An Excerpt From ‘Bettyville’: When Family Turns Into Strangers

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Missouri is a patchwork of borrowed names meant to bridge distances: Versailles, Rome, Cairo, New London, Athens, and even Paris—our little hometown. There are also those amusingly named spots like Licking, Fair Play, and Peculiar. On sleepless nights, I find myself trying to recall as many as I can, a game I used to play with my parents while gazing out the car window at the Mississippi’s rolling waters.

Tonight, I’ve been jolted awake, surrounded by the hum of the air conditioner and the darkness outside, broken only by the distant sound of trains. The clock reads 2:30 AM. I won’t be falling back asleep anytime soon. This isn’t my apartment filled with city noise; this is home—Paris, Missouri, with a dwindling population of 1,246. I remind myself I’ll be here just a little longer, until Carol, the kind-hearted woman watching over my mom, recovers from surgery, or until my mom can move into assisted living, or until Betty’s spirits lift. Until something shifts on Sherwood Road, and I have to pack up and leave.

I hear Betty’s voice in the hallway, grumbling about the air conditioning. Here she comes, all ninety years of her, curlers in her hair, chuckling to herself as she peeks into the guest room where I’ve been trying to sleep. This place still has that shag carpet, and I even found what I think is a high school toenail.

On the spare bed is a quilt adorned with stars, crescent moons, and the embroidered names of women from long ago, including my great-aunt Mabel. Surrounding me are remnants of the past: Christmas decorations, Betty’s uncle Oscar’s desk, and the bed where I used to sleep as a child, listening to my grandmother’s snores and the furnace kicking in. My grandmother’s house, just ten miles west, was known as the House of Many Chimneys, with a garden of pink roses that she lovingly tended, despite her failing eyesight.

The hallway light shines. Betty must have been in the kitchen, rummaging for a late-night snack after waking up from a dream or a call of nature. Something keeps her restless—her thoughts, her memories. A light sleeper, she wanders around in her thick white socks, clearing her throat, checking on everything as if to impose her unusual order on the night. After she settles down, I try to illuminate the path to the kitchen, leaving lights on to guide her through the dark.

“Are you awake?” she asks.

“I am now,” I reply.

Betty, who recently rummaged through my suitcase, switches on the overhead light, scrutinizing my room as if expecting to find something suspicious. She’s wary of me—an unlikely guardian who a month ago thought the Medicare doughnut hole was just a breakfast deal for seniors. I can’t blame her for being cautious; her independence is precious to her.

She’s a tough one to manage. Even in her sleep, she’s determined, dreaming about a sale while the temperature outside soars. Sometimes she gets irritable with me, snapping at the air if I get too close. Carol, who has experience with elderly care, says that those who are struggling often take their frustrations out on the ones they love the most, the ones who remind them of their fading selves. But I think Betty’s crankiness is a mask for her embarrassment about needing help. When I assist her, she won’t meet my gaze, as if accepting help is a defeat.

“I was worried,” she says, “You said you couldn’t sleep last night.”

“No, I’m fine,” I reassure her. “I’m just talking in my sleep.”

“You’re in bed with your clothes on again.”

“I fell asleep reading,” I explain, knowing I keep my clothes on in case I need to spring into action if she falls or needs me. I keep emergency numbers by my bedside.

“It’s not good to sleep in your clothes,” she lectures, adding, “The paper didn’t come today.”

Our little town’s newspaper, which reports on community happenings, has been sporadic lately, likely due to a staff shortage at the post office. This kind of disruption sends my mom into a tailspin; she wants things done her way, immediately.

“Did anyone from the church call? I can’t find my other shoe,” she frets.

I tell her we’ll look in the morning, and for a fleeting moment, she smiles—a glimpse of the old Betty, my old friend.

In St. Louis, when we turn off Skinker, Betty points out where she once waited for the streetcar as a young secretary. She rarely talks about the past, but that stop holds a special place in her heart. Back in the ’40s, she was a lovely girl, fresh from a local contest, dreaming of life beyond the tracks. Sometimes I wonder if she wishes she’d taken that streetcar to a different life. By the time she realized her potential, too many doors had closed behind her.

“I just wanted a home with a few nice things,” she once said. “That was my little dream.”

In this quiet moment, I can feel the weight of her dreams and the bittersweet reality of where we are now.

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Summary

This excerpt from ‘Bettyville’ beautifully captures the poignant relationship between a son and his aging mother as they navigate the complexities of love, memory, and the passage of time in a small town. Amidst the challenges of caregiving, the narrative reflects on dreams, lost opportunities, and the bittersweet essence of family bonds.