Southern Hearts (15 page)

“It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it, Kari, never yours. You’re such a little brat. You always have been.” She slammed her clipboard down.

“Me? I’m a spoiled brat? I don’t spend my life bitching at the moon and cursing the dawn! You’re the one that nothing is ever right for. It’s Dad’s fault you married the man you did. It’s Dad’s fault you have an unhappy marriage, and it’s Dad’s fault your husband cheated on you. What did he do, Tami, hire a prostitute from his grave just to spite you?”

By the time I had finished my tirade, the men from the rental company were standing in a row near the back of the truck whooping and howling at each jab we took at one another, clapping loudly as one inched above the other.

“One thing doesn’t have anything to do with the other.” She put her hands on her hips, pointing her finger at me. “And you know it.”

“You’re just mad because it’s so easy for you to place the blame. It’s like you’re putting a serving tray on a lazy Susan. It’s never your fault for the things that happen in your life.”

“Well, maybe I should just turn my back on my family, move to the West Coast, and become a lesbian. Maybe that would solve everything,” she yelled.

The men stood silent, smirking, then in unison thrusting their pelvises forward in a vulgar motion.

“Fuck!” Tami cried out. “Everything is shit!” She dropped onto a chair, putting her hands into her lap and sobbing.

“Sheesh!” I gasped. “It’s okay, sis.” I moved toward her, petting her back, with a long brushing stroke. I was irritated, but I gave in. “You’re right about Mother, I do have to learn to control my temper and show her more understanding.”

Tami’s sobs grew stronger. “She’s sick, Kari, she’s sick.” She looked at me, her face pale. “I wanted to know, so a few days ago I called Dr. Kirchmore.” She choked, gasping for air. “She has cancer, Kari. Cancer!”

I bent down and put my hand next to hers, resting it on her knee. I didn’t cry. The tears wouldn’t present themselves. My eyelids were heavy with sadness, I was stiff, and my body hiccupped with agony, but I couldn’t cry. I sat down next to Tami, holding her hand in mine and looking out over the brown shift of current of the Teche. I had known something was wrong, but until now I had no clue as to its severity.

“It’s something called acute myelocytic leukemia.” Her voice was halting and I could hear the pain resonating in every word. “Cancer, just like Dad.” She cried harder.

We sat for a long while, Tami crying and I staring without emotion into the horizon. The day grew hot and hazy as I searched the sky’s changes for an answer. I waited patiently, watching as the clouds turned into each other and reformed, like gears turning in thought.

I wanted to console Tami, say something to reassure her, but I was empty.

There was nothing, no reason. No solace. I wanted to know the specifics: when, how long, and most important, why. I wanted to be able to comfort Tami, yet at the same time stay removed for the sake of my own self-preservation. My throat was sore and swallowing became difficult. My stomach lining felt as if it were being eaten away from the inside out.

“That’s why she fainted a while back. It was an episode, Dr. Kirchmore described it. She had made him promise not to tell us. Can you believe that crap? Not to tell us? We had a right to know. He should have told us.” She sniffed, wiping away the tears from her eyes.

“It’s her choice, Tami. She should be allowed to handle it any way she sees fit.” I said the words in support of her, but it was only a front. Inside I raged against my mother’s attitude toward something that affected us all. She was selfish. It was plain selfishness.

“How could she not have told us? I don’t understand,” Tami pleaded.

“You have to get it together. You saw how she reacted earlier when she thought you were coddling her. If she finds out we know, it will be worse,” I whispered, suddenly taking note of who was around us and not wanting our conversation to be overheard.

“She should be up in bed resting, not overseeing this fucking party. She should be up in bed and to hell with this.”

“It’s Mom’s choice, Tami. You have to let her live her life her way. It’s not up to you. The party makes her happy. It’s something she’s proud of, and taking that away only makes the circumstances more dismal.” I turned her face so that I had her full attention. “Let Mom decide what is best for her.”

“I just don’t want to lose her, Kari. It’s too soon since Daddy. I can’t take it, not now!”

She gripped my shirt as if my words could change whatever future would take place. I took a drawing swipe of air into my lungs, clutching Tami as she fell forward into me.

Everything felt as if it were closing in on me at once. My life felt like it was splintering and drifting in every direction. It was as if I could turn east and there was a tornado, south and there was a hurricane, north and there was an avalanche, and to the west an exploding wall of fire. Everything I touched, every aspect of my life was turning to hell, and all I could do was cling to my shelter and try to weather the storm. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do about any of it, and I had never felt more helpless.

As hard as it would be, I would have to keep myself together for my sister. She was weaker than me; things hit her harder and she took longer to recover. That wasn’t exactly true. I was the one who kept it eating away inside, while Tami wore feelings and emotions like a patch on her sleeve. Still, she would need me, and I would have to be strong for her.

