I have slaved over Hattie’s shower. At least I think I have until I show up at Agnes’s the Saturday morning of and see all the food and decorations she’s contributed. Suddenly the king cake I picked up at Stella’s Bakery and the invitations I dropped off at the post office feel trivial.
Every inch of Agnes’s house is covered in purple, green, and gold confetti, streamers, and balloons. There’s even a giant tower of diapers, which have been individually wrapped with glittering ribbon to match the rest of the decor. The mailbox out front is decorated with balloons to signify to guests that they have arrived.
Every detail is so thoughtful, it makes my eyes water. And this isn’t even my shower! I don’t know what kind of luck was on my side the day Agnes invited us to play with Freddie on the beach, but I’ll always be thankful for her.
“The decorations are amazing!” I call to Agnes in the kitchen. “Hattie is going to die. You did way too much.”
“It was nothing!” she says. “And I figure I’ll leave most of them up until Ash Wednesday anyhow.”
Mardi Gras isn’t for another week or so, but the minute the clock strikes midnight and the New Year begins, the decorations start going up. I guess people not from around here assume that Mardi Gras is all about Bourbon Street and flashing your boobs for beads, but we’ve celebrated ever since I was a little kid. We even have huge local parades with floats that shut down our streets for days. King cake, which is basically shaped like a giant doughnut and sort of tastes like coffee cake, was as common throughout my childhood as birthday cake.
As I’m balancing my gift in one hand and the cake in the other, Bart squeezes past me through the doorway, nodding a silent hello.
“He’s going fishing,” says Agnes as she relieves me of the cake. “Can’t get out of here fast enough.” She tsks.
I glance around, searching for the face I know I’m bound to see.
Freddie and I have really only seen each other at school over the last few weeks. I’ve only been by for breakfast and swimming a few times lately. My weekends have been consumed with work and helping Hattie out around the house, and to be honest, my body is too wiped for much else.
It’s easier this way. I know the end of the school year is fast approaching and that soon Freddie will leave. Everything that’s happened over the last few weeks has only served to remind me how different we are. I am so thankful to fate or God or whatever it is that’s pulling the strings on this puppet show and that our lives have run parallel to each other for the last few months. But life is about to take us in two totally different directions.
Still, the thought of seeing him outside school has my stomach twisted into a ball of knots. “And Freddie?” I ask Agnes. “Is he around?”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Said he wouldn’t miss it. I think he’s in the shower at the moment. He’s gonna help us in the kitchen. Keep people fed.”
Agnes takes my gift for Hattie and the baby and glances down at my bright-purple dress and my green polka-dot tights. “You look absolutely adorable, my dear.” She hands me a stack of throws and dish towels. “Now, do me a favor and put these in the hallway linen closet for me before anyone gets here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The hallway is warm with steam and immediately reminds me of the last time I was this deep into Agnes’s house. As I’m shoving the pile of blankets and towels into the closet, the bathroom door swings open, and all the pent-up steam curls right out into the hallway.
Freddie sticks his head out the door and grins when he sees me. He wears a towel slung low around his hips and holds it tight with one hand as he pulls me into the bathroom with the other.
The cramped quarters of the hallway bathroom don’t leave much room for either of us to situate ourselves, so when Freddie shuts the door behind me, I slide up onto the counter and am practically sitting in the sink. It’s the most privacy we’ve had in weeks.
“I feel like I’ve barely had you to myself lately,” he says. “You haven’t even been by for breakfast lately. Or swimming. You’re not gonna beat me again if you don’t stay in practice.”
I inhale deeply and let myself memorize the smell of warm soap and fogging mirrors. “You know it’s been crazy with Hattie and work.” My legs spread a little as he comes to stand closer to me and presses his palms to my knees. He kisses me lightly on the lips and then down my neck before pulling back at the sound of Agnes slamming a cabinet door in the kitchen.
He groans. “I wish we had more time.”
“And a little more privacy,” I add. I know he’s referring to immediate time, but it’s hard not to think about the thing neither of us has talked about—the elephant in the room. Graduation. Not to mention both of our great track records with long-distance relationships.
Still, I don’t realize how much I’ve missed him until I’m right here with him. I force every doubt about the future out of my head.
