DOUBLE KNOT (3 page)

“Get in here. Do something with your mother. Look at you! You’re so cute!”

“Thank you!” (Finally.) My partner, Fantasy Erb, whom I’d seen about twice in the
past six months, held out her arms and I began filling them: V2, my sunglasses, the
encyclopedia, my purse, little sweater, then grabbing her arm for balance, my shoes.

“Are you going to take off your clothes too?”

“Maybe.”

The vestibule was like a museum, and just to prove it, directly in front of me was
a statue of some sort. “What is that?”

“A Chinese antique,” she said. “You break it, you buy it.”

“I don’t want it.”

Our heads whipped the other way when the front doors began beeping and flashing red
warning lights from the thick steel frame. “Oh, good grief.” Fantasy’s V2 was in the
pocket of her jacket. She juggled my things until she could get to it, pulled it out,
then pointed V2 at the doors. They hushed, then closed decisively, with the whir of
motors and a notable catch.

We stared at the doors.

“This way,” Fantasy said. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

From the narrow vestibule we stepped into the salon, a magnificent room with an exterior
wall that was a seamless wraparound window separating this room from the terrace.
Like being inside and outside at the same time. The salon was sparsely decorated,
showcasing spaces rather than things. What struck me first was the simplicity of the
interior design and the clean lines, the overall unassuming feel of a space so magnificent.
Everything I could see was either white or very close to it. In the middle of the
room on a silver rug, four long white linen sofas formed a square around a large slab
of glass sitting on an ancient fishing boat propeller. The only thing on the table
was a tall clear vase holding a dozen perfect white tulips. I got a little misty;
I knew exactly who they were from.

My mother sat at one end of a sofa staring at Anderson Cooper, who sat at the other
end, staring at her. Mother looked as angry as I’ve ever seen her. Not that Anderson
Cooper looked happy. Without taking her eyes off Anderson my mother said, “It’s about
time.”

My mother thinks that next week, after the cruise, she’s being admitted to St. Vincent’s
in Birmingham, Alabama for a complete mastectomy and simultaneous breast reconstruction
surgery. Caught by diagnostic mammogram at Stage 1A, Mother’s tumor was the size of
a pea, completely contained, and zapped out of existence. She was on the freedom side
of chemo and radiation, all follow-up tests were back and clear, and according to
my father, the surgery was my mother’s idea. He said she sat down at the breakfast
table one morning and announced, “Samuel, I believe I’d like new bosoms. I’m tired
of looking at these old ones.” He told me she approached the subject no differently
than if she’d said, “Samuel, I believe I’d like new shoes. The heels are worn down
on these old ones.”

Two weeks later, the scheduling nurse called Daddy. Mother denied having been recently
treated for cancer (“Poppycock,” she told the nurse), insisting her medical records
were confused, and refused to discuss it any further. It caught the attention of the
augmentation consultants. They ordered a pre-op psych evaluation, fearing Mother wasn’t
“providing informed consent” and when they tried to discuss it with her, she excused
herself, saying she’d be back in a jiffy.

She got in her car and drove home to Pine Apple. The scheduling nurse told Daddy that
unless Mother could be honest with herself about why she was having the surgery, she’d
need to have it somewhere else or reschedule with them after counseling.

Daddy sent her on a Caribbean cruise with me in lieu of counseling.

“Daddy, just find another surgeon.”

“One with less scruples?” he asked. “One who doesn’t care about your mother’s wellbeing?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Davis, I want you to take her with you. Get her out of the kitchen. Take her on a
beautiful vacation and help her deal with this.”

I don’t have enough influence over my mother to help her deal with a paper cut. Much
less what she’d been through or the surgery she’d signed up for. At the time, just
weeks before the cruise, I wasn’t even sure I could get her on the passenger list,
and there was no getting her out of the kitchen.

I didn’t agree to it fast enough.

“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Daddy looked so tired. “I’ll find another way. I understand
if you don’t want to spend a week with your mother.”

Well, when you put it that way.

I didn’t think there was even a remote chance Mother would agree to spending a week
with
me
, and I was stunned when she went along with it. A week? Me and Mother? Together?
She started packing and I wasn’t about to protest. Her diagnosis had scared us all
to death. And here we were. Scared to death.

The problem was my mother doesn’t particularly enjoy my company.

And she sure didn’t like Anderson Cooper’s.

Anderson saw me and jumped into my arms. We found a seat on the linen sofa opposite
Mother.

“Davis.” Mother clasped her hands in a prayer and leaned my way. “I can’t believe
you snuck a cat on this boat.”

