Chapter 9
The next morning, Bette woke to the roar of a vacuum cleaner, which was directly beside her bed.
Grimacing, she turned over to find her mother standing next to her, rolling the blue, roaring piece of cleaning machinery over her tanned wooden floors. Heat engulfed her neck and face as her sleepy state quickly dissipated. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What?" her mother yelled over the roar of the vacuum, still pushing the damn thing around the floor.
Bette threw the covers back, cool air meeting her bare legs as she swung them over the edge of the bed. She loudly answered her mother, "I said, what the hell are you doing?"
The vacuum stopped as her mother pushed the off button with her foot and straightened up. Her face was pinched and stern, with eyes blazing. "Don't you dare speak to me like that! I am your mother."
"No, Mother, I will not give you respect when you don't show it to me. I'm not someone you can push around anymore. Now get out of my room," demanded Bette as she pointed to the door.
Clara fixed her steely gaze on Bette as she spoke low. If her face weren't full of Botox, she would have had deep lines around her pursed lips. "You need to remember whose house you are in. It's not your room. It's my room. I will do what I want in my own house. I will also not have my child acting like my equal."
Bette's mouth hung open as her mother, vacuum and all, stormed out of the room.
Bette's day didn't get any better as it progressed. After the morning meeting, she was sent to another section of the rehab not connected to the main property. It was a short, walk away, but Bette drove there. Tindle Street had three houses and three counselors. They shared a small office building. It felt more like an oversized shed to Bette. Though similar to the ones in The Church, the walls were hastily constructed and left little privacy behind them when talking with clients. Clinton, one of the counselors, had explained that it was once a barbershop, nail salon, and insurance company.
Clinton was an abrasive but kind man that Bette took a minute to like and then quickly warmed up to. He knew everything about the ins and outs of Turtle Grove. Gossip and all. He was also a little flamboyant and referred to a ‘partner’ once that made Bette think he was apart of her own community.
"You know, Terrance used to live with a woman in auditing when he first started working here. Then, you'll never guess this. He started talking to one of the new nurses but never told the girl in auditing. So he was dating both at the same time, but since they work in different places, it took months for them to catch on."
"But did the girl he lived with not realize?" Bette asked as she watched the clients through the window to the large porch of the house they stayed in. It was between classes, and they were taking a smoke break.
Bette had enjoyed the morning group. It was her first time experiencing one. Anxiety squeezed her chest like a vice when she first sat down in the cramped living room of Bluebird. Clinton did group in Bluebird, while Thomas, another counselor located at Tindle St., did group in the large house called Swallow. Swallow was once a boarding house at the beginning of the 1900s. It seemed like everything a part of Turtle Grove was once something else, repurposed for a greater use.
The group session had been exhilarating. Bette learned that most counselors do something fun on Fridays. Something lighter to end the week with. Clinton explained that clients needed to learn how to enjoy things again. How to find fun in the simplest of things. Group was what Clinton called Music Friday. He explained that music fed the soul. It allowed people with few words to speak many. People who didn't speak the same language could communicate with music. It could soothe babies and calm animals. Music could touch places nothing else could.
Music Friday had been met with a chorus of cheers when the clients were told that that was what group would be. Crammed into the living room of Bluebird, Bette was given one of the best chairs in the place while the men took the two couches and a few kitchen chairs that looked like they had seen better days. The men were instructed to pick a song that spoke to them and write it down on a piece of paper being passed around. If someone couldn't think of a song, then they would be allowed to briefly use Clinton's phone under supervision to Google it. The clients were isolated from the outside world on purpose. Once they had been there a week, they would be allowed to call home, though they could write home at any time. It was important to keep them in a safe environment. It was hard on some at first, but a large amount of them were used to being controlled and away from others thanks to stints in jail. The difference was that instead of being corralled in a cement room with nothing constructive to do, at Turtle Grove, they were learning new information and rediscovering things they had lost to addiction. Sometimes, just waking up at the same time every morning to a schedule was impactful. Having some reason to get up.
Bette was skeptical at first. How could listening to a song be that big of a deal? But then they dove into it, and the mix of music—some rap, some rock, even some outlaw country—started something amazing. The group began to meld together, to lean into the rhythm and beats. A common theme was hurt or defiance, of making it through regardless, of death and loss.
And then they started opening up. One by one, the songs were played, and one by one, they confessed. They opened up their hearts. A few newer guys, wearing red tags, which indicated they were in their first week of treatment, were standoffish. It didn't take long for them to start commenting on each other's songs, bonding over the themes. Some songs were heavy. A few uplifting. But mostly, pain appeared to be the common theme. Pain within themselves. Pain they caused their families. Pain for faith lost and pain for lost time. Bette walked away from the group therapy feeling light as a feather. The right opposite of how she woke up.
