I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (13 page)

Tig remembered their conversation, Pete's exasperation.
Your mother and sister are number one and one point five on your list of importance. Your dog is probably, like, two and I'm barely number three. I'm competing neck and neck with your job.

Tig shook the memory away and said, “He didn't feel prioritized,” and hoped that would be enough to satisfy Wendy so they could stop talking about it. She shuffled through the envelopes in a shoebox, pulled out a couple and replaced them. “I've been meaning to show you this. Mom saved all her old letters from Aunt Edith. They aren't very interesting. Every single one starts with a weather and season report and then a comment about her health. Sometimes that's all there is. Listen.
Dear Hallie, Sunny and seventy degrees today. A little rain forecast for tonight. Sore feet
.” Tig opened another envelope and read, “
Dear Hallie, Ladybugs out. Don't you love summer? Arthritis better
.” Tig pulled out another one. “Then there's this one.
Dear Hallie, Cooler tonight. Frost likely. Fall would be my favorite season but it has such a bad reputation hanging around winter like it does. I wish you would reconsider. He's lovely. I see why you call him the Goat. Bunions killing me
.”

Wendy put down a pile of canceled checks mixed up with the photographs. “What?”

“That's all there is. ‘He's lovely. Bunions killing me.' Did Mom call Dad ‘the Goat'?”

“I never heard her do that. But she always loved goats. Remember how she used to say, ‘Don't ever underestimate the working animal. Before there were coins, goats were traded for silver because of their value. Work hard, girls.'”

Tig shook her head. “As if we needed that reminder. But here's the weird thing. The date on this letter is September l974.”

“That was two years after Dad died.”

Tig folded the letter and put it back into the shoebox. “So who was Aunt Edith talking about? Did Mom date?”

“I can't really imagine that. Must not have been very important if we never heard about him.”

Tig groaned. “I'm going to go see Mom. You coming?”

Wendy didn't answer right away. She looked around the room. “I should have come sooner. To help you here. This sorting is a huge downer. I'm really tired.”

“So you're not coming.”

“Don't be that way.”

“What way? Hoping for a little help, but being disappointed and frustrated?”

“Bossy, demanding, and parental.”

“Shut up, Wendy.”

“Very professional.”

“Haven't you heard? I don't have to be professional anymore.”

• • •

At Hope House, Hallie stood rocking in front of the picture window. Her tortured face reflected back into the room, stark and worried in contrast with the peaceful darkness of the outside grounds. With her arms folded in front of her, she kneaded both her elbows.

“Mom, calm down. It's me. It's Tig.”

“Is he coming to pick me up? Where's Shiloh? C'mere girl.” Suddenly, she moved nearer to Tig, despite the arthritis in her hip, the chronic pains in her feet. Her gray hair, no longer in tidy combs, stuck out like dandelion wisps around her face. Her purse lay on her bed, upended and deflated amidst tissues, an empty wallet, a hairbrush, and a weekly pill keeper. There was an abrasion on her forearm.

“What's that on your arm, Mom?”

Her mother turned away and paced back to the large window in her room. She pressed her hands on the glass, her eyes frantic and searching. Suddenly, she folded her arms together and scratched at the raw skin on her forearm. Tig approached and quietly said, “Mom? Stop scratching.” Gently, she redirected her mother's hands and tried to make her meet her eyes.

Struggling feebly against her daughter, Hallie said, “Is he coming?”

“Who, Mom? Dad?”

With tears in her eyes, Hallie said, “No! Yes. Your father.”

In the reflection of the window, superimposed against the sorrowful night sky, Tig saw Wendy in the doorway, the light of the hallway around her. Smoothing her mother's hair away from her face, she said, “Mama, look who's here.” Wendy took a tentative step forward and Thatcher pranced from behind her into the room, her tail like a metronome tick-tocking a rapid hello.

Hallie bent at the waist, the stubborn hip slowing her descent. “Shiloh! Good girl.” Loyal Thatcher, recognizing her alias, gave her doggie smile and went straight to Hallie's ear for a taste and identity confirmation. Satisfied, Thatcher sat and winked as Hallie massaged her ears.

