Wouldn’t Change a Thing (18 page)

Someone has been in our yard. There are bags and boxes on the front porch. I coast into the yard and park while she naps. If someone has stolen something, or is pranking us, I'll call the sheriff and we'll move to Aunt Mavis's.

I tiptoe up the steps, half expecting someone to jump out from the opposite side of the wraparound porch. I'm awash in relief as I search the contents of each bag. Fresh collards, turnips, onions, tomatoes, and beets fill the bags. A potted mother-in-law's tongue—her favorite plant—sits off to itself and is tied with a bright yellow bow. A box contains glass jars. I look for May and Ray's Preserves labels, but these are Mason jars, not Aunt Mavis's Ball jars. The top of each jar is labeled with a recipe and instructions. I turn the jars to find pancake, bread, seasoning, tea, and cocoa mixes. Gift tags with shaved red ribbons are wrapped around each jar. They read,
To: Greta, From: All of Us.
I rip open the envelope inside the box and read the handwritten message aloud.

We heard Greta was coming home and we wanted to give you a little something to help out. You both are in our thoughts and prayers. We love you.

Your friends and family in Hancock County

Chivalry may be dead, but Southern hospitality isn't.

I
enjoy the concert. Jesus directs the choir as 'Halia plays the piano and sings. It is a floating concert, like when Jesus walked on the water. Everybody is on the water, but nobody sinks. She jumps from song to song in a royal-blue robe. Her shoulders and back whirligig and dip the harder she hits the keys. She sings “Move on Up a Little Higher,” then “How I Got Over” and after that, “In the Upper Room.” The pews show no trace of water, but the spirit is high. A big man in a green toga and a crown of fig leaves clashes silver tambourines so heavy they sound like thunderclaps. I am on the front pew, rocking to the music, feeling the spirit. My mother, dressed in her favorite peach suit and pillbox hat, sneaks peeks at me and fans her face, creating a flowing effect with the lace in front of the hat.

The music stops, and Jesus motions for me to join him in the choir stand. As I rise, someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around and it's Clark. He winks, slicks his hair, and wipes invisible lint from his suit.

I float on the water toward Jesus. 'Halia does a quiet-down move with her arms, and the music stops. Toga man places the crown of fig leaves on my head and floats back to his spot near the drummers. I wait for Him to speak, but He is silent.

“Jesus, where have you been?” Silence. “I feel like you've been gone forever. No one visits me anymore.”

'Halia floats from the piano to a spot next to me. “You been doing all right?”

I nod. “I miss you coming to visit me.”

The blue tint of her robe sparkles like the water around us. She turns away.

An eternity passes before Jesus takes my hand, leads me to the edge of the world. It's like a huge cliff. I look down and see flowers, trees, houses, people, and cars. They are small ants, moving at a rapid pace.

“Do you love me?” He asks.

“Of course, Jesus.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you keep my commandments?”

“I will.”

He guides us away from the cliff and we are seated near 'Halia again. I look into his fiery eyes.

“If you love me, us, and want to see us again, don't take your medication. It makes it difficult for us to visit with you.”

I touch His wooly hair and concede, “I understand, Jesus. I understand.”

Mama went to sleep with Mahalia Jackson on her tongue, and she awakens with Jesus on her mind.

She jerks and claws the dashboard. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” Her chest heaves as she gasps for air. “Where are we?”

“Home.”

She touches her feet. “They're dry. After all that water, how can they be dry?” She taps the CD player. “What happened to the music?”

“I turned it off so you could sleep.”

She eases back into the seat and gawks at the house and yard. “Nothing's changed.”

She hops out of her seat and roams the yard. She runs her hands over the plants, the garden fountain, and the yard light pole. May and Ray avoided drive-bys to the home-house when they picked her up. Said the memories would overwhelm her. The memories must be fond because her face brightens as she trots from one end of the yard to the other. She folds her hands behind her back and slows her pace. She disappears to the backyard. I'm sure she's in search of the old well and the fish cleaning table.

Aunt Mavis rings my cell. “How are things so far?”

“She's in disbelief. She's really shocked the house is still standing.”

“You didn't tell her anything, did you?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“If she takes her meds and improves, we can discuss transferring ownership back to her.”

“Aunt Mavis, I'm taking this one day at a time. Make that one hour at a time.”

“I like that attitude.”

“Are you and Uncle Ray driving out tonight?”

“No. You two need to bond.” Whiplash barks and yips. “Go drink your water, Whiplash.” After a moment of silence, she returns. “Has Willa changed her mind?”

“Not yet. I'm working on her, though. Maybe she'll come to the fish fry we're having.”

“Call us if you need anything.”

“Thanks for helping me bring her home.”

I end the call as Mama walks around the side of the house. I join her and we walk arm-in-arm toward the steps. She drags the potted mother-in-law tongue next the food.