“It’s not a boat, Mother. It’s a ship.” Anderson tried to get comfortable in my shrinking
lap, gave up, and settled in beside me.

“You have a contraband cat on this
ship
, Davis.”

“Mother, everyone on this ship thinks I’m Bianca Sanders.”

“What does that have to do with your cat?”

“The Bellissimo owns this ship,” I said. “Bianca can sneak her cat onboard if she
wants to. She sneaked
you
onboard.”

“I’m not a house cat, Davis, and you’re going to get us all arrested.”

“Who’s going to arrest us, Mother?”

“The Coast Guard. Or the casino. Surely someone will.” She eyeballed me from just
over the edge of her peeper glasses. “And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t know
what in the world you were thinking when you named that cat. If I’m going to spend
the next week with it, you better believe I won’t be calling it Anderson Cooper. I
am worried sick about what you’ll do when the day comes that you’re responsible for
naming a human.”

I stole a sideways look at Fantasy. See?

She barely batted an eye in acknowledgment. She saw.

Not only had my mother refused to face her own truth, she had yet to acknowledge mine.
Which I believed to be the real reason Daddy pitted us together in the middle of the
Caribbean. So my own mother might notice I’m pregnant.

“I named her Blizzard, Mother, but it didn’t stick. Because she looks just like Anderson
Cooper.”

“Well, Davis, that’s ridiculous.”

If I had a nickel.

“And before this boat drives off—” Mother was on a roll, “—you call Bradley and have
him come get your cat or I will. Either me or that cat is getting off this boat before
it leaves.”

“Mother, it’s a ship, Bradley’s on his way to China, and Anderson is deaf.”

“So you say.”

“She’s stone cold deaf. She can’t hear a thing.”

“I understand what deaf is, Davis.”

“I couldn’t leave her. I can’t leave her. I wasn’t about to leave her. I’m the only
one she talks to.”

Fantasy, a mile away on the other end of the long white sofa, whistled a little tune
and studied the beadboard ceiling.

“I have news for you, Davis,” my mother said. “That cat doesn’t talk to you.”

I suspected Anderson couldn’t hear when she was six weeks old. Her veterinarian confirmed
it. It’s called Waardenburg Syndrome, and it’s something about the gene for deafness
being located between the genes for white fur and blue eyes on the DNA ropes. The
hearing gene gets skipped. And she really does look just like Anderson Cooper.

“Where does Bradley think your cat is?” Mother asked.

I didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

Mother slept for four months. We had to wake her up to get her in the car, then wake
her again to get her in the outpatient doors of the Cancer Center in Greenville, Alabama,
twenty miles from my parents’ home in Pine Apple. She slept the whole time. For four
months she didn’t wake up until noon, then she was back in bed an hour later. “It’s
just a stage,” my father said, over and over. “She sleeps all the time because she’s
feeling a little blue.” (I guess so.) (We all were.) (We were purple-black-blue.)
Mother finally woke up when her treatments were complete, and boy, did she get up
on the wrong side of the bed. She woke up mad. Mad at the world. Mad at my father.
Mad at Donald Trump. Mad at telemarketers. Mad at the weather. Mad at her bosoms.
Mad at me, which really wasn’t anything new, but she was also mad at my sister Meredith
who she never got mad at. “It’s a stage,” my father explained. “Her bad temper is
a defense mechanism. She’s trying to distance herself.”

Mother and her defense mechanism stared at us. We squirmed under the scrutiny. My
Caribbean cruise was off to a choppy start. First Jessica, now Mother, what next?

THREE

Probability
Stateroom 704, all three thousand and eight hundred square feet of it, had one owner’s
and two grand suites. In addition, there were crew quarters somewhere: one for the
butler, one for the stateroom attendant, and one for the chef. The owner’s suite was
(Bianca’s) mine. Fantasy and Mother were in the grand suites on the opposite end,
a good jog away. Between all the suiteness were luxuriously appointed living spaces,
including a totally private veranda that ran the length of 704 on the starboard side
of the ship. The balconies were staggered from deck to deck, so we were the only ones
with access to ours and no other passengers could see us. In the middle of the veranda,
a pool. Behind the pool, a private sundeck. Each of the fifty suites on
Probability
were just as secluded as ours and had private pools. In spite of things not going
quite swimmingly just yet, we had everything we could ever need or want for a fabulous
vacation.

Let the fabulous part begin.

“How long have you been here?” I asked Mother and Fantasy.

“Not long,” Mother said.

“A while,” Fantasy said.

“Have you looked around?” I asked.

