The kitchen is as cool as a vault. The wall clock ticks. The dishwasher hums. The second-floor hallway is warmer, quieter. Normally, sunlight pools onto an ivory hall rug speckled with pastel roses. As children, we would jump from flower to flower, pretending we were fairies while Laudie practiced her arabesques a few feet away at the barre. Now, there are scars on the wall where the barre was attached. With the curtains drawn and the wall sconces dimmed, the playful atmosphere has vanished.
“Hello?” I knock tentatively on the bedroom door. No answer. I gingerly open the wide door and enter the tomblike stillness of Laudie’s room. Dust particles hover, unmoving, in the weak light that escapes the heavy draperies. The room smells of rubbing alcohol and ammonia.
A bouquet of zinnias sits on her vanity; the blooms are doubled by the mirror—a trick my mother taught me, one that I’m sure Laudie taught her. A few flowers—those with cherry-red and marigold centers—are still perky. Most are dead.
Laudie sleeps. Her body looks as though she’s fallen from the sky and landed in the mechanized hospital bed. She arrived home by ambulance this morning. Three days after the second stroke, the doctors agreed it’s best now to keep her home. Keep her comfortable. It’s time for hospice.
Laudie’s hairline has retreated to the very crown of her head. Her temples sink into her skull, craters as big and round as eggs. Her skin is nearly translucent, like a jellyfish’s. Her movie-star lips have twisted into an involuntary snarl. My dear, sweet, beautiful grandmother. I’m so sorry.
The antique wingback chair, the one she draped her evening dresses over while she did her her makeup for a night out, is next to her bed, ready to receive visitors. I take a seat; my foot knocks an empty bedpan. Seven prescription pill bottles and several tubes of ointment clutter the bedside table.
“I’ll give you some time.”
I jump at the sound of a woman’s voice. She emerges from a dim corner of the giant bedroom. She wears pink scrubs and white sneakers.
“What’s your name?”
“Shaniece.”
“I’m Simons. I’m the granddaughter.”
“Simons?” Laudie turns her head in my direction. After a moment her milky eyes, which had seemed drifty and unfocused, alight on me. “They wanted me,” she says, or at least I think that’s what she says.
“Who? Who wanted you?” I lean close, turn my ear to her mouth.
She emits a high wheezing noise and struggles to sit up. “The letter.”
“The letter, Laudie? What letter?” I try to spin the Rubik’s Cube of clues my grandmother left for me. Who wanted her? What letter? A love letter . . . from John?
Laudie tries to speak, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water. She kicks at her coverlet and arches her back. It just might kill her to say another word. If she dies now—because I’m pressing her to tell me something—how could my family ever forgive me?
Shaniece comes to my side. “It’s okay, Mrs. Middleton. You just need to rest.” She lays a hand on my grandmother’s chest and slowly adds pressure. “Would you like to read to her? Seems to calm her down.”
“Good idea.”
“I’m going to run downstairs. Will you be okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Shaniece studies me for a moment before gathering a couple of pill bottles from a metal table. As she leaves the dark room, a wink of daylight flashes inside, disappears. The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I look for something to read. On Laudie’s nightstand, beneath a glass of water, is the Bible. The leather cover bends easily in my hands. Traces of burned coffee and sandalwood scent the air. I begin reading aloud at the bookmarked page—1 Timothy, chapter 2, verses 7 through 15.
This is why I was chosen to be a teacher and a missionary. I am to teach faith and truth to the people who do not know God. I am not lying but telling the truth. I want men everywhere to pray. They should lift up holy hands as they pray. They should not be angry or argue.
Laudie pedals her feet. Is that a good sign? I press on.
Christian women should not be dressed in the kind of clothes and their hair should not be combed in a way that will make people look at them. They should not wear much gold or pearls or clothes that cost much money. Instead of these things, Christian women should be known for doing good things and living good lives.
Women should be quiet when they learn. They should listen to what men have to say. I never let women teach men or be leaders over men. They should be quiet. Adam was made first, then Eve. Adam was not fooled by Satan; it was the woman who was fooled and sinned. But women will be saved through the giving of birth to children if they keep on in faith and live loving and holy lives.
What the hell? What other ghastly rules are written about women in the Bible? I look at Laudie, who appears to be resting. But her hands are curled. I pull out my phone for a quick search.
1 Corinthians 11:9: “For indeed man was not created for the woman’s sake, but woman for the man’s sake.”
Proverbs 12:4: “An excellent wife is the crown of her husband, but she who shames him is like rottenness in his bones.”
1 Corinthians 14:35: “If they desire to learn anything, let them ask their own husbands at home; for it is improper for a woman to speak in church.”
Colossians 3:18: “Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.”
Jesus. What is this stuff? No wonder women are subjugated. Why is any of this misogyny okay to preach today?
My poor mother. Is this what she hears every Sunday before brunch at Battery Hall? Has Trip wanted a Christian woman all this time? Is that why he wants me to dress modestly, eat moderately, have more self-control?
In what ways have misogynist concepts like these molded Laudie? How could she have the confidence to try out for a ballet troupe when her lover, who very well could have been the father of her child, abandoned her in a time of need? No wonder she came home.
From what I’ve observed, she was submissive to Tito exactly the way the Bible prescribes. And now here she is, on her deathbed—at the end of her story, whatever it is. She’s taking that story to the afterworld with her, so I’ll never truly know.
Laudie stirs; her labored breathing grows louder. “Simons,” she says, though I only hear the second part of my name. She somehow steadies her breathing. She stretches her fingers. The milkiness of her eyes retreats like a tide, revealing a crystal blue. There’s strength behind her gaze, an energy incongruent with her decaying body. The next thing she says I hear as clear as a bell: “Be brave.” She tumbles back into sleep, into another world.
“Laudie?” I start to cry. “What do you mean? Does this have anything to do with the letter? What do you want me to do?”
She doesn’t hear. She’s drifted off to some liminal space between here and the afterlife.
Light blasts into the room. Dust particles swirl around Shaniece, who is backlit. She carries a tray with little plastic cups and bottles. “Did you have a good visit?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I think she’s trying to tell me something.”
“Did you try reading to her?”
“I did, but I think I just got her worked up.” I close the Bible. It shuts with a thud.
Shaniece scans my grandmother. “Well, she looks relaxed now.” She points to a book at the foot of the bed. On the cover, a boy with a red cape flies on a broom. “Maybe next time, though, try Harry Potter.”