Page 66 of Poison Wood
I reach for the perfume, remove the cap, and smell. The fragrance is still bold and floral, a hint of jasmine. And I’m transported back to her. To her long brown hair tickling my face as she leaned over me to kiss me good night. I wonder if this is a real memory or one my mind wove into existence because I needed it. I once read our sense of smell is our oldest sense. Smells will trigger memories buried deep within us. I put the gold cap back on and set the bottle in the drawer before anymore memories are triggered.
I touch the soft fabric of the shirt, her shirt. Something in it crinkles when I pick it up and hold it to my nose. Something flutters underneath it, a manila envelope. My pulse quickens. It doesn’t fit with the other items, yet it’s too big to have been sent in the padded envelope. I grab it and pull it out, my eyes darting to the door.
My father or Debby could walk in at any moment. But once you cross a line you’re not supposed to, the next line holds less meaning. A slippery slope that has me working my finger under the sealed envelope before I can talk myself out of it.
The flap loosens and I peer inside at several papers. I ease my hand in and pull them out, my heart rate accelerating. My mother’s death certificate. Her birth certificate. Their marriage license.
The last sheet of paper, though, grabs my full attention. It’s an autopsy report dated April 13, 1995, two days after my mother died. I scan it. It looks like any other report I’ve seen on cases, but the paper starts to shake in my hand. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen an autopsy report come back in two days. My eyes dart from line to line. Nothing looks off.Name: Lara-Leigh Calhoun Meade, DOB March 3, 1962, Cause of Death: Intracranial Aneurysm.
But it’s not the report itself that has this room feeling devoid of oxygen. It’s the handwritten note paperclipped to the top:You owe me.
I stand up so quickly the chair overturns and crashes to the floor. The dogs start barking down the hall and run into the room, followed by Debby.
“Are you okay?” she says, looking around the study.
I slip the report back in the drawer and shut it. I am anything but okay. “What the fuck is going on?”
She recoils. “I don’t need you speaking to me like that.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m just thinking aloud.” I open my eyes.
“Well, think aloud with better language,” she says.
I’m exhausted, reeling, and seriously regretting ever coming into this study. “Sorry,” I say, walking past her and up the stairs to my room.
Two hours later, I’m dressed in a skintight black pencil skirt and black tank top. In the bathroom, I slick my hair back into a long ponytail. I lean into the mirror. My color needs a touch-up, but overall the look is good. A bit sexy funeral, but it will work.
I add my signature red onto my lips and a little more powder. Lastly, I dig back through my closet and find an old brown leather jacket. It’s so outdated it’s come back in style. I slide it off the hanger and smell it. It doesn’t smell like her anymore. My mother wore it almost every day, even in the summer sometimes. Her wild sandy hair tangled into a high knot on the top of her head, a paintbrush in onehand, and a messy canvas in front of her. That’s the image that always comes to me. A painter. Odd, because I was only ten when she died and I didn’t really know her as a painter. I only got to know that side of her later when I’d spend hours in her art room, staring at her work and touching everything she touched.
The jacket has a splash of blue paint on it, and I stop myself from chipping it off.
A little bit of her.
I grab the box of journals and folders and my tote with my laptop in it and head for the old truck.
There are going to be a lot more things I need to talk to my father about. But I’m glad he’s out on a piece of heavy equipment at the moment. I can postpone it a little longer. I need a minute to process. Processing information is an art. An art some do well and some don’t. I’ve looked into the eyes of so many strangers over the years who were processing the death of a loved one. I’ve seen the confusion, the fear, the anger. I want to tell them to keep only the anger. Anger is like gasoline. It can fuel you. Confusion and fear will only slow you down. Unfortunately I feel those last two tugging at me now, trying to gain traction.
No way I’m going to let that happen.
Chapter Sixteen
Riverbend, Louisiana
Friday, February 15, 2019
1:32 p.m. CST
On the way to the Kingston Hotel, I spot a Home Depot off the interstate. I make an impromptu stop, where I turn more than a few heads, clacking up to the self-checkout in my stilettos with a shopping cart containing a galvanized-grade steel chain and a padlock the size of a small anchor.
That cut-through on my dad’s property is about to be cut off.
I whip into the valet lane at the Kingston, and something clatters under the seat. I glance at the passenger-side floorboard.
The valet opens the driver’s side door, and I step out and hand him the keys. “Hang on a minute,” I say.
I walk around to the passenger side and open the door. If an open envelope was left in here, which it was, something could have easily rolled out. I toggle my phone flashlight on and scan under the passenger seat. Something that looks like a clear sandwich bag sits toward the back. I wedge my hand under the seat and fumble for it.
“Need any help?” the valet says behind me.
