Southern Hearts (7 page)
“What’s her name?” Lani asked coyly.
“Who?” I was failing miserably at sheltering my feelings and thoughts from her; she had homed in on them as if they were blinking above my head like a beacon.
“I may not be very interesting, but I’m not stupid. It is so obvious you’re thinking of someone else. The character lines on your face clearly dictate it. So, what’s her name?” she asked, enunciating every letter of every word.
“How did you know?” I felt as if I were preparing for a shamanic journey or draped in beads and tea leaves, awaiting my tarot card reading. I was ready to search under the seats for her crystal ball or lift her shirt and reveal the Ouija board I was sure I would find tattooed there. She had used the word
her
twice now, so whatever I had felt I was disguising might as well have been written in permanent marker on my forehead; apparently it was that visible.
The edges of her lips arched thinly. “I didn’t until right now. Your face and your expressions are very revealing; it’s just a matter of looking. Which I guess is true about most things.”
My thoughts abandoned me. I tried to rummage around in my head for words that wouldn’t further reveal me, but I couldn’t find any. Short of mixing up the letters or transforming them into Braille, my arsenal was all but empty. Even my family and people who had known me for years were unable to read me, yet this woman had.
How could she have...? Finally I blurted, “Regency.”
“Sweet,” she said sarcastically. “Like the hotel, very original.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The name implies more NutraSweet then sugar cane,” she said briskly. “ I bet she is a real looker.” She paused. “That was a rude comment, I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” I was upset, but I kept my feelings inside of me. Lani had been scorned a time or two, that much was clear, and going to battle for a woman whom I barely knew seemed silly.
“I’m guessing that now you’re thinking this day is going to be even more draining and uneventful than you had originally anticipated. Am I right?”
“Do you always do that, or is there something about me that has fueled its appearance?”
“What?”
“Reading unspoken thoughts,” I said, “and faces. It’s annoying.”
“Sorry. If it bothers you I’ll stop,” she said, her eyes catching mine.
“I would appreciate it, and to be honest, I’m not sure what to think right now. Part of me feels like pulling over, opening the door, and letting you out.”
“And the other part?” she asked smoothly.
“Opening the door and letting you out without pulling over.”
The reply brought a grin to Lani’s face. I looked at her slyly and then we broke into laughter.
“I deserved that,” she said softly.
“Yes, you did.” I nodded in an effort to drive home the point. “So what brought you back home?”
“My mother thought it would be a good idea for me to return to the familiarity of my home for a few months...she’s a coddler!” Lani said dryly. “Seems like no matter how old I get or how positive the choices I feel I have made for myself, she’s always right there ready to snatch me back to her breasts as if I’m an infant.” Her voice was austere but resilient. “She’s like a pimple—you can pop it and pop it, but even after it goes away, the indentation never disappears. It’s always a reflection away from notifying you that it was right there.”
“I guess it’s a Southern thing.” I knew how she felt. Her words mirrored my own on so many occasions where my mother was concerned.
“I never wanted to be from the South, and I never asked for my mother’s intrusion,” she continued. “It was my choice.”
“What was your choice?” I asked, hoping to find a clue to the answer, but she was not willing to give it.
Lani slumped into the cloth of the bucket seats, her legs tucked neatly up to the seat’s bottom. She crossed one ankle over the other and put her palm flat to her forehead, resting her elbow on the rubber of the car’s handle.
“It’s not important,” she said under her breath, the words barely audible. “I love my mom, she just did what she thought was best for me.” Her face became straight, vacant. Her lips drew inward and became sullen. Her strength appeared to be sapped from her, leaving only a vulnerable shadow. She became somber, then melancholy, and finally almost gloomy. Whatever it was, it was painful. It was enameled across her surface, but its effects were clearly deeper. As her eyes swelled with tears, I sighed to myself, then raised the volume of the car stereo.
The sun had dropped behind the low clouds, scattering the blue and refracting it into pewter. It was seven thirty p.m., and Marney would be laying out the placemats on the veranda, polishing the glasses to remove any remaining spots from their trip through the dishwasher, and ladling generous portions of gumbo into the fancy handblown crown bowls my mother used every time my sister and I visited.
