The Vigil (9 page)

He kissed my forehead the way he used to when we were teenagers. “I love you, sis, and I promise I'll think about it.”

After he left, I gave Mr. Bojangles a well-needed bath. He went to his cozy bed in the living room and fell asleep. I envied him. I took forever to fall asleep.

I glanced toward the clock. Just enough time to grab a bite for lunch and drive to Lafayette.

A quick phone call to Mama confirmed what Anthony said.

“She's driving me crazy, Cheryl,” Mama whispered. An interesting choice of words coming from her, but I let it pass. We had not discussed the pills, and I hoped my visit later this afternoon would present the opportunity. “Can you come over and talk to her? You're a nurse. She might listen to you.”

This was big coming from her. That she thought I could accomplish something she couldn't was a first. “I'll be over later. But first, I'm going to see Annie Battice.”

Her silence spoke volumes.

I smiled and then hung up.

 

 

 

 

Dix

 

The familiar scent of pine and ammonia mingled through the halls of the long-term care facility. In the shiny floor, I saw the reflection of an elderly lady walking toward me. She smiled as she passed by. The nurses had been pleasant at the front desk, and when they'd discovered Beau had left my name as a visitor today, they gave me a visitor's badge and directions to Annie's room.

As I entered her room, the familiar, yet foreign greeted me. I'd treated patients in comas before, but never one who'd been in a coma for so long. Her thin body lay tilted slightly toward the right where the nurses had turned her for pressure relief. Her thin arms seemed about the same size they were when we were teens. Annie's skin glistened from a freshly applied layer of lotion. The lingering floral scent hung in the air next to her bed. As I gazed into her pale face and lips, I was surprised to see peace settled there. And relieved to see her small button nose, long elegant eyelashes, and high defined cheekbones remained. Her long, dark hair had been cut into a short, layered style perfectly framing her heart-shaped face.

A well-worn recliner sat next to her bed. I lowered both my purse and the small bag I brought to the floor and sat next to her. Once her hand lay cradled in my own, I began, “Annie, hi, it's Cheryl Broussard. Bet you never expected to hear from me.” I laughed, the nervous laugh of someone uncertain of what to say next because truth was I didn't know what to say and, at that moment, wondered why I'd come.

I cleared my throat. “Let's try this again. I came to say hello and also to apologize for losing touch all those years ago. We had a lot of fun times as kids.” Thousands of memories flooded and as they came to mind, I shared them with her. If she heard me, I know she'd remember them, too, and was laughing inside. The thought made me smile.

The words flowed along with the easy laughter that came with our childhood antics. I reached down and retrieved the bottle of nail polish I'd brought. It was her favorite shade of pink. We'd spent long summer afternoons during our pre-teen years painting each other's nails—fingers and toes.

The promise we'd made that hot August afternoon so many years ago came to me as though Annie herself had whispered the memory into the room. “No respectful Bijou Bayou woman will ever spend a summer in flip-flops unless her nails are painted,” she'd said. “Pinky promise.” She'd lifted her pinky, and I'd hooked mine with hers. “We'll never wear flip-flops without nail polish. Ever.”

As the memory washed over me, I longed for that kind of friendship again. I craved it more than I had realized. With a gentle touch, I slid the polish-filled brush along her nails, one after the other until each fingernail glistened pink and shiny.

“Annie Melancon Battice, you sly girl. I never knew you were sweet on Beau. Of course, with all my ranting on about him and how I was going to marry him, I never really gave you a chance, did I?” I paused. “Annie, I'm glad you married Beau and that you were happy together. Honest.”

Next, I moved to her toes all the while telling her this incredible love story about this couple from Bijou Bayou who were in love during the Korean War.

Once each toe was as shiny as her fingers, I blew tenderly over her feet. After a while, I returned to the comfortable chair, leaned back, closed my eyes, and absorbed the silence. Somehow being with my childhood friend had made me feel better. And for a short while, I'd forgotten that she was Beau Battice's wife.

