Wouldn’t Change a Thing (11 page)

Her medication was like another child. A plastic Piggly Wiggly bag housed the pills she hid underneath their bedroom armoire. We hid in her closet and peeked through the door slots as Daddy tapped his watch. She held up four fingers indicating the last medication time was four o'clock. He believed her lies at first and always changed into the outfits she'd splayed on the bed for him. Willa and I waited until he took her out for dinner or a walk and slithered underneath the armoire, sidestepping the mouse-trap she placed near the bag, and swiped it. Willa emptied the bottles on the floor and we picked them up, tossing them like circus jugglers. We flipped them up and down and the rattling of Thorazine, Triafon, and Moban made music. The bottles tumbled, and as they fell, we took turns having random bursts of conversation. We moved from subject to subject just like Mama.

“How do I help her with the meds and her other needs?”

“Slow down, Mustang Sally! You can't rush into things. Let's start with regular visitation. You can see your mother seven days a week up until nine at night. That's why I need to get you on the list. She can't come down to the visitation room to sit with you if you're not listed.”

“Does she ever leave the facility? Other than coming to stay with you and Uncle Ray?”

“The facility has lots of community outings. They go to restaurants, shop, and play bingo. Staff monitors them closely, and we make sure she has adequate clothing and money to go on trips.”

“Why do you help take care of her and Daddy has nothing to do with us?”

“I love your mother. I never referred to her as a sister-in-law; she was my sister-in-
love
. Paul couldn't handle the situation. Especially after her health deteriorated.”

“But he still has two children.” I wait a few seconds and ask, “When was the last time you heard from him?”

“Two months ago.”

My heart palpitates. Ever since he left, I sought acceptance from men because he denied us. Daddy sent me a check for $15,000 for my high school graduation and a lovely card. No return address and a New York postmark. Checks followed for my college and grad school ceremonies. When I pressed Clay about the matter, he finally said Daddy wanted to love us from afar.

“What did he say?”

“His usual checking-in call.”

“Did he ever remarry?”

“He said he never will. Doesn't want more children either.”

In a recurring dream, Daddy stands on the side of the shore with a massive bouquet of yellow roses for Willa and me. Handsome as ever and dressed to the nines, he opens his arms and waits for us to run to him. The three of us stand there. We take in his fragrant cologne and tickle the cherry-shaped birthmark on his neck, a distinctive beauty spot that pales in comparison to his milky dark skin. He holds the flowers overhead as Willa and I jump to reach them, never matching his lofty height. We walk hand-in-hand to his car, and he takes us to a new home where he treats us like princesses.

“I find that hard to believe. Women were always throwing themselves at him.”

“Yes, they certainly did.” She laughs. “My brother could have been a serious ladies man, but he only had eyes for your mother.”

His denial is painful and genetic. It runs deep in my blood too.

“Do you need my help with the tomatoes and peaches?”

“Are you still going to the library?”

“It's been a while since I've checked my emails. Maybe someone wants Mustang Sally to decorate or design a green, energy-efficient home for them.”

“Toni, you can use the Internet here.”

“I know. I want to get out and roam the town. Since the IGA incident, I've been holed up like a fugitive. I can't hide forever.”

“Suit yourself.” She looks at the stove and the Ball jars. “I've got more than enough work to keep me busy.”

“What are you selling this year?”

“Peaches, tomatoes, pepper and fruit-flavored jellies, chow-chow, pickled cucumbers, and muscadine wine.”

“You've got skills. I can't boil water.”

“You could if you wanted to. I'll be happy to teach you.” Aunt Mavis struggles to stand.

“You okay?”

“Arthur's trying to get me, but I won't let him.”

I stare at her, waiting to reveal this strange man.

“Arthritis.”

“On that note, I'm heading to the library. I'll be back soon.”

I had set a bag next to the front door earlier for the day's excursion. Denial runs in my blood. So does lying. I wave to Aunt Mavis as I head out to the door to connect with the woman from IGA. If I'm lucky, she can help connect the dots I'm missing about my mother.

I
push back doubts as I sit in the Washington EMC parking lot. Lying to Aunt Mavis makes my flesh crawl. But years of lying left me feeling as if I didn't have a conscience. I stare at the phone number. After a few cars pass, I dial. She answers on the first ring.

“Hello, this is Antoinette Williamson.”

“Toni?”

“How do you know me?”

“Chile, we're first cousins. I'm Edwina, your Uncle Grady's daughter.”

“Grady?”

“Listen, I'm fixing Walter's lunch. Come on down and eat with us.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. You still know the town, don't you?”

“I think so.”

“Where are you?”

“EMC parking lot.”

“Come out and make a right. We're on the Sandersville Highway. Keep to the right side of the road, past Rocky's and Ameris Bank. You gonna keep going past Galilee Baptist Church for about three miles. My house is the black-and-white one on the right with the John Deere mailbox. You can't miss it.”

Either I'm in the Twilight Zone or I've been sheltered too long. This is the first time I've heard of an Uncle Grady. I know Norlyza and Carrie Bell—Mama's sisters—live in Alabama. That's where Willa went to live. No one ever mentioned Grady, though. Edwina has piqued my curiosity. How many other unknown relatives are out there? Grandma Rose kept so many secrets, it's hard to tell. We were forbidden to visit her when I was small, and I never questioned why.

The heat is stifling as I drive along this road. The weatherman promised a slight breeze for today's forecast. He was misinformed. If this car were a thermostat, the heat would be on hell. The hot air is soothing, though. It quells the butterflies in my stomach. Who goes to a stranger's house for food? A woman who wants answers, that's who. During Shirley's rant at IGA, Edwina's face stood out in the crowd. Her concern caught my attention. Sassy, middle-aged, and wearing a dressy suit in the middle of the day, everything about her was regal. Her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes resembled our bloodline. I shook it off as a coincidence since everyone in a small town is usually related by blood or love.

