Wouldn’t Change a Thing (26 page)

“No, thank you. We have enough food at the house to feed an army.” She scans the kitchen. “I'd like to speak with you in private.”

Jordan pours more ambrosia in a bowl as Aunt Mavis leads the way to the living room. I toss a few logs on the fire and sit next to her. She fiddles with the Bible and places it on her lap.

“I was out of line this morning.”

“When?”

“When I yelled at you. I had no right to speak to you that way.”

“Everyone's nerves were frayed.”

“Fear got the best of me. If Greta had died, I wouldn't have the chance to apologize to you or her.”

“For?”

Her Bible springs open and she rifles through the scriptures. A Hancock County courthouse envelope is mixed in with newspaper clippings and notices.

“Willa told me about you opening your shirt today. I've tried blocking the image of you cutting yourself all these years. Clay and I had been discussing getting you to safety for a while. When I witnessed you pierce your skin without flinching, I knew you'd been exposed to more than you could handle.”

“I figured as much.”

“There's more.”

“Go on.”

She opens the courthouse envelope. The document is musty but spotless. The termination of parental rights form is official and signed by both my parents.

“What does this mean?”

“Look closely.”

The document almost fooled me, but the loops tell the story. My mother's “G” was always big and showy. This one misses the mark. My father's “P” was the largest of his letters when he signed documents. I'd sit in his lap and watch him sign everything with his initials,
PMW
, draw a circle around it, and put “OK” at the end.

“You and Clay forged their signatures?”

She nods. “We thought it was the best thing for you.”

“Does Daddy know?”

“He was gone before we hatched our plan.”

“How were you able to do it?”

“Those are the perks of small-town living. Judge Anderson Taylor helped us with the process. He'd known Greta's people for years and was more than willing to help make sure you didn't suffer the same fate.”

“Taylor?”

“He's dead, God rest his soul, but his wife, Creasy, still lives here.”

“She asked me and Willa to call her while we were at the Pine Tree Festival.”

“She always thought she was right as rain and didn't approve of what we did. She said if she ever saw you again, she'd tell you. Guess I beat her to it.”

I hold the document and marvel at how quickly fate can change at the hands of someone else. What would things have been like had I stayed? Had we stayed? Given Mama's erratic behavior, it was only a matter of time before she may have turned on me as well.

“I was deceitful. I've done some underhanded things when it comes to your mother's side of the family, but I wouldn't change a thing if it meant seeing you grow up to be the smart, accomplished woman you've become.”

I soak in her words and her sacrifice. I take it all in piece by piece.

I smile for the camera with other designers and architects outside Reynolds Home-A-Rama's grand opening. My family, Jordan, and Evan wait for me to finish the photos. Whiplash has found a friend and is chasing butterflies around a tree. Mama chats with Jackie Montgomery from Beacon Cottage. You'd never guess they met two months ago. I break from the crowd to visit my biggest supporters.

“Did you dedicate a room to me and Russ?” Clay asks. Russ moves the wheelchair near the accessibility ramp of the house I decorated. Clay's face has puffed up, and he's put on a few extra pounds.

Everyone else walks the grounds in search of their dream home. Evan walks over to us.

“Clay and Russ, this is my friend, Evan Sutton.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Clay says. “Toni is the shine in our moon. You have to answer to us if you don't take good care of her.”

“Clay, we're just friends.”

“Friendship leads to other things. Isn't that right, Russ?”

“Enough, you two. We're taking it one day at a time.”

Evan shakes their hands and makes small talk. He was able to get in on the building action with two homes in the subdivision. After he did interior painting and installed hardwood flooring, a few local builders asked if he'd be interested in a few subcontract jobs.

I mouth to him, “Be right back.”

Jackie makes Mama laugh again. I'm jealous and want in on the action.

“What are you two laughing about?”

“Jackie doesn't believe you can't cook. I told her your smarts would get you through life.”

“I'm getting better and you know it.”

“You'd better. That's a handsome man you might have to feed someday.”

“We're just friends.”

Evan is next to one of the houses smiling at me. We're getting closer, but I'm not ready to take the love plunge. I'm getting to know him slowly, all of him, and he is doing the same with me. He gained two million brownie points the night we were in my yard turning dirt for a garden when Lamonte showed up unannounced. Had the nerve to say he'd made a mistake, couldn't live without me, and wanted me to give him a second chance. I bet ole Stewart told him where I lived. Evan put his arms around me and gave Lamonte the deadliest look. Didn't say a word; just looked at him until he jumped in his ride and drove away.

Willa and her family couldn't make the trip due to McKenna's international meet, but they sent lovely flowers congratulating me on a job well done. Jordan and my godson, Caden, are standing near my favorite model home. I make my way over to them; Caden coos when he sees me.

I take Caden from her arms. “Thank you so much for making this possible. I wouldn't have the job if it weren't for you.”

“You did this! I knew this was your thing when I saw the notice. Watch this job leads to many others.”

I sniff Caden's baby powder freshness. I swear if I see one of those baby contests, I'll enter him. He has beautiful dark-brown eyes, curly hair, and a smile that will melt the coldest heart. He's an old soul who's been here before. He's wearing the blue sailor outfit I picked out for him a few weeks ago.

Evan walks toward me and puts his arms around me. Caden giggles at Evan. I steal a quick peck and rub the dome.

“Careful, people are watching.”

“So what?”

