When Love Was Clean Underwear (novel excerpt) . . Susan Barr-Toman

WHEN LOVE WAS CLEAN UNDERWEAR

(NOVEL EXCERPT)

hapter One.

Lucy took the oxygen tubes out of her mother ’ s nose and turned off the tank so they could share a last cigarette together. Marge ’ s last cigarette. It was October 30, Mischief Night, the day her mother Marge had chosen in the hope of being buried on All Souls ’ Day. She chose the time, around 11:15 p.m., so that she could watch the lead story on the 11:00 news; she no longer cared to hear the five-day forecast.

They sat in the dining room, which had been converted into a makeshift hospital room with an adjustable bed, a commode, a TV tray covered with prescription bottles, and the oxygen tanks. Lucy held the brown cigarette to her mother ’ s mouth. The smoke hung about Marge ’ s face. Her lungs could barely pull it in or force it out, but she still enjoyed the smell and taste.

The lead news story had proven a disappointment. The “ werewolf boy ” from South America had plastic surgery at Children ’ s Hospital to remove the thick hair covering one side of his face; skin grafts were required. Instead of after pictures of the boy ’ s face following the procedure, they aired pre-surgery video. Dr. Eugene McCormick, a man in his early fifties wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a white medical jacket, outlined an area of the boy ’ s face with a black marker, while the anchorwoman stated that the boy was recuperating and in stable condition.

“He is the same, ” Marge said through parched lips, as she turned her face away.

She had motioned to Lucy that it was time. Reluctantly, Lucy let go of the aluminum foil-covered antenna of their old television. She didn ’t want to kill her mother. She didn ’t know whether she could kill her mother.

Lucy took a drag and then offered the cigarette to her mother again. Closing her eyes, Marge parted her lips and sucked ever so slightly on the filter. She opened her mouth to let the last of the smoke escape and studied its rise.

Then Lucy tapped out the cigarette in the ashtray until every ember was extinguished. She went into the kitchen to empty and wash the ashtray, a ritual Marge insisted upon after each cigarette. One that Lucy was grateful for now; it gave her a just few more minutes. “Smoking doesn ’t have to be a dirty habit, ” Marge would say. As Lucy returned to the dining room, Marge pointed to her purse.

Lucy knew what she wanted—the index cards with Marge ’ s final to-do list. Each step of her mother ’ s death was printed clearly, ingrained in blue ink, on its own index card. In the past few weeks, she ’d meticulously jotted down notes while watching reruns of

Columbo and other detective shows.

From these notes, she created the concise, detailed to-do list. For as long as Lucy could remember, index cards were how Marge ordered the days, weeks, and seasons of her life.

She kept all but these final ones in a recipe box on the kitchen windowsill.

Mostly they were instructions on keeping house, some recipes—Marge ’ s parting gift to Lucy “ so she wouldn ’t have to reinvent the wheel every morning. ”

Protest was futile. Lucy cautiously brought up that some in the Church might consider it a mortal sin. Marge said,

“I’ ve got that covered. ” Lucy pleaded that she wasn ’t up to the task, maybe there was someone else, perhaps Marge could do it on her own?

“I gave birth to you. This is the least you could do for your poor dying mother, ” Marge replied. The conversations ended always with Marge ’ s standard endof-discussion scowl.

Lucy sat next to her mother and when Marge nodded, she read from the

C