Stay Tuned

Chapter 7

“You have reached the voicemail of Chris Moore, with Macon Financial. Please leave a message. I’ll get back to you at my earliest convenience.”
    
When was his “earliest convenience”? I wondered, thinking his clients probably talked to him more than I did.
    
“Chris, honey. It’s me.” I paused. What did I want to say? “Just thinking about you. Let’s get lunch or dinner at that new bistro. Say Tuesday or Friday? Love you.”
    
I hung up the phone, disappointed, and turned onto the street. Blinker on, I maneuvered through traffic.
    
The voice in my mind nudged me. Go see your mother.
    
Fine. I shook my head, straightened my shoulders, and focused on being more positive. It was silly, the insecurity that I tried so hard to keep under wraps.
    
The anxiety stemmed from a childhood with my super-connected, over-achiever mother who boasted a stable of famous friends. Other mothers in the grocery store would practically climb over their shopping carts to speak to her and catch up on the latest celebrity gossip.
    
My traumatic high school days didn’t help. I was the brainy teen with silver braces who loved hanging out at the library on weekends with other straight-A kids. I read stacks of novels, wrote bad poetry, and spent my days imagining that my “real” family—European royalty, of course—would someday swoop in and rescue me.
    
When that didn’t happen, I went off to college. I joined the journalism club, pledged a sorority, and dreamed about backpacking in Europe over the summer. My senior year, I met Chris. After much convincing, I agreed to dinner. We saw each other the next night, and the next.
    
We became inseparable. Chris and Melissa. Melissa and Chris.
    
My friends began taping signs on my apartment door with my photo and ‘MIA’ written underneath.
 
A month later, we moved in together.
    
Everything was perfect until, one day, Chris overheard me arguing with my mother. She was pressing me for details. I wasn’t talking. She was jet-lagged. We both were irritable and exhausted. Finally, I gave in.
    
“Of course, we’re going to get engaged,” I insisted. “We’ll graduate, get married, and he’ll go with me to Europe.”
    
That was that, or so I thought. We finished the conversation, I hung up the phone. Three seconds later, my now-irate boyfriend came around the corner to confront me in the kitchen.
    
“Doesn’t it matter what I want?” Chris asked, raising his voice.
    
Taken aback, I tried to soothe his hurt feelings. “Of course,” I stuttered. “You want to run your own business—a finance and investment firm. And I totally support that.”
    
But Chris wasn’t done talking. He didn’t appreciate my assumptions, didn’t know if he should or could pursue finance and investment banking in Europe, and besides, he wasn’t quite ready for marriage and kids.
    
This time, I was the one left stunned.
    
Chris packed his bags; we spent the semester break apart. I cried most of December while he dated someone from the past, the daughter of his parents’ friends. Her family was wealthy and politically connected. They owned a yacht, a Rolls Royce, and a small island in the Caribbean.
    
Meanwhile, everything about me was just vanilla. Normal.
    
How could I compete?
    
But, when Chris came back the last semester of our senior year, he was furious with his parents. They’d tried to force him into proposing to his old girlfriend. He’d broken off the relationship instead.
    
He apologized profusely and sent flowers. It took about a week for me to forgive him.
    
Later, when his parents didn’t show up for our engagement party, Chris explained they’d had another falling out. I didn’t press him to explain. Deep down, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know.
 
 
When I found out I was pregnant, I tried my best to quit worrying that Chris might change his mind or leave me behind again, like a child who forgets about a broken toy. We were together. We were happy. And sure, we had to put our dreams aside, get jobs, and pay the bills, but it was temporary.
Somehow, though, temporary had turned into nearly two decades.
I was thirty-nine and Chris had just turned forty. My mother was nearly eighty. It hardly seemed possible.
    
My mind wandered as I swept through the double doors into the lobby of Magnolia Woods, determined to have a pleasant visit with my mother.
    
If she was feeling well, I could tell her about my award. Mother was rarely impressed, but this might do the trick.
    
Several sleepy residents dozed in their wheelchairs as I whisked past. The heavy scent of lavender potpourri and cleaning antiseptic met me as I walked toward my mother’s room. Her voice drifted into the flower-decked hallway.
    
“Nurse,” my mother cried out weakly. “Nurse!”
    
As I rounded the door into her room, she looked up at me from her wheelchair, a cozy afghan draped around her lap and thin legs. Her back was turned against a set of huge shelves, filled with thick books she had written.
    
It never failed to impress me. Biographies, all in perfect alphabetical order. My eyes scanned the names:
 
Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth. Over her lifetime, my mother had garnered the most stunning, exclusive circle of friends. She was never Hollywood-famous, of course, but once upon a time, she had connections, power, and movie-star good looks. An intimidating combination.
 
Now, my mother appeared a mere ghost of herself. Hair perfectly styled, but silver-gray instead of blonde. Jewelry on, but somehow not as glittery. Her sunken cheeks bore smudges of pink blush, the only color on her face.
  
