Patsy: “Contents May Be Fabulous”

I only met Patsy twice.

When I called to set up the first visit, she cut me off. “The more the merrier,” she said. “Just don’t come in here trying to mess with my head.”

Her front door was bright yellow and plastered with sun-faded postcards, probably not HOA-approved.

“Come in!” Patsy’s raspy voice came through before I could knock.

I stepped inside and she waved me forward. Red lipstick. Floral housecoat. Loud enough to stop traffic.

She wagged a finger. “I’m not dying today. Tell your clipboard to relax.”

Elvis portraits covered the walls. A recliner with an extra cushion faced the TV. Display shelves held family photos, glass animals, and a bronzed baby bootie.

“That’s Sparkles,” she said, pointing to a life-sized flamingo, nearly four feet tall, part feathers, part disco ball. “Sparkles used to blind people three blocks away at the Sandcastle. That was my hotel.”

She flicked imaginary dust off his beak, gestured for me to sit, then disappeared into the kitchen.

A minute later, she returned with a bowl and a grin. “Whipped up some banana pudding.” She tossed a napkin in my lap. “Eat up, sugar. You’re skinnier than a politician’s promise.”

I didn’t want any pudding, but she held out the spoon like a dare, so I took the bite.

When she leaned in, I caught a whiff. Cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5. “Oxygen helping with the shortness of breath?” I asked.

“Breathing’s just a formality at this point.” She adjusted her oxygen tubing. “Down to five smokes a day. I step outside for those. No fireworks here.”

“Outside is better. Just not near the oxygen. Is anyone checking in on you?”

“That crazy neighbor of mine, Darlene, comes in my back door every morning with bananas. Struts in like I’m the star attraction at the damn zoo.”

She set down the bowl and took the chair next to me.

“Do you use that walker?” I asked.

“Sure do. Best drying rack I ever bought.”

“Funny, but it also keeps you on your feet. One fall could change everything.”

“I know.” She paused, catching her breath. “Nag, nag, nag.”

“How’s your pain, zero to ten?”

She kept her eyes on the TV. “Sweetie, numbers don’t mean a thing unless they’re on a winning lottery ticket.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Tell me in your words.”

“Pain’s just another heckler in the crowd, but I keep the show going anyway. Wheel of Fortune is my real medicine.” She waved toward the screen. “Look how Vanna works those letters in that gown. Hasn’t aged a day. I think she’s embalmed.”

Then she turned, squinting. “I bet you’re here to talk about dying.”

“I’m here to talk about how you’re feeling, whatever that means to you.”

“Well, I’ll tell you how I feel. Like crap.” She fanned herself. “Can’t pick the time, but I’ll pick the place. And I am staying put. They can drag me out of here feet first.”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Fire away, sugar.”

“Who lives here with you, besides your flamingo?”

“Nobody. Just us. Reno’s my cat. Vegas is my dog. Named them after the only two things worth gambling on.”

“If you need help, who would you call?”

“Honey, I’ve been calling the shots for eighty-six years. Raised three boys, outlived two husbands, divorced that other cheating bastard, and walked away with his hotel a block from the Strip. Not about to hire a replacement now.”

“And if something changes?”

“Well… there’s Darlene. And if it goes sideways, Cousin Joan keeps threatening to come. She’s like my sister, only she doesn’t drive me straight to the bourbon cabinet like those sons of mine.”

“Do they help you?”

“I’d rather wrestle a porcupine than let any of my boys wipe my tooshie.”

She watched my pen move. “Don’t waste your life folding other people’s laundry and forgetting what you like for dinner. That’s how I lost ten years.”

“And now?”

“Now? I do whatever I damn well please.”

She settled deeper into her seat.

I opened my folder. “Are you comfortable talking about dying, and the paperwork that comes with it?”

“Got my affairs in order. Sent out copies like they were Christmas cards,” she said, glancing at the side table. “Printed my forms off the state website. Free. Lawyers wanted a fortune for documents I could fill out myself. Bought these ruby satin slippers instead. Priorities, you know.”

She lifted one foot and admired it, then turned back to the TV.

“Mind if I take a look?” I asked.

“Help yourself.”

