Golden Hour (Crescent City) Page 5

  “Marigny Opera House,” she says, ignoring my last comment which—based on the shade of pink her face has turned—clearly flustered her.

  “Interesting.” Her hand rests on the bar. I let mine move close to it. Not touching. Just testing. “Why’s that?”

  “I think it’s just because it’s always been there, shaping all of my childhood memories. And I can still go there, and it’s the same. Even though it’s changed over the years, there’s this feeling I get when I go there, like I pop out of time and space. It’s like...what comfort food does for some people? How it brings them home in this elemental way? Being in that space has the same effect on me, I guess. I’m not explaining it well.” She slides her hands away from mine and links her fingers together, then breaks them apart, looking frustrated that she can’t find the right words.

  “It’s a beautiful place. I saw a puppet show once there when I was a kid. I’m not talking regular finger puppets.” I spread my arms wide and watch her watch me. I can’t be sure, but I think I see a glimmer of pure female appreciation in her eyes. “I’m talking, massive, ten or fifteen foot tall suckers!”

  “Yes!” She nods and laughs, and it’s like we’re both seeing the same memory. “I saw those too! So many amazing shows there.” She hugs herself like she’s comforted just by talking about the place. “How ‘bout you? What’s your favorite spot?”

  Now she’s shown her depth and intellect, and I’m about to bring it all low again. I bristle at my own thoughts. I’m long done trying to impress other people. Honesty works for me. “Ah, that’s a tough one. I guess Maple Leaf Bar is my favorite.”

  “I thought it didn’t have to be a bar? And that place is a dive.” She looks at me expectantly, like I’m going to bust out some great story about why I love that old place.

  “What can I say? I’m a man of simple pleasures. But you’re partially right. It’s dark and cramped as hell,” I admit.

  “And the acoustics are shit there,” she adds with a small grin.

  “Point taken.” I hold up my glass and try out a wink of my own. Probably because I’m getting more sauced by the second, and she’s cute as hell. She full-on smiles. Holy Jesus, that smile just about stops my heart. I have a scattered moment right after, like I’ve been dazzled and can’t collect my thoughts. I finally find my point. “But that place harbors the ghost of James Booker, doll, and that’s gotta count for something.”

  “I’m not sure there’s any place in New Orleans that doesn’t claim to harbor the ghost of someone,” she says.

  “I’ll drink to that.” I hold my glass up and she raises hers. “To the ghosts who never let us forget. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  We tap glasses, and I toss this one back too quickly. When it starts going down that fast, I know I’m headed straight for trouble. As evidenced by my idiotic toast.

  “So, what do you think, Warren? Do you think people hang around after they’re gone?” Her voice is low and serious, like she wants a truth I’m not sure I have. I’m not sure anyone has it. I wonder what old wound is sending her begging for that truth.

  “You mean, do I think they’re living in walls around us?” I ask. I watch her face go from depressed to hopeful to sad again, and I know that no matter what I say it’s going to be the wrong fucking answer. So I give it to her straight as I can. “No. No I don’t. I think once someone is gone, they’re gone for good.”

  “Right. You’re right,” she says, waving away the awkwardness that is now swirling between us. “Of course you’re right.”

  I want to take it back, because it’s obviously not what she wanted to hear. The look on her face, the way her forehead is creased and her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, makes it obvious she was hoping for something more.

  “Elise, wait a second,” I plead.

  “I would love to. I really would. But it’s late. And I need to get going.” She starts to walk out, and I catch her wrist, my fingers feeling for the racing beat of her heart without even intending to.

  It’s there. In her eyes, in the dark, peeled under the sadness and confusion—a desire that’s undeniable even if we’re not anywhere near admitting it. For a second, we click, and I lean in, my lips close to hers. She goes still, her eyes widen, and I think this is going to happen.

