Waking Up in Dixie (38 page)

They got into the elevator, and Patti pressed the eighth-floor button. “How old is she?”

“The same age as Gamma, but she’s not in nearly as good shape.”

“Speaking of Gamma,” Patti said, “I’m really worried about her. Every day when I call her, she sounds sicker, but she won’t go to the doctor.”

“It’s hard to see somebody you love make destructive choices,” Elizabeth said.

“I get the double meaning, there,” Patti said. “Way obvious.”

The bell rang, and the elevator opened.

They stopped in front of the door Elizabeth hadn’t seen since she’d gratefully closed it on her complaining mother twelve years before.

Patti motioned for her to ring the bell.

Elizabeth motioned for her to do it. Her mother had been so grumpy when she’d called to say they were coming that suddenly Elizabeth had cold feet.

Flat-mouthed, Patti obliged.

“I’m comin’,” a gravelly voice called from inside. “Hold your horses.”

The door opened to reveal Elizabeth’s mother in a clean housecoat, her hair neatly combed, and her expression remarkably clear. Unless Elizabeth was mistaken, she was sober!

“So this is her,” her mother said, looking Patti up and down. She focused on the flowers. “Did somebody die?”

A joke? Had her mother made a joke? “Mama, this is Patti,” Elizabeth introduced. “Patti, this is your grandmother.”

“Hi.” Patti extended the flowers. “These are for you. Mama said they were your favorites.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” Her mother accepted them. “I guess I’ll have to let you in, then.” They followed her to the front of the efficiency unit, which was surprisingly tidy. She pointed to the sofa. “Sit. I’ll put these in water.”

It was the most cordial her mother had been in memory.

“What would you like me to call you?” Patti asked over the sound of running water as her grandmother filled a vase.

“What?” Her grandmother turned off the water and plunked the vase on the breakfast bar between them.

“What would you like me to call you?” Patti repeated, louder.

“I’m not deaf,” Elizabeth’s mother retorted. She put the flowers into the water, then dropped heavily into the recliner. “That brother of yours calls me ‘Bop.’ God knows why.”

“If you don’t like ‘Bop,’ ” Patti offered, “I could call you something else.”

Elizabeth’s mother sniffed. “It’s as good as anything, I reckon.”

The three of them sat there, an awkward silence stretching between them.

This certainly wasn’t the object lesson Elizabeth had planned. She’d expected to find her mother drunk, as usual. “Mama, you’re looking really wonderful,” she said.

Bop looked to Patti. “What she really means is, she’s shocked to find me sober.”

Patti compressed a smile.

“If she’da come to see me sooner,” Bop grumbled, “she’da known I’ve been clean and sober for
the last six years.
”

“Mama, that’s wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her mother still didn’t look at her, just spoke to Patti. “That’s somethin’ I never expected to hear come out of
her
mouth.” She frowned, eyes narrowing at Patti. “You drink, little girl?”

Patti went red, looking down at the carpet. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Take it from me,” Bop said, “it’ll steal your soul, and cost you everything good and decent in your life.” She waggled a gnarled finger Patti’s way. “Like it or not, you come from a rat’s nest of alcoholics. It’s in the genes.” She straightened. “My daddy was a drunk. His daddy was a drunk. I married one, and got to be one myself. Raised two of ’em. Buried one at thirty-two. The other one’s in jail for killin’, drunk. He’s sober now, but that don’t help that poor wife of his he kilt. Bessie Mae hyere’s the only sober one in the lot of us.”

Patti turned hardened eyes to Elizabeth. “Did you talk to her about what happened?”

“She didn’t talk to me about
squat
!” Bop said. “I see that chip
on yer shoulder. And that look, same as I seen whenever I asked Bessie Mae’s daddy not to drink. Same as I seen in the mirror when yer mama asked me to quit.” She leaned forward. “You be smart, little girl. Us Mooneys ortn’ta drink, period.”

Patti exhaled heavily, defensive. “But you managed to quit.”

“Only when it was that, or die. The fear of hell was what done it for me, but you’re young. You got money, a family you can be proud of. Your mama, she never had anything but grief from us. I don’t blame her for runnin’ away.”