“You're the one who left the spare pair in my guest bedroom a few months ago. I know you did that on purpose so you could see me again.”

“Dream on, man.” I hand Caden back to Jordan.

Jackie and Mama inch closer to us. “What time are we leaving?” Mama asks.

“In an hour.”

“Will you take me inside so I can take my medication?”

“Sure.”

I proudly walk Mama into one of the decorated homes. The builders stocked the fridge with beverages and snacks for the guests. She swipes a Sprite, pops open the tab, and takes a Zyprexa.

We didn't speak for two months after the Christmas Day incident. She wrote me a long letter asking if I'd be willing to give her one more try. She vowed to take her medication and go to therapy. I was skeptical but led with my head instead of my heart this time. I attend Beacon Cottage and NAMI meetings faithfully. Willa joins me when she can. Mama is getting the hang of group therapy, and Aunt Mavis, Uncle Ray, and Cousin Edwina rotate shifts with me when I'm tired.

Evan's friendship has been a godsend. He respects me, surprises me with thoughtful gestures, and is open to learning about my mother's illness. He knows if we get closer, Mama and I are a package deal.

Coming home to stay has been the best thing for me. Daddy's gift of the home-house has enabled me to relax and get my bearings straight. I renewed Giovanna's lease for another year, and I moved most of my Virginia Avenue items to Sparta. The day I decided to come home for good, I consulted my longtime friend, Mr. Juggles. I lifted his head, fished around for a fortune, and read it aloud.

Bloom Where You Are Planted.

That's exactly what I'm doing, and I have Mama to thank for this new life.

This is the book that almost wasn't. After receiving a grant from the Indiana Arts Commission in 2005 to do research at a mental health facility in Milledgeville, GA, I wrote three hundred pages of gobbledygook and gave it to my editor, Robert Coalson. He said he enjoyed the story but argued the story was Toni's, not Greta's. He said her voice was stronger in death than Greta's was in life. In the first manuscript, Toni was a twenty-three-year old who'd died of Lupus. I wrote the second manuscript in Clayton's voice with no luck. I tried the third manuscript from Mavis's point-of-view and it fizzled. I tossed those manuscripts in a drawer and decided to try other genres. I kept reading the mantra, writers write, so I tried my hand at contemporary women's fiction. I was so blessed to land an agent, be published by the magnificent author and movie maven, Zane, and realize my dream of becoming an author. The old crew never left me, though. Toni, Greta, Mavis, and Clayton kept popping up in my mind, telling me what was new with them, how they wanted readers to take them home. Thanks to the person tinkering at the
Indy Star News
copy desk who drew the Duke University coach as a devil,
Wouldn't Change a Thing
was born. The embarrassment felt by the city after the story hit the front page kicked my “what if” into overdrive.

My desire to tell Greta's story was born of my fascination to understand the mind's fragility and my family's struggle with a mentally ill loved one. My childhood and teen years were spent visiting my relative. During visits with her on the hospital grounds, a male patient always found me and greeted me with the question, “Do you know when World War III is coming?” I shrugged. He responded, “May 28, 2050.” His hallucinations were of war heroes, namely Napoleon and Custer. He asked me if I could see them having lunch on the grass. I told him yes because he believed they were. Our family was clear: the clandestine visits were not to be shared with others because, “we don't discuss those kinds of things.” I hope this story helps someone know you are not alone and help is available.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to see another book in print. I don't take it for granted in the current publishing climate. Thank you Sara, Zane, and Charmaine, for giving me a forum to share this work. Keith Saunders, I well up whenever I see the book cover. Thank you for making our beautiful courthouse immortal with your phenomenal design work. Tuane Hearn of TP Hearn Productions and Matt Hanthorn of Brainstorm Print, thanks for the beautiful promo items.

To my beta readers, Andrea Allen, Jerine Campbell, Devetrice Conyers-Hinton, Author Cathy Jo, and Markina Mapp, your feedback helped me tremendously. Author Renee Swindle, we need to negotiate the price of your impromptu inbox workshop. Without you, this book would not have been completed.

To the lovely book ambassadors who cheer me on, spread the word, and help me through my writing haze: Celestine Allen, Ylana Aukamp, Teresa Beasley, Julia Blues, Ben Burgess, Jr., Tumika Cain, David Campbell, Hulian Campbell, Malik Campbell, Tracy Cooper, Ella Curry, Mary Finley, Tressia Gibbs, Shiera Goff, Yolanda Gore, Latanya Hive, Alvin Horn, Barbara Jo, Joy Jones, Kim Knight, Linnesia Lattimore, Becky Lawrence, Curtis Lawrence, David Lawrence, Lillie Lawrence, William Lawrence, Jason Lee, Lasheera Lee, Barbara Mapp, Angelia Menchan, Tremayne Moore, Deborah Owsley, Cherlisa Starks-Richardson, Johnathan Royal, Orsayor Simmons, Latrealle Smith, Nicole Scott-Tate, Trisha R. Thomas, Adrienne Thompson, Tiffany Tyler, Kimyatta Walker, Ladonna Wattley, Cyress Webb, and A'ndrea Wilson.

To the New Beginnings Westside crew: Sydney Edmonds, Dawn Jones, and Tammi Kinchlow. Thank you for the love, fellowship, and prayers. You are the epitome of what it means to have sisters in Christ and Titus 2 loving. I'm so glad God allowed our paths to cross.