I checked the stack. Dates. Signatures. Witnesses or a notary stamp where required. “You’ve listed Bell’s Cremation on Broad as the funeral home, correct?”

“Yes,” she said. “Bell’s is the cheapest. Joey would’ve fallen for some mahogany box with gold handles and spent the next ten years paying it off.”

“Is that the same Joseph you named as your medical proxy and financial agent?”

“Father Joe,” she said. “He speaks for me when I can’t. One form for the hospital, another for the bank.”

“Have you talked to him about your wishes?”

“Many times. I’m a broken record.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Is he nearby?”

“Lives in New Orleans. My other two boys are here in town. Joey’s my youngest. We butted heads for years. He wanted me in church; I wanted him to live a little. But when my brother died, he flew in and held my hand through the whole thing. Didn’t preach once. That’s when I knew he’d do right by me. I told everybody so there’d be no fight.”

I looked back at the paperwork. “Mind if I scan these for your chart?”

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “Joey probably spends most mornings praying for my soul. Poor dear.”

“Is that your Out-of-Hospital DNR posted on the fridge?”

“Yep. Another copy’s by the front door. Can’t be too careful.” She took a long sip of Diet Dr Pepper. “My friend Betty died last year. No warning, massive stroke at bingo. Her kids fought for three weeks about pulling the plug. Made the funeral about who was right instead of who Betty was. That’s not happening to me. I’ve idiot-proofed my plan. Not even the governor could mess it up.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“It’s all there. Burn me up and put me in something fabulous. Like a glitter tumbler with a straw, so people can carry me around and say I bring joy to their day. It’ll be my final tour. Hold on.” She pulled open a drawer and held up a tumbler covered in pink glitter. “Like this one, but pinker. Flamingo on it. Contents May Be Fabulous across the front. Already ordered them. Darlene’s passing them out.”

She set the tumbler down and pushed herself to her feet. “Time for my exercises. Alexa, play ‘Burning Love.’ The Vegas version. None of that acoustic crap.” She braced on the armrest and swayed like a showgirl with a bad knee. “If I keel over, let me go out on the chorus.”

When the song ended, she dropped back into the cushions and waited for her breathing to settle. “I’ll die when I’m good and ready. Until then? I’m eating dessert for breakfast, trash-talking Darlene, and dancing with my flamingo.”

⁂

Two weeks later, when I called to schedule another visit, Patsy’s voice rasped through the phone, thinner than before. “Door’s unlocked, sugar. Just walk in.”

Inside, she sat by the window next to Sparkles and her walker. Leopard print replaced the florals. Hot pink lipstick where red had been. She looked smaller. Dark rings circled her eyes.

I smelled smoke. No perfume. “Is something burning?”

“Not anymore. Burnt banana bread. Left the oven on, and Darlene came bursting in, sashaying like she’s the fire marshal. Must’ve dozed off when Seinfeld came on.”

She straightened. “I know what it takes to stay put. I’ve been cooking, cleaning, eating, shopping, and pooping by myself since I was five years old. Nothing’s changed. If there’d been a fire, I would’ve hauled ass out of here in my granny panties.”

The bedroom door flew open. A black cat shot out. A yapping dog barreled in behind. “Oh, Lordy. Here come Reno and Vegas.”

Reno hissed and leapt onto the arm of Patsy’s chair. Vegas climbed in her lap, sat up, and licked her face, his rhinestone collar catching the sunlight.

“Be a dear and hand me the remote. Reno misses Pat Sajak. The new guy does nothing for us.”

I passed it to her. She pressed the button, eyes fixed on the TV. Her grip on Vegas never loosened.

“You’re good with animals,” I said.

“Always been better with things that don’t talk back.” Her fingers stroked his coat. She didn’t smile.

I looked at the bronzed bootie on the shelf beside her chair. The finish had worn thin in one spot.

“That belonged to my baby girl.” She reached up and took it down. Her thumb settled over the worn spot. “She didn’t make it past her first birthday.”

She turned the bootie over in her hands. “Thought it was just a cold. You know how babies get those sniffles. But that fever… it had other plans. By the time I got her to the hospital, she wasn’t breathing. Doctors said there was nothing anyone could’ve done. But you know how guilt grows. Like mold in a place you just can’t reach.”