My hair curls around my face from the humidity, but I don’t care. Gently I tip my head forward and let my forehead rest there against his bare chest. My breathing is a little shallow from the damp air, but if I just don’t move, I’m fine.
And that’s what I wish, that after all these weeks of nonstop motion with double duties at Boucher’s and my early-morning paper route, I can stand still for a moment. Here with Freddie seems like a good place to rest. To just breathe.
“You okay?” he asks. “I know it hasn’t been easy these last few weeks.”
I nod. “I will be or I am. I’m okay. Hattie’s okay.”
He spreads little kisses down the part in my blue hair. “That lady at the Y. Prudence, right? She’s been asking for you.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I need to let her know I appreciate the offer.”
He leans back, forcing me to pick my head up. “And that you’re going to take her up on it, right?”
I shake my head. Not today. “I can’t have this conversation with you right now.”
“Ramona, come on.”
I shake my head again. Quick anger boils up in my chest. “I don’t know how it is that you can’t see how different our lives are. I can’t leave. I have responsibilities.”
“Hattie can take care of herself. She has your dad, too.”
I pull back from him. “Really? You think my pregnant sister who’s on bed rest can take care of herself? And you think my dad who’s scraping by as it is will magically be in the position to help her? Wow. You must know something about my life that I don’t.”
“All right,” he says, in his calm voice. “Chill out. I didn’t mean it like that. I know things are hard for you.”
I nod sarcastically. “Do what you always do. Defuse the situation. Make me feel ridiculous for even being upset.”
He says nothing, but I can see the shock on his face.
I don’t know why, but I want Freddie to fight with me. I want to argue and shout and for him to show me that everything is not okay. But it doesn’t matter.
“I have to help your grandma set up.” I slide off the counter and let myself out.
After I shut the door behind me, I take a moment to gather myself and pull all my frizzing hair into a sloppy bun. I can feel how red my cheeks and chest are, but there’s nothing to be done about that.
I help Agnes set out tiny finger foods like mini quiches and triangle sandwiches. I want to ask her how much this whole thing cost her, but the truth is I don’t think I can afford to reimburse her for much. It makes me anxious, but all I can do is remind myself that this is for Hattie and not me.
Little by little, people start to trickle in. It’s mostly girls Hattie graduated with, a few people from work, and some of Agnes’s friends. I invited our mom, too, who only called to say that she would have hosted a shower for Hattie if I’d just asked. I didn’t know if I should count that as an RSVP or not.
Freddie stays in the kitchen mostly and only briefly ventures out to refill the veggies and dip and other finger foods. I try to catch his eye so that he can somehow see that I’m sorry for losing it this morning, but he’s too busy. Agnes mixes her signature punch into a crystal bowl with scoops of rainbow sherbet, which make it frothy and fluffy—and almost otherworldly.
I am left to small talk, which I’m learning is an actual skill. No, I don’t have any plans for college. Yes, I work a few part-time jobs. School is good, but I’m anxious to be done. No, I haven’t thought about what I want to be when I grow up. Because I’ve already grown up, which is what I don’t say out loud. More of Hattie’s friends from high school show up. I use the word friends loosely, because truthfully these girls don’t give two shits about Hattie. They’re just here to spy on the first girl to get knocked up out of wedlock from their graduating class.
And then the girl of the hour arrives in her chariot. Saul and Ruth are more careful than normal with my sister as they help her down from the Jeep.
Hattie wears a white sundress that probably fit her boobs at some point in time, but not today. The empire waist of the dress flares out and a large pink ribbon is secured tightly above her belly and tied into a big bow. Really, the only thing missing is a gift tag.
Her hair is curled and teased into a pouf at the top of her head, and her makeup looks like she could press her whole face to a mirror and leave a full imprint from brows to lips. And I guess to anyone else, she might look ridiculous, but to me, she looks like herself, and after her horrible scare in the hospital, nothing could make me happier.
“Well, shit, Ramona,” says Saul. “You’re a mother-freaking Martha Stewart.” He reaches over me for the little paper cups with a few inches of dip on the bottom and stems of carrots and celery and peppers sticking up.
“That,” I tell him, “is all Agnes and Freddie.” I say his name a little too loudly, hoping he’ll hear me and somehow appear.
