In Search of Eden, page 10
Noreen was breathing hard and wheezing as she brushed her teeth. She checked to see that her hair was combed and sprayed in place, put on a little lipstick, then retrieved her oxygen from the front porch. She finally collapsed on the sofa, covered up with her favorite afghan, and put the oxygen tube in her nose. She just sniffed when Dorrie came in and said good morning. Dorrie reappeared later and said she was going for a walk, but Noreen didn’t answer.
She turned on the television and focused her attention there like a laser.
“I did the best I could,” she said out loud, fiercely, as if someone had accused her of something. She had done the best she could, she told herself again, and she could almost see a door shutting firmly somewhere inside her, could almost hear a lock click tight. She had done the best she could, she repeated as she laid her head down and closed her eyes, the characters of the Lifetime channel’s original movie droning on in the background. That was all that could be expected of a person in the end.
chapter 11
*
It was several days later when Dorrie found her mother lying still and cold in her bed. She went to Mr. Cooper’s back door. He was drinking coffee at his kitchen table, reading his Bible, for it was not yet seven o’clock.
He opened the door and saw her standing there. “She’s gone,” he said, knowing without being told.
She nodded yes, unable to speak, and he took her hand like a little child and walked with her across the frosty lawn. They went together to Mama’s room, and it was Mr. Cooper who took Mama’s pulse, gently resting his dark fingers on Mama’s neck, pressing gently and feeling nothing, then finally patting Mama’s cool hand and leading Dorrie back to his small, warm kitchen, for she was very, very cold. She sat there and looked at the yellow and white flowers on the wallpaper while he brewed her a cup of coffee and made her scrambled eggs and toast. He prayed for her as he set the plate of steaming eggs before her. He rested his hand on her shoulder and said, “Lord Jesus, cover this child with your mercy and love and help her find her way home,” which was a funny thing to say, since she was within spitting distance of the only home she had ever really known. But she had felt a strength flow into her after that, and whether it was the eggs and coffee or the love or something supernatural, she did not know. She didn’t know what she believed about God and prayer, although you couldn’t grow up next door to Mr. Cooper and not know about the Lord’s plan of salvation. Besides, Mama had made her pray the prayer when she was five. But Mama had said over and over that Daddy was a sinner bound for hell, and if Mama was an example of a saint, then Dorrie was confused. But Dorrie believed in Mr. Cooper, and if Mr. Cooper’s God was willing to help her, well, then, she would take it and say thank you. After she ate, Mr. Cooper walked back with her and helped her look through Mama’s instructions, and they called the funeral home and Aunt Bobbie.
He stayed with her as the drivers came and took away Mama’s earthly remains. Aunt Bobbie came over about noon, as soon as she could get away from work, and it was only then that he left her. Aunt Bobbie helped her look through Mama’s things, and there were the suit and shoes and even the purse set out neatly, and Dorrie felt she ought to cry, but she didn’t. Her tears seemed to have frozen up inside her. Aunt Bobbie didn’t cry, either, but her face looked tired and careworn.
Mr. Cooper helped her arrange for the funeral, as Aunt Bobbie had to go back to work. She was a charge nurse at the nursing home and couldn’t get time off except for the service. Dorrie found the folder Mama had put on top of the mantel, and inside was her will. It left everything to Dorrie. Dorrie wondered if Aunt Bobbie would be hurt. She didn’t know how much of Mama’s money would remain after all the bills were paid, but whatever there was, she would give some to Aunt Bobbie.
The funeral was on Thursday, and Dorrie wondered who, if anyone, would even take notice of Mama’s death, much less attend the funeral. Mama hadn’t darkened the door of the Methodist church for nearly twenty years, and she had few friends. But Mr. Cooper must have put the word out, because beginning Wednesday afternoon the covered dishes started arriving. One after another the people made their way to Dorrie’s front porch, carrying casserole dishes full of potato salad and baked beans, hot pepper cabbage and deviled eggs, barbequed beef and fried chicken and salmon croquettes, pimiento cheese sandwiches and banana pudding, okra and tomatoes, and sweet-potato pie. They patted her cheeks with their dark hands and gave her pillowy hugs and prayed with her before they left, and she could feel the energy from those prayers bathing her and filling her.
