Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (3 page)

“Julia,” LuAnne said when I answered the phone later that afternoon. “Mattie is out of recovery and in her room. I just checked, and she's doing fine. Do you want to go visit her?”

I glanced at my watch. “Why, yes, let's do. It's not quite four, so we could go and be back before supper.”

“I'll pick you up on my way. Fifteen minutes?”

“That's fine,” I said. “I'll see if Mildred wants to go with us.”

Mildred didn't. I called her as soon as I'd hung up with LuAnne, and Mildred had said, “Just give Mattie my best, if you will. It's too late in the day for me. I'll try to go over tomorrow.”

I wasn't surprised, because Mildred had become less and less active lately—a matter that concerned me. But how do you point out to someone that they need to exercise and lose weight without losing a friendship in the process?

After telling Lillian where I was going, I slipped on a cardigan—hospitals are always cold—and hurried out to LuAnne's car when she pulled to the curb.

_______

The Pink Lady at the front desk gave us Mattie's room number, then we followed the painted lines to the surgical ward on the second floor. Stopping at the nurses' station on the ward, LuAnne asked about Mattie's condition.

“She's still a little groggy from the anesthesia,” the nurse
responded, “but the surgery went well.” Then she smiled warmly. “She should have no problem with a full recovery.”

Well, that was encouraging, I thought, marveling again at the wonders of modern medicine.

We proceeded down the hall and entered a room with two beds, a partially pulled curtain between them giving a semblance of privacy. There was a patient in each bed. Mattie was in the one closest to the window, but it took me a minute to recognize her. Her hair was loose and stringing across the pillow, and the wrinkles on her face were deeper than usual. No wonder, of course, considering the night she'd spent on the floor, as well as the hours of surgical intervention that she'd endured. I hated to think what I would've looked like if I'd been through the mill as she had.

We walked past the first bed, courteously averting our eyes from the woman who lay there engrossed in a movie magazine. She paid us no attention.

“Mattie,” LuAnne whispered as she leaned over the bed, careful to avoid the lines and bottles and beeping machines that were hooked onto or into Mattie. “How're you feeling?”

Mattie's eyes opened, then she stared at the ceiling as if LuAnne's words had come from there, but she didn't respond. I lingered at the foot of the bed, hesitant to get close for fear of disturbing the medical paraphernalia.

“Mattie! It's me,” LuAnne said, no longer whispering. “And Julia. We've come to see how you are.” Turning to me, she urged, “Say something, Julia. Don't leave me to do all the talking.”

I edged along the side of the bed so I wouldn't have to raise my voice. “Mattie,” I said, leaning over, “we're so concerned about you. Is there anything we can do? Anything you need?”

Her eyes blinked, then she turned to look straight at me. In a hoarse voice, she reached toward me and croaked, “Oh, Mother, has it come?”

I took a step back.

“What?” LuAnne said. “What are you looking for, Mattie?”

Mattie's head turned toward her. She blinked several times and frowned in thought.

“My gown!” she said, her head rising from the pillow with the forcefulness of her answer. “It's got to get here or I won't be able to go.”

Tears suddenly welled up in Mattie's eyes, and I said, “LuAnne, we're disturbing her. Maybe we should go.”

Mattie immediately turned back toward me. “Yes, go see about it. Call Neiman's, Mother. Tell them it has to be fitted and everything, and it has to get here.” Tears streamed down her face. “I'll just die if I can't go.”

LuAnne and I looked at each other across the bed. LuAnne's mouth was open, reminding me to close mine.

“We'll go see about it,” I said, hoping that was enough to reassure Mattie. “We'll be back later.” I motioned to LuAnne that we should leave, and we started for the door.

As we passed the other patient in the room, she lowered her magazine and said, “I hope you find that dang dress. That's all I've heard ever since they moved her in here.”

_______

“Well,” LuAnne said as she drove toward my house, “the nurse said she was still groggy from the anesthesia.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, slightly shaken from the state of Mattie's mind. “Reliving the past, I guess.”

“But you know,” LuAnne said as she stopped at a red light, “I don't think she knew us from the man in the moon. Why, she thought you were her mother, which is pretty funny when you think about it.”

“More like pitiful,” I said somewhat drily, “considering the fact that Mattie's well over ninety, and I'm nowhere near it.”

For once, LuAnne didn't pursue the subject of age differences, even though she was uncommonly proud of the fact that her birthday was six months later than mine.

“Sam,” I said as we settled into our usual places in the library after supper that evening. Lloyd was with his mother's family and Lillian had just left, so the house was quiet and settled. Occasionally, a low rumble of thunder rolled around in the distance, heralding a spring shower.

He lowered the newspaper, looked at me over his reading glasses, smiled, and said, “What's on your mind, honey?”