 

****

 

The minute I shifted my car into park, Mama appeared at my window. Strands of hair curled around her face and neck. Her skin lacked the usual even tone of perfectly applied makeup. When I rolled down the window she said, “Oh, Cheryl, it's about time you got here. She's packing her suitcase, and I can't stop her.”

“OK, I'll talk to her.”

I followed a scrambling Mama up the sidewalk. She kept turning around to list the things Mawmaw had done this morning. Once inside the house, Mama's heels clicked on the hardwood floors as she scurried to the guestroom where Mawmaw stayed.

I had little choice but to follow.

The guest room sported lavender walls, ruffled comforter, and frilly curtains—so not my grandmother. She was the solid-color-no-frills kind of gal and must have hated staying in this room. She stood next to the white four-poster bed, tossing items into her suitcase.

I knocked on the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

She turned toward me, shot a simple smile, and then resumed her task. “Only if you gonna help.”

She'd made up her mind.

“I hear you're going back home.”

“Yep.”

“Do you think that's a good idea? It's only been a couple weeks since you left the hospital.” I folded a white cotton nightgown and handed it to her.

“The doctors said I'm fine. The stroke was very mild. Look.” She wiggled her fingers and then did a little jig next to the bed. “I'm as good as new. Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Anthony said you were having trouble remembering some things.”

She flapped her hand. “Phffff. That's malarkey. I'm almost eighty. It's natural to have trouble remembering things.” She continued layering clothes in her suitcase.

I couldn't argue with her. “Mawmaw, Mama's worried about you being home alone. She's concerned that something will happen.”

Mawmaw stopped packing and turned to me. Her sharp blue eyes lasered into me. “Something will happen if I stay here. Your mama means well, but she's driving me crazy. She treats me like an invalid.” She stomped her foot. “And I'm not.”

“OK. OK.” I placed my hand on her elbow and guided her to the chair next to the bed. I sat on the bed facing her. “What if I talked to her, told her to back off some? She's only trying to help you. And--” I touched her hand and stared into her eyes. “--you have to admit, she's never been taught how to take care of anyone. Everyone has always taken care of her. Even when we were little, you took care of us more than she did.”

My grandmother pursed her lips and stared back. At first I thought I had really infuriated her, but finally she spoke. “Honey, you're right. But I'm not changing my mind. I'm going home.”

“OK, I'll support your decision. But you have to agree to a few things before I'll back you.”

She turned her head toward the side and narrowed her right eye. “And if I don't?”

“I won't tell Mama I think you're ready to be home alone.”

“That's blackmail.” She folded her arms and jutted her chin. Her eyes sparked.

“Call it what you like. Don't you want to hear what you have to agree to?”

She sighed. “OK.”

“No cooking. Mama cooks your meals and brings them to you or freezes them for you to microwave later. No housework. None. That includes laundry. I'll send the lady that does my housekeeping to your house twice a week. No walks until I get home from work. We'll go for afternoon walks together. And if you feel the slightest, tiniest bit dizzy or have a headache, you call Mama or Aunt Melanie immediately. Oh, and one more thing, I'm getting one of those alert buttons that you can press and it contacts emergency services. You have to wear one.” I tried to think of what else she might attempt but couldn't come up with anything. “And whatever else we catch you doing that can harm you; we have the right to limit, too.”

Her eyes widened at the last item on my list. “What? An open-ended agreement? Ya think that's fair?”

I shrugged and smiled. “Take it or leave it.” I patted the flowered bedspread and exaggerated a glance around the room. “You could be sleeping in your own bed tonight. No flowered frilly anywhere.”

“I'll take it.”

“I'll talk to Mama.”

Now the real fun would begin. When I left the room, I caught a glimpse of my mother's back rounding the corner. Eavesdropping? My mother? She looked up from the pot she was stirring. “Well, did you talk some sense into her?”

I sighed. This would be much harder than I thought. I shook my head. “Mama, she's determined, and you know how she is when she's determined.”

“I know. But—”

“But I made her promise to let you cook her meals and bring them to her. Are you OK with that?”