In no time, I spot the John Deere mailbox and pull into the driveway. I travel down a small hill and onto a circular driveway. Déjà vu hits me. Something is familiar about this yard. I get out and two cats greet me with purrs. One is blacker than the ace of spades. Its shiny coat gleams in the sun. A tan cat totters on three legs toward me. I hope they don't have Whiplash's licking affinity.

The front door opens and Edwina says, “Midnight, Tic-Tac, go on around back.”

I shield my eyes from the sun and look at the top of the steps of the huge porch. Midnight and Tic-Tac are excited to have a guest as well. They disobey her and park themselves alongside one of many yard planters made from old tires. The gold, purple and white spray-painted tires have been fashioned as teacups and house beautiful flowers that know love and nurturing. Ignoring them, she descends the steps and sweeps me in a hug. She looks me over and hugs me again.

“You look just like Greta! A little of Paul too.”

“Thank you.”

She looks over my shoulder. “Does Mavis know you're here?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Good. What we have to talk about today is between the two of us.”

Her hair is covered in a decorative floral silk scarf. It matches her capris and dark-blue T-shirt. The McCallister bloodline—my mother's side of the family—comes in full view. Women on Mama's side have facial moles and a small hole above their right ears. I stare a bit too long and she becomes self-conscious. She touches the scarf.

“I was pulling weeds this morning. I can't let these flowers get away from me.”

“I wasn't looking at the flowers or your scarf. Looking at your face, it's obvious we're kin.”

“Ain't that the truth? Come on in so you can meet Walt.”

I follow her up five or six steps, marveling at the variety of flowers on the porch and in the yard. Her place is a green thumb paradise. The moment I step inside the entryway, my mouth waters. I smell liver and onions with gravy. Clay's liver was the best I'd ever tasted, but I enjoyed sampling variations in other kitchens.

“Walt, she's here.”

Her husband rises from a recliner where he's watching the news and greets me. Stacks of photo albums fill the coffee table in front of him.

“It's so good to see you again, Ms. Toni. I hadn't seen you since you were a little girl.”

He smiles, steps back a few paces, and gives me the once-over. His long-sleeved dress shirt and jeans seem out of place in this weather. He pulls on his suspender straps and says, “Let's eat before Edwina's liver gets cold. You haven't had liver and onions until you taste hers. Bathroom's down the hallway. You can wash up in there.”

I head down the hallway, sneaking glances at family photos along the walls. They are mostly of Edwina and Walter, but a few of them are of relatives I've seen sporadically. I stop when I spot a photo of me, my sister, and parents. I lift it from the wall, pondering the family that used to be. The teal scenery captured us with huge grins. Daddy is next to Mama, and they both smile. Willa wears a red dress and four plaits pulled high and held together by block-shaped ponytail holders. Front teeth missing, she protects me with her hands on my left shoulder. My dress is white and my hair is cornrowed in “the Peaches,” thanks to the nurse's aide Aunt Mavis paid. I lift the velvet and cardboard backing from the frame and read the inscription:
The Williamson Family, 1979
. I place the photo back on the wall.

After washing up, I join them in the dining room. Walter says grace and Edwina starts our conversation over clanking silverware.

“I'm sorry about the article, but I'm glad you're home.”

“I never meant to hurt anyone in the family.”

“The McCallisters, our maternal relatives, don't do so well with mental illness. I guess we're like everyone else. But when we ignore a person, we ignore a person. I want the trend to stop with you and Willa.”

She looks out the window and her husband picks up the conversation. “Far as I know, a few of the folks on Greta's side tried to help her, Edwina included, but the sicker your mother got, the stronger Mavis's grip tightened. We don't know what it was all about, but the next thing we knew, she was in Georgia Mental.”

Edwina's side view solves the mystery. Her eyeglass chain takes me back to the mall meltdown. “It was you, wasn't it?”

She faces me. “Come again?”

“In the mall. Years ago at Hatcher Square. You were the woman who sat with me when they took Mama away.”

“I sure did. I would have brought you home if Mavis hadn't stopped me. You asked me to call her, but I wanted to take you by the hand and bring you here with us.”

“Why didn't I remember you or know we were related?”

“Greta started going downhill a little after you were born. We used to visit one another's houses all the time. All that acreage out in the country was the perfect spot for parties and picnics. But something happened one day at the Fourth of July cookout that changed everything. After that day, it's like you all fell from the face of the earth.”

I stop chewing and give her my undivided attention.

“The children were bobbing for apples, your uncles and guys from the neighborhood were standing around the oak tree in the yard drinking beer, and your aunts and a few of our lady friends sat at the oblong table Greta put out for parties. She kept swatting at flies, or so we thought. She eyed us like we were stepchildren as we played spades. She shook her head, ran in the house, and came back with a shotgun.”

I cough and drink tea as her story intensifies.

“She pointed that double-barrel straight at your Cousin Francine and told her to give back the gold coins she stole. Said the voices told her Francine had snuck in the window the night before and took the gold coins she had stashed in a flour tin.”

“What did Francine do?”

“She tried to remain calm, but we could all see she was scared half to death. The men, including your Daddy, ran to the table from the oak. The children toppled the barrel of apples and ran for cover under the house. Your Daddy talked to Greta like he was talking fire out of a wound, telling her he had the gold coins and it was all a misunderstanding. We knew there were no gold coins; the Williamsons were big on keeping their money in the bank. That's how they have all this land in Hancock County. Paul convinced her to give him the gun and he took her inside. It looked like a father leading his child.”