Lesley Kagen - Tomorrow River

The reason Madame comes to mind in regards to finding Mama is that teacher took a nasty spill on a patch of ice during that bad winter we had a few years ago and ended up with her left leg broke in three places and her head bounced off the sidewalk and landed right into unconsciousness. Dancing in a tutu is a little too froufrou for a girl of my temperament, but I was there, waiting to walk Woody home after her ballerina class. I ran to Doc Keller’s office, stuck my head in, and shouted, “Come quick. Madame has either fainted or died.” When he got to where she was sprawled out, Doc wiggled his smelling salts under her nose. I burst out laughing, because just like in the movies, the second after she opened her eyes, the first words out of her mouth were, “Where am I? Who am I?”

That compound fracture healed up just fine, but Madame’s memory didn’t.

She never could recall a lot of things from before that icy fall. Like her husband. (I think she might’ve been faking that part, though. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to remember “Bait” Fugate neither.)

So maybe something like that is what happened to our mother. She might be wandering along the side of some backwater road, not knowing where she rightfully belongs or why she pines for a pair of matching girls. I know it’s hideous of me to wish that, but you know, that would be such a relief. So much better than believing that wherever she is, it’s all my fault that she’s gone.

Wallowing. That’s what I’m doing, when I’m supposed to be cleaning his bathroom.

Papa’s sink is spotless today, but every so often I find it dotted with leftover whiskers. I have a collection that I’ve picked up with pieces of Scotch Tape. I’m planning to take that stubble to Miss Delia Hormel at the boardinghouse. She was born on the right side of Sulphur Mountain and besides throwing hexes, those folks are known for their skill in remedying people. If you bring along two dollars and something that belongs to an ailing loved one, Miss Delia will make you a get-well dolly out of burlap with corn kernels for eyes. She might be the only one who can help Papa feel better because nothing I’ve tried seems to work.

I gave his horse a bath and cleaned his guns and he never seemed to notice. I’ve offered many times to spend the night constellation searching. I remind him how the astronauts are going to the moon next month and how we were going to celebrate that historic event with a party. I slip notes under his study door. In them, I tell him how much I love him and ask if there’s anything else I can do to comfort his heart. Sometimes I remind him about how much fun a certain day we spent together was. Like that October I was nine and we walked the Appalachian Trail and collected fiery leaves for a school project. I sign the notes, Your beautiful daughter of the stars . I’m sure I’ll hear back from him any day now.

I’m looking at myself in the mirror above the sink. My hair lacks luster and the shadows under my eyes are pronounced, made even more so by the powder that slipped off my sister’s cheek and smeared onto mine. I swipe it off, wishing I could do the same to my worries. Woody’s getting worse and I know why. She’s having bad memories. Founders Weekend will be here before we know it and it was during the carnival last year that Mama disappeared.

A few folks suggested that it wouldn’t be a waste of the sheriff’s time to go looking for Mama up in Loudoun County, where Colonel Button’s Thrills and Chills settles in after it leaves us. “Perhaps Evelyn ran off with one of those roustabouts. Bless her heart, she never did seem to fit in, did she?” I heard one of those Auxiliary ladies snigger behind her tea party hand. That’s not only ignorant, it doesn’t make sense. Why would my mother leave my yummy-smelling Papa for some drifter that reeks of sawdust and sweat? His Honor says Mama’s not that smart, but she would’ve had to be born without a brain to go off with a toothless man who lives in an aluminum trailer when she had lovely Lilyfield to come home to. Maybe she… oh, I don’t know what to believe anymore. Mama does adore the Ferris wheel. She loves that above-it-all feeling. And the merry-go-round, she likes that, too.

Loathe as I am to admit it, there’s a possibility those club women could be right. On the night she never returned home, I did find Mama standing in front of the freak tent. She had on my most favorite outfit-white slacks and a white blouse with the pockets edged in red yarn. She looked so pretty with the wind ruffling her hair. So breezy. When the barker’s voice came over the loud speaker, “Come one, come all. Moments from now Tiny Jimbo-the smallest man on earth-will be taking our stage,” I came running to her side and asked, “Where have you been? I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. We need two quarters. Quick! The show is about to start.”

But Mama did not rush to open her pocketbook. She shook her head at the garish flags whipping in the wind and said in the loneliest voice I have ever heard, “People can be so cruel to the different.” Then she locked her eyes on to mine and said, “Where’s your sister? I’ve got something important to tell-”

I didn’t even let her finish her sentence. I ran off. Woody and I looked forward to watching that Oddities show all year long. I saw Mama searching for us later in the night, probably to apologize, but I stayed far away as possible, that’s how mad I was that she wouldn’t give us that admission money.

Opening up the medicine chest, I remove a bottle of pills. There’s a few left.

Papa shook this exact bottle and told me one morning in the kitchen, “These will help Mother feel calmer.”

“Really?” I asked because I thought that would be miraculously wonderful. Maybe then she’d stop screaming at Papa and he’d stop screaming at her and they could go back to the way they used to be. Enthralled. Not giving each other the cold shoulder one minute and being boiling mad the next. So it was with excitement that I watched Papa crush the relaxing pill with the back of a spoon and stir it into Mama’s favorite teacup along with her cream and two sugars. That went according to plan, for a while anyway. Our mother definitely had less fight in her. She took to her bed most afternoons. Until the day she found out what he’d done. I will never know how for sure, but I suspect Woody might’ve told her. There was a horrendous to-do.

Mama threw the teacup on the kitchen floor and it broke into pieces. She whimpered, “You’re doing this because I quit the Ladies Auxiliary.”

“My grandmother founded the club. And my mama was president for how many years? What is so wrong with a wife obtaining worth in serving the needs of her husband and home? What’s gotten into you?” Papa hollered.

“Oh, Walt. What’s gotten into you ? You’re trying to snuff out my spirit the same way your father has yours,” she said, looking at him the same way Jesus is looking at Judas Escariot in our picture Bible.

Papa scoffed, “Nonsense. I’m giving you the pills for your own good. Isn’t that right, Shenandoah?”

I didn’t pause, didn’t even consider not agreeing with him. I said, “That’s right, sir.”

Remembering that argument, I pocket the pill bottle and rush out of his bathroom. “I’m doing this for your own good” is the exact same thing Papa shouts over Woody’s and my root cellar crying.

I come to a stop in front of our bedroom door, set my face against the shiny wood, and call to my sister, “This cleaning shouldn’t take me much longer. Soon as I’m done, I’ll come back and sing you something from South Pacific , all right?”

I want so badly to picture my once-lively twin jumping up and down on the bed the way she used to, clapping her hands and squealing, “ South Pacific ? That’s Mama’s and my favorite album!” But try as I might, all I can see in my mind is Woody the way I left her. Lying still on the quilt, barely moving. The goodness knocked right out of her.