  And then she turns tail and runs, quick as a doe, and I’m left with too much time to pass with this many thoughts. Thoughts about the dead being gone, period. Thoughts about this city being the last place I needed to come back to. Thoughts about how I fucked things up, then smoothed them over, then fucked them up again with Elise Dupuis.

  I should follow her out and try my best to keep this from getting more awkward than it needs to be. I should.

  And I do. I walk her to her car, because I want to know she’s made it out okay. But I sort of trail behind her, because it feels tense, and like she doesn’t want me to help her. And when she slides into the driver’s seat and gives me a terse wave good-bye, I step back and watch her pull out without trying to fix a damn thing. I turn on my heel and head back into the rush of bluesy music and slink back to the place where we were just sitting together. It’s a completely different space without her, and I know if I sit it’s only to attempt to hold onto something that’s already peeled out and driven away. I should have enough pride to walk out.

  “I’ll have another,” I say and stay my ass at the bar instead.

  “Oh, Elise, thank God you’re home,” Mama says, swiping her keys off the counter and grabbing her purse from the hook. “Are you on your way to work?”

  I look down at my attire. I know I work in scrubs, but these are clearly pajamas. “No, Mama, I’m off today. You on your way out?”

  “I’m trying. I’ve been waiting on that sitter all day to come and stay with Gram, but she hasn’t shown up. Flakes! They’re all flakes! You’ll sit with her until your father gets home, won’t you? I absolutely cannot miss this Junior League meeting, the last one I missed Margie Ledoux stole my position out from under me. I was supposed to be treasurer. I’ve always been treasurer. You can’t take away a title for missing one meeting, even if it was election day. Ludicrous. There’s no way I’m going to miss heading up the Juleps in June fundraiser though. No. Way!”

  She’s jingling her bracelets nervously, like she’s got to get out of here before she snaps. I know how hard it is for her, not being able leave the house without arranging for someone to care for Gran. Gran is a prisoner in her own mind, and Mama is in her own version of a jail cell, never able to come and go as she pleases. She retired from nursing earlier than she expected to in order to help care for Gran and Pop, and after Pop passed, Gran became her full-time job.

  The last time she tried—just to run two houses down to bring chocolate-chip muffins as a condolence offering to the Petersons after they lost their son—Gran wandered off the opposite direction down the street in her nightclothes, borrowing ingredients from each of the neighbors along the way to do some baking of her own. She hasn’t so much as boiled an egg in years, but she really thought she had some culinary masterpiece to whip up that day.

  Poor old soul. It’s hard for all of us, because the dementia has warped her brain so badly it doesn’t even feel like Gran is in there at all anymore. At least not the same Gran that Charlie and I knew growing up. The one who forced us into the humid sunshine to plant Louisiana irises, cat’s claws, and brugmansia in the rich, loamy soil with her, then rewarded us for a hard day’s work with sugar-filled popsicles Mama never let us have. The kind that stained our lips, teeth, and tongue neon colors and burned the back of our throats.

  No, that quick-witted, capable woman has been replaced with a frail lady plagued by round the clock hallucinations and paranoia.

  Mama and Daddy can’t so much as watch television without Gran being convinced that whoever is on—even if it’s just the harmlessly inept local weatherman—is staring right at her, that he’s somehow out to get her.

  “Go on, mama, I’ve go
t her.” I drape Mama’s sweater over her thin shoulders and pat her out the door.

  “You sure, darlin? I know your days off are so precious to you.” She hesitates at the door, and, much as I know she wants to go kill Margie Ledoux with dollops of kindness and charm, I realize she’s also wanting me to tell her I have a plan, a reason to get out of my pajamas, get dolled up, and live a little.

  ‘Precious’ was a word that applied to my days once upon a time. Back when I had Mike to spend those long, lazy stretches curled around, dreaming of our wide open future. We both worked such long hours that there was no way I was going to miss a second at home with him.

  But now, days off are just more time to think. Sometimes I envy Gran and her inability to tie her thoughts down and deal with their truths. Even her hallucinations are more peaceful than my reality sometimes.

