by Carrie Sanders
We hadn’t been in touch like we shoulda done, what with Jeb stationed in Texas, and then we had the twins, and then the basement flooded…it was just one rash a shit after another and we just kinda focused on keepin our heads above water to be truthful. When Mama died so quick from the sugars making her septic, we was all reelin from the grief and why-didn’t-wes that we didn’t even think of ole meemaw in the big ole folks home out Burnt Bridge way. Sure her social scurty paid some of the bills but without Mama puttin a little extra in, it was not gonna come good with all the fees and whatnots to keep her in care. Tell you true, I hadn’t seen meemaw since I got married years ago and neither of us were much for correspondin. But that’s what family’s for, and once we got settled back in Mama’s house we sent for meemaw, had a room all done up for her and all, and I even took the nurse aide test to get state fundin for tending to her.
Jeb and his brothers fetched her from the ole folks home and she had nothing but a hefty bag full of clothes and sundries. Not a personal geegaw or pitchur! I should knowed something was underfoot there then but the home care folks said it’s impossible to keep everything straight in the place – they shuffle the oldies up the hall after each one dies like a cake walk and no one knows who’s keepsakes are whose and it’s not like you can ask the patients, they too far gone to know what blongs to who. Still and yet I woulda liked to have seen the old wedding pitchur or maybe one of Mama when she was young, but it’s gone the by now and nothin to be done.
We set her up real nice by the window and I fixed her up a little tv tray for her supper. I knew she wasn’t gonna be real talk-tive but as I get her all settled in I jibber jabbered about Jeb and the twins and missin Mama, you know I could talk the ears off a helmuted monkey, and then when I got closer to her I started feelin that something ain’t right about meemaw.
Now I hadn’t seen her in a dog’s age but if it’s one thing I remember about meemaw it was her mean dark eyes- there was talk of her being a quarter Blackfoot indyun,and she always redded up at even the talk of bourbon- but this meemaw in my guest room had watery eyes as pale as the Village of the Damned! I made like I was fussin with her tray when I brought her some sun tea to get a better look and – it was sure-shootin not meemaw at-all.
Well I called up that care place in Burnt Bridge right then and when they answered I says this is Dottie Abernethy and I’m calling about my meemaw Sue Smith and fore I could say no more she says, oh Dottie we was just gonna call, she passed this morning and we are all so sorry for your loss, she was a good god-fearing woman…
Well now that struck me dumb as a doorknob. I was fixin to chew her ass into next week but then a thought knocked me over like a feather. Those people at the home don’t know who we got over here, and we sure as shit could use the extra state money coming in. It’s not like this wrong meemaw’s gonna breathe a word to anyone, and I’ll treat her as good as one of my own.
Good lord willing and the creek don’t rise, that’s just what we’re gonna do.
Carrie Sanders is an American writer living in Scotland after a career in international education. She writes short stories, drawing inspiration from her life as an expat and her eye for the absurd. When not reading or writing, she unwinds in the North Sea followed by a nice flat white.
Photo by Lena Polishko on Unsplash