“Well, I guess, but who'll stay with her? I'm not staying in that tiny cottage with her. There's only one bedroom.”

“I think she'd be OK at home if she doesn't have to cook or clean. I'll send my cleaning lady to help a few times a week.”

Mama put the spoon down and returned the lid to the pot. She walked around the bar to where I stood. “Cheryl, if anything happens to her, I'll never forgive myself for letting her go.”

I grabbed my mother's hand and tenderly brushed the top of her thumb. “Mama, something could happen to her here just as easy. And she's not happy here. She wants to be in her own home. Surely, you can understand how she feels.”

She took a deep breath. “You'll check in on her when you get back from work?” Tears glistened in my mother's eyes.

“Yes. I promised I would walk with her in the afternoons. She had to agree to never walk alone and to not go out in the heat of the middle of the day.”

“What about her medicines? She'll forget to take them.”

“We'll get her one of those pill boxes and you can call her every day or make sure she takes them when you bring her breakfast.”

“Will she let me do that?” she asked.

“I think she will. But you can't hover, OK? No hovering. She needs her space. You know how independent she is.”

“OK, I'll go help her finish packing.”

“Err...Mama, I don't think that's necessary.”

Mawmaw appeared, suitcase in tow.

 

****

 

Once Mawmaw was settled in her house and Mama gone, I sat at her kitchen table with a cup of my favorite dark roast coffee.

She steeped the coffee into an aluminum pot through a handmade filter made from an old flour sack. Her coffee rivaled the most popular expensive brands and came with special memories. When she walked into the kitchen, the setting sun beaming through the window reflected off her face, emphasizing the lines around her eyes and mouth.

For the first time, I realized she was getting old.

She filled so many of my childhood memories in her larger-than-life way. Her take-charge nature and can-do attitude gave me so much. I'd refused to recognize her aging body, but today the wrinkles gathered around her tired eyes did it.

“I'm a little pooped from all that drama today,” she said.

I poured the dark liquid into her delicate demitasse as she sat next to me. “Ah, you know you loved every bit of it. Besides that wasn't drama. It could have been much worse. I believe Mama gave in pretty easily. Maybe you were driving her a bit crazy, too.” I winked.

She rubbed her hands together and giggled. “Maybe my plan worked.”

“Mawmaw!” I gave her my best wide-eyed and surprised look.

She flipped her wrist and grinned. “I'm only kidding.”

I nodded, but a niggling doubt made me wonder.

While we sipped from rose-patterned cups, Mrs. Mouton's words invaded my thoughts. “Tell me something. Did your family have a farm on Highway 62 outside of town?”

She placed her cup on the table. “We did. Daddy raised cattle, and we had some chickens, too. We were pretty happy out there. Lived next to my best friend, Sylvia Mouton. But later, after we'd all gotten married, it was too much for just Papa and Mama. When Papa died, Mama sold the whole place to Mr. Dugas.” The wrinkles around her eyes softened.

Had I heard her correctly? Beau's grandmother, Sylvia Mouton? Her first name was Sylvia. Could she be Lady S? “Mr. Dugas's place used to belong to our family?” I couldn't believe the large farm used to be my grandparents' place.

“Not quite. He bought our place and several of the neighbor's places as they got too old to care for them.”

I took a sip of my sweetened coffee. “Did the Perlouixs live close by?”

The blue in her eyes seemed to lighten for a split second. “Why do you ask? Do you know the Perlouixs?”

Great. I'd backed myself into this corner. If I told her, I'm pretty sure she would deduce he was my patient. “I had dinner with Beau's grandmother, and she mentioned the Perlouixs lived on Highway 62, also. She said two of the boys went off to war.”

“Yep, they did.” She furrowed her brows and tilted her head toward me. “Why is this important to you?”

“I'm curious about a love affair that happened back in 1950 between one of the Perlouix boys and a young lady from Bijou Bayou.”

“How did you hear about that?”

“From some old letters.” I took the last sip from my cup.