  “Sure thing, Mama.” I press her out the door with my big phony smile in place. “You have fun now.”

  Once my mom has gone, I make Gran and me sandwiches and carry them back to her room. It’s a tiny space on the first floor of the house. Originally, Mama and Daddy had built Gran her own apartment behind their home so she could live independently but stay close enough if she needed help. But she only wound up living there a few months before she became too paranoid to even be that far away from them.

  They couldn’t move her upstairs into the guest room because the hip she broke years ago wouldn’t allow her to climb the stairs. So, they chose to convert the tiny office space—just big enough for a twin-sized bed and a rocking chair—into Gran’s room.

  “Hey, shug,” she says, patting the bed next to her. Her mind may be a twisting, frightening labyrinth, but the doctors say she’s physically healthy as a horse. I hate to see her spending so much time in her little bed.

  “Hey, Gran. Why don’t you come sit in the front room with me while we eat? We can play dominos,” I offer, running my hand over hers, paper smooth and softly fragrant with gardenia lotion.

  Gran’s face lights up a little. Her smile is cautious, childlike, but excited. “I think that sounds nice.”

  I help her to her walker and into the next room, where I make a fuss over her. I fluff the pillow before she sits in the big arm chair and set the antique carved serving tray on her lap. It’s a little too fancy to hold just a turkey sandwich, but Gran appreciates it.

  “How was your day, Libby?” she asks before taking a bite of her sandwich and chewing it with care. I could correct her and tell her that Libby is my mama, but it’s no use. By the time I lay it all out for her again, she’ll have forgotten where we started.

  After all, it really doesn’t matter who she thinks I am. She’s doing her best, same as the rest of us, and I’m glad to be my mother in her eyes if that brings her some peace.

  “I haven’t done much today, Gran. I’m just happy to be spending some time with you.” I lean over to rub a hand on her arm, and am relieved she smiles. Sometimes she forgets so much, everything frightens her. Even being touched by people she loves. I try to get affection in where I can, while I can.

  “How’s that boyfriend of yours?” she asks. She dabs her napkin at her mouth, but misses the crumbs. “He’s a looker. I always did love a man in uniform.” She gives me an impish smile, like we’re girlfriends about to trade gossip about our fellas.

  My stomach turns at the mention of Mike.

  I know Gran isn’t in her right mind, but she talks about him often. She’s even claimed to have seen him in the house a few times. The doctors say that’s all normal, just her mind playing tricks on her. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  Last year at Christmas, she wandered off and told the next door neighbor that there were armed men in the house and a home invasion was going on. Daddy came downstairs in his robe to find a SWAT team at the front door.

  Still, an irrational part of my heart jumps every time, wanting to believe that these particular hallucinations might be real. I’ve lain awake at night praying for a sign that Mike is still hanging around keeping watch over us.

  The funny thing is, Gran was very logical when her mind was all there. She never shunned anyone else’s beliefs, but when her patients talked about guardian angels and loved ones coming back from beyond, she always smiled politely, then shook her head sadly. She believed death is the end.

  Just like Caleb. Much as his words shook me at the bar, I know he’s right from evidence. Once a person you love is gone, they’re gone forever. I’ve seen many good, loving souls leave this earth in the ER, and never once did I feel any of them lingering on.

  I put a hand up to wipe my tears before they start falling down my face, upsetting Gran. It’s naive and stupid to think Mike would stick around with me in some capacity even if such a thing were possible. There are so many people who lose loved ones they depend on in every way. Children lose parents. Elderly spouses lose each other. Disabled people lose relative caretakers. If the dead could come back, there’d be a line miles and miles long of people who would need to reach out and offer comfort to the living.

  Mike would never be selfish enough to cut that line, even for me. He’d know damn well I’d be pissed if he did. We prided ourselves on how we cared for others first. How we had a survivor’s instinct, a toughness that could endure any pain that got thrown our way.

