In Search of Eden (14 page)

She didn't know what was wrong with her. She felt witless and dull, as though she didn't have any connection at all anymore. She felt free-floating like one of those astronauts who drift off into space.

She could go back to work, but the thought made her feel so tired, she could barely move. She could take a trip, but she didn't have the energy. She realized with a jolt of ironic humor that she had finally gotten what she wanted. All her life, she had done one thing or another to get away from Mama or to spite Mama or to evade Mama. But the joke was on her, wasn't it? For one way or
another, she had managed to organize her entire existence around one person. Defying her, running away from her, or coming back to take her place under that well-worn thumb until circumstances became unbearable and she ran away again. But no matter what, Mama had been the sun around which her universe had revolved. And now she was gone.

After a month they staged their little intervention. Dorrie was torn between amusement, irritation, and flat indifference when they showed up on her doorstep: Mr. Cooper with his Bible under his arm, kind concern on his face; Aunt Bobbie, looking weary and worn, still in her nurse's uniform; and Myra Jean from the Hasty Taste, peppy and smart with a new pink Capri pant outfit, freshly frosted hair, and a pan of cinnamon rolls balanced on one hip. Myra Jean firmly believed that all of life's difficulties could be eased with liberal helpings of the appropriate carbohydrates.

“May we come in?” Mr. Cooper asked with his customary courtliness.

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside. “Make yourselves at home.”

They came in. They made themselves at home. Myra Jean disappeared, and a few minutes later Dorrie smelled coffee.

Aunt Bobbie looked around, and Dorrie felt embarrassed following her gaze. She supposed she had let the place go. There were newspapers piled in the corner and dirty soup bowls and teacups here and there on the furniture. The table was covered with mail. Her pillow and blanket were rumpled on the couch, for that's where she'd been sleeping. The carpet needed to be vacuumed. She glanced down at herself, and the picture wasn't greatly improved. She had worn the same pair of sweatpants and T-shirt nearly every day for a week. Her hair needed to be washed.

Mr. Cooper moved a newspaper and sat down on the recliner. Aunt Bobbie found a spot on the couch. Dorrie picked up the blanket and pillow and tossed them in the corner and sat down. She turned off the television with the remote. Myra Jean came back in and flicked her gaze across the room, raising an eyebrow when it came to rest on Dorrie. “That whirring noise you hear is your mama,” she said, “spinnin' in her grave.”

Dorrie smiled. Mr. Cooper chuckled. Even Aunt Bobbie grinned. Myra Jean looked pleased with herself, returned to the kitchen, then came back with a tray of coffee cups, sugar, and nondairy coffee creamer, no doubt all she could find, since Dorrie hadn't bought milk in a month. The cinnamon rolls smelled wonderful, and when Myra Jean handed her the plate, Dorrie took it gratefully. She took a bite, surprised she could still enjoy the pleasure of the spicy sweetness and warm bread. The coffee was hot and good. As she ate, she discovered she was hungry. She sipped the coffee slowly and realized she hadn't been out of the house in weeks. She had just pulled the shades, pulled the blanket over her head, and lain on the couch.

“You look terrible,” Myra Jean said, scraping the last little bit of icing from her saucer with her fork.

“I haven't been sleeping so good,” Dorrie admitted. The dream was a constant companion, tormenting her every time she closed her eyes. She breathed out a deep sigh and set down her plate.

“Look here,” Aunt Bobbie said, “this won't do.” Dorrie smiled. With Mama alive, Bobbie had been relegated to “yes, ma'am” like the rest of them. This was the most spunk she'd ever seen out of her aunt.

“Grief can swallow you up,” Mr. Cooper said kindly. “I know. I've been there.”

Dorrie felt a thrust of guilt. Was it grief she was feeling or just . . . what? Disorganization? “I can't seem to find my way,” she said.

“Do you need some help?” Myra Jean asked. “ 'Cause I can
make
you a list of things to do.”

Dorrie grinned again and Mr. Cooper, catching her eye, smiled back. “How can we help?” he asked.

Dorrie shrugged and shook her head, ashamed that she was still dry-eyed. She had not cried for her mother once.

“Well, I did something,” Aunt Bobbie said. “I scheduled you two appointments.” She reached into her purse and brought out two business cards and handed one to Dorrie. “This one's with your mama's lawyer. He's been calling me about getting you to schedule a time for him to dispose of your mama's estate. He's got the paper work all done, and he wants you to come and sign some things. The second one is with a counselor I know. She comes in and works with the old folks sometimes, but she's real nice and good to talk to no matter what your age. Her name's Sandra Lockwood. Here's her card.” She handed her the other. “You're seeing the lawyer at two tomorrow and her on Wednesday at ten.”

Dorrie took the cards, and to tell the truth she felt a little relieved. It had been so long since she had made a decision that wasn't in reaction to her mother that she'd forgotten how.