“I'm tired, old boy, so tired. But I have so much work to do. I have so much work to do.”

“No, Mom, not tonight. We're here now. Work's done.”

“So much work to do,” her mother repeated, but more slowly and with less conviction.

Tig touched her mother's shoulder and steered her to the bed. “It's late.” She patted the covers. “Here, Thatcher. Up here, honey.” The labradoodle jumped onto the rumpled blankets and settled herself onto Hallie's legs.

Hallie said, petting the dog, “Good boy, let's take a look at you.” She sighed and positioned herself around the animal, shrinking herself down to fit.

Tig glanced at Wendy. “I didn't think you were coming.”

“I wasn't going to. I planned to take a walk. Thatcher wouldn't move so I said, ‘You wanna go see Grandma?' and she hopped right up. I figured I'd better bring her in for a visit. When I was here last week, I saw the woman at the end of the hall with a cat.”

“I don't know why I never thought to do that. Mom's a wreck at night.”

Wendy leaned against the wall of the corridor. “I've never seen her so . . . haphazard.”

“The move set off her sundowner syndrome.”

“It sounds like it would be a good thing, doesn't it? Like a restful retreat at sundown.”

“It's a misnomer. The sun goes down and every worry or anxiety she kept hidden all those years bubbles to the surface and pops through. Can you imagine the shit that's going to come out of me? Usually it takes a lot more to calm her down. It never occurred to me the ‘he' she wanted was Shiloh.” Tig gestured with her head toward her mother, “You see why I didn't want to leave?”

A soft snoring sound wafted into the hall. Tig saw her mother's head propped up on a pillow, her mouth open to the ceiling. Thatcher did the same.

“Her younger self would be mortified if she saw this,” said Wendy. “She was always so careful about appearances. All those years watching what she ate, exercising.”

Tig said, nodding, “Her medical history was super simple. Before here, she wasn't on any meds.”

“She's going to live a long time.” The reality sat between them, the implications staring them down. One look at her sister, and Tig knew Wendy felt as relieved and afraid as she did.

Wendy sighed and said, “I don't suppose we can leave Thatcher here.”

“I'll stay.”

“You should have gone to Hawaii.”

As she continued to stare at her mother, Tig said, “It's better this way.”

“For who, Tig?”

“For Mom.”

'

Tig fiddled with her collar, pressed it smooth, and adjusted her necklace; a slim chain with the word
Peace
stamped on a silver charm.

“Nervous?” Jean Harmeyer handed Tig a pen and legal pad while Macie placed a water bottle on the small table next to Tig's chair.

“Always.”

“Good. You thrive on it. It makes you fierce.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Whatever you say. You're the star.”

“What's my hair doing?”

“Relax, they can't see you. It's radio, remember?”

Tig released a little cardboard laugh. “There are people in the audience. They can see me.”

Jean said, “Maybe I should put makeup into our budget. You do look a little terrible.”

“I've been spending a lot of time at the nursing home.”

Macie spoke into her headset from the control room. “Take some time off, Dr. M. This will be here when you get back. We've had some good shows. Look how many more people are here.”

“I can hear you, Macie,” said Jean. “She cannot take time off.”

With the house lights up in the red-seated auditorium, Tig saw what looked like a Whitman's Sampler of people: all colors, shapes, and sizes were present. A man in a Packers hat and camouflage hunting jacket lounged next to a fussy, tidy man dressed like it was picture day in elementary school: blue vest, loafers, and hair gel. The female college-student population was well represented in plaid flannel pajama pants and flip-flops. Theirs was the casual beauty of youth made complete with a messy ponytail and fresh-from-the-pillow skin. A smattering of seasoned professional women sipped coffee and sent mobile e-mails.

Tig checked the time and said, “Let's do this.” The recorded music swelled along with the opening announcer, and Tig's nervousness fluttered around her chest and into her carotids. She flushed and the audience sat up in their seats.

The first caller was a man. “I can't get my wife to stop telling her friends about everything in our lives.”

Tig jotted a note on a legal pad. “Tell me more about that.”

