Chapter Seven #2
In my late twenties when I thought my years of education made me wise, I told Mama I forgave her. She’d said, “For what? I did my best.” Couldn’t argue with her there. She had done her best. Unfortunately, her best was mediocre, hovering around abusive.
Once when I visited her at Texas Rose after my book deal, she said, “You’re so lucky you had a crazy mother and a retarded sister to help you get all this fame.
” It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to slap her across the face.
I’d slapped her before. She’d slapped me, and Mabry.
It was our toxic way of communicating when I was young. Another bad habit I had to fix.
I spent years circling Mama and her responses and trying to understand her, telling myself forgiveness is the only path out.
I also spent money. On Mama. Doctors, specialists, medication.
All trying to find the right balance for her.
But balance isn’t Mama’s strong point. She’s rejected more medications than I can count.
So I convinced myself I didn’t need her acknowledgment to forgive her.
But being this close to my past is showing me just how foolish I’ve been.
How can I forgive Mama for that night when I’ve never even forgiven myself?
I find a granola bar I bought at the Sack and Save and make my way back up to the attic.
Every creak of the stairs has me jumpy. I tell myself I’m going to come up with a plan with Travis.
Talk to the chief, and things will sort out.
But the tape in the attic has my skin tingling, and with each step up the cramped staircase, memories tingle as well: Travis sitting on the front porch with Mabry and me, playing cards and laughing.
His right eye swollen shut after a fight with someone in his house, probably his dad or one of his brothers.
Travis and me walking to get ice cream cones at Dairy King, fishing on the banks of the bayou, running through the woods at night with beer and a blanket.
Then I see his worried face in the dark as he grabbed my arms and tried to calm me down. It’s okay, Willa. I’m here.
The boxes filled with Mama’s things are where I left them in the attic.
Little boxes of chaos. Krystal Lynn had certainly been a chaos seeker.
A term I’d learned in undergrad. Yet even though I understood that term and saw it in action, I still managed to make my own chaos as well.
When you grow up in a home where crazy is familiar, it’s hard to designate a new familiar as an adult.
You keep making decisions that turn your world into a disaster zone.
Like dating and marrying the man in charge of my clinicals.
Making a fool of myself on live television.
Saving a videotape I should have destroyed.
One at a time, I take the boxes down to the front bedroom and place them on the floor.
A sour taste fills my mouth as I turn my attention to the box of old VHS tapes.
Guiding Light and As the World Turns were as vital to Mama as air and water.
She recorded them every day and watched them at night with a vodka and a cigarette.
But those tapes aren’t important. Only the one I hid among them years ago is important.
Now, more than ever, I need to understand what happened that night.
I swallow, pull a black, rectangular tape out, examine it, and toss it back in.
Did I really think that security tape would be found by someone and used against me?
That I had to come back to this godforsaken town to retrieve it?
In my mind, when I read that letter from the lawyers, yes.
It stood out in my memory as something that would be recognized as wrong because it was wrong to me.
It would physically stand out, announce itself as trouble, because it was trouble to me. In reality, it just looks like junk.
I pick up another tape. I need to be careful.
These tapes could turn into quicksand and suck me into a past I may not want to remember.
And even though I want to believe what I did all those summers ago was mostly harmless, something still gnaws at me.
I stare at the stack of tapes. The one I’m looking for could have degraded over the years.
It could be in such poor shape I’ll never know what was on it.
But what if it is watchable? My instincts that night told me to take it, told me to hide it.
Now, I need to find out why. I need to understand why Mama asked me to dump that car.
I need answers, and the women in my life who were involved in that night are either unwilling or unable to talk to me about it.
Mama and Mabry never said a word to me. Maybe Mabry would have at some point but not now.
Poor Mabry. It’s no wonder she pushed against me the older we got.
After grad school, I’d pulled away from my role as her caretaker.
I’d studied in great detail about toxic codependent relationships and thought the distance between us would fix ours.
I was young and foolish. The distance only made it worse.
Then I’d married Christopher, and Mama moved them back to Louisiana. Mabry never forgave me.
The rotted yellow dress from Mabry’s failed pageant catches my eye.
I look down at my phone. Back at the dress.
Screw it. I scroll to my favorites and punch her number.
It goes straight to voicemail. Her laugh, like the tine of a fork on crystal.