The day with Lani had started a bit rocky, but we both loosened up as we strolled the narrow streets of the French Quarter, tossed back beer chasers, and gorged ourselves on clams and oyster shooters. Jazz called from every direction as we walked through the many quaint shops that spotted Bourbon Street. We had our fortunes told by a wicked-looking voodoo woman who smelled of incense and mothballs. Her palms were worn and callused, and she sipped an odd-smelling brew as she read first my palm, then Lani’s.
We laughed as we people watched, talked about Louisiana and its strange and wonderful traditions, and as the day progressed, our conversation flowed naturally. As the rust of day fell behind the promenade of street entertainers and musicians, we drove home.
It was nearing nine p.m. as I maneuvered the car through the darkened wedge of driveway toward the house. My sister’s car and another I didn’t recognize were parked wildly and irregularly next to the rows of curbing that threaded their way across the property.
“Looks like you have company.”
“Looks that way,” I said.
My headlights illuminated the upstairs windows and then the porch as I swung the car around and parked. Before I had turned off the engine, Tami came running toward me, yanking the car door open.
“What’s going on?” I asked, startled.
“It’s Mother!” she exclaimed, holding herself up by the car’s frame. “She fainted.” She panted, attempting to catch her breath.
I slammed the car door and jogged to the front steps. I leaped up them in one hurdle, then hopscotched my way up the long staircase to my mother’s bedroom. Her door was open, and a faint light spilled onto the tile flooring. My mother sat upright, supported by several pillows, a charcoal-colored satin sheet pulled up to her chest.
“What happened?” I managed to ask. “Mother?”
“She will be fine,” the man standing beside said quietly. He draped his stethoscope over the back of his neck and settled his pince-nez low on his prominent nose before scribbling a few notes onto a notepad. “I gave her something to help her sleep.” He took my arm and led me out of the room.
“I want to know what happened.”
“She just got a little overheated, that’s all.” His drawl was firm and deep. “She’ll sleep tonight, and then she will be fine in the morning. Don’t you worry,” he said comfortingly, touching his hand to mine. “She really shouldn’t be out in the heat. Gardening is better left for the cooler evening hours,” he added. “See that she sticks to that, okay?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t sure how I would go about such a thing. My mother would try to do what she had always done, just as she wanted. “Is she okay?”
He had told me she was, but something inside of me needed to hear it again.
“She’ll be fine, just remember what I said.” He turned and headed downstairs.
Tami stood quietly at my side, her eyes fixed on mine.
“Why was she gardening?” I asked.
“She was trying to get everything ready for the party. God, Kari, it was awful! I was in the kitchen with Marney, baking. I could see her from the window, pulling up weeds and stuffing them into a trash bag. I thought she might want some tea, and I turned around to grab the pitcher and pour her a glass. God!” She shivered, closing her eyes and putting her hands up to her face.
“It’s okay, sis.” I put my arm around her back and guided her into an embrace.
“I turned back around, and Mother was lying over the garbage bag with her head against the ground. I thought...”
I took a deep breath, and when Tami threw her arms around my waist. I put my hand to the back of her head and held her to me.
Chapter Five
Good morning.” Lani popped her head through the crack in the front door as she called out.
“Morning.”
“My mom wanted me to bring over this bouquet for Eleanor, with her warmest regards.” She held an arrangement of yellow roses that had been carefully stripped of their points. “How is your mother doing?”
“She’s doing better, she came down for breakfast and now she is resting.” I took the flowers from her grasp.
“Do they know what happened to her?”
“Heat exhaustion was what the doctor said.”
“Well I’m glad she’s feeling better. That’s a scary thing to have happen,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Tami was a bit more shook up, but I think she’s doing better this morning too. Oh, sorry, don’t just stand on the porch, come in.” I waved my hand nervously, trying to cover for my impoliteness. “I’ll put this down here with the rest of the flowers, and I’ll let my mother know that you are wishing her well.” I placed the vase on the marble top of the table that stood in the wide entry hall.
“You have enough flowers to start your own florist! This is unbelievable. Looks like you could put FTD out of business from what’s in this room alone.” Lani seemed shocked as she eyed the other arrangements.
