with Mama. I didn't know what to do.”

The skin on my scalp prickled at her words. Did she not realize I had been here the whole time?

“Viv, Cheryl has been right here. It's OK.”

When my mom turned toward me, her eyes widened as though seeing me for the first time, or was it that she realized what she'd said? I wasn't sure and it didn't matter. Anger and hurt heated my face, but I was determined not to say anything to her. I would not engage.

“Oh, Cheryl. I didn't mean anything. I just meant that...that I was alone when I got the call, her only child here when this happened.”

I couldn't understand the difference and why it was so important to my mother. But it did fit into her “poor me” persona and how she always got people to bow to her wishes. To feel sorry for her.

Rising from the chair, I addressed both my aunt and mother. “I'm going upstairs to see if they've got Mawmaw settled in.”

Before either one could respond, I headed for the door. Why did I continue to allow her careless words to inflict so much pain? To slice open healed-over wounds and pour chunks of rock salt into them?

My grandmother lay settled in her new bed with a myriad of medical equipment attached to some part of her body.

The rules for ICU allowed only two family members to visit during specific hours, so I stood next to her bed and slipped her hand into mine. The coldness of her fingers sent shivers through me. “Hang in there, Mawmaw. Please.” I slid my hand free, draped the covers over every part of her, and then headed for the door.

My mother and aunt exited the elevator onto the floor. “Is she settled?” My mother asked as though nothing had happened.

“Yes, she's sleeping. Y'all can go in to see her. Is there anything you need done at home?”

“I left a pot of soup on the stove. The heat's off, but it needs to be put into the fridge. Also, would you bring my medicine and a change of clothes? I want to spend the night here with her.” She explained where to find her bag of daily medications and what clothes she wanted.

I didn't try to talk my mom out of spending the night. “Sure. I'll take care of it. Anything else?”

“No,” she said.

As I turned to leave, she called after me. “Cheryl, thank you for being here with me. It meant a lot, and I know you're worried about her, too.”

I paused. She sounded sincere, but I couldn't help feeling that her words were merely to make up for her earlier comment. My feet became logs sunken into swamp mud. I couldn't go forward nor turn back toward her. This was indicative of life with Mama—a revolving door of emotions that left me paralyzed. Why couldn't I just let things go?

Support her.
A tiny voice echoed through my head. The invisible bindings that kept my legs from moving loosened, and I turned toward her. The few feet that separated us seemed like thousands. I wanted to be her rock, but each time I tried, my own selfish nature whispered:
she'll drain you, and who'll be your rock?

Crossing those few feet took a lifetime. When I reached her, I gazed into her misty violet-blue eyes then gently put my arms around her. “I am worried about her.” I whispered into her ear. “I'm also worried about you. I'll be back in a bit.”

She buried her head into my shoulder and sobbed—deep gut-wrenching sobs that replaced my hard feelings with the desire to make things right. I imagined this is what being a mother felt like. Only our roles were reversed.

“It's OK, Mama. It's OK.” With each gentle pat on her back, her sobs began to subside. She lifted her head and our eyes connected.

“I'm so glad you're here. It's nice having you back home.” When she tried to smile, her lips quivered and tears spilled from her swollen eyes.

I offered a weak smile, which was all I could venture without becoming captive to the army of invading emotions. “It's good to be back.” I kissed her forehead. “I'll grab your stuff and check on Mr. Bojangles, and then I'll be back.”

I kissed my Aunt Melanie's cheek.

She squeezed my hand. “Honey, thank you for being here. I know your Mama needed you. Come back and sit with us.” She smiled. “We'll be right here waiting.”

I nodded and then headed toward the elevator while struggling to make sense of my emotions. My heart was swollen for my mama, and it felt nice in a bittersweet sort of way. As I walked toward my car, a voice sailed through the air from the far side of the parking lot.

“Cheryl, wait.” Beau Battice jogged toward me.

 

 

 

 

Huit

 

Beau approached, his face flushed from the heat. “Cheryl, I just heard. How is she?”

Unlike with my mother, I resisted the pressing urge to run into his arms and melt against the support of his strong chest.

If only…

I shook my head to erase the plaguing thoughts. “She's holding her own. The doctor said she got medical care soon, so it's not as bad as it could have been. We still don't know the extent of the damage yet. Mama and Aunt Melanie are in the waiting room.”

“Thank the Lord. I thought she…I thought it was worse.” His warm chocolate eyes met mine, naturally easing the tension. It was Beau's gift. “I'll go up and check on them.” He reached out and placed his hands on my arms. “If y'all need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to call me. Ya hear.” The tender squeeze conveyed his sincerity.

“I will. I'm going home to get some of Mama's things. Oh and Beau, thanks. Mama and Aunt Melanie will appreciate seeing you.”

He smiled, nodded, then guided me to my car and opened the door for me. After I settled into the driver's seat, he leaned in. “I'm serious. If you need anything, please call me.”