Saul crunches down loudly on a piece of celery. “Quite efficient. So how do these baby shower things work?” he asks.
I clip three clothespins to his shirt. “Okay, this is supposed to be, like, a mixer game is what Agnes calls it. If someone catches you saying ‘mommy,’ ‘daddy,’ or ‘baby,’ they can steal a clothespin from you. Whoever has the most clothespins wins.”
“Like an actual prize?”
I nod.
He glances around. “These bitches won’t even see me coming.” And then he’s off, squeezing into conversations with his veggies and dip in one hand and sherbet punch in the other. I marvel for a moment at how he fits into this place so easily. Saul was meant to live his life here in Eulogy. He’s like a goldfish, content with the size of his bowl and not too concerned with what might exist elsewhere, because he is the king of this domain.
I seek Hattie out and find her sitting in Bart’s recliner, sipping punch. She nods along as a few girls from high school trade gossip. After they migrate to the refreshments table, I sit down on the armrest.
“How do you like it?” I ask.
For the first time I can ever remember seeing, my sister’s eyes are filled with stars. “Ramona, it’s perfect. It’s like some kind of magazine or something.” She’s already wearing some of the Mardi Gras beads we’d used as table decorations.
“Well, most of that was Agnes.”
“You helped,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” She leans her head against my shoulder. “Did you remember to invite Tyler’s mom? I want her to feel involved . . . if she wants to be.”
I nod. “I did.”
“Is she coming?”
“She couldn’t make it, but she had a gift sent over.”
Hattie looks up to me. “Well, that’s gotta count for something, right?”
“I think so,” I tell her.
Behind us one of Hattie’s old friends from high school says, “Did you see that boy in the kitchen? Black guys aren’t my thing, but he’s cute.”
I turn to Hattie, and she shakes her head. Dumb bitches, she mouths.
“Hands off,” another girl whispers. “He’s dating Hattie’s sister. First girls. Now black boys. She must be really trying to give their poor daddy a heart attack.”
Okay. That’s it. I stand, whirling around, and open my mouth to say something, but Hattie beats me to it. “Gretchen,” she says. “MaryLou, I know y’all are just here to check out the class slut. I get it. Someone had to get knocked up first, but y’all can just leave your presents on the gift table and take your backwards attitudes out of here. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.”
The girls stand there in their pastel dresses, shock registering on their spray-tanned faces.
“And those party favors at the door are for actual guests,” I say, slinging my arm over Hattie’s shoulder.
We both watch as they leave with their purses and plates of finger food in hand.
“You’re good people,” I tell Hattie, feeling an extra rush of warmth for my sister.
“I know we are,” she says as we sit back down.
“Okay, people!” Agnes claps her hands together. “Let’s dig into these presents!” While everyone gets situated, she pulls an ottoman up next to Hattie and hands me a pen and a notebook. “You write down who gave what for thank-you cards,” she whispers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hattie opens each present with care, like she’s trying to savor every single moment, and I’m diligent in writing down every name and gift. I don’t think either of us have ever opened this many presents at once in our entire lives. I underestimated how much people lose their shit for babies.
Dad’s boss’s wife even brought one of those special trash cans for diapers. And Agnes’s present was a baby swing that can sit on a table. Saul and Ruth’s gift is an array of things both practical and nonsensical, but my favorite is a neon-green onesie that says Pizza Rolls, Not Gender Roles. And Freddie very thoughtfully gifts a little pink-and-green swimsuit with a matching hat and an inflatable float with a canopy over it. There are also lots of diapers and pink frilly onesies and handmade blankets and burp cloths and a few gift cards too.
Freddie hovers in the kitchen, and I can feel his gaze on me while I watch Ruth and Saul polish off the rest of the mimosas on the drinks table. It would be so easy to turn and give him a quick grin to let him know we’re fine and that everything’s okay, but as the day progresses, even a gesture that small feels like a promise I can’t keep.
When Hattie gets to my present—a big teal bag with pink-and-white-striped tissue paper—I hold my breath. I hadn’t realized how nervous I was for her to actually open it.
“There’s no card,” she says, and then again a little louder, “There’s no card in this one.”
“It’s from me,” I say.
She bounces her shoulders with excitement. “Better be good, Ramona Blue.”