“A couple of things. First, I had all good intentions of going over to Mildred's after supper and enticing her to take a walk around the block with me. I'm worried about her, Sam. She's gaining weight instead of losing it, even though she's constantly on a diet. Or says she is. And here lately all the exercise she gets is walking from one chair to another.”

“Why don't you get her a pedometer? That might encourage her to move around a little more.”

“A pedometer? What does that do?”

“It counts steps. You wear it or carry it in a pocket or wherever, and it counts the number of steps you take in a day. The idea is to increase your steps by a thousand or so each day until you reach an optimum number—about ten thousand, I think.”

“Ten
thousand
! Why, Sam, you'd be walking from sunup till sundown all day long and getting nothing else done. I don't think Mildred takes much more than a hundred steps a day. That's why I thought a walk around the block would be a start, at least.

“I knew it was no use asking her, though, at the first sound of thunder. She would no more take a walk with rain threatening than she'd fly.”

“You could try early in the morning before it gets too hot.” Sam, like a lot of people, had plenty of suggestions for what somebody else could do.

“Oh, Sam,” I said, smiling, “Mildred is a late sleeper, and when she does wake, she has breakfast in bed for another hour or so.”

He lowered the paper again. “Really?”

I nodded. “Yes, she's getting less and less active. And speaking of that, who knows if Mattie Freeman will ever be active again? So that's another one to worry about. I just don't know what's to become of her. I told you how her mind was wandering all over the place when LuAnne and I visited this afternoon. It just stunned me how far out of it she was.”

Sam reached over and put his hand on mine. “That may not be permanent, honey. Tomorrow, when you see her, she may be her old self again. The anesthesia will have worn off and she'll be feeling better.”

“Well, I hope so. She's going to have decisions to make. I doubt she'll be able to live alone in that apartment for some time to come, if ever again.” I turned to him. “Oh, Sam, I'm so glad to have you. If I ever get in that situation, I know you'll take care of me.”

Sam smiled his sweet smile. “You can count on it,” he said. “But remember, it may be the other way around and you'll be looking after me.”

“Oh, don't even think it.” Then a second later, I added, “But if it happens that way, I'll gladly look after you.”

“I tell you what,” Sam said. “Let's go downhill together, and let Hazel Marie, Lloyd, J.D., Binkie, Coleman, Etta Mae, Lillian, and I guess Latisha, too, have us both on their hands. How would that do?”

I laughed. “It would do just fine and serve them right, too.”

“Well, you know, it's interesting,” Sam said, in a musing way. “I was thinking about this the other day and about the fact that
neither of us has children to call on. But then I realized, sweetheart, that you've gathered various children along the way, so I don't think either of us has anything to worry about.”

Now, that was an intriguing concept, and as I thought about it, I couldn't help but congratulate myself just a little for being so prescient. Although I hadn't realized that was what I was being when I began collecting the unrelated family members who now surrounded us.

We sat in silence for a few minutes as a glow of well-being settled in. Or, at least, it did for me. Sam, on the other hand, obviously had his mind on other things. He frowned as he folded the newspaper and put it aside.

“Maybe,” he said, a serious look on his face, “we shouldn't count on others to do what we're unwilling to do for ourselves. I'm wondering if we should begin thinking of moving to a retirement community. Sign up for some of that perpetual care they advertise.”

I stared at him. “I can't believe you're thinking of that. Why, Sam, we've visited people at Halifax Gardens—supposedly the best of the best—and all you see are gray heads and stooped shoulders and walkers and wheelchairs and wrinkled faces everywhere you look. I don't want to live where I see myself staring back at me in every face around. It's unnatural to live without young people and children around to—I don't know—equalize things, I guess. Besides,” I went on, smiling at him, “I think that perpetual care you mentioned refers to cemeteries, not retirement homes.”

We laughed, for Sam rarely misused a word, although it occurred to me that he'd done it to amuse me.

“Anyway,” I went on, “just so you know, if you're really serious about that, you'll have to go by yourself. The last time Clarice Miller invited me to lunch to meet some of her friends out there, the main topic of conversation was how many shrimp each person had gotten in her shrimp Creole.”

Sam laughed as he picked up the newspaper again, but the
memory of six elderly women stirring piles of rice with their forks while they counted shrimp saddened me. I let him finish reading an article that he seemed especially interested in, then I went back to what was foremost in my mind.

“Sam?”

“Hm-m?”

I waited until he looked at me over his glasses. “I spoke to Etta Mae Wiggins this afternoon just to feel her out about taking care of Mattie for a few days when she comes home. Now I'm wondering if I stepped on anybody's toes or pushed myself in where I wasn't wanted. I mean,” I hurried on, “I'm concerned about having a backup plan if Mattie's not made any provision for herself. Or if she doesn't have the means for any kind of plan.”