“I should have come back to see you, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sorry.”

At last, her mother looked at her. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Everybody’s sorry. Forget sorry. Take me to Red Lobster.”

Elizabeth and Patti both laughed, and to Elizabeth’s amazement, her mother did, too.

“Save that shock for when you git the bill,” her mother said as she got up. “I’m gittin’ the Ultimate Feast. Lobster, shrimp,
and
crab legs. Plus a shrimp cocktail.” She nudged Patti with her elbow. “Only kind of cocktail I git anymore, thank You, Jesus.” She turned a baleful eye at Elizabeth. “And I’m gittin’ key lime pie, too. So there.”

Elizabeth looked at her mother in wonder. “But Mama, this is Clearwater. Wouldn’t you rather go to one of the great local seafood restaurants?”

Bop frowned and said to Patti, “Is she deaf? Did I say Red Lobster, or did I say Red Lobster?”

Grinning, Patti confirmed, “You said Red Lobster.”

Bop waggled a finger toward the breakfast bar. “Hand me my
purse.” When Elizabeth obliged, she said, “Don’t let it give you any ideas, now. I ain’t payin’ fer a thing. You go twelve years without comin’ to see me, you can damn well pick up the tab.” She looked to Patti. “I been wantin’ to surprise her with bein’ sober for six damn years. But did she come? Hell, no.”

Bop took Patti’s arm. “Okay, missy. Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“You tell me,” Bop said. “Way I see it, we’ve got about nineteen years to catch up on, not to mention whatever you might want to know about me.” She headed out the door. “ ’Course, I cain’t guarantee my accuracy. Killed too many gray cells with the booze, but I’ll do my best.” She waved toward Elizabeth. “Close the door behind us.”

Still holding on to Patti’s arm, Bop punched the button at the elevator. “I figure we got at least a week’s worth of talkin’ to do. Meanwhile, you can take me to Walmart to get some new housecoats. And CVS. I been out of Metamucil so long, you could pave a highway with what’s stuck in my guts.”

Patti snorted a laugh.

Lord. Elizabeth’s mother might be sober, but she was still her mother.

Four days later, they’d taken Bop to every discount store in town, plus the optometrist for new glasses, plus bingo at the VFW, and dozens of other minor errands. They’d just come back from lunch and a trip to Publix when Elizabeth’s cell phone rang, and Howe’s number showed on the screen. “Hello?”

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice breaking, “you and Patti need to come home. Now. To Whittington.”

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. “Howe. what’s happened?”

“It’s Mama. She got so sick, I literally carried her, kicking and fighting, to the emergency room.” His voice broke. “It’s pancreatic cancer.”

For all the times Elizabeth had wished her mother-in-law gone, she felt only pity for Augusta now. So much time wasted in fear and negativity, and now her life was over. “Oh, Howe. I’m so sorry.”

Patti would be devastated.

Seeing Elizabeth’s expression, Patti halted her conversation with Bop in mid-sentence. “Mama, what is it?”

“We’ll take the first plane out,” Elizabeth told Howe, then hung up to give the news to her daughter. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry, but Gamma’s really sick. We need to go home right away.”

“Figures,” Bop complained. “I finally git y’all down hyere, and that woman upstages me.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Mama, she’s really sick.”

“What is it?” Patti asked, clearly fearing the answer.

There was no way to make the truth any easier. “Pancreatic cancer,” Elizabeth said gently. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Patti burst into tears. “Oh, God. I
knew
she was sick! I should have
made
her go to the doctor.” She swiped her cheeks, struggling to get control of herself. “Pancreatic . . . that’s bad, isn’t it? Really, really bad. If only I’d—”

Elizabeth wrapped her in a comforting hug. “Oh, sweetie, it’s not your fault. She wouldn’t let any of us help her. Hard as it is, the decision was hers to make, not ours.”

“She’s dying, isn’t she?” Patti pulled free of Elizabeth. “I should have realized it. Done something.”

At Augusta’s age, with that kind of cancer, it wouldn’t have made much difference, but Elizabeth saw no purpose in saying so. “Let’s get home first and talk to the doctors before we go there, okay?” she soothed.