They had the funeral at the Methodist church, for Mama would probably come back to life, dust off her suit, and walk dead across town if she were laid to rest in a colored church, as she would have called it. But as Dorrie had predicted, there were few white faces in attendance. Mr. Cooper and his friends came, and again they gathered around Dorrie and Aunt Bobbie and her children, covering them like a warm blanket on a cold day. Those good people moved through the hallowed halls of Asbury United Methodist as if they had built it, pouring the coffee and tea and rearranging the covered dishes, which they themselves had brought, sweeping and washing and drying afterward, turning out the lights, and delivering her back home with enough leftovers in plastic containers to feed her for a year.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Mr. Cooper asked when the day was finally over, concern on his face.
“I’m sure,” she said, nodding. She was so tired she could weep, but still she did not.
And so he had finally left her.
Feeling slightly dazed, she stood alone for the first time in her mother’s house. She could see clearly now that that was what it was. Even though she had lived here all her life, now that her mother’s force and personality was removed from it, there was little that was familiar or drew her.
She went to her room, looked at her pale face in the mirror. Her dark hair was drawn back, and her eyes had faint blue shadows beneath them. She changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth and washed her face, looking at it again.
“You’re looking ragged,” Mama had said to her that last night. “You need a haircut. You ought to take better care of yourself, Dorrie.” She felt something like a sword thrust when she realized those were her mother’s last words to her. Her legacy. She thought briefly of all those childhood Bible classes, of the brother Esau who had never received the blessing.
She lay down on her bed, but she could not sleep. Finally she decided to write. She got out of bed and took down her journal. She found a blank page and lifted her pen. She hesitated, trying hard to think of something nice to write. You had to write nicely about the dead, didn’t you? It wouldn’t do to expose the flaws and viciousness of those who couldn’t defend themselves. She searched her mind and finally came up with Christmas mornings.
Mama died today. I can hardly believe it.
I am trying to think of something nice. Something good. I remember Christmas and that she always took down the Christmas tree on Christmas morning as soon as I finished opening my gifts. She seemed so happy bustling around that I forgot my disappointment at seeing all the pretty glitter and ornaments going away. I always got a book, a three-pack of underpants, a new pair of pajamas, and something she considered frivolous. One year it was a clock radio. I was nearly delirious with joy. Anyway, as soon as the gifts were opened, the paper went into the garbage sack, the vacuum and storage bins came out, and the tree came down while the turkey cooked. And ten minutes after Christmas dinner was consumed, the turkey carcass was simmering in the soup pot.
She was an orderly person, my mother. She couldn’t stand clutter, and she couldn’t stand confusion. Life made sense when things happened the same way every time. She did the laundry on Monday, and if for some reason she couldn’t, she did it Sunday night. Bathrooms Tuesday, floors on Wednesday, ironing on Thursday, shopping on Friday, baking on Saturday.
She was a beautiful woman. Tiny and shapely, she would have had a sort of grace about her if she hadn’t moved so quickly. I’m not sure what color her hair was, since she had dyed it red as long as I can remember. She had warm skin with a slight golden cast, even in winter. Her eyes were startling blue, her face especially lovely with high cheekbones and a wide, pretty curved mouth when she smiled, but most often she wore a look of harried concentration, as if something, somewhere, wasn’t quite right.
I am told I look something like her. I have the same cheekbones and mouth, but I have my father’s coal dark hair and I’m told I have his disposition. At least that’s what Mama said. She is gone now. It’s hard to believe.