By late afternoon, though, Bette was tired of information and overwhelmed by Clinton's nonstop talking. Although she liked Clinton, the amount of gabbing was nearly too much to handle over a length of time. Bette was thrilled when Clinton finally left for the day. The weekend was in front of her, and she couldn't wait for some alone time in her room.
On her way home, the pit of her stomach filled further and further with dread the closer she got to her mother's. She knew Clara would be waiting for round two. She would do something to prove her point that she was the top dog.
Her saving grace was Zoe's name flashing on her car's Bluetooth screen: "Hello, my beautiful daughter."
"Hello, my beautiful mother," greeted Zoe. "Are you off work yet?"
"I am. I left about 15 minutes ago. Why?"
"How about dinner? I want to hear all about the new job. And we need to plan for my graduation."
The dread in the pit of Bette's stomach twisted into knots. Zoe's graduation. She swallowed the large lump that was forming in her throat. "Dinner sounds much better than going home to your grandmother."
Zoe's lofty laugh was like honey over the speaker. "So things are not going well with Granny?"
"She's just her usual, lovely self," Bette ground out, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Some things never change. I'll meet you at Dent's in like 30."
Dent's Restaurant never changed. It had been a part of Roark for as long as anyone could remember. A southern diner with food that was guaranteed to clog your arteries but leave you satisfied and full. It wasn't a place that Bette dined at often, but Zoe loved their patty melt and thick-cut fries. No matter how hard she tried over the years, Bette could never seem to replicate the unique flavor that came with a Dent's patty melt. Bette was pretty sure it was the grease-covered grill.
Dent's was the kind of place that when someone walked in, everyone turned to see who came through the door. It was customary to nod at those you made eye contact with as you looked for an empty seat. There would be old men there who would sit and drink coffee for hours every day. Socializing and passing the time. The walls were decorated with NASCAR memorabilia, and half of the drivers were not even alive anymore. Car license plates took up the empty spaces between the Dale Earnhardt clocks and the Bill Elliott placards. Bette wasn't sure that she could find a single spot where there was more than 3 inches of space. On more than one occasion, she wondered what it would be like if there was an earthquake. She was half convinced that the old walls of the ancient building were being held up by the decor and grease that coated them. Truthfully, she was never the biggest fan of Dent's, but if Zoe wanted to go there, she would. Plus, she was less likely to run into some of her old hoity-toity friends who promptly dropped her when Shelly left. It was a sore spot she was still rubbing.
Bette held the door open for Zoe and followed her in closely. She knew that as soon as they walked through the threshold, everybody would turn and stare, and that's exactly what they did. She felt eyes roam over her and her daughter and then drift away as chatter resumed.
"I think there might be a table in the back," Zoe said, pointing low. She didn't seem nearly as self-conscious as Bette felt .
Bette nodded and gave Zoe a little push, eager to get seated and out of everyone's view. The atmosphere was chatty and high-energy. It was Friday evening after work. The vibe was infectious, and once seated in the red vinyl booth, Bette's shoulders began to relax. She was tucked in the back, no one behind her, and anyone coming in would have to look through a sea of red-blooded, blue-collar workers, families, and friends to spot her.
"You look good, Mom. It's nice to see you out of your PJs," observed Zoe with a smile. She fidgeted with her purse, a lovely little pale gray shoulder satchel with an unmistakable Gucci symbol on the front. Looks like Shelly is still buying our daughter's love.
"Thank you. I have to admit it does feel good to get out of that house. I'm feeling better." She left out the brain fog that still hadn't lifted. A fog that, at moments, made even talking feel like walking through mud. It wasn't as bad as before when she wouldn't leave her room for days. But it had yet to dissipate completely, but she could feel the darkness lifting at the edges. She hoped it would continue.
The waitress, a tall, lanky lady with feathered bangs she'd been styling the same way since the early 80s and a smoker's voice that was pleasantly gravelly, came over to the table. "How y'all doing, ladies? I'm Tammi. What can I get you to drink?"
"Sweet tea," chimed Zoe.
"Water with lemon, please." Tammi jotted it down on a pad and left.
Bette opened the plastic-covered menu as if she didn't already know what was there. It was the same menu for as long as she could remember. They had added a few things here and there over the years, but nothing huge. Her menu was a little sticky, so she pinched at its edges. "I'm assuming you'll be getting the patty melt?"
Zoe wiggled her eyebrows over her menu, her smile a mirror image of her own. Bette wondered when the last time she herself had smiled that carefree. "You never know, Mom. I may surprise you."
"Right," mused Bette. She decided on a choice and closed the menu, happy to release the sticky thing.
Tammi came back with their drinks and took their orders. Being out in public and having dinner like a normal person felt odd. Dinner out was something they used to do regularly. That was more to socialize and make connections, though, and this time, it felt better. She was enjoying herself. Maybe she would try to do it more often, but who would it be with? She couldn't hang out with Zoe like she would with a friend, and friends were something she did not have the luxury of at the moment. Her mind wandered to the dashing bundle of exposed nerves that was Kerrie Matthews. She certainly seemed like someone who needed downtime. To unwind a little. Plus, despite her sometimes sour disposition, Bette thought there might be someone special underneath.
