On this moonless night, at this distance, the Edisto house glows like the last embers of a fire. When I get out of my car, the animals welcome me. A whip-poor-will calls, then an owl. Tree frogs trill, intoning spirits from another world.
Weezy had begged me to come; it’s time again for our Monthly Monday, after all. I thought of cancelling—what if Laudie dies while I’m out here? Weezy reminded me that I’m only skipping one morning visit and that I could see her tomorrow afternoon, on my way home.
The antibiotics worked. Turns out Laudie did have a UTI. She got a little better, but we’re pretty sure she had her last real meal nearly three weeks ago. She might have had her last taste of food—a bite of watermelon—on Thursday. When I visit, I sometimes read to her. Harry Potter, of course. Other times, I just sit, both awed and terrified by her raggedly inhales that seem as though they could splinter her ribs into shards. Shaniece reassures me that she’s not in pain. She’s transitioning, she says. Lately, Laudie seems to exist more and more in the realm of the unconscious. I wish I could bring her out here—to Edisto and the wild—and let the animals of night call her home.
Inside the cabin, ambient music flows from the master bedroom. I pad down the hallway to find Weezy on the floor. A candle flickers on the dresser. “Hey,” she mouths with a big, sleepy smile, patting a spot next to her on the carpet. She switches off the recording.
“What are you doing?”
“Guided meditation. It’s supposed to help me get ready.”
Weezy slides a stack of pamphlets my way; they’re dominated by photos of wrinkly babies and their makeup-less mothers. She riffles through the leaflets as though through a deck of cards. “Here’s the one that explains how baths are nearly as effective as an epidural. And this one talks about the importance of mood lighting. Candles apparently have a soothing effect and help relax the moms’ muscles, which makes it easier to push out the baby.”
“It’s still going to hurt, though, right? Aren’t you nervous?”
She rubs her belly, which is already as big as a beach ball and she still has two more months. “The only thing I’m worried about is going into labor early. I doubt it will happen. Francie was on time, and second children tend to cook longer, but Ashley has that duck-hunting trip a week before the due date.”
“Seriously?”
“He and his college buddies have been planning it for more than a year.”
“He could cancel.”
“I know, but it’s not like he’s leaving on my due date. And Ashley hardly gets to go anywhere these days.”
“Yeah, because he’s a parent. Takes two to tango.”
“I don’t mind. Anyway, the older I get, the more I like to stay close to pasture.” Weezy leans forward to stretch. A hipbone cracks, or maybe her back. “How’s the single life?”
“Great. I’ve spent a lot of time in my apartment finding myself . . .”
“That’s good.”
“Mostly in the bathroom mirror.”
“At least you still have a sense of humor. No wild adventures with Martha?”
“No. We haven’t hung out in a while. She’s managing Harry’s band.”
“She knows how to manage a band?”
“I wondered the same thing.”
“Oh, so you think they’re having a fling?”
Of course the thought was there, lurking in the recesses of my brain, but I never allowed the idea to surface, bashing it down Whack-A-Mole style every time it popped up. “Maybe just friends.”
“Think so?”
“Pretty sure. She knows I slept with him.”
“Oh. Are y’all dating?”
“No. He never called back.” When I say it, I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would.
“Well, that sucks.”
“I’m over it.”
“Glad to hear it.” Weezy finds a loose thread in the carpet and rolls it between her fingers. “Simons, I don’t think Martha has your best interest at heart. There’s something—I don’t know—sneaky about her. I think she’s a bad friend for you.”
Bad friend. Is she a bad friend? “Maybe I’m just being hard on her. She needs a job.”
“Maybe. Just keep your eyes open, okay? That’s the silver lining to getting older. You realize you can be choosy about your relationships. Drop the ones that aren’t serving you.”
“Well, I did that with Trip.”
“You did.”
“I saw him the other day.”
“Whoa. Did you finally have your talk?”
“No. I ran into him at that park near my house of all places. He was headed back from some conference—but it didn’t make any sense for him to be walking around there.”
“Maybe he was hoping to bump into you.”
“I don’t think so, Weezy. I think he was staying with a girl.”
“Well, you did break it off.”
Oomf. Whack-A-Mole mallet to the gut. “I didn’t know what to expect, but I didn’t think it would be so hard.”
“What did you think was going to happen?”
“Martha says I thought I’d enter some fairy tale where my Prince Charming waited for me on the other side of the breakup.”
“But you know better now.”
“I do.” Did Laudie? Is Tito her Prince Charming, in a way? A quiet static, heard only on the stillest of nights, hums in my ears. The night animals have gone silent. “I miss Laudie. She’s not gone yet, but I miss her.”
“Of course you do.”
“And I still feel like it’s my fault. At least I think Mom does.”
“That’s absolutely not true, and you know it. Mom is scared, but she definitely doesn’t think it’s your fault Laudie is dying. Mom’s very emotional right now.”
“It was Laudie’s idea to go to the ballet. Not mine.”
“We know that. Mom’s just grieving. Give her some time.”
“You should have seen Laudie that day, Weezy. She wore her Chanel suit and her best jewelry—the giant pearls and the gold jaguar pin. She was so determined.”
“I know how stubborn she can be. Hold on to that image. I’m learning about the importance of images. Listen.” Weezy rolls onto her side and turns the recording back on. Her phone screen reads Methods for a Loving, Natural Birth.
“Now repeat after me,” intones a soothing female voice. “‘I love my baby. My baby loves me. I love my baby. My baby loves me.’ Okay, now, deep breath. Goooood. Now go back to your paradise. Remember what it looks like? Picture it in your imagination. Go there. When you feel your body begin to work, to move your child into this world, go there.”
While it’s hard to fathom how any woman in labor could simply will herself through the pain, it’s impressive how much this woman’s voice has altered my mental state in the short time I’ve listened. I imagine Laudie, in the wings of a theater, changing from her Chanel suit into the costume of the Atlanta troupe’s prima ballerina. She laces up her pointe shoes and secures her headdress made of diamonds and feathers. She takes a centering breath and glides into a giant theater awash with brilliant lights and enthusiastic, clamorous applause.