Hattie pulls the paper from the bag a little too roughly, and I have to stop myself from telling her to be more careful.
When she looks down into the bag, her expression is puzzled, but she pulls the gift out by a string.
Finally, I reach in and help her adjust it so that the whole thing hangs properly. “The mobile,” I say. “The one with clouds and stars that you saw at the baby store.”
“Oh, Ro,” she says. “It’s so thoughtful.” Her cheeks burn pink and she smiles so hard her eyes squint.
I shrug. “There’s more.”
On the bottom of the bag, folded in fours, is a piece of paper. The room grows quiet as she unfolds it and reads to herself.
She looks to me, her jaw slack, and then back to the paper.
“Well,” says Saul, “you gonna tell us what it is or what?”
She blinks and a fat tear rolls down her cheek. “It’s a crib. Ramona got us a crib.”
My sister yanks me by the arm and pulls me into the recliner with her. “How did you even afford this?” she whispers.
I hug her back but am careful not to squish her belly. “I’ve been saving, I guess.”
I got the crib on sale, and still, it was a nice chunk of change. But the saleswoman says it converts into a bed and that the baby can use it until they’re five or six. If I’m being honest, I don’t even know where there is room in the trailer for it, but we’ll deal with that when the baby comes. I don’t know. But a baby needs a crib. My niece needs a crib.
The doorbell buzzes for a long moment, like someone’s holding their finger down on it.
“I got it,” calls Freddie.
“Well, y’all got the party started without me,” says my mother’s voice the moment the door swings open.
Hattie clears her throat. “Hey, Mama. We weren’t sure if you were coming.”
“Well, of course I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be at my only grandchild’s baby shower?” Her words are slurred and exaggerated. Our mother doesn’t necessarily have a drinking problem, but she’s never shied away from a bar. And right now, in the middle of the afternoon, she’s drunk. The woman is toasted.
I stand up and hand the notepad to Ruth. “Y’all keep doing presents.” I turn to my mother and grab hold of her elbow. “Mama, let’s get you a plate of food.”
My mother trips beside me and past Freddie. I can hear Saul and Ruth go into distraction mode as I force my mom into a seat at the kitchen table.
“How’d you get here?” I ask, and hand her a plate of tiny sandwiches.
For the first time I take note of the denim miniskirt she’s wearing. Her legs are smeared with self-tanner, and the white fur trim on her camel-colored boots is dingy and discolored. Her hair is a little greasy, and I almost feel bad that she felt so left out of Hattie’s shower that the only way she knew how to show up was drunk.
But then I don’t care. I shut my feelings for her off like a faucet. My mother crosses her veiny legs and points at Freddie. “I see you stuck around.” She turns to me. “They never do, ya know.”
I shake my head. “You’re one to talk.” I don’t want her bringing him into this.
“Excuse me?”
I shove a glass of water into her hands. “How’d you get here?” I ask again.
She rolls her eyes. “I drove, of course.”
My mother is a grown woman who showed up drunk to her oldest daughter’s baby shower. I couldn’t feel guilty for not including her in this even if I tried. I reach into the pocket of my dress and start to call my dad, but then remember he’s at work. I need someone else to be the adult in this situation.
Freddie is smart to say nothing as my mom sloppily picks at the plate of finger foods.
“Okay,” I finally say. “Once everyone clears out, we need to get her home.”
“I can help,” offers Freddie.
I hate for him to have to deal with this, especially after this morning, but I think my options are limited. I glance to him and then to my mom’s car, which is parked half in the front yard and half on the street. She’s lucky she didn’t hit the mailbox, or even worse: a human being.
“If you can drive her home, we’ll take care of her car later.”
He nods hesitantly. I can tell the idea of being alone with my mom makes him nervous, and I can’t really blame him.
After presents, Agnes asks everyone to count their clothespins. Saul steps forward with pins clipped up and down the front of his shirt and crows, “Nineteen!”
A few older ladies sigh as Agnes hands him the candle and gas station gift card she’d bought as the prize.
“Awww, yeah!” says Saul. “I owned this shower.”
After a thank-you from Hattie to Agnes and me, everyone is pretty quick to leave. The tension brought on by my mother’s presence is palpable, and I can’t fault anyone for averting their eyes.