“She's got no filter. Once, I overheard her telling someone on the phone that I prefer boxers over briefs. I mean, I go to the parish fall festival, and I never know if the person I'm talking to knows about my hemorrhoids.”

“Oh, I doubt she goes that far.”

“Really? I have a red cartoon devil shoveling coal tattooed in an extremely intimate location. Last week, I ran into my wife's friend—not her best friend, mind you—and she said, ‘Stoke that furnace, Sparky.'”

Laughter erupted from the crowd, and the women who came with their girlfriends nodded knowingly.

Tig said, “Well, I can tell you straight up, if you don't like it, she shouldn't do it. Have you talked about it?”

Exasperation flooded the telephone line. “Sure, I have. She says I'm being too sensitive. I told her, ‘How would you like it if I told everyone your nickname was Whiskers in high school?'”

There was a collective gasp among the women. Heads shook as if to say,
Traitor
!

Tig said, “You two have to set up some ground rules. Like everything in your private square, shoulders to crotch, is illegal conversation for playgroup or a staff meeting. Anything that might be considered sensitive in your medical chart cannot be discussed. Add to that your bank account, bedroom Kama Sutra, and anything else you want. If you have a collection of tiny president saltshakers and you don't want it talked about, add that to the list. Come to an agreement.”

There was a moment of silence on the line. “That sounds great in theory, but how do I hold her accountable? What if she does it anyway?”

“Well, that's the problem, isn't it? I'm here to say whether it's fair or not, and how to make it more fair. That's the definition of an agreement.” Tig paused a minute and added, “You send her to me.”

The caller hung up and the
Applause
light flashed. Behind the glass in the booth, Macie pulled an enameled chopstick out of her hair and chewed on an end.

Tig said, “Hi caller, are you there?”

It was quiet on the line. Tig looked at Macie's intense and worried face.

“Caller?”

“My husband uses prostitutes.”

Without missing a beat, Tig said, “Is there more you want to say?”

“What more is there?” The caller made a sound Tig couldn't identify.

“Are you laughing?”

The woman's voice, high-pitched and sad, said, “No, I'm sorry. I just found out.”

“You're very upset.”

The woman sniffed in answer. “He says I just don't understand.”

“What's to understand? You want him to stop. He should stop.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him.”

The air changed in the room, the connection died, and Tig looked around the studio at the listeners. She brushed her hair back.

“A relationship is sacred,” she began. “Whatever that relationship is, whether it's with your hairstylist, your mail carrier, your spouse, it's a sacred pact. If you want it to continue, you can't cross the line and expect the person on the other side of the fence to cross it with you. If you suddenly stop tipping after a haircut or begin putting your recyclables in your mailbox, the people on the receiving end will be confused, disappointed, wronged. You have to define what the relationship is based on. Kindness? Fidelity? Casserole dishes with Bisquick? Find out, be consistent, check in. Build relationship equity.”

It was stone quiet in the room.

Tig glanced at Jean, who nodded an almost imperceptible ‘go on.'

“You can't go with the ‘don't ask, don't tell' policy. Ask. Then ask again. Then make sure you tell a thing or two while you're at it. If you get it all out there on the table, in the open, then the rest of it is choice and prioritization. My mom always said that when it comes to relationships, it's important to pay as much attention to what people do as what they say. Only through their actions will you truly know where you stand.”

A woman in the front row began madly texting someone. The call lights lit up and Tig steadied the microphone. “Hello. You're on the air.”

“There's this woman. I want to talk to her about something. I think I'm starting to understand her.”

Tig immediately recognized Pete's voice. Her eyes darted to Macie, who was in conversation with Jean.

Tig stuttered, “I—well . . . .” She saw the exit sign and considered its message. She locked eyes with an expectant-looking woman in the audience, and remembered her role, the part she had agreed to play for money: Tig the strong, Tig the funny, Tig the answer lady. Not the part she felt at the moment, Tig the wreck. She remembered seeing Pete's baseball cap that morning behind the closet door, thought of his straw-like, chlorine-fried blond hair, and recalled the feeling of homesickness that nearly swamped her ability to get ready for the day.