“Leave a message.” I hang up. I’ll have to get my answers another way.
I open my app and start searching for VCRs.
The irony not lost on me that I’m depending on the most advanced technologies to purchase one of the least advanced.
There are several options, but most take a week to arrive.
Finally, I find one I can have overnighted.
The shipping costs as much as the VCR but too bad.
No way I’m waiting a week. And it says there’s only one left in stock.
I read about the hook-up process and hurry down to the kitchen to check the television I’d seen on the counter.
It’s as wide as it is deep. Not a new flat-screen, but I hit the power button, and it sparks to life.
Only white static fills the screen, but it works.
I unplug it and test its weight. I can get it upstairs where the tapes are scattered, where it and the VCR I plan to hook up to it won’t be seen by a cop who tends to drop by unannounced.
I add the VCR and corresponding cables to my cart and start to click “Buy Now” when I realize I don’t know the address here.
I fish the letter from my tote, scanning until I find where the address is printed.
I type it into the shipping details and hit purchase.
I refresh the screen. It tells me that my order is processing and I’ll be notified when it’s shipped.
My phone vibrates on the floor next to me. I pick it up. It’s Amy.
“Hey,” I say.
She sounds out of breath. “Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. It’s been crazy here, Willa. I’m out for a walk. Needed to move.”
“Yeah, it’s been a little crazy here too.” I exhale. Christopher’s ex will have to move down on the list of things I’m worried about. “Look, I did not cheat my way through grad school, and I certainly didn’t sleep with Christopher while he was married,” I say.
“I told you to stay off Twitter,” she pants into the phone.
“I would have if you hadn’t said not to.”
“Good point.”
“It’s all completely untrue.” When Amy doesn’t respond, I say, “What?”
“Are you sure Christopher wasn’t married?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” A sickening taste fills my mouth.
Was I sure? We spent every minute together.
I slept at his apartment. He couldn’t have still been married.
He talked a lot about his ex. Their divorce.
But it’s not like I’d ever demanded to see the divorce papers.
I just believed him. “Oh Jesus,” I whispered into the phone.
“Look, I’m pretty sure the ex is just stirring up shit.
She’s got some new skin-care line and is looking to get some followers.
We’re not going to give that rumor any legs, okay?
And the one about you cheating on your exams is complete bullshit, and everyone knows it.
It’s going to die down. We’ll mitigate damage.
I’ve been working on a show idea.” She pauses.
“Amy, what?”
“There are a few busybodies out there questioning your boards and if you passed because of Christopher.”
The temperature in the bedroom rises several degrees. Heat radiates under my skin. “I worked my ass off to pass that exam. I’ve renewed my licensure every year since. Not to mention continuing education every two years. My job is based on my credibility.”
“Easy, Willa. I know. This is what we don’t need. We don’t need you getting defensive.”
“I’m not defensive.” My answer is too quick, and I know it. “Okay, maybe a little bit.”
“You don’t need to be, especially with me. Look, everyone is enjoying your story right now, but it’s not going to last forever.”
I think of the car coming out of the bayou only hours ago. Of the way Rita Meade looked at me. Shit. “When do you want to shoot the show you’re working on?”
“The sooner the better.”
I want to say Will do; I’m on my way, but I don’t. I don’t say anything.
“Look, Willa, I’ve given you some grace because you sounded exhausted. But you’ve got to come back. You can’t hide from this. It won’t look good.”
A heavy silence hangs between us.
“Willa?”
“Give me a couple of days. I need to figure a few things out.”
“Uh, no can do. This shit is going to fester if you don’t deal with it. Load up whatever it is you went down there for, get in your car, and start driving. And after we clean all this up, we’ll book a trip to Cabo and drink mango margaritas all day. Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say absently and hang up.
I shut my eyes a moment, open them. Glance at the box of tapes. What I really came here for is control. And now I have anything but.
Amy is only trying to help. And I know she needs me to cooperate, but I don’t need her hurry-up mentality right now.
Things have changed. I need to take a minute and assess before I go running off again.
I thought being out of Fort Worth would help this die down, or maybe, a part of me knew it was time to deal with something other than my career for once.
Get my karma in order. Repair the past in order to move into the future.
Whatever I want to call it, I’m here now, and I may have more to repair than I thought.