Once everyone’s gone, I give Agnes a quick hug, and she whispers, “Your mama’s not driving home, is she?”
I shake my head. “I think Freddie was going to help me get her home.”
She nods. “That’d be best. Y’all take the Cadillac and we’ll get her car sorted when Bart comes home.”
I reach for Agnes’s hands. I wish she were my family. I wish it so badly. I wonder if God runs some kind of lottery up in heaven and that’s how he decides who’s going where and with whom. I love Hattie and my dad. And shit, even my mom, too. But I can’t help but wonder how much of life is predestined simply by the house you were born into. “You made today perfect,” I tell her. “I’ll never forget it, and I know Hattie won’t either.”
She squeezes my hands tight. “Y’all girls deserve it.” She hesitates before letting go, and I wonder about all the unsaid things between us.
“Didn’t even give me the chance to host the damn thing,” my mom slurs from the kitchen.
Agnes looks to me. “You pay her no mind while she’s in this state.”
Hattie, Ruthie, and Saul all pile into the Jeep. Agnes agrees to store most of the presents in her garage until Hattie has had a chance to sort through her bedroom. I lead my mom toward Agnes’s Cadillac, and she starts to put up a fight about leaving her car, but Agnes is quick behind me to whisper something to my mom. And whatever it is she says, it’s enough to keep my mom from making a scene.
With her in the backseat, we drive in silence to her apartment. She rides with the window down the whole way, so anything Freddie and I might even say would be drowned out regardless. We hold hands, though, and that seems to speak more than any words might.
When we arrive, Freddie offers to help me get her up the three flights of stairs, but I decline. She’s reached that sluggish stage of drunkenness where her legs are as useless as limp spaghetti. But she’s also bound to say absolutely anything, and I’ve put Freddie through enough over the last few months as it is.
I sling her arm over my shoulder and pull her along with me one slow step at a time. She helps slightly by steadying her hand on the railing.
We’re halfway up the first flight when she says, “You’re my baby. My beautiful baby. Your daddy and me, we always loved Hattie. But you were the one we planned for.” She laughs to herself. “Not that planning ever does much good anyway.”
I never knew that, but it makes no difference, really. I try to make it feel meaningful—that she really wanted me—but she doesn’t want me now, so I can’t find it in me to care. “Come on,” I say. “Keep moving.”
We make it up to the first landing, and she stops, bracing both hands on the railing. I stand there for a moment, letting her take a break. “I thought I was ready,” she says. “We had your sister and then we decided she couldn’t just be an only child.” She turns to me, her eyes squinting beneath the harsh security lights. “I thought that if we planned you, we must’ve been ready. I must’ve been ready.”
I pull her arm back over my shoulder. I don’t want to hear all the drunken excuses for why she couldn’t be there. There’s only one reason she wasn’t there for us: because she chose not to be.
Wearily, we start up the next flight. “But then that storm came and it wiped everything away. It was like Noah’s flood. Everyone had to start from scratch. And so did I.”
This is unfair for so many reasons. And I don’t even believe in fairness, but if anything were ever wholly unfair, it would be this. My mother in this state, spewing her confessions, like she somehow deserves to feel better. To feel the release of pressure that comes from sharing a horrible truth, but her not sober enough to feel the raw hurt that occurs when you finally admit out loud how wretched you truly are. Instead, I’m left with all the feelings and the memories of this moment, because she will wake up tomorrow and vaguely remember the outline of today.
She shakes her head. “You were always the responsible one. Sometimes I think you just chose being gay, because you had to figure out some kind of way to disappoint us.”
“Wow, Mom. Charming as ever,” I say through gritted teeth.
But she doesn’t even hear me. “I don’t worry about Hattie, though. Not one bit. You know why?”
“Why?” My voice comes out like a scratch against my throat. I don’t even mean to respond to her, but it’s like I can’t resist.
“Because she’s got you. You won’t ever let her fall. That’s true family,” she says. “That’s the kind of family I never was to you girls.”
Hot tears spill down my cheeks, and I yank her the rest of the way up the stairs. I don’t even bother unfolding her couch, but instead let her pass out with a pillow and a blanket on the floor.
I lock her door behind me, and I don’t look back.