Beauty and the Mustache

Two: Never be alone with Drew Runous.

Three: Do everything in my power to leave before Sunday.

CHAPTER 2

“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”

— Socrates

The drive from my momma’s house to Knoxville took just under an hour. Lucidity was made possible by the triple-shot grande Americano I procured from Starbucks on my way out of town.

It’s really true what people say about Starbucks. My hometown still didn’t have a sit-down movie theater, an Italian restaurant, an OBGYN, or a Target, but they had a Starbucks. I guessed this was because Green Valley was located right next to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Our two main industries were lumber and tourism, and big-city tourists need their coffee.

When I made it to Knoxville, I stopped at a grocery store and picked up flowers and two get-well balloons with kittens on them. I knew based on several years of practical experience as a pediatric intensive care nurse in Chicago that unless my momma wanted to talk to me, getting near her or her doctors was going to be difficult. The flowers and balloons would give me credibility, but the kittens would get me in the door. Everyone loves kittens.

I parked the rental car in a visitor’s spot and walked into the main entrance, flowers and balloons in hand. Once inside, I crossed to the information desk, I hoped it was being run by volunteers, who tend to be easily confused by pesky things like HIPAA (privacy laws).

“Hello, Joan.” I said with a warm smile at the elderly woman behind the desk; her nametag was prominently placed, thank goodness. “I’m here to see my mother. I just flew in last night, and I’m not sure where I’m going.”

She returned my smile. “What is her name, dear?”

“Bethany Winston. Admission date was two days ago, if that helps.” My throat felt tight with anticipation.

Jethro, Billy, and the twins (Beauford and Duane) had all tried and failed to see her over the course of the last two days. They’d been told she didn’t want to see any family and had restricted access to her records. This had struck me as a little odd, yet not out of the realm of possibility.

Tired though I was, I started forming a plan B, just in case I was denied information on my momma’s location.

Plan C involved going floor to floor, room to room. Plan D involved dressing in scrubs and logging into the hospital electronic medical record. Plan E involved pulling the fire alarm.

Joan glanced up from her screen, her smile still friendly though not as wide. “You’re her daughter?”

“That’s right,” I managed to say, nodding emphatically as I held my breath and hoped Plan A would be sufficient.

“Do you have ID?”

I nodded again, set the flowers on the counter along with the balloon weights, and dug around in my purse for my ID. I handed it to her and waited, searching her face for clues as to how successful I would be.

She glanced at my ID, then at the screen, then at my face, then at the screen, then at my ID, then at my face.

She handed the ID back to me. “Your mother’s record has been flagged. There’s a note that she’s not to have any visitors other than you. I’m going to page her treating physician, but he may be a while.”

I released the breath I’d been holding. “Okay, thanks. That’s great. Can I go up?”

“Yes. She’s on the fourth floor. You’ll need to take those elevators.” She pointed around the corner. “Check in at the nurses’ station. They’ll want to see your ID too.”

I thanked her and placed my driver’s license in my pocket with slightly trembling hands.

As I made my way to the elevator, I couldn’t help but feel like everything was very, very wrong. I knew that it was a common practice to flag patients’ records, especially to keep out unwanted family members or the media. My momma’s decision to restrict access to her records struck an off chord.

My brothers lived with my mother. She took care of them. Even Jethro, the oldest, now thirty-two, still lived at home.

I briefly considered that she might be embarrassed. Perhaps she wanted to keep her diagnosis a secret because she didn’t want to admit weakness in front of the six Winston boys. I didn’t blame her. Winston men were famous for exploiting weakness.

I knew she loved them, but they drove her crazy. When I lived at home, they—as a group—had a tendency to freak out when faced with facts or reality, yet happily buried their heads in the sand otherwise. Until facts were spelled out, they were like unsuspecting hogs before Easter dinner—dirty and well fed.

I checked in at the nurses’ station on the fourth floor and received a similar inspection. This time, however, when the nurse heard my last name, her smile fell and I read sympathy in her expression.