"Momma?" Zoe called out. Bette must have drifted off.
Bette shook her head, plastering on a smile. "I'm sorry, dear. What did you say?"
"I was saying that I got my results back from finals this morning, and I aced everything."
"That's great! I'm so proud of you. You've been working so hard," gushed Bette, her chest swelling with pride. Zoe had a good head on her shoulders, and Bette couldn't have been more proud.
"So, how are you and Granny getting along? Do you want to throw her off the roof?"
Bette snorted before taking a sip of her water. "Like that old bat couldn't just fly. She already sleeps hanging upside down."
Zoe barked out a laugh. "So, going just as well as usual. You've got a job now. When do you think you can afford to move out?"
That had been a question weighing heavily on her mind. All she wanted was to have a place of her own. To live in a space where she didn't have to walk past her mother just to get to her room. A room that was tainted by her mother's disregard for boundaries. Bette wasn't sure why she was surprised by the intrusion. It was classic Clara behavior. Her actions had become more intentional and bold. It would only get worse the longer she stayed there. Clara knew every button her daughter had and would continue pressing more and more of them until Bette blew up, and then she'd be blamed for being the explosive one. She had to get out.
Bette sighed, folding her hands in front of her on the table. "I guess it'll still be a while at the prices that are out there now. I'd have to rent. I don't get paid for another week, and I'm hesitant to touch what little I have. Between a security deposit, the first month's rent, and having to furnish a lot of things, I lost to Shel. I want to pad my account some more."
Zoe looked thoughtfully at her mom, stirring her straw lazily in her glass. "Maybe it'll happen quicker than you think?"
"We can only hope."
"I could ask Mom if she could loan you—"
"Absolutely not. You are not to speak about my financial situation to her," Bette snapped, glaring briefly before her eyes softened, and she reached over, squeezing Zoe's hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I know you're just trying to help. I'll be fine. I promise. I need to do this on my own. "
Their food arrived soon after, the smell of fresh French fries wafting up from their plates. Zoe wasted no time digging into hers while Bette took her time despite the growls from her belly.
One dish Dent's did well was their whole fried catfish. She squeezed lemon over the fillet as her mouth began to water. Fried foods were not something she allowed herself to indulge in often, as Shelly always made comments that it would go straight to her hips. This would be a nice treat after completing her first week at Turtle Grove. And not hearing Shelly tear her down would be a bonus.
"So, tell me about the first week. Did you make friends?" asked Zoe in a motherly tone before taking a huge bite of her patty melt.
"Friends? Are you my mother now?" asked Bette with a smirk.
Zoe lifted her hand to her mouth as she laughed with a mouth full of food. "Someone has to be."
Bette lifted her fork with a bite of catfish to her mouth and chewed it carefully before answering. "I've met some nice people and some odd people. I like most of them. The job seems like something I'll pick up on fast; it's just that I've spent the whole time doing computer training and shadowing people. I did get a chance to start setting up my office one day."
The mention of her office made a mental picture of Kerrie playfully pushing her around the basement flash through her mind. Just thinking about it gave her butterflies, something she had long since forgotten the feeling of.
"Momma, Shel's calling."
The butterflies ceased moving, instead turning into rocks that hit the pit of her stomach. Shelly fucking Cooper.
Zoe answered her phone and mentioned she was having dinner with Bette, who inwardly cringed. "Yeah, she's here. Hold on."
Before Bette could recover from the switch from flirty joy to heavy reality, a phone was being thrust into her hands. "She wants to talk to you about graduation."
I'd rather stick my hand in the deep fryer that cooked my fries. With great effort, Bette managed to keep her face neutral as she put the phone to her ear. "Hello, Shelly."
The internal groan within Bette almost drowned out the nasally soft sound of Shelly Cooper's uppity voice that never sounded as uppity when they were married. Or was she just used to it? Blind to its expected privilege? "Hello, Bette. I heard you finally obtained a job. "
"I did. What do you want to talk with me about concerning graduation?"
"Not much for small talk, huh?" quipped Shelly, a tinge of amusement in her voice.
"I think we talked enough during our twenty years of marriage. Graduation, Shelly."
Shelly sighed into her ear, and Bette could hear someone in the background but couldn't distinguish what was said or by whom. "With that kind of attitude, it's a wonder we ever broke up."
"Get on with it," Bette demanded quietly. She forced a smile at Zoe, who lifted her eyebrow.
"Well, Jen and I are going to throw a little graduation luncheon for Zoe. We'll have it at our house; I'll bring in a chef. Jenny can decorate. We're planning for about 15. Since you're not seeing anyone, you should bring your mother—"
"I'll have a date," Bette interjected quickly. Too quickly to think about the words she spoke. What have I done?