Dangerous Women (87 page)

Her grin turned faintly sly as she served me and then herself. “Actually, I did the paperwork a couple of weeks ago.”

Another surprise. “You never mentioned it to me,” I said.

“There was no reason to, till now. I mean, if I ended up not volunteering, there’d be nothing to talk about anyway. Besides, do
you
tell
me
every single thought that crosses your mind?” Now her bright smile was so innocent that I actually wasn’t sure whether that had been a jab or not. “Of course not,” she went on. “Who would?”

I ate in silence, musing on the concept of my sister the qualified volunteer with the mad CPR skillz. I had none myself, which now that I thought of it was rather shortsighted. Even if none of my clients had ever had a heart attack after seeing what they owed the government, it wasn’t impossible; many of them were already in heart-attack country. Meanwhile Gloria rattled on about recognizing the signs of a stroke, the right way to perform the Heimlich maneuver, and how CPR classes were good for meeting handsome firemen.

At last, the Gloria I knew and loved, I thought, relieved. “You know, I don’t think you’ll be meeting many handsome firemen at the home,” I said when she paused for breath.

“Unless it burns down.
Kidding!
” she added, then sobered almost as quickly. “That’s what I’m there to prevent.”

I was baffled again. “Only you can prevent nursing home fires?”

“I’ll make sure no Angel of Death tries anything.”

I waited for her to laugh; she didn’t. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack, sister.” She impaled a shrimp that had been eluding her and popped it into her mouth.

Another reason to be glad she was qualified, I thought, feeling surreal. “I didn’t realize you’d be there twenty-four hours a day.”

She gave me the Eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Most Angels of Death do their thing when everyone’s asleep,” I said. “Remember? Or did you sleep through that part of the
Killer Ladies
marathon?”

“No, I remember. Obviously I can’t be there 24/7, but I’ll make it obvious I’m watching closely. Every day as soon as I come in, I’ll make the rounds, talk to everybody, see how they’re doing. Make sure they’re getting the right meds in the right amounts—”

“Don’t the doctors and nurses do that?” I asked.

“I’ll only double-check if something doesn’t seem right,” Gloria replied. “Volunteers don’t give meds. We’re not even supposed to have our own stuff when we’re on duty. Like, not even an aspirin.”

I barely heard her; something else occurred to me. “Doesn’t being an official volunteer mean less time to visit with Mom?”

“She’ll still know that I’m around.”

This was going to be interesting, I thought, and probably not in a good way.

A fat lot I knew—it already was.

In the days that followed, my mother improved visibly. She was happier and more alert for longer; even her appetite was better. I was glad, but at the same time I knew from talking with her doctor that it wasn’t permanent and the inevitable deterioration could be gradual or sudden. Not to mention cruel.

“Thanks to TV and movies, a lot of people think of dementia patients as daffy old folks who smile at things that aren’t there and don’t know what day it is,” Dr. Li had told me, her normally friendly face a bit troubled. “People with dementia become frightened and angry and they lash out in unexpected and uncharacteristic ways. People who have never raised a hand in anger suddenly punch a nurse—or a relative. Or they bite—and unlike the old days, most still have enough teeth to draw blood. Or they get amorous and grabby. I treated a nun once, former professor of classical studies who spoke six languages. Swore like a biker in all of them and had a passion for—well, never mind.”

There was a lot more that was even harder to listen to, but I came away feeling—well, not exactly prepared, because I didn’t think I’d ever be truly prepared for certain behaviors no matter how realistic I tried to be, but maybe just a little less unprepared. So far, my mother was very much like herself, even when she couldn’t remember why she wasn’t in the old house or how old I was. And there had been fewer of those with Gloria around.

Mom’s good streak held for about a month and a half. Every visit, she’d tell me to go on vacation; before long, I was looking at travel websites with real intent and work be damned. There was a nagging concern in the back of my mind, however, as to how a change like my absence would affect Mom’s stability.

I decided to talk it over with her before I did anything, or didn’t. She’d probably just tell me to fly to Jamaica for lunch—Jamaica was her latest idea of a dream destination—but what the hell, I thought as I arrived on my usual Thursday afternoon. My mother was outside on the patio, enjoying the lovely weather, an aide told me, and would I mind bringing her a glass of cranberry juice, thanks.