She sighed. She should look through Mama’s things. Everything would be neat and orderly. Her mother had been preparing for this day all her life, living in perpetual fear that strangers going through her life would find it in disarray. Well. Only her daughter would be going through it, but she supposed she was a stranger, nonetheless. She should sort through the bills and pay for the funeral and figure out how much she would owe the doctor and the hospital for the final tests, but right now she was too tired. She should make an appointment and talk to a lawyer about settling the estate. And she supposed she ought to find Daddy and let him know.
Her room, usually small and stifling, suddenly seemed too big and empty. She went downstairs and wandered aimlessly through the house for a few minutes before she finally lay down on the sofa, turned on the television, pulled her mother’s afghan around her shoulders, and fell into a restless sleep.
chapter 12
*
The nightmare came back. Dorrie was in a dark house, and a baby was crying. She knew it was important to get to the baby, and she felt a blind panic. Blind because she couldn’t see. She wandered through the dark halls, feeling along the walls, stepping carefully in the dark, stumbling here and there against a piece of furniture. Sometimes the sound would get louder, and sometimes it would be so soft she could barely hear it. She would turn then and start going in the opposite direction, as if she were playing some cruel, tormented game of hot and cold. She never found the baby, of course. She woke up this time as she usually did, heart pounding, hands shaking. The television was still on. Some loud man was selling knives. She flicked it off, and the house was dark except for the blue glow from the screen, but after a minute that dissipated, too.
She got up and went back to her room, thinking how she could never get lost in this house because she knew every inch of it. And there was no baby here. She went into her room and turned back the covers and got into her bed. She tossed and turned for hours and finally dozed off when the sun was bright behind the shades. When she woke again, it was nearly eleven o’clock and dark. She felt a start of guilt and wondered why Mama hadn’t come in here and goaded her out of bed with a sharp comment. Then she remembered. Mama wasn’t going to ever say anything sharp to her again. Anything at all.
She felt a nudge of hunger, went downstairs, and opened the refrigerator. She ate some leftovers from the funeral, but after the first bite or two she was full. She thought about showering and getting dressed, but it seemed like too much effort. She went back to the couch and watched three movies in a row, then dozed off as the sun was coming up. When she woke the next time, it was four in the afternoon.
She got up and showered. She got dressed. She sat down at the kitchen table, and everywhere she looked, there was Mama. Mama in the orange placemats, and Dorrie could see Mama’s hands as if they were there in front of her wiping them off, her pretty hands, small and quick. There was Mama at the sink, washing dishes with thorough efficiency. Everything was done with Mama’s favorite colors and styles, and even though Mama had stripped the house clean of anything personal, she was still there in every stick of furniture and decoration.
Mr. Cooper came over and invited her to supper. She would have gone, but the truth was, she felt a little queasy. He gave her a worried look and said he’d be expecting her in a half hour. She agreed, though she really didn’t feel like visiting. She took a Rolaids and lay down on the couch again.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She felt witless and dull, as though she didn’t have any connection at all anymore. She felt free-floating like one of those astronauts who drift off into space.
She could go back to work, but the thought made her feel so tired, she could barely move. She could take a trip, but she didn’t have the energy. She realized with a jolt of ironic humor that she had finally gotten what she wanted. All her life, she had done one thing or another to get away from Mama or to spite Mama or to evade Mama. But the joke was on her, wasn’t it? For one way or another, she had managed to organize her entire existence around one person. Defying her, running away from her, or coming back to take her place under that well-worn thumb until circumstances became unbearable and she ran away again. But no matter what, Mama had been the sun around which her universe had revolved. And now she was gone.
After a month they staged their little intervention. Dorrie was torn between amusement, irritation, and flat indifference when they showed up on her doorstep: Mr. Cooper with his Bible under his arm, kind concern on his face; Aunt Bobbie, looking weary and worn, still in her nurse’s uniform; and Myra Jean from the Hasty Taste, peppy and smart with a new pink Capri pant outfit, freshly frosted hair, and a pan of cinnamon rolls balanced on one hip. Myra Jean firmly believed that all of life’s difficulties could be eased with liberal helpings of the appropriate carbohydrates.