“So you're asking what I think about your shouldering the expense of Mattie's care?”

“Not exactly, because Mildred said she'd help. I just mean looking around at the possibilities at this point. Etta Mae might not be able to do it or want to do it. I sort of hope she won't.”

“Why? That's pretty much what she does, isn't it?”

“Yes, I guess it is, except her regular schedule as a Handy Home Helper gives her the freedom to come and go from one patient to another. She doesn't stay cooped up all day and night with one crabby old woman. See, Sam,” I went on, trying to explain my hesitancy, “I'm concerned about Mattie, but I'm more concerned about Etta Mae. She could use the money, I'm sure, but she needs to be out and around people her own age.”

“You mean men her own age?”

“Well, yes. And what's wrong with that? I worry about her—Etta Mae, that is. She does nothing but work, and I keep thinking I should have her over for lunch or something to meet somebody nice. Except there's nobody nice for her to meet.”

“I tell you what,” Sam said, as if he'd just thought of it. “If you just want to get her out and around, why don't you ask her to stay here with you while I'm gone? I'd feel better if there was someone in the house with you.”

“Hm-m, now that's a good thought, because I'd feel better if there was someone here, too.” Sam, Mr. Pickens, and Lloyd were leaving for a trip to Biloxi for a week of deep-sea fishing the day after school let out for the summer. It had been Mr. Pickens's idea to have a three-man vacation with Lloyd and Sam, and thank goodness for that. Mr. Pickens was proving that he could easily step into stepfatherhood, and I was delighted that the three men would be off on their own with no women around—especially me. I wouldn't have gone deep-sea fishing on a bet.

“Of course,” I went on, picking up the conversation, “I wouldn't have anyone nice for Etta Mae to meet, but it would be a change for her to have company after work and Lillian's good cooking, too. I may just do that, and, Sam, while I'm thinking of it—don't forget to pack some sunblock. And a hat. You'll need a hat out on the gulf.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sam said, grinning. “I won't forget. You won't let me.”

“Oh, you.” I smiled and reached for his hand. Then I went on in a more serious vein. “But back to Mattie, Sam. Mildred and I are just trying to think ahead. It'll be a big responsibility on somebody to determine what Mattie needs and where she should go, especially if she stays mentally eighteen years old for any length of time.”

“Well, look, honey. If she doesn't recover her mental capacity, it may be that she'll have to go into hospice care. But you don't need to worry about that. Her doctors will decide what's best for her.”

“Well, that's true, and thank goodness for professional experts. I don't want to make any such decisions for Mattie or for anybody, and Mildred most assuredly doesn't. We don't mind contributing financially, but neither of us would want the burden of deciding what's to be done with her.”

“You're worrying for nothing, sweetheart. Think of this: Mattie Freeman has lived alone for as long as we've known her. She's always known that she'd have to look after herself. Don't you
think she has a contingency plan? Something legal that'll kick in if she's incapacitated?”

“Like what? I've never thought I'd need anything like that.”

“That's because you've always had plenty of people who would step in for you. Actually, though, in spite of that, you do have something legal. You and I gave each other power of attorney right after we married.”

“We did?”

“Yes, and I told you to read it carefully and be sure you understood it.”

“Well, I guess I just signed it because you told me to.”

He laughed. “Don't make a habit of that. Anyway, chances are good that Mattie has everything lined up to take care of whatever happens. I'm not sure who her attorney is. She never came to me, so it's unlikely she went to Binkie, either. Maybe Ernest Sitton—he's been around forever. He may be looking after her affairs.”

“I hope so. I truly hope somebody is. You know, Sam, Mattie's always been a part of our circle, but she's been on the fringes, so to speak. So much so that even Helen Stroud, who's the most socially correct woman I know, upset LuAnne with her lack of interest in Mattie's situation. But then,” I said, pausing to smile, “LuAnne was upset with Sue Hargrove, too, for being less than forthcoming with inside information.”

“It seems to me,” Sam, the least judgmental of men, said, “that LuAnne is fairly easily upset.”

“Oh, you can say that again,” I agreed, then returned to the more pressing subject. “You know, Sam, I don't think Mattie has ever had a close friend. And that is really strange when you think about it, considering how long she's been around. But,” I went on with some complacency, “that shouldn't stop us from doing the Christian thing if we have to.”

Sam nodded. “That's true, but it wouldn't surprise me if some lawyer doesn't pop up with a list of just-in-case instructions signed and sealed some years ago by Mattie.”

“I hope you're right, not because I wouldn't want to do my Christian duty, but because I can hardly make my own decisions, much less have to make somebody else's.”

“Julia, honey, you worry too much.”

“Maybe so, but if I don't, who will?”