“I unpacked,” Mother said. “Then I pressed my blouses with my travel iron. They were
creased from my Samsonite.”

“I snooped,” Fantasy said.

“What’d you find?” I asked.

“I just poked my nose in the doors,” she said. “I didn’t dig through anyone’s luggage.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Mother said. “That’s rude.”

“Which way is my room?” I asked.

Fantasy pointed. “It’s gorgeous. And I would’ve snooped through your luggage but you
have too much.”

“Davis.” Mother said. “It took those men an hour to bring in your luggage. Ten minutes
for everyone else’s and an hour for yours.”

“It’s for the photography, Mother.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous.”

“Fantasy, when you were snooping, did you find anything to drink?” I asked.

“Fantastic idea.” Fantasy stood and crossed the room to a fully stocked sidebar. “What’s
your poison, ladies?”

“Surprise us,” I said.

“This will surprise you.” Fantasy pushed a button somewhere near the sidebar and with
a swoosh, the wraparound glass wall slid into the ceiling. Now we really were inside
and outside.

Probability
Suite 704 was magnificent.

We stepped all the way out with our drinks and settled around an iron bistro table
in a chocolate finish, sinking into thick cushioned chairs under a canvas umbrella.
In the distance, I could see the Bellissimo—my husband, my home, my work—and it looked
so far away.

“This is delicious.” Mother knocked back half of hers in one long pull. “What is it?”

“It’s a cranberry sparkler,” Fantasy said. “Cranberry juice and champagne. Davis,
yours is sparkling with ginger ale.”

“Cranberry juice and champagne,” Mother said. “This would be nice at Christmastime.”

I picked up the pitcher and topped off Mother’s sparkler.

“Nice weather.”

“Very nice.”

“Perfect.”

“Not too hot.”

“No.”

“Just right.”

“Not too cool.”

“No.”

“A beautiful afternoon.”

Fantasy crossed and uncrossed her long legs three times, Mother nervously twisted
the gold anchor buttons on her jacket, and I petted Anderson in long smooth strokes,
waiting for the ice to crack. Before it could, the table vibrated. Even Anderson felt
it; her ears stood up. It was V2, letting us know the front door had opened. V2 said
Jessica DeLuna and Andrew Burnsworth had entered Suite 704.

I wasn’t in the mood for any more Jess.

“Who is Andrew Burnsworth?” Fantasy stared at her V2.

“He’s our butler,” I said.

“Which means?”

“I’m not sure. What do butlers do other than open doors?” I asked.

“Why do we need someone to open the door?” Mother asked. “Are we expecting visitors?”

“Surely he does more than open doors,” Fantasy said.

“Does this mean we’re going to have a
man
here?”

“We have a butler, a stateroom attendant, and a chef, Mother. I think the butler is
a man.”

“What in the world is a stateroom attendant?” Mother asked.

“She cleans,” I said.

“We have a
maid
?” Mother asked.

“I feel like I’ve won the lottery,” Fantasy said. “An entire week of not worrying
about anything or anyone, no kids, no dishes, no laundry. Just fun and sun.”

“How are we supposed to fun and sun with a
man
here?” Mother asked.

“It’s not like he’ll be with us the entire time,” Fantasy told her. “The staff gets
several hours off in the afternoon.”

“And we won’t be in the room the whole time, Mother.”

“So we’re leaving a
man
in here while we’re gone? All day?”

“And all night,” I said. “He’s part of this suite’s staff. The staff stays in the
suite.”

“A
man
? Where’s he supposed to sleep?”

“That way.” Fantasy pointed. “Three small bedrooms that way.”

“Three small staterooms that way,” I said.

“They have beds, dressers, and closets,” Fantasy said. “I call that a bedroom.”

“A
man
?”

I poured Mother another sparkler.

“And what do we need with a chef?” Mother reached for her glass. “I thought there
were restaurants.”

“There are, Mother. We have a chef because we have a kitchen, so we have the option
of eating in.”

“A butler, a cook, and a maid?” Mother rolled her eyes. “Which one of you intends
to make a big mess? I don’t know about you, Fantasy, but Davis was raised to pick
up after herself. And surely, Davis, you can still make yourself a salad or a sandwich.
Surely to goodness you’re not so spoiled by all this,” she gestured wildly, “that
you’ve forgotten how to heat a bowl of soup or make yourself cheese toast. And I’ll
tell you another thing.” Her crooked index finger took off, aimed at no one in particular.
“I don’t want anyone making my bed. I make my bed as soon as my feet hit the floor
in the morning. I strip back the comforter and top sheet and pop up that bottom sheet.
I give it a good shake and tuck it back in all four corners.” She pantomimed her precision
tucking. “Every day. And I strip the bed to the mattress on Thursdays mornings.” Mother
paused to check her mental calendar. Scheduling her maritime bed stripping. “You can’t
tell me there’s a maid in the world who will take the time to pop up my bottom sheet.
You’ve heard of bed bugs? That maid isn’t touching my bed.”