“And I've got an appointment scheduled for you, too,” Myra Jean said, getting up and gathering up the plates and cups. “With Luann down at the Bob In. Your hair's looking terrible.”

So that was how it happened that she got back on her feet again, so to speak. She went to see Mr. Ness, the attorney, and signed the things he had prepared. Although her mother's estate was modest, it would still take several months for things to be settled. She would have money but would have to wait for probate. She was surprised to find that the education account the adoptive parents had set up for her still had a substantial balance, but since it was in Mama's name, it, too, would have to go
through probate. Mama had made some deposits, she realized, and she felt stirred up at the thought. A little angry, if the truth were told, for it was so like Mama to hide any reason for Dorrie to love and connect with her. Instead of enriched, she felt robbed.

She went to see Sandra Lockwood and talked to her twice a week for an hour for a month or so.

“You haven't formed many permanent attachments,” she said. “Because deep down I don't think you believe you have what it takes to be worthy of deep, real love. You can't stop yourself from reaching for it, though, so what you do is break it at some point by finding fault with the circumstances or people in your life and telling yourself to move on.”

“Uh-huh,” Dorrie said, nodding and wondering if she had made a mistake to come. But the counselor did help her make a few decisions. For one, she decided to sell the house. Even though she had always thought of it as home, she realized now she had no desire to stay in Nashville. She would miss Mr. Cooper, but this was not her home. The second decision was even more momentous.

“Tell me about your name,” Sandra asked her another time, so Dorrie told her the story of how Mama had changed it from what it had been to what it was now.

“Did you like that?” she asked.

“No. But I didn't have any choice in the matter.”

“There were a lot of things you didn't have a choice in,” Sandra observed quietly. “But that was then. This is now. It's a new day, Dorrie.”

It was a new day. She repeated it to herself until she actually began to believe it. She went back to the lawyer and filled out the paper work to get her name back and got a court date.

She cleaned out the house and rented a storage unit for her few belongings. Aunt Bobbie would arrange for the house to be listed with a Realtor when the will was probated, and after the sale, Dorrie would give her aunt a generous share of the proceeds. Aunt Bobbie also agreed to have a garage sale for Mama's furniture.
Dorrie didn't want any of it. Aunt Bobbie said there were a few things she would like. Dorrie told her to come and get them and began sorting through the little that remained of her mother's life.

Mama had already gotten rid of almost everything that was in any way personal. Odd, but totally in keeping with what she would have expected. Dorrie took down Mama's housecoat and carefully folded it, setting it down in the bottom of the Goodwill sack. She folded the few dresses that were left, two pantsuits, the jeans and jacket. She took the nightgown and peignoir set Mama had been so attached to and gently placed them on the pile. She went through the dresser, the hall closet, the bathroom medicine chest, the rest of the house, and she was amazed at how little there was that her mother had left behind.

Dorrie's old violin was on the bottom shelf of the guest room closet, and she was surprised Mama had never gotten rid of it. How odd. She picked it up and stroked the wood and even lifted it to her chin and played a scale. She had a little talent. She wondered again if she might have accomplished anything with it given the chance. She set it back down in the crushed velvet case and carefully set the bow inside the clips. She shut the case and after a moment added it to the pile for the storage unit instead of the Goodwill.
Who knows?
she thought. It was a new day. Anything was possible. Perhaps she would play it again someday.

She didn't go to the Bob In, in spite of Myra Jean's kind arrangements. She actually went to the Mall at Green Hills, an upscale sort of place that Mama studiously avoided. She took a look at herself in the plate-glass window as she walked in, and she had to agree with Myra Jean. She was a pathetic sight. She wore jeans today, and they were baggy, as she hadn't been eating much. She had on one of Mama's cotton blouses, which was also too big. She wore no makeup, and the bones on her face seemed too
prominent. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was a mess, hanging down over her face like a dark veil. She went over again what the counselor had said.

“It's not a sin to spend a little money on yourself. You don't have to take your pleasures and run away and hide with them. No one is going to take them away from you. God gives good gifts. Why don't you give yourself permission to enjoy them in His presence?”

The counselor talked about God quite a bit. Dorrie didn't mind. She actually liked it, although she still wasn't sure what she thought about it. She became thoughtful when she recalled the image that had come to mind when the counselor had delivered that particular nugget of wisdom. She had remembered a dog they had when Daddy lived with them—a mutt. That dog had the strangest habit of taking her food off behind the house where she would eat it with furtive glances and protective growls. Dorrie had been puzzled, but Daddy had explained.
“That dog was probably the runt of the litter,”
he said.
“She took her food off so no one would take it from her. Now that she's all by herself she still does it. Kind of sad, isn't it?”
he had commented, and Dorrie had agreed. Now she understood exactly how that dog had felt. She sighed and pulled open the heavy doors and stepped into the chilled mall.