I stood in my room with an air of emptiness. I went into my Dad’s study and turned on the tiny light that lit the pine curio. As I stared through the glass at his many rare items, I remembered myself standing in that very spot as a little girl and looking up at the reflections as the light bounced off the glass and the many objects of gold sparkled down at me from above. I could feel his rugged arm around me as he pointed out each piece and explained its significance.

I opened the doors and pulled out a few silver medallions that dated back to the 1700s. Out of all his many collectibles, those had been his favorite. I sat down behind his desk, the cool bumps of his large chair chilling my skin through my shorts. I buttoned his fishing vest, which still stank of raw catfish and rainbow trout, threaded my arms through it, and then put my nose near the pockets for a more poignant sniff. I envisioned the vest on his stout frame, the way his belly used to protrude from over his belt, and all the memories washed over me.

I gazed through the huge multipane window that led out to the scarcely used upstairs veranda. The aging chairs were damaged from the salt air and drying heat of summer, still with a table on either side although we seldom sat out there. I didn’t move for a long while, lost in my childhood and its many recollections. As the hands of the La Rochelle grandfather clock clicked and the bells chimed noon, I retired to my room for a nap. I knew I would get little sleep as the next few nights came and went.

“This can’t be happening!” I said under my breath as I slammed my hand flatly on the shelves in front of me, causing everything on them to be flung around the room. I signed an exhausted sigh, inhaling a bite of air that felt solid and painful as I drew it in. I picked up a tiny piece of ivory and then looked for the Madame Alexander doll whose leg I had just amputated. I moved it around, trying to reattach it without the aid of any adhesive. I tipped the doll upside down, and a crumpled scrap of yellowing lined notebook paper slid from under the doll’s dress onto the ground. There was a picture rubber-banded around it, one similar to the one I had seen the night Lani looked through the old scrapbooks down in the den.

It was a picture of my mother and the woman from the photo of the two of them on the beach, except unlike the picture that had been on display for family and company alike, this one showed my mother in a deep embrace, her lips gingerly touching the other woman’s, their arms wrapped in a gentle hug. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the image, my mother kissing another woman. I looked at the glee on my mother’s face, then unfolded the paper and read it.

Dear Kari,

I knew someday you would find this, and without the words that I always found so hard to express to you, I hoped the picture would say all that I have not.

Maybe it will help you to understand things better in your life, and in mine. Perhaps it will help you understand me better. I have lived my life beside your father, loving him and allowing him to love me. He is a good man, a man any woman would be honored to have as her husband and any child their father. I have no regrets!

Maybe if I had lived in another age, another time, my life would be different, but I have two gorgeous daughters that are the pride of me, and they alone make my choice worthwhile.

My dear Kari, every time I look at you I see myself again standing on the boardwalk that summer day so long ago with Madeline. I see the love that was bursting from us and I see what would ultimately be our last day together. It is lived out and replayed each time I look into your eyes, hear your voice, or see your smile. You are so much like her, which may in some way explain the strains that were placed upon you through no fault of your own.

Remember always this unspoken secret that is between a mother and her precious daughter, and know that I love you with all my heart.

Mom

As I read the last line, tears rolled down my cheeks and the paper dropped from my grasp onto the floor. I pulled a pillow from behind me and held it tightly over my chest as I wept. I thought about the doll and how I had hated it when my mother had first given it to me, the horror that had to have been evident as I unwrapped it and the disappointment that I knew was painted across my face. And now it was broken, my treasure, something that I would have passed on to my own children or displayed proudly in my own home. I wasn’t sure which reality caused me to cry harder, but as I thought of them both, I did.

chapter thirteen

As the afternoon sun heightened, the day became even more humid and sultry. I’d had a lot of thoughts and a lot of issues dangling precariously just above my head, ready to fall in on me should I make any unconsidered movement, so I decided to clear my mind by paddling down the bayou and letting the last of the daylight take me into its hold and lead me where it saw fit.

I tied my shoes on tightly, flipped over the rusted canoe that sat deep in the underbrush near the water, released the oar that was snapped to its hull, balanced my weight over the narrow seat, then pushed out into the river as the boat wobbled from side to side.

The calling birds’ chirps kept a steady pace with my stroke as I headed toward Albania Plantation and then Sorrel. I stared at the riot of foliage that followed me along on each side. I listened to the silent twist of wake as I cut through it and to the halcyon murmur of the wind as it smoothly brushed over me. This was just what I needed. The quiet and the solitude all but took over, and at least for a few hours, banished my anxiety. I put my legs over the edge, shifting my body until I could comfortably row and feel the cool water sprinkle up my calf.

I had left the house abruptly, skipping out on Tami—who I knew would likely have a book-sized stack of chores for me to accomplish by day’s end—and though I knew my escape would surely leave her overburdened, I couldn’t help it. I was close to losing it, I was a bundle of annoyance, nerved up, and I needed some time for myself.