“She’s on edge,” my father reminded me again on the phone this morning, something
I already knew and had been smack dab in the middle of (my whole life) for months.
“She’s wound tight as a tick, Davis. Be patient with her and don’t say or do
anything
to upset her. No stress, no surprises. Give her a day or two and she’ll settle down
and relax.”

“I’ll tell you something right now,” Tight as a Tick said. “I’m not exactly fond of
the idea of sleeping under the same roof with three strangers. Especially a strange
man.” She appeared, however, very fond of the cranberry sparklers. I poured her another.
Maybe if I liquored her up she’d settle down and relax sooner than the day or two
Daddy said it would be, because it had only been an hour or two and I wasn’t sure
I’d make it a day or two.

The V2s buzzed again, telling us the door to 704 had closed.

“What’s up with the front door?” I asked Fantasy.

“It’s the only way in and out of here,” she said. “Which, if you ask me, is a bad
idea. Not to mention a fire hazard.”

“Oh, forevermore.” Mother added five-alarm fire to her worry list and polished off
her third sparkler. My mother had never touched a drop of alcohol or allowed it in
the house until the day she was on the receiving end of a positive biopsy result.
In the months since, she’d discovered that “a little something for her nerves” went
a long way. And everyone agreed.

“Well, there are security doors and then there are security doors,” I said. “The doors
here are a little much. Like Alcatraz doors.”

“What a great idea,” Fantasy said. “Repurpose this boat as a prison, just don’t give
the prisoners a V2.”

“It’s a ship, Fantasy. And you could fit five thousand inmates on it. This would make
a hell of a prison.”

“You should know.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“And watch your language.”

This was going to be a long long week. My mother could bring up every mistake I’ve
made in my life at a single red light. Yes, I’ve been incarcerated.

Several times. All work-related misunderstandings.

And somehow, she managed to remind me of it ten minutes into our week together. Lest
I forget. It’s a good thing 704’s pool deck was so big; Mother would need every inch
of it to air my dirty laundry.

“So!” Jessica DeLuna stepped out of the salon. “Burnsworth is here!”

The man beside her, Burnsworth, was built just like me, short and pregnant with twins.
He wore a starched white tuxedo shirt with a little black bow tie and black pants.
Shiny black shoes. He was olive skinned, with a two-inch track of clipped black hair
that wrapped behind his head from ear to ear, a little black moustache, and widely
spaced dark eyes.

Jessica was busy taking a head count. “Where’s Poppy?”

“Who?” Mother asked.

“Poppy Campbell. Your stateroom attendant.” Jess’s fingers flew across the screen
of her V2. “There was a last-minute stateroom attendant shuffle and you got Poppy.
Three hours ago.”

“I’ve been here two,” Fantasy said. “I haven’t seen a Poppy.”

From absolutely nowhere, a Poppy appeared. “Right here.” She waved.

I don’t know if the girl dropped out of the sky, materialized out of thin air, or
if she’d been somewhere on the veranda the entire time. I do know Poppy Campbell couldn’t
possibly have been old enough to drive. Her blond hair was pulled back into a high
ponytail, her bright face free of makeup, and she had a definite athletic air about
her. Nothing about her said maid. Everything about her said high school cheerleader,
surfer girl, teenage teleporter.

“Poppy?” Jessica said. “Where’d you come from?”

A very good question. Along with where had she been?

Poppy opened her mouth, possibly to explain, but didn’t get a word out before the
table buzzed again. Jess’s V2 vibrated in her hand. She stared at it curiously. “It’s
dead. My V2 went dead.”

I leaned over. The screen on my V2 was black.

Fantasy gave hers a bang against the table.

Jess shook hers. “So, no! No!”

“Hold on.” I picked mine up and examined it all the way around. I found what might
be a pin dot power button. I used the stud of my David Yurman Chatelaine earring to
depress what might be the power button on V2. Let’s reboot this fun-sized computer.

Nothing. The V2s had no power.

“The system must have overloaded,” I said. “I’m sure they’re working on it and it
will be back up in a minute.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” my mother said.

“It means,” Fantasy said, “we’re locked in this room until the phones come back on.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous.”