“May we come in?” Mr. Cooper asked with his customary courtliness.
“Of course,” she said, stepping aside. “Make yourselves at home.”
They came in. They made themselves at home. Myra Jean disappeared, and a few minutes later Dorrie smelled coffee.
Aunt Bobbie looked around, and Dorrie felt embarrassed following her gaze. She supposed she had let the place go. There were newspapers piled in the corner and dirty soup bowls and teacups here and there on the furniture. The table was covered with mail. Her pillow and blanket were rumpled on the couch, for that’s where she’d been sleeping. The carpet needed to be vacuumed. She glanced down at herself, and the picture wasn’t greatly improved. She had worn the same pair of sweatpants and T-shirt nearly every day for a week. Her hair needed to be washed.
Mr. Cooper moved a newspaper and sat down on the recliner. Aunt Bobbie found a spot on the couch. Dorrie picked up the blanket and pillow and tossed them in the corner and sat down. She turned off the television with the remote. Myra Jean came back in and flicked her gaze across the room, raising an eyebrow when it came to rest on Dorrie. “That whirring noise you hear is your mama,” she said, “spinnin’ in her grave.”
Dorrie smiled. Mr. Cooper chuckled. Even Aunt Bobbie grinned. Myra Jean looked pleased with herself, returned to the kitchen, then came back with a tray of coffee cups, sugar, and nondairy coffee creamer, no doubt all she could find, since Dorrie hadn’t bought milk in a month. The cinnamon rolls smelled wonderful, and when Myra Jean handed her the plate, Dorrie took it gratefully. She took a bite, surprised she could still enjoy the pleasure of the spicy sweetness and warm bread. The coffee was hot and good. As she ate, she discovered she was hungry. She sipped the coffee slowly and realized she hadn’t been out of the house in weeks. She had just pulled the shades, pulled the blanket over her head, and lain on the couch.
“You look terrible,” Myra Jean said, scraping the last little bit of icing from her saucer with her fork.
“I haven’t been sleeping so good,” Dorrie admitted. The dream was a constant companion, tormenting her every time she closed her eyes. She breathed out a deep sigh and set down her plate.
“Look here,” Aunt Bobbie said, “this won’t do.” Dorrie smiled. With Mama alive, Bobbie had been relegated to “yes, ma’am” like the rest of them. This was the most spunk she’d ever seen out of her aunt.
“Grief can swallow you up,” Mr. Cooper said kindly. “I know. I’ve been there.”
Dorrie felt a thrust of guilt. Was it grief she was feeling or just . . . what? Disorganization? “I can’t seem to find my way,” she said.
“Do you need some help?” Myra Jean asked. “ ’Cause I can make you a list of things to do.”
Dorrie grinned again and Mr. Cooper, catching her eye, smiled back. “How can we help?” he asked.
Dorrie shrugged and shook her head, ashamed that she was still dry-eyed. She had not cried for her mother once.
“Well, I did something,” Aunt Bobbie said. “I scheduled you two appointments.” She reached into her purse and brought out two business cards and handed one to Dorrie. “This one’s with your mama’s lawyer. He’s been calling me about getting you to schedule a time for him to dispose of your mama’s estate. He’s got the paper work all done, and he wants you to come and sign some things. The second one is with a counselor I know. She comes in and works with the old folks sometimes, but she’s real nice and good to talk to no matter what your age. Her name’s Sandra Lockwood. Here’s her card.” She handed her the other. “You’re seeing the lawyer at two tomorrow and her on Wednesday at ten.”
Dorrie took the cards, and to tell the truth she felt a little relieved. It had been so long since she had made a decision that wasn’t in reaction to her mother that she’d forgotten how.
“And I’ve got an appointment scheduled for you, too,” Myra Jean said, getting up and gathering up the plates and cups. “With Luann down at the Bob In. Your hair’s looking terrible.”
