Wouldn’t Change a Thing (20 page)

“Follow-up?”

“Yes. As part of the discharge agreement, you signed documents stating you'd take her to weekly visits at Vinings Mental Health Services.” He rifles through papers in the binder and presents a signed copy of the document. “Here.” He points to my signature.

My signature is there, fancy loops and lines. Did I really think I could gallop in on my daughter horse and rescue my mom from this disease? Lying—my friend, my lover, my confidante, my shield—won't work this time.

“Ethan, I asked her about the visit and she said she felt fine. She said as long as she took the medication, she didn't have to go to the clinic.”

The creases in his forehead deepen as he glides his tongue over his teeth. He rubs his bald head and clicks the pen he's holding. “Toni.” He speaks as if I'm eight. “She can't negotiate the moves. The weekly visits are to assure she's taking her medication. Think of the visits as wellness checks. Blood may be drawn to see what's in her system, and if she's not taking the meds, a weekly injection can be done to make sure she's stabilized.”

Willa pulls me closer. “This thing with her requires a long learning curve. Maybe you should—”

“Maybe I should what? Dump her at GMH again?”

“No, I was going to say let Aunt Mavis help you out until January. You're not equipped to take care of her yet.”

Stamp “F” on my forehead for failure. My fantasy, this reunion where my mother would be cured and able to carry on as if nothing ever happened, is a wash.

Ethan lulls me back. “The family has to determine your next steps.”

“Next steps?”

“Toni, you need to decide if you'll fully immerse yourself in taking care of her or send her back to GMH.”

“No. I promised her three months.”

“Look at your face.”

I hold the ice pack closer. “It's my fault she's here now.”

“Don't blame yourself, Toni,” Willa says.

“I shouldn't have let her go in the bathroom alone. I trusted her when she said she was taking the pills.”

“Toni, she's been hiding pills under her tongue for years,” Ethan says. “She knew you were unaware of her habits, so she slipped them in her pocket. Two weeks is a long time to be without meds. That's what triggered the episode.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Ethan slides me a form. I read it, shake my head, and give it back to him. “I'm not giving Dr. Wells permission to sign this ten-thirteen.”

“Toni, you're in no position to care for her right now. You need more education on the subject matter. We have a local NAMI chapter and another support group, Beacon Cottage. Both offer family support meetings. You can't do this alone. Beacon was formed by a consumer mother after her daughter died in the care of the state.” He removes a cardholder from his jacket. “Beacon's address is on the front, and I will write your names on the back. It is a referral-only admittance group. They meet the last Thursday of every month. You and Willa should make arrangements to attend together.”

Willa looks at the card. “I'll help out financially also.”

I face my sister. “Willa…”

“Granted, I live out of town, but I'm willing to travel to help her. The one thing Norlyza and Carrie Bell always told me was how they let Uncle Grady down. In spite of the past, she's our mother. I didn't realize how vulnerable she is until today.”

I squeeze her hand, pleased by her show of support. We both face Ethan.

I take the lead since I'm the reason we're here. “What are our options?”

“Meds and watching her like a hawk until she stabilizes.”

Willa asks, “Has she been admitted?”

“She's still in an ER holding room.”

Ethan stands and we follow him to her room. She sits up in a small bed talking with Dr. Wells. She is groggy, but answers his questions. Dr. Wells stands and shakes our hands.

Ethan speaks for us. “Dr. Wells, may they speak to her alone?”

He nods. “Come outside with me, Sutton.”

We sit on her bed and take her by the hands. She averts her eyes, but speaks to us. “I'm sorry about today. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

I speak for us. “We're here to help you. You can't get better if you won't let us help.”

She tightens her grip on our hands and angles her body into an S-shape as she falls asleep.

C
hristmas is three weeks away. After the fish fry that wasn't, we skipped Thanksgiving and are zooming into my mother's favorite holiday. Aunt Mavis and I made a pact—I can work my holiday designer mojo on the house for Christmas as long as I accompany them on the weekly Vinings checkups. Mama returns to the home-house tomorrow night. She's been staying with my aunt and uncle by choice. She said she wants enough medication in her system before she mingles with me again. Said she wants our bond to be stronger. I have roughly four hours to unpack the tree, decorate the house, and make it to the Beacon Cottage support group meeting.

I've gone back and forth about attending. The word
support
makes me feel weak, as if I can't navigate life without telling someone all my business. My shortcomings. It's not about me, though, and I recognize the only way to better the circumstances is to put my mother first.

The record player Daddy bought is still in the living room. So are all the albums my parents collected over the years. All slots of the wooden, vintage album holder are filled with golden oldies, huge albums with provocative covers that I listened to as a child. I take a few albums from the holder and blush. The Ohio Players'
Honey
album ticked Mama off. She said she wanted the woman on the cover to choke on the honey she held with the spoon. She didn't care for Millie Jackson sitting on the toilet either, but somehow, Millie's raunchy sister-girl sermons ministered to Mama when she thought Daddy was tipping out. I pull out our “day after Thanksgiving” anthem, “This Christmas” by Donny Hathaway. Before the Black Friday frenzy started in our household, Mama woke us up every year to this tune. I move on to decorations and splay boxes of lights on the living room floor. These haven't been unraveled in years, but I'm up for the challenge. I drop the needle on the .45 and bop my head to music. I close my eyes and sway to the rhythm so hard I wrap the lights around my body.