“Isn’t this crazy?” I laughed. “I didn’t even know my mother knew this many people. It looks like a star’s dressing room on opening night.”
Lani giggled, then stepped back toward the doorway. “I should let you get back to whatever you were doing. I wanted to thank you for the other day.” She cleared her throat as if uncomfortable. “I had a good time.” She quickly pulled the door open and stepped outside. “I’m glad your mother is doing well.”
“Are you busy today?”
“No, why?”
“I was thinking that maybe we could go on a hike. If you like hiking, that is...I guess that should have been my first question.”
“I do like to hike, that sounds good.” She seemed excited about my offer. “I have a few errands to run. How about noon?”
“Fine, I’ll have Marney pack us a picnic lunch and I’ll see you around noon.” I put my hand on the door and watched as Lani headed down the steps.
“See you then,” she called.
I nudged the door closed with the side of my anklebone, then turned and leaned back against it. A picnic lunch? I questioned the awkwardness of such an offer, hoping that the idea didn’t scream
romantic
. It had been a friendly invitation, and surely Lani had seen it that way. I had enjoyed her company on our day trip to New Orleans. She had a congeniality about her; she was educated and interesting to talk to. And hiking was a sport, right? I mouthed the sentence, hoping to convince myself. Besides, Lani wasn’t at all my type in any sense besides friendship. I wasn’t sure what my type was, but I hadn’t found her attractive in that way. She was plump...overweight, even. But we had a lot in common and, aside from a few lumps early on, had gotten along fine.
“Marney, where’s that wicker basket my mother uses for her stemmed flowers?” I tugged on the pantry door, bending down to look below the cluttered shelves.
“It’s in the hall closet, sugar. You gonna pick your mom some flowers?” she asked, popping the heads off of pea pods with a snap and letting them drop into a strainer just below.
“No, I’m gonna use it for a picnic basket.” I took two McIntosh apples from the crisper and a couple of cans of soda from the shelf and piled them on the counter.
“A picnic, eh? Who’s the lucky fella?”
“It’s Lani, AnnLou’s daughter. We’re going on a hike and I thought it would be nice to bring lunch,” I said nervously. I was starting to feel smothered by my secret, as if every decision I made had to be camouflaged and covert. As if I were up to something sinister, something that required a keen wit to mastermind. I felt like an impostor. Regardless of the context, I was lying, I was playing a role, reading the lines as if they were a script, and piece by deceptive piece it was eating away at me.
Maybe Marney and Lani had talked. Maybe Regee had said something to Carl, and Carl to Marney. Maybe Lani and Regee knew each other, or maybe Lani had said something to her mother and AnnLou had said something to my mother. The chain of possibility was without end; there could be any number of things brewing that I was unaware of. I felt as if I had just been stripped of my flesh, as if I were a mass of muscle and tissue that was raw and exposed.
“I like Lani, she’s a sweet girl. I’ll make a couple of turkey and roast beef sandwiches. Two each. Hopefully that will hold you.” Marney went on, “I think she deserves to have some fun in her life after everything that’s happened. I think a hike and a picnic is just what she needs.”
What she needs? Marney’s statement made me think of our conversation in the car, how it had taken a hairpin turn and how Lani had dodged my questions. The topic seemed like a heavy one. Whatever it was, clearly it had made her uneasy; perhaps I hadn’t asked the right questions or hadn’t pursued the answers with enough interest.
“I think she deserves it too,” I said. I didn’t want to show my hand and let Marney know that I had no idea what had gone on with Lani.
We headed toward Lake Charles, along the southern portion of Louisiana near the border of Texas, passing through several parishes with an array of ethnicity and culture. The people represented a kaleidoscope stretched from impoverished to wealthy and everything in the middle, one where English and French meshed. The smell of sea salt blanketed the air, which was balmy and thick, and the land was a tapestry of intertwining beach and prairie.
“This is a beautiful spot. It’s amazing that places that seem so untouched still exist.”
“I love it here.”
We walked leisurely over the carved path of dirt that zigzagged as far as I could see, weaving and turning back on itself, up and over grass-covered knolls until Lake Calcasieu came into view. Dried weeds and tall palms fanned out over us, rustling into a hum as the gulf breeze blew inland.
