Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri

Okay, so I guess The Fine Prince and me are chatting now. “Aspiring, huh? I didn’t know that’s something you aimed for. Yoga teacher, I get. Maybe even a meditation master. But who’s like ‘you know what I’m fixing to do? Become a yoga guru?’”

His lips twitched slightly. “Do you think he’s already written the script for the Netflix docuseries about his inevitable rise and fall under a combination of sexual harassment charges and unpaid back taxes?”

“He most definitely has!” I let out a surprised laugh. This guy was funny in a droll sort of way.

And hot I couldn’t help but notice. He had that smooth I just woke up looking like I could walk onto a Shonda Rhimes set vibe on lock. And when he smiled down at me, something weird happened in my chest. I don’t know what it was, but it made it impossible for me not to smile back up at him. For real this time. No Princess Missouri.

No wonder nurses of all colors spent so much time making sure his charts were all the way correct. The Fine Prince indeed.

As if reading my mind, he asked, “Do they truly call me that. The Fine Prince?”

“They sure do,” I answered, pulling my carton out of the microwave. “You want in on this?”

Yes, I’m prickly, but the manners my mother instilled in me remained. Even after she was gone.

Remembering my last sight of her, a wave of sadness passed over me. She’d been surrounded by loved ones, her husband, her daughter, and a few of her friends from the Lutheran church we attended. But she had looked so small in that hospital bed.

“You want me to call your sister?” my father had asked her as she worked hard to breathe through her nasal cannula oxygen tube. “Let her talk to you one last time?”

For some reason, my mother had turned her head to look at me.

Then after what looked like several conflicted seconds, she shook her head.

I didn’t know much about that sister. Only that she was wild to the point that she wasn’t invited to the funeral when granddaddy died. My dad had remained silent about grandpa’s funeral. But I guess not inviting her to grandma’s must have sat on his conscience. I overheard them arguing about it when I came downstairs for a glass of water the night before grandma’s funeral.

“It just doesn’t seem right to me, Mari.”

“What would be right about inviting her? That heifer left in the middle of the night and we haven’t heard from her ever since.”

“She sent that letter apologizing…”

“If she was really sorry, she would have come down here and said it to Mama’s face.”

“But…” Dad had started to argue.

“And who’s to even know if she’s still off the bottle like that letter said?” Mama had asked before he could finish that sentence. “For all we know she’s out there somewhere turning tricks to get another bottle.”

“But…” Dad had tried again.

“Don’t but me, Mac. Just don’t. My mama is dead and the last person I want to deal with is my sister on top. And don’t you forget, she could ruin everything!”

Dad had opened his mouth to argue again, but then he saw me standing there in the kitchen door. “Aw, pumpkin, how long have you been standing there watching us go on?”

Pumpkin. That was what he always called me, whether he was happy, angry, or sad.

“I came down to get a glass of water,” I had answered, squinting at Mama. She seemed frozen in place, like someone who’d been caught doing something bad. Which had made me suspicious enough to ask, “Why would she ruin everything?”

“Let me get you that water, sweetie.” Mama had turned around with what she called her “make pretty smile.” Because as she’d put it, “I’m not anything to look at until I put on a pretty smile and a pleasant attitude. That smile’s what made your daddy fall for me at first sight. And my pleasant attitude is what keeps him loving me to this day.”

I’d been doing pageants since the age of six, so I knew I was pretty, whether I smiled or not. And I’d always thought Mama was pretty too. But whenever I’d tried to tell her that, she’d said, “Stop that now. I’m just all right. Like my mama told me, growing up, one beauty in the family is quite enough.”

I’d always assumed she’d said that because in the old black and white photos, anyone could see grandma had been the kind of pretty that turned heads back in the day. But as I had watched my mother fetch the glass of water, a new thought had occurred to me.

Had the younger sister been the designated beautiful one? The one I’d never seen a picture of…the one she was refusing to invite to grandmama’s funeral?