“You take a shower,” Whit told me, throwing back the sheets. “I’ll go get dressed and then pick up Henry. He and I can hang out while you deal with everything.”
Tears of gratitude and love pricked the corners of my eyes. “Are you sure?”
He pulled me close. “Absolutely. You just tell me what you need me to do.”
I took his face in my hands and kissed him. “All I need right now is you. Would you stay a little longer?”
After taking a long shower with Whit, letting the warmth of the water and of his body envelop me, I quickly got dressed and forced down a piece of toast so that my stomach wasn’t completely empty when I made the drive to Atlanta. After making a few preliminary phone calls to mortuaries, I went to Whit’s apartment. When he didn’t answer the door, I headed downstairs, realizing he must’ve already gone to June and Earl’s to pick up Henry.
As I approached June’s door, I overheard Whit and June talking in what sounded like angry whispers. They spoke a language I didn’t understand, didn’t even recognize, but I definitely caught my name more than once. Then, as if theyboth sensed my presence at the same time, their words abruptly ceased. But then June got in the last word—in English.
“You have a duty to the family,” she snapped. “Remember that.” Then she came toward me, hands held out to grasp mine. “Zellie, darlin’, I’m so sorry to hear about your mama. Are you all right? What can I do?”
I glanced at Whit before offering June a grateful smile. “Thank you, Ms. June. But I’m okay. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Where’s Henry?”
“He’s just finishing up breakfast,” she said. “Come on in.”
Whit turned to follow her, but I grasped his arm. “What was that all about?”
“June’s concerned that I’ll leave before everything is finished,” he said, turning once more toward the door.
“What language were you speaking?” I asked.
He paused and then turned back to me. “An old one. June isn’t originally from here. Her accent is all but gone at this point, but she sometimes slips into her native language when she’s angry.”
“And you speak the same language?” I asked, trying to understand.
“I learned as a child,” he told me. “I speak several languages.” He smiled, but it seemed forced. “Private tutors, remember?”
Henry was excited to spend the day with Whit. I didn’t bother telling him where I was going. What was the point? He’d heard about Vivian in that he knew that I had a mother like everyone else, but he’d never met her. To Henry, Vivian was just a nebulous concept, not really something a five-year-old would bother thinking about.
I made the drive to Atlanta, courtesy of the driver service Whit ordered. I’d protested, insisting I could drive myself, but as I sat in the backseat of the black sedan, staring out the window at the cityscape, inching along through the traffic of the clogged downtown arteries, I was grateful I didn’t have to be navigating.
My guilt gnawed at me, making my conscience squirm. I should’ve feltsomething. Vivian had been my mother.
But the only sorrow I experienced was that she’d never known Henry, had never gotten to see what an amazing kid he was or hear his laughter or experience one of his uninhibited, fully loving hugs that always made the day better. And it was sad that she’d died alone, that no one had even noticed she was gone for who knew how long. In the end, the woman who had gone out of her way to make me feel like I was useless, worthless, something to be abhorred, had mattered to no one.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the morgue attendant said as he ushered me into the room where a body lay on a cold steel table, a sheet draped over her face.
He lifted the sheet without ceremony, revealing a bloated, discolored version of Vivian. I nodded to him. “Yes, that’s my mother. Vivian Dupont.”
“Would you like a few minutes?” he asked gently.
Momentarily confused, I met his gaze—kind, compassionate. “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m fine.”
When I arrived home that evening, I opened my apartment door to find several bouquets of flowers set out on the tables, credenza, shelves. A soft clatter in the kitchen startled a brief cry from me, and a face peeked out around the doorframe.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” Pearlie said, hurrying toward me, hands outstretched. “I was trying to finish up before you got home.”
“Finish up?” I repeated, confused.
“Whit told us about your mother,” she explained. “June and I have made you plenty of food and put it in the fridge. You might want to move some to the freezer, as usual, so it’ll last you. And Merilee cut you some flowers from the garden. Lots of lavender to help you relax. Iris will be by later to drop off her cobbler. The woman’s cobbler is the best is Savannah, but bless her heart, she needs to expand her repertoire.”
“Oh, Ms. Pearlie,” I said, my voice small, the weight of their kindness overwhelming. “This is too much. You didn’t have to do all this!”
“Hush now,” she replied, waving away my words. “You don’t need to be worrying about anything right now. Junior and Earl did some cleaning for you, so you just focus on taking care of your mama’s arrangements.”
“Thank you, Ms. Pearlie,” I told her. “I truly appreciate it. But Vivian and I weren’t close. She wasn’t really much of a mother to me. I’m honestly okay.”