“Oh thank goodness!” My mother managed to exhale in a small gust of breath. One feeble hand lifted and dropped. “I’ve been calling and calling for someone to help. There’s a program I wanted to see.” She squinted in the dim light.
    
“Yes, ma’am. I’m right here. What do you need?” I asked, and unconsciously reached out to pat her arm. Her skin, dry and thin as parchment paper, crinkled at my touch.
    
My mother recoiled as if I had scorched her with hot coals. She glared at my fingers until I shoved them behind my back, out of sight.
    
I swallowed my excitement. There was no use telling her about the award. Today, it was clear she didn’t know who I was.
    
A rap at the door broke the silence.
    
“She sure don’t like to be touched. And that is the Gawd’s honest truth,” came a high-pitched voice from the doorway. One of the nurse’s aides, Sharice, hands on her round hips, strode toward us with determination. “Miz Ruth Anne, don’t be givin’ your daughter no trouble. You gonna act like that when she come to see you every week?”
    
My mother stared straight ahead, lips pursed, her bony hands folded primly on the afghan. “That’s not my daughter. My daughter does not wear red toenail polish. Ever. I absolutely forbid it.”
    
I closed my eyes and counted backward from ten. I fought the urge to scratch at the hives popping out on my chest.
    
Sharice argued with my mother. “Sure do look like your daughter. And that polish ain’t hurtin’ you none, sugar. But she sure is your kin.” She rolled her dark eyes at the ceiling. “I just don’t know what we all gonna to do wit’ you. Some days you know everybody, some days you don’t. And the days you don’t…you is so stubborn.”
    
“I think she’s missing the remote,” I offered.
    
“The remote, of course,” Mother repeated. Her eyes darted around the room. “Someone took it again and moved it. I’ll bet it’s that Miss Melba down the hall. She’s always nosing around.” She sniffed and jutted her chin at the ceiling.
    
Sharice sighed. I knew it was the same complaint, different day. “It ain’t no Melba. She done got her own remote…and it ain’t for no…” Sharice paused and looked at the television. “…fancy flat-screen. She got a Toshiba or something.”
    
Sharice lumbered over and bent to get a better look at the afghan. “Now, Miz Ruth Anne, now I gots to look in that blanket of yours—”
    
My mother screwed up her face and pushed her body against the back of the wheelchair, her hands protectively holding the folds of material. I braced for another barb as Sharice leaned closer. Out of habit, glanced at the clock on the wall. 5:59 p.m.
    
Perfect.
    
“Listen Mother, it’s almost time for the news. Let’s go find out what the WSGA weekend crew has been up to.” I sang out brightly. “Don’t you want to find that remote?”
    
At once, her shoulders relaxed. She stared at me curiously, cocked her head, and held her hands away from the folds of fabric. A black metal rectangle fell to the floor with a clunk. I snatched it up, clicked on WSGA, and set down the remote on the table next to her wheelchair.
    
The television blared as she turned her full attention to the weekend report. The lights and colors from the screen illuminated the room and glinted off her wheelchair, casting a glow over Mother. She was mesmerized.
    
And we were no longer needed.
    
“The only things that make her happy are talkin’ about movie stars, those books she done wrote, and watchin’ that news channel. I jest can’t understand it.” Sharice made a tut-tut sound.
    
But I did.
    
The entertainers and actresses used to fill my mother’s life. The rich and famous were once her family. She knew them intimately. She told their stories. Mother defined herself as an author. Not as a wife. Not usually as my mother.
    
Instead, Daddy and I existed as backdrop to her Hollywood events. We were props, mere stagehands, as she flitted from one opening night to another.
    
When Daddy passed away and I left home, Mother was never quite the same. While I lived my own life, she withered slowly, like a hothouse flower lacking proper light or water. Eventually, she stopped writing, and her health failed.
    
Her memories, however fleeting, were all she had left.
    
Thank goodness my mother and I had Sharice. Other than Candace, there were few people in the world I trusted more.
    
Sharice slipped out of Mother’s room unnoticed and I followed behind. The door closed with a quiet click.
    
“I know you have your hands full keeping an eye on her,” I said. “How are you? How’s that big boy of yours?”
    
Sharice, a young, single mother, grinned and pulled a photo from her front pocket. “I knew you’d be asking ’bout Darius.”
    
“Oh, thank you.” I cradled the picture in my palm. Her son was about three, with dark curly hair, light brown skin, and big, blue eyes. “He’s precious! And getting so big.”
    
I felt a pang in my chest, missing my own daughter. I forced my lips into a smile at Sharice, who was still talking.
    
“He look like his daddy. Handsome. Smart as a whip, that chile. But Gawd knows where that man is,” Sharice stuck out her bottom lip and shook her head. “He disappear the second I said, ‘baby.’ Lawd have mercy.” Sharice snapped her fingers. “Men. They show up, they gone. And like that, we all alone. Just my chile and me.”
    
I hugged her goodbye. “At least you have each other,” I said. “That’s what counts now.”