"At the End of the Bayou"

Chapter 1

The headaches had rendered me helpless for another day. I never knew when they would attack. They crept in unsuspectingly, a cruel beast that showed no mercy only endless pain. I neither saw flashing lights nor felt a prickly sensation at the top of my skull. Nothing. Only incessant, debilitating pain.

This pain and my perpetual search for a cure led me to a new doctor who, after performing all of the usual tests for tumors and such, suggested my migraines might be emotional. Burying my face in my hands, I could only weep.

“I feared this,” I said, brushing back the hair from my dampened face.

“Why, Shelby?” the balding young doctor asked.

“My mother is in an institution for the mentally ill. Her doctors offer no hope for recovery.”

“Does she have headaches?”

I shook my head and swallowed the lump in my throat. I detested weak women who resorted to tears rather than logical communication. “No, not to my knowledge.”

“Are you overburdened by her care and condition?”

Although his question was poignant, his voice rang tender. Again I said no.

“Many people, especially women, suffer from migraines. You simply need to take the prescribed medication.”

“But do these people have mentally ill mothers and a childhood they cannot remember?”

The doctor scrutinized me closely. “Perhaps a therapist is in order.”

“I’ve seen a Christian counselor for years. Still do. I simply don’t remember my life before moving to Detroit when I was nearly eight years old.”

The doctor sighed. This problem of mine was definitely not within his realm of expertise. He wanted to prescribe a pill and send me on my way until the next monthly appointment. “Perhaps a psychiatrist?”

“I’ve done that too.” I forced a smile in hopes of hiding my distress.

“Then consider returning to your birthplace.”

I shuddered. How many times had those same thoughts entered my mind? My counselor Mary Linda, also my pastor’s wife, whom I had grown to love as a surrogate mother, had prayed with me about this very thing.

“I guess I have no choice.” Already my mind spun with all the arrangements necessary before obtaining a leave from my dental practice. I’d considered selling the Louisiana property left to Mother since I had power of attorney. This way I could take care of both matters.

Leaving the doctor’s office, I drove to the private hospital where Mother had spent the last fifteen years. She hadn’t recognized me for a long time, and the doctors said she probably did not comprehend anything I said either. But I had to tell her nevertheless.

The hospital gave exemplary care in a loving environment. The cost did not matter. Each time I entered the foyer and noted the rich mahogany furniture and textured upholstery and made my way down the hardwood halls featuring the finest of oil paintings, I praised God for the facility. Here, noteworthy caregivers and professionals tended my mother with the dignity she deserved. I rested easily knowing their care far excelled what I could do. Today they had Mother in a comfy recliner facing the terrace area where the mid April signs of greenery sprang up from the cultivated earth.

“Mother, I’m going to visit the old home in Louisiana.” I tucked the lap blanket around her waist. She’d just been bathed and smelled of strawberries.

She stared blankly at me and my heart wrenched. Gone were the days when Mother caught the eye of passers-by. Her jet-black hair had grown gray and brittle, and those once light blue eyes with flecks of gold now stared dull and listless. The wrinkles in her face had deepened into an image of battle scars. An old friend told me I looked like my mother, and his words filled me with pleasure because I’d always felt she was beautiful. We were petite and never had a problem with weight gain, which had been the envy of my friends.

Since my father died in Viet Nam shortly before my third birthday, I barely remembered him. This visit would give me a sense of belonging in my otherwise obscure world.

“I love you,” I whispered as I bent to kiss her pale cheek. “Jesus loves you too, and I believe He wants me to find out what happened in Louisiana. I’m staying until I find what I’m looking for.” I tilted my head, seeking a sign that she understood why I must leave.

Two weeks later, I still wondered if I’d made the right decision as I drove a leased sedan from Lafayette, east to the section of Louisiana called Zirondelle in New Iberia parish. The travel agent said it contained magnificent antebellum homes and a rich history.

Already I sensed a slower pace of life, and I felt rather lost – me who always conducted my life according to a rigid schedule. Mary Linda believed this was a coping mechanism developed as a child so no one would know my mother’s condition. She urged me to slow down and enjoy life. I tried, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of deep friendships. Except for Jesus. My Savior stood as my life and joy. I told Him everything, pouring out all my hurt and disappointment. Oh, I had foster parents who meant well and tried to get me to open up, but I refused. So the social workers labeled me as socially unadjusted. I could only guess their thoughts. I compensated by pouring out my energies into books. Learning became a fascination.

I pressed the automatic window button and allowed the fresh spring breeze flow over me. The sweet smell of freshly turned earth and chirping birds eased my troubled thoughts. I couldn’t quite label my normally logical emotions. I wavered between excitement, fear, and adventure, like a boat bouncing along the waves.

Glancing at the map, I turned down a narrow paved road that eventually became a ground oyster shell surface. A cloud of white dust trailed behind me.