Donny's crooning and the instruments make me pretend I'm at a basement Christmas party. I'm so enthralled by the music I almost piss my pants from the knock on the living room window. The lights drop to my knees and feet as the woman stands pointing and laughing at me. I turn the music down, untangle myself, and unlock the front door.

“Is this how you handle life without me?” Jordan asks. She waltzes in with her bigger-than-life personality and moves past me with two large gift bags. She doesn't wait for an invitation to relax as she makes herself at home. “Where's the tree?” She tosses her coat over the sofa and sets the bags near the fireplace. Her face glows; she wears leggings, tan riding boots, and a cream cashmere sweater.

“Jordan. How—?”

“Text messages, flowers, cards. Did you really think I'd let the year end without laying eyes on you? Do you know what I plunked down for the maid-of-honor dress?” She bends to hug me, and I'm swept up in her latest perfume. “You're speechless. Serves you right for ignoring me.”

When she sits on the sofa, the source of her glowing skin becomes apparent. She rubs her belly and gives me a
Now what?
look. Buddies since our sophomore year in high school, Jordan accepted me when other girls said Russ and Clay's homosexuality was contagious and they didn't want to catch it. She studied with me at the dining room table every night, and her parents took me on vacations, welcomed me into their home, and helped me transition from high school to college during the onset of Clay's emphysema. Her deep-set, brown, compassionate eyes make me feel like a bigger gyp. I kick the lights aside and plop next to her.

“Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“A face-to-face apology would be nice.”

“I'm sorry, Jordan.”

“Sorriest friend on the planet.”

“I wanted to say something, but I didn't know—”

“Come on, Toni. A girl lives with two men, no mention of a mother, and vague references to her roots. I knew something was a little off.”

“Why didn't you ever ask?”

“Too instrusive. If you wanted me to know, you would have said something. Now, I didn't expect to find out in the
AJC
, but after I read it, I understood why you were so secretive.”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

“I'm a little sad you didn't trust me enough to open up, but we can move beyond this little misunderstanding if you give me the Sparta lowdown.”

“What lowdown?”

“Sparta is the most compassionate place. Russ and Clay gave me Mavis's address a while back. After I drove here, I realized I'd left it on the counter. I stopped by a corner store, said Mavis's name, and the coolest man wearing a skull cap told me all your family history.” She pulls out a slip of paper. “Gave me directions right up to your doorstep. Told me you were staying at the home-house.” Instead of air quotes, she forms parentheses around home-house.

I flinch. “What was his name?”

“He said his name is Lucas Stewart. Of the…”

“Devereaux Stewarts,” we say in unison.

“Atlanta has nothing on this town. People wave, speak, and make me feel like a superstar. I might have to raise your godchild here.”

“Who's the stork?”

“Toni, I had a baker, not a stork. A sweet Italian man named Carlo. A little wine, some homemade spaghetti, sex on a moonlit balcony, and voilà.” She rubs her little bun in the oven again and sidesteps the obvious question.

“What about Perry?”

“Perry shot blanks for years. What's a girl to do?”

“So you really meant it when you told me you wanted to raise a child alone?”

“All by my lonesome. I can afford it, and I have a bad daddy's girl syndrome. I doubt any man will ever live up to my father's image.”

“A man isn't supposed to. You're supposed to form your own bond. By the way, how are your parents?”

“Disappointed they couldn't come to your wedding. Spill the tea. What happened?”

My comfort level with Jordan astounds me after all these years. “Instead of the altar, I got ditched at the engagement party.”

“I told you that punk—”

I lift my hands in protest. “Don't. I'm moving past this one day at a time.”

“A man with a head that big shouldn't be choosy. He was lucky you gave him the time of day.”

“Spoken like a true friend.”

“What did Clay say?”

“You know he wants me to be happy. He said if it doesn't fit, don't force it. He also wants me to concentrate on helping Mama get better.”

She embraces me, something she rarely does. Her sarcasm and quick wit are what I've grown accustomed to over the years. “Don't give up without doing all you can for your mom. Russ told me about her struggles.”

Her tender tone is foreign. I don't know this Jordan.

“I had this fairytale mindset about helping her. The saying ‘Mental illness can be contained, not cured' is true. It's hard enough getting her to take meds. I haven't convinced her to see a psychologist yet.”

“She's been on this journey a long time. She'll come around.”

“I'm learning to cope, but it's hard. One minute she's lucent, the next minute she's talking to herself and accusing us of conspiracy theories.”

“Give her time. I didn't come here to depress you. It's the holiday season.” Jordan directs her gaze at the tree box and lights. “Need help decorating this naked room?”

“Like old times. Remember we decorated each other's houses every year? I miss my old place.”

“Speaking of which, I stopped by your house when I got back from Italy, since you treated me like trash. Giovanna is taking excellent care of your place. You know how I feel about renting and tenants.”

“Will you ever live down the Section Eight disaster?”

“No. I rented my house out in good faith and returned to stained carpets, holes in the wall, and candle wax on my countertops. I won't be renting to anyone again.”

“I got lucky with Giovanna. I realized it when I did a few creep-ups on her.”

“So, let's get this naked house looking Williamson Design-fabulous.”

I fire up Christmas music as Jordan pushes off the sofa with her stomach. She unravels lights, helps assemble the tree, and tosses tinsel on the tree like confetti. We sing and dance as we string lights and holly along the mantel. I place Mama's favorite angel in the center of the fireplace. We stand back and admire our handiwork in the living room.

Jordan admires her handiwork. “This is fun. I have to go to Atlanta and do it all over again since I've procrastinated. I'm having trimester issues.”