“Yeah. It happens.”
This whole drive, she has gasped and groaned over fallen trees, blown-out billboards, and tumbled trash bins, but I know the storm could have really been a lot worse.
“You checked on Mr. Hebert?” she asks. Her sweet concern makes me grin.
“Yeah,Noncis fine.” The fact that my Aunt Lorraine answered his phone this morning let me know he’s more than fine. Either that, or he’s certifiable.
“What about your mom? Should we go see if she needs help at her place?”
I wince. I still haven’t told Iris about Mom’s condition. I didn’t see the point before now, and, if I’m being honest, I didn’t want to. But Iris has shared her burdens with me, so keeping this to myself doesn’t seem fair.
“My mom lives in assisted living. I called her this morning.” I waited until Iris took Mica out for a walk to do just that. “She’s fine. They have back-up power, so she’s not even sweating like the rest of us.”
“She’s in assisted living?” I glance over to find Iris’s eyes sharp with concern.
“Yeah.” I nod, a humbling feeling crowding my insides. “Mom has Alzheimer’s.”
Her brows shoot up. “Oh, Beau.” Her expression softens into a frown, and her hand goes tight around mine. “That must be hard.”
I’d hesitated to tell her before because I didn’t want her pity. Because that’s what everyone else offers. But what I’m getting from Iris doesn’t feel like pity. She doesn’t tell me how sorry she is. She doesn’t press for more information.
I don’t see how she could, but it’s like she gets it. Before I know it, I’m the one going on about it.
“It’s not easy,” I admit, turning onto the gravel road that leads to the house. “In fact, it sucks ass.”
Iris stifles a grin, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me.
“It’s early on-set. She’s only sixty-two.”
This fact hits her like a blow, and she closes her eyes, lips drawn between her teeth. “Wow,” she whispers.
“Yeah.” I slow as we cross the cattle guard. “But the place where she lives is good. The staff really cares and they have some good programs.”
She’s quiet for a moment as we bounce down the gravel drive. We pass Mrs. Thibodeaux’s place. The back half her south pasture shows standing water where she’s closest to the river, but I can see her cattle grazing on the north end.
“Do you have other family? Besides your uncle and your dad, I mean.”
“Yeah, my sister Val lives in Atlanta,” I answer, scanning Mrs. Thibodeaux’s barn, outbuildings and house for damage. “She’s married and has—”
“Oh my God!”
Iris’s cry has me slamming the brakes. I follow her gaze to my house. At least, I’m supposed to be looking at my house, but the mangled crown of a pecan tree blocks my view.
“Shit.”
“Beau, is that your tiny house?”
I throw my truck in park and kill the engine. In the gaps between the leaves and branches, I can see red and gray, the paint and trim colors of my house. Something is still standing at least. “Yep. Let’s see what’s left of it.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Iris unbuckles her seatbelt and slips from the truck. For a moment the surreal sight is all I can focus on, but my wits come back to me before she reaches into the back for Mica.
“Be careful,” I tell her. “Keep him close. Keep an eye out for water moccasins. They could be seeking higher ground with the river so high.”
Iris scans the ground at her feet, nodding. “Got it.”
I do a quick sweep of my side of the truck. The land where my house sits is on a slight rise, a wedge between crawfish ponds and river. The natural levee between the two is still clear, but much of its bulk is under water. Flooding, yes, but not devastation, though it might mean an earlier end to the season for crawfish farmers around here.
I’m grateful water hasn’t sealed off the gravel road and that Mrs. Thibodeaux’s house and mine are high and dry, but that pecan tree didn’t do me any favors.