I found her parked at one of the umbrella tables in her wheelchair, away from the handful of other residents also outside. The lovely weather was lost on her. She sat glaring at a book of sudoku puzzles and holding a thick mechanical pencil in one fist like a dagger. The wheelchair meant that she was having dizzy spells, no doubt because she had swimmer’s ear again. It could be chronic for people who needed two hearing aids. As I got closer, I saw that she was only wearing one today. Hence the sudoku, which she did only when she wanted to be alone.

“Well,
you
took your sweet time,” she said as I sat down next to her and put the cranberry juice on the table. “I asked for that hours ago.”

“Mom, it’s me, Valerie,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like my heart was sinking.

“Oh, for chrissakes, I
know
who you are.” My mother looked as if she couldn’t believe how stupid I was. “You
said
you’d bring me some cranberry juice and I’ve been waiting
forever
. S’matter, they make you pick the cranberries yourself?”

“I’m sorry you had to wait, Mom,” I said gently, “but I just got here. This is Thursday. My last visit was Sunday.”

She started to say something, then stopped. She set the pencil on the table and looked around—at the patio, at the umbrella overhead, at the aide and the elderly man in a bright blue sweat suit coming slowly up the path from the garden in front of us, at me, at herself—searching for what Dr. Li referred to as
mental true north,
some single thing that hasn’t suddenly changed like the rest of the traitor world. Her face went from bewildered to fearful to suspicious, until finally she sat back heavily, covering her eyes with one hand.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said, putting an arm around her. She was little more than skin and bones now, but in three days she seemed to have diminished even more.

“
There
you are!” Gloria materialized on Mom’s other side. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” Her too-bright smile vanished as Mom looked her over with a critical frown, tsk-ing at a food stain on her navy blue smock. “What’s wrong? What did you say to her?”

“Nothing, I’ve only been here two minutes.

Gloria was about to answer when Mom put both hands up. “Don’t
fight,
” she said. “I can’t
stand
when women fight. The hectoring–
hector, hector, hector
! Like crows arguing with seagulls. Is today Thursday?”

The fast change of subject was not, in fact, unusual; my mother thought segues were for politicians and game-show hosts. “All day,” I said.

She pushed the book and pencil away. “I don’t like writing outdoors. I told them that but they always forget. Maybe Alzheimer’s is catching. Take me inside.”

I moved to obey but Gloria beat me to it in a rush that seemed oddly desperate. “That’s what I’m here for,” she told me, as if it explained something, or everything.

My mother wanted a nap, so Gloria and I helped her into bed, fluffed her pillows, and promised not to
hector-hector-hector
even if she couldn’t hear us. I settled into the chair by her bed, intending to dip into one of the novels on my iPad. But as soon as Mom fell asleep, Gloria insisted that I go back outside with her.

“Is this going to take long?” I said.

“It’s
important
.”

I followed Gloria away from the now empty patio, down the walk to a bench under a large maple tree. “Make it fast,” I said. “I’d like to be back before Mom wakes up.”

“Not so loud.” She leaned forward and spoke in a half whisper. “As an aide, I see and hear a lot more than when I was a visitor. I think there’s something funny going on. And I don’t mean funny ha-ha.”

At last, the Gloria I knew and loved. “Why? Did something in particular happen?” When she didn’t answer right away, I added, “Or did someone just give you a dirty look?”

She drew back, looking stony as she folded her arms. “I should have known you wouldn’t take me seriously. You never have.”

“That’s not true,” I said promptly, but I could hear the lie in my own voice.

“You think it’s just my imagination, because I’m the little sister.
Baby
sister. I’ll never be more than a child to you. You have no idea what it was like, growing up with you three adults. Dad, Mom, and Mom, Jr. You all knew better about everything. When you weren’t all
tolerating
me—ho-hum, another Christmas, we have to do
Santa
again; you all acted like you didn’t want me to grow up. Like Mom trying to make me sit on Santa’s lap when I was
eight
.”