“Whose food is this?” She digs through the bags and the box. “These collards are fresh.” She thumps the leaves. “And hardy, too. First frost fell on them well.”

“They're yours.”

“Who left them?”

“Family and friends. Let's take them inside.” We enter the house and she stops in the foyer.

Her eyes find Mr. Juggles. “Juggles is still giving out fortunes, huh?”

“He is.”

She lifts his head and fishes around for a fortune. She plucks one out and reads it aloud.
“Courtesy is contagious.”
She puts the fortune back and walks into the living room.

“Let me put these bags in the kitchen. I'll be right back.”

After dropping the bags off, I walk back to the living room. Her countenance has changed again and she flashes a look of anger.

“Who took the plastic off my furniture?”

“Mama, no one ever sat in here.” I remember my role as co-conspirator with Aunt Mavis and add, “I had it steam-cleaned. Go ahead, touch it. Sniff it, even.”

She sniffs and relaxes. She sits down on the sofa and kicks her feet up on the coffee table, a move forbidden when we lived here.

“Hand me those photo albums in the bottom drawer.”

Unsure if Aunt Mavis moved them, I proceed with caution and crossed fingers. I slide the door open and breathe. They're still here. I pass them to her.

“I'm going down memory lane a while. You sitting with me?”

Aunt Mavis rings my cell again.

“Let me get this. Be right back.” I take her call on the porch. I nestle in the glider and cross my legs. “Did you forget something?”

“Some flowers arrived for you. Do you want me to drop them off?”

I bolt upright. Maybe Lamonte's apologizing. He owes me that much. “Is there a card with them?”

“Yes. Do you want me to read it?”

She may as well hear what he has to say, too. “Sure.”

She pauses a moment, then reads,
“Toni. I'm back from Italy and saw the article. Call me when you're ready to talk. I'm always here. Friends forever. Jordan.
She sent a large colorful bouquet. These would make a beautiful display on Greta's dining room table. I'll keep them fresh until you pick them up.”

“Thanks, Aunt Mavis.”

“What's wrong?”

“I thought they were from Lamonte.”

“Not to sound harsh, but he's moved on. So should you. You have a lot on your plate, but we can always watch Greta while you carve out some me time.”

Mama sticks her head out of the screen door. “I'm going to clean the greens so I can cook.”

“Aunt Mavis, let me call you back.”

She practically staggers as I fall in step behind her. Nurse Whipple had explained the extended dosage would kick in after a few hours. The effects are evident. I guide her toward the guest bedroom and sit her on the edge of the bed.

“You are a good daughter. I'm sorry about the things I said about you in the paper.”

Her speech isn't slurred, but it is slower, more pronounced.

“You need to sleep. I wanted to talk to you about the fish fry, though.”

“We're still having it, right?” She grabs a pillow and cradles it, groggier now. “What's it for again?”

“Celebrating your homecoming and your new job at Ray of Hope.”

“That's right.”

“A few people are coming to say hi. They won't tucker you out. They'll just say hi, eat a little bit, and go home.”

She waves her hands and sings, “…Will be always howdy howdy, and never goodbye. ‘Halia taught me to sing it just like she does.”

She's down for the count. I take her shoes off and scoot her body closer to the head of the bed. I fluff the pillows.

“Who's coming?” she asks.

“Cousin Edwina and Walter, Lorene, some of the ladies from St. John's.”

She yawns. “Who else?”

“May, Ray, and Whiplash.”

“I love Whiplash. She is May and Ray's granddoggy. Who else?”

I clear my throat. “Willa, her husband, Don, and your granddaughter, McKenna.”

She turns her back to me. Through a Depakote-induced haze, she says, “Hide my food when Willa comes. Wrap it up in aluminum foil and put it in the microwave.”

I rub her back. “I will, Mama.”

M
ama swigs her second goblet of muscadine wine as she dresses catfish filet, tilapia, and perch. Aunt Mavis offered to help us prepare the food, but Mama insisted on cooking since the fish fry is in her honor. The November weather warrants an inside fish fry. Truth is, she still balks at the idea of someone else's hands near her food. She leans over the sink rinsing red potatoes for her loaded potato salad as I squirt Woeber's honey mustard in the beef baked beans.

“Don't forget to crumble up the bacon in the beans,” she says.

She is in her element. This is the mother I craved as a child, the mother in whose lap I'd curl and inhale her Chanel No. 5. She dons a sassy apron, the one she's worn the past two weeks, and fires off cooking commands.

“Mama, check the pound cake.”

“You do it. Got my hands full. All you need to do is turn the light on and peek inside. Constantly opening the oven door will flatten that poor baby for sure.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, put the decanters out. I'll mix passion punch in one and half and half in the other.”