Lani put her hand into mine as we walked. The gesture made me a bit uncomfortable. I wanted to pull away, but I thought such a hasty retreat from her affection would likely hurt her feelings. Instead, I held her hand limply within mine, finally breaking free to unfold the throw that had been balled up in my backpack and spread it over the warm ground.
Lani knelt on the tassels along the blanket’s edge, raking her fingers through the tight, snarled hair just above her ears as if knowing that after the tiring hike it would be mussed and out of place.
“It’s a bit hard to believe that you haven’t seen more of the state.” I unpacked some plastic cups from the basket and opened a can of soda that was only mildly warm.
“Yeah, it’s hard to think that I was born in such a beautiful place but never had the opportunity to admire it.” She tipped the rim of her cup onto her dried lips, holding it there and then taking a sip. “But my mother was born here too and I doubt she has stopped to notice just how lovely it really is.”
We looked out over the sparkling azure of the lake’s surface. It glistened like coins in a fountain as the sunlight danced over the plethora of whitecaps.
I unwrapped a sandwich and placed it in the center of one of the napkins that I put down in front of her.
“Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you had made even one different choice?” Lani took a bite of her sandwich and then set it back down.
“I wish I would have made a lot of different choices. But then, sometimes I think that if I had, I wouldn’t have the knowledge I have or be as strong as I am.” I took two quick chomps out of my sandwich, then peered into the middle to see what kind it was.
“All I need is one choice back, and my whole life could be a complete reverse of what it is now.”
“What one thing would you change?” I took a swig of soda, coughing as tiny bread crumbs sucked down into my lungs. “Maybe I’m prying. I seem to have been doing that a lot lately, and believe me, it is uncharacteristic.”
“I don’t mind, it’s part of my life and the things I have done, all the stuff I have experienced. I’m not proud of some of them, but I’m not embarrassed either. After all, I know my mother or yours will get around to telling you sooner or later anyway.” She pushed back until she was leaning solidly against the trunk of the tree at her side. She curled her knees to her chest, then hugged her arms around them.
I kept watching her intently.
“Sometimes, no matter how on top of things you think you are, no matter how astute and conscious you think you have become, sometimes it’s all just a facade. I used to feel like I was decorative wallpaper hung over shabby plywood, warped and splintering and in desperate need of repair.” She stared blankly out over the water. “When I was younger, I always wanted to be that beautiful wallpaper. I always wanted to be so eye-catching that I was the first thing people saw when they entered a room. But the strange thing about it was, no matter how hard I tried,” she paused, looking toward me, “I was still that dilapidated wood just underneath. You can attempt to cover it up, coat it with paste and throw a few sheets of paper over it, but the wood underneath, the foundation is always the same.”
Her eyes met mine, and my heart skipped.
“I was seven when I realized that I never wanted to be looked at again...in any way. I’d sneak out of bed and into the bathroom, then I’d take the scissors that my dad used to use to trim his mustache and I’d open them up and run the blade over my arm.”
My heart pounded inside my chest.
“I never cut myself, not really. The blades were dull and barely broke the surface, and the lines looked almost like a cat scratch. But when my mom woke up one night and stumbled into the bathroom—stupid me, I forgot to lock the door—she went nuts. I think she thought I was actually going to kill myself.” She stopped, taking a long, deep breath. “Maybe it would have gotten to that point, I don’t know. I think I was just scared, and that sudden surge of pain as I ran the blade over my arm made me stop thinking of everything but that moment. The next day my mom sent me off to a hospital in San Jose. I think the farther away I was, the safer she felt.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I didn’t know what to say. It hurt me that she had gone through something that painful at such a young age. I tried to submerge my own turbulent childhood, but hearing her story brought it rising to the surface. My eyeballs clouded with a layer of film and I held my breath, knowing that when I let it out the tears would rush down my cheeks. Finally, I let out a gurgle and flooded with emotion.
“What is it, Kari?”
“Nothing!”
“It’s something. What?”
Tears ran down my face. “My cousin killed himself.” I stopped. I had never said the words aloud although I remembered the images, replayed them over and over inside my head.