I nodded. Emotions attacked like a tornado—spiraling feelings that threatened to consume. I breathed deep and stared straight ahead. The huge oak I'd seen earlier from the cafeteria window began to blur. Not able to trust my voice, I simply nodded again.

 

****

 

Mr. Bojangles danced at my feet when I entered my house. The typical long, slender shotgun style home had each room flowing into the next and had been tastefully remodeled. The butter yellow paint in the kitchen and Mr. Bojangles yapping his delight usually lifted my spirits, but today, neither brightened my mood.

“Hello, sweetie.” I opened the back door. He hesitated, walked back toward my foot, and then licked my ankle before darting through the opened door.

My smile spread despite my melancholy mood.

After changing clothes and spending a few moments playing with my pooch, I headed to my mother's house to gather her things and confront my conflicting thoughts.

I entered Mama's house, and the enticing aroma of vegetable soup surrounded me. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten all day, except the cup of coffee in the cafeteria and the cups this morning with Beau at Sammy's. A cake plate filled with miniature pecan pies sat on the counter. No doubt Aunt Mel's handiwork. I'd recognize her baking anywhere. She placed a chocolate kiss on top of each one, as though the sugar and cane syrup weren't sweet enough.

I searched the cupboards for a soup bowl and the medications Mama said would be in the kitchen. The bowls were stacked where they'd always been—next to the coffee cups and glasses. Some things never changed. I guess that offered a certain degree of comfort, although, most times it didn't.

I dished several ladles of the soup into the bowl and popped it into the microwave. While the soup heated, I searched the other cupboards for the small red bag of medications Mama had described. The bag I found was red but not small. When had my mother started taking so many drugs?

I lifted the bag by the handle causing the unzipped flap to open. Multicolored bottles clanked against the tile, rolled around the kitchen, and then under the table. I dropped to my knees to corral the runaway medicine. As I gathered each, I noticed several were typically prescribed to patients with high blood pressure and a couple I recognized as drugs given for personality disorders. Crawling on all fours under the table, I gathered the last of the elusive bottles. As I slid from under the table, my cellphone rang.

It took me a few minutes to get to my phone and when I did, the caller ID showed my nurse supervisor's name on the screen. I slid the bar to answer her call. “Hello, Jane.”

“Cheryl, how's your grandmother?”

I relayed the details. “We're waiting to see. I'm sorry I haven't called. It's been a crazy day.”

“No, I understand. Darcy let me know what happened. Are you planning to be at work tomorrow?”

Work. I hadn't even thought about work. I was so focused on everything going on in my life, I'd completely forgotten about poor Carlton. “Jane, I'm headed back to the hospital in a few minutes. Can I call you when I get there? I need to talk to Mama. I should be able to come in, but I'll know more later.”

“Cheryl, if you need to be with your family, I can get someone to cover for you.”

“Thanks Jane. I appreciate that. Would it be possible to get someone to cover for tomorrow so I can be with my mother until Anthony comes in?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Thanks. I'll call you later. Oh, Jane, hold on.” I read the name from a prescription bottle. “Who is Dr. Byron Dickerson?”

“He's the psychiatrist on staff at St. Martin's.”

“Thanks, Jane.”

After I hung up, I scanned each of the labels of Mama's medications. Based on the type and dosage, she must have serious problems. Maybe this would explain so much about the past.

My growling stomach reminded me of the bowl of soup in the microwave. After a few bites of the hot soup, I began to relax. Mama had not lost her talent for cooking. The subtle spice with big chunks of vegetables took me back to my childhood days. Cajun aromas greeted us at the door when we'd return from school. A snack waited for Anthony and me to hold us up until suppertime. Too bad Elray had been part of that picture. Had Mama been taking these drugs then?

I gathered her things, placed the pecan pies in a portable storage container, and headed back to the hospital. Was this condition something she'd battled all her life or just since Elray died?

When I got back to the hospital Aunt Melanie and Mama sat in the waiting room, deep in conversation. I handed Mama her things and placed the sweet treats on the table between her and Aunt Mel. I remained silent.

Our eyes met.

She smiled and then took the bag. “Thank you, Cheryl. I think I'll go down the hall and freshen up.”

I nodded. After she left, I sat next to Aunt Melanie.

She reached for my hand. “You saw the meds, didn't you?”

Was I the only one who didn't know about my mother's illness? “Yes. How long?”

“All her life. But things spiraled into the deep end when your dad died.”

The erratic behavior, her neediness, all the hushed whispers after explosive episodes, made sense now for the first time. “That's why she was so pampered.”

“It took a while for an accurate schizophrenic diagnosis.” Aunt Melanie laced her fingers through mine. “If it's any consolation, Mawmaw and I felt that you and Anthony should know. Your mom insisted you not know.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So we respected her wishes.”

“Why did she have me pick up her meds? She could have asked you.”

“I think she wanted you to know but couldn't tell you. You'd recognize the prescriptions.”

I turned sideways in my seat. “Was she that sure I'd look at the labels?”