Bop shot her a knowing look. “Yer mama’s right,” she said, giving Patti a brief, rough hug. Then she pushed her away with a gruff, “Now, you run on and pack. But don’t fergit to call me when ya git back home, little girlie, ya hear? It don’t have to be every day, but every other will do.”

Patti wiped her eyes. “Okay. I will.” She lifted her chin. “I love you, Bop.”

Bop’s eyes reddened. “Wal, I love ya’, too,” she said gruffly. “And yer mama. Now git back home.” She hustled Patti toward the door, but Elizabeth could see Bop could hardly bear to let them go.

It struck Elizabeth as divinely ironic that Patti had gotten to know her other grandmother just as she was losing Gamma. “I’ll call you, Mama, to let you know when we’re home safe.” She
hugged her mother, noting how frail she felt in her arms. “I love you.” She hadn’t said it since she was a child. Hadn’t felt it since then, until that moment.

Her mother stilled, holding on, then shooed her out. “G’won, now. Git.”

Four hours later, Elizabeth and Patti walked into Augusta’s room at Piedmont Hospital, where she lay, looking dead already, with an IV hooked up to her arm.

Howe rose from the chair beside her bed, so thin and haggard that Elizabeth felt guilty for leaving him to fend for himself.

“Daddy.” Patti rushed into his arms. “How is she?”

“She’s dying,” Augusta said sharply, “but still present and accounted for, so kindly do not speak of me in the third person when I am present.” She extended her hands toward Patti. “Now come give Gamma a kiss.”

“Oh, Gamma.” Patti leaned over the bed to embrace her grandmother very carefully. “Don’t talk like that. They have treatments, and we can—”

Augusta softened, stroking back Patti’s hair. “Dear one, I am eighty-five years old, and I have no desire to spend my last days on this earth sick as a cat from treatments that can’t do a thing but prolong my misery. So I’ve asked them to make me comfortable and let me go home.”

“But Gamma,” Patti argued, silent tears sheeting her cheeks, “you can’t just give up.”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do,” Augusta scolded. “I’m sick, not incompetent.” She shot Howe a withering look. “If your father had just left me alone the way I wanted, I could have
died at home, in peace, by now. But no, he had to butt in, and here I am.”

“She’s still full of vinegar,” Howe said with more than a touch of affection, “no matter how sick she is.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” his mother demanded. “Turn into some namby-pamby, begging forgiveness just because I’m facing my maker? Well, I have news for you all: I’m still the same person I always was, and you—and God, for that matter—might as well accept that.”

Augusta was still definitely Augusta.

Elizabeth said a brief prayer for compassion. “Is there anything I can do for you, Augusta? Just name it.”

A brittle gleam shone in her mother-in-law’s eyes. “Yes, now that you mention it.” She shot a sly look toward Howe. “You can come back to Whittington, where you belong. And have your annual Christmas party early this year.
And
invite P.J. Atkinson.”

Patti gasped. “Gamma. That’s crazy.”

Surely the woman couldn’t be serious. “I’ll move home,” Elizabeth agreed—for the moment, anyway. “But the party . . . and P.J.—Augusta, that doesn’t make sense.”

“You asked if you could do anything, and that’s what I want you to do,” her mother-in-law challenged. “You’ve already humiliated this family, then run off and abandoned my son. Now I’m giving you a chance to make up for it. Come back and face it with your head held high. That’s my dying wish. Refuse, and I’ll tell everybody in town you cheated on my son.”

“Gamma!” Patti protested. “Don’t threaten Mama that way. She didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it.”

“I most certainly do not,” her grandmother snapped, “but that’s irrelevant, at this point. What matters is that she and your father show a united front.” She glared at Elizabeth. “Well? What is it? Have the party and spit in that tale-carrying fool’s eye, or face the consequences.”

“Mama,” Howe interjected, “it’s not fair to—”

“Who said anything about fair?” his mother said. “News flash, Howell: Life isn’t fair. Neither is death, but here I lie. So don’t talk to me about fair. Either honor my dying wish, or get out of here and don’t bother coming to my funeral.”