  It’s just, I never thought the hurt would burn so incessantly. That I’d carry it forever, with no break, with no relief for the rest of my life.

  “He’s….he’s good.” I say. I hope, I pray, I wish. And even if it’s selfish as hell, I’m gonna keep an eye out for a sign from him.

  Gran nods and smiles the sweetest, most heart-wrenchingly vacant smile.

  “Do you want to play dominos?” I ask as I pick the tray up from her lap and carry it to the kitchen.

  “Do you think I could color? Gloria sent me a new coloring book in the mail last week with birds. It’s only for members of the Audubon Society,” she announces proudly.

  My Aunt Gloria is good for sending Gran gifts from Florida, but she never quite manages a phone call or a visit.

  “Sure Gran, let me go find it.”

  I rummage through her dresser drawer and find the book and then move on to find some crayons. After five minutes or so of not being able to put my hands on anything that resembles a crayon or coloring pencil, I remember that I have a stash of art supplies from when I was in college. So many silly posters and projects, so many collages and pamphlets, it sometimes felt like my professors got their curriculum ideas from elementary school teachers.

  “I’m going to run to my apartment for two seconds, Gran! I just need to grab some crayons!” I yell into the living room.

  Gran mumbles something ,or maybe sings a line from a song, and waves over her shoulder.

  Two minutes.

  Two minutes tops.

  That’s how long it took to sprint to my room, track down coloring supplies, and race back.

  Two minutes, and now, Gran is at the bottom of the staircase, curled up in a tiny, shivering heap, crying and moaning like a wounded animal.

  “Gran!” I cry, racing to her with my heart lodged tight in my throat, kneeling at her side, and rubbing her shoulder, unsure if I should move her. I should know, I should know this! But panic sets in when I see my grandmother lying so helpless and small. I wonder if she’s hurt. I try to swallow around the guilt that crashes through me for leaving her alone. “Calm down, sweetheart. I’m here. Does anything hurt? How far did you fall, Gran?”

  “Why did you leave me? Why’d you go upstairs?” she moans, her words slurred with confusion and sharp with accusation all at once.

  I want to yell that I didn’t. That I told her where I was going, that she just needed to sit and wait for me, but I know it won’t do any good.

  This is my fault. Mine alone.

  I shouldn’t have left her.

  I know better.

  I could have—should have—helped her to her walker and taken her outside, across the garden
to my apartment with me. She probably would have loved the fresh air, even if it was just for a few minutes.

  But I was lazy, and didn’t want to bother doing that. So I went alone. And now look what happened. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite hard on the inside of my cheek. Now is not the time to wallow in self-pity. I need to right this wrong as best I can.

  “How many stairs did you fall down, Gran?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle and my hands on her, wanting to comfort her, but afraid to find something seriously wrong with her.

  “Stairs?” she whimpers, turning her head into her shoulder and letting loose a torrent of sobs. “Why did you go upstairs?”

  She’s clutching at the hip she previously broke, and I know I can’t move her.

  She may have broken it again. She may have lost consciousness. I don’t know what may have happened. She could have made it to the top step for all I know. My hands shake and my mind reels.

  I should be able to do this, to help her, but all my nursing falls away because, damnit, this is Gran! This is a woman I love and let down, and I...I just can’t make a decision.

  I keep thinking about what my mother would do. So many options bubble to the surface, but none seems quite right. The bottom line is, what my mother would never do is leave a patient in pain because she was too panicked to do what needed to be done.

  Then again, my mother would do what needed to be done herself.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Maybe the whispers about my shoddy nursing skills are true. I could try. I should try to help her, to take control. But what if I hurt her worse? You aren’t supposed to move people after a fall. She needs a backboard and x-rays.

  “I shouldn’t have,” I say, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I shouldn’t have left you, but I did. Now I’m getting us help, Gran. I promise.”

  She cries and wails, and the sounds coming from her are like the sounds a wounded animal makes as it writhes in terror and pain. My blood chills in my veins.