“Just for the photo,” I said, which was true. “I know, I was there. She wanted me to sit on his other knee but the guy said he’d quit if I tried it.” Also true; the bastard.

Gloria almost smiled at the memory, then caught herself. “You’re doing it
again
—trying to pacify me. Just listen to me for once, will you? Something’s not right here.”

“I’m only asking why you think that,” I said, trying to sound utterly reasonable and not at all like I might be smarting (a
very
tiny bit) from certain (
very
minor) points she’d scored. “It’s a fair question. If it was the other way round, you’d ask me the same thing. Especially if this was the first you’d heard about anything being the slightest bit wrong even though I’d been coming here every day for weeks.”

“I
told
you, this isn’t like just visiting,” she said. “You don’t know, you haven’t done both.” A movement behind Gloria caught my eye, an aide looking around the patio. She picked up my mother’s forgotten sudoku book and dropped it in the large front pocket of her smock, then paused when she noticed us. I smiled and waved. Gloria twisted around to look; when she turned back to me, she was pissed off again.

“Fine.
Don’t
believe me. I’ll
prove
it. Then you can’t say I’m
jumping at shadows
.” She got up and walked off. Unbidden, the memory came to me of her doing the same thing as a toddler during what Mom called one of her bossy episodes. I suppressed a smile, just in case she looked back, but she didn’t. She hadn’t back then, either.

Things were strained between us after that. My tries at initiating a conversation fell flat; if she answered at all, it was usually just a wordless grunt that let me know she hadn’t gone deaf. She thawed a bit by Monday, occasionally even speaking to me first. Encouraged, I suggested we go shopping and see a movie, in an actual movie theater, my treat, including popcorn dripping with artery-hardening butter-flavored goop. She declined politely, saying her feet hurt. Considering she always went straight into the tub as soon as she came home, they probably hurt all the way up to her hips.

Maybe finding a bath all ready and waiting when she got home would soften her up even more, I thought. The first time surprised the hell out of her; she sounded awkward when she thanked me, and spent the whole evening watching movies with me in the living room, even making a bowl of popcorn without being asked. She wasn’t quite as surprised the second time; the third time, she asked me what I wanted.

“What do you think I want?” I said, holding half a pastrami on pumpernickel; I’d splurged at the deli counter that morning, a treat for the extra work I had to put in on a new account. “I want us to be friends again. I want us to be
sisters
again. You’re acting like I owe you money
and
I slept with your boyfriend.”

She stared down at me, expressionless. “You just don’t take
anything
seriously, do you?”

“Oh, for chrissakes.” I sighed. “I’m trying to break the ice between us before it turns into permafrost.” Her mouth curled briefly and I felt a surge of irritation. “I’m sorry—still not serious enough?”

“Don’t bother running any more baths,” she told me. “I keep a swimsuit at the home so I can use the Jacuzzi. Sometimes Mom and I go in together.”

I bit back a smart remark about being a lifeguard in a whirlpool and then felt ashamed for even thinking it. Maybe I
had
been making her feel small all her life and never realized it.

“I was just trying to do something nice for you,” I said. “I’ve seen how much work you do—”

“How kind of you to notice,” she said stiffly. “But, being a grown-up, I can run my own baths.” She actually turned on her heel and walked out.

“Fine,” I said at her back, my sympathy evaporating. If my sister wanted to be taken seriously—as a grown-up, no less—she could damned well act like one instead of a thirteen-year-old girl with her period.

Oh, no, you didn’t,
said my brain.

My face burned, even though I was alone. Okay, maybe Gloria did have her period. Back in the day, I hadn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine during Shark Week. Now I was coping with the onset of menopause and doing fairly well thanks to hormones, but every day wasn’t a picnic and neither was I.

My thoughts chased each other round and round. Had I really been horrible to Gloria all her life? Or were we just doomed to be permanently out of step no matter what? We were from different generations, after all; we practically spoke a different language. Still, if I had acted like that after she had run a bath for me, my conscience would have tortured me for
years
. Of course, that was me-the-older-sister. Could I see things as if I were the younger sister? Etc., etc., and so on, and so forth. When I finally remembered to eat the sandwich I’d been looking forward to all day, it sat in my stomach like a hockey puck.