“Excuse me,” Meghann said to the men as she grabbed Mama’s arm and pulled her into a quiet corner. “What did you do, hire a publicist?”
Mama drew herself up to her full height and sniffed. “I was talking to her on the other line when you called. What was I supposed to tell her? It’s hardly my fault that Us magazine wanted to cover my visit to my gravely ill daughter. I am, after all, news. Celebrity can be such a burden. ”
Meghann frowned. She should have been mad as hell right now, ready to deep-fry Mama in some down-home chicken grease. But when she looked into her mother’s heavily made-up eyes, she saw something that surprised her.
“You’re afraid,” she said softly. “That’s why you brought the entourage. So it would be a performance. ”
Mama rolled her eyes. “Nothing scares me. I just . . . just . . . ”
“What?”
“It’s Claire,” Mama finally answered, looking away. “Claire. ” Her voice thickened, and Meghann saw something honest for once. “Can I see her?”
“Not if you’re bringing the circus with you. ”
Mama said quietly, “Will you go in with me?”
Meghann was surprised by that. She’d always imagined Mama to be shallow as a pie pan and tough as nails, a woman who knew what she wanted in life and made a beeline for it, the kind of woman who would cross police tape and step over a body if it was in her way. Now, she wondered if she’d been wrong, if Mama had always been this weak and frightened.
She wondered if it was all an act. Fear was something Meghann understood. Especially when it grew out of guilt.
“Of course I’ll come with you. ”
They went over to the magazine people. Mama made a teary plea for privacy in this difficult time, then recommended a restaurant across the street for the rest of the interview.
Mama’s high heels clacked on the linoleum floor. The sound seemed designed to draw attention, but no one noticed.
At Claire’s room, Meghann stopped. “You ready?”
Mama pulled up a smile, nodded, and swept into the room like Auntie Mame, her long black sleeves fluttering out behind her. “Claire, darlin’, it’s Mama. ”
Claire tried
to smile, but against the white mound of pillows and industrial gray blankets, she looked worn, impossibly pale. The patch of baldness gave her an odd, lopsided look. “Hey, Mama. You just missed Sam and Ali. They went down to the cafeteria. ”
Mama stumbled, her arms lowered. She glanced back at Meghann.
“I know I look like shit, Mama,” Claire said, trying for a laugh.
Mama moved slowly this time. “Why, darlin’, that isn’t true at all. You’re lovely. ” She pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Why, I remember an episode of Starbase IV. It was called ‘Attack Buffet,’ remember that? I ate a bad bit of space food and all m’hair fell out. ” She smiled. “I sent that episode in to the Emmy voters. ’Course it didn’t work. Too much politics. I sort of liked the freedom of no hair. ”
“It was a rubber skullcap, Mama. ”
“Still. It makes a woman’s eyes look beautiful. I do wish I’d brought my makeup though. You could use a little blush, maybe a touch of liner. Meghann should have told me. And I’ll pick you up a pretty little bed jacket. Maybe with some fur around the collar. I remember a dress I once wore to the—”
“Mama. ” Claire tried to lean forward. The effort clearly cost her. “There’s a tumor eating through my brain. ”
Mama’s smile fluttered. “That’s awfully graphic of you, darlin’. We Southern women—”
“Please, Mama. Please. ”
Mama sank into her chair. She seemed to lose mass somehow, become smaller, ordinary, until the flapping black outfit swallowed her up, leaving behind a thin, heavily made-up woman who’d had one too many face-lifts. “I don’t know what you want from me. ”
It was the first time in twenty years Meghann had heard her mother’s real voice. Instead of the sweet lilt of the South, it had the pinched flatness of the Midwest.
“Oh, Mama,” Claire said, “of course you don’t. You never wanted children. You wanted an audience. I’m sorry. I’m too tired to be polite. I want you to know that I love you, Mama. I always did. Even when you . . . looked away. ”
Looked away.