“She’s in room 404, hon,” she said, handing back my ID and glancing at the kitten balloons. Her voice was hesitant when she added, “Have you talked to the doctor yet?”

I shook my head, my trembling hands now shaking. “No. Not yet.”

The nurse gave me a close-lipped smile. “Your momma’s asleep right now. If you want to go sit with her ’til Dr. Gonzalez arrives, you can.” Her tone was full of compassion.

“Can you tell me anything?” Without waiting for a reply, I added, “Why was she admitted?”

The nurse studied me for a minute but said nothing.

“I’m a pediatric nurse practitioner in Chicago,” I said. “You can shoot straight with me.”

Her smile returned. “I know, baby. Your mother told me all about you. But the doctor wants to speak with you first.”

I stared at her for a moment—the compassion, the sympathy, the secrecy—and I knew.

This was textbook modus operandi for the terminally ill. Nurses never informed patients’ families. It was always the doctor, and it was always done in person.

My eyes stung and I felt my chin wobble even as I bravely nodded. “Okay,” I managed to croak, and I glanced at the ceiling, blinking. My head was overwhelmed and my heart was breaking, and I was still holding two Get Well Soon kitten balloons from the Piggly Wiggly.

“Aww, baby….” The nurse stood, walked around the counter, and wrapped her arms around me. “Baby, baby, baby….” Her soft body was a big pillow of warmth as she rubbed my back.

I sniffled, fighting the tears. Not yet, I thought, not until I’m alone and can break something that makes a very gratifying smashing sound, like plates.

“Come with me, Sunshine.” She shifted so that her arm was wrapped around my shoulders. “I’ll take you to your momma. You sit with her until the doctor comes, okay?”

I nodded numbly, allowing the older nurse to steer me to my mother’s room. She opened the door and walked me to a seat by the bed. Sunlight streamed in through the open curtains, but it was still a hospital room. There was nothing remarkable about it other than the occupant.

I looked at my momma. Her eyes were closed. Her skin color was okay—not great, but not ashen—and she looked very thin, almost fragile. My mother had never been thin a day in her life. She’d been blessed with more boobs and hips than wits, and she had a lot of wits.

At five feet nine inches, I towered over her five-foot frame. Although I’d inherited her boobs and hips, my longer legs and torso distributed the wealth, whereas she’d always looked like a curvaceous, compact hourglass.

Her hair was streaked with gray. The last time I saw her she was still coloring it chestnut brown. My brain informed me that was two years ago.

My momma had always seemed young to me. She had Jethro at sixteen, Billy at seventeen, Cletus at eighteen, and me at twenty. The twins came two years later, and Roscoe—the youngest—arrived approximately two years after that. Seven children before she was twenty-five, and six of them boys.

Now, thin and gray, she looked older than her forty-seven years. She looked ancient, like all the stress and worry and hardship she’d shouldered raising a family of seven and handling my deadbeat father had finally caught up with her.

As instructed, I sat in the chair by her bed. The nurse reassured me once again that she would page the doctor, and then she left me alone with my momma.

I couldn’t focus on anything. I don’t know how long I sat looking around the room staring at nothing, unable to form a complete thought; maybe an hour, maybe more.

Images and sound bites from my childhood, of her care and love for me, of our daily telephone calls, lobbied for attention, and my mind felt slippery and confused.

My mother shifted, and my gaze was drawn to her as she opened her eyes. They fell on mine immediately.

“Ash….” she whispered. She gave me a weak smile. “Be a good darling and get me some ice cream. I’d give my eye teeth for some ice cream.”

I watched her for a minute.

Ice cream—I could get her ice cream. That was something I could do. Because under no circumstances was I ready to talk about her death. Instead, I would go get her ice cream.

“Rocky road?” I asked quietly.

“If you can find it, though I’m not picky.”

I nodded once and stood, moving to the door.

“Honey,” she called after me. I turned and met her eyes, which were alight with amusement. “You can leave the flowers and balloons here. No need to take them with you.”