Getting Sassy (5 page)

“This cheese is too salty,” my mother said, curling her lip. I considered returning to the stranger who had called on her, but knew it was pointless. I just hoped this woman wasn’t someone trying to sell my mother a time-share in Vail or a set of encyclopedias. My mother did like to buy things.

We talked about the weather, and I reminded her again that I was taking her out for her birthday dinner in a couple of weeks so she should start thinking about a place. And I told her about the articles I was writing and the magazines that would be publishing them. She asked if I had been paid for the book I’d ghosted, and I told her I had; she said she thought I should think about investing in a house. I told her I’d think about it.

And then, as the mention of money often does, she was reminded of her own financial state. She’d had a decent savings when she retired—a combination of her own retirement fund and the money
Wyman left her, although she’d had to dip into the latter on occasion. Monthly assessments on the retirement condo she moved into five years ago had nibbled away at it. But then there had been a series of scams she’d fallen prey to: telemarketers promising her riches and mailings targeting her distrust of any state or federal institution. But the T-Rex among the carnivores had been a disastrous real estate deal in which she’d lost thousands. Lots of thousands. I blamed myself for much of this; I should have been paying closer attention to her finances, but she’d always been so sharp in that department. I hadn’t wanted to see her decline, so I’d ignored the signs. I finally realized what was happening when one day when I called her and it was like talking to a character out of
Alice in Wonderland.
She was babbling about Robbie taking her for a ride on his sail boat and how she’d gotten sunburned. My parents had lived in Colorado Springs. At the time I hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, but she’d been okay then. But after I hung up I drove out there and found her playing solitaire in a threadbare robe with food rotting on the counter. I’d taken her to the ER and they’d admitted her at once. She had a temperature, was dehydrated and confused. She spent five days in the hospital and two weeks in a nursing home getting her strength back. It had all happened so fast, but her doctor told me that wasn’t unusual. I swore it would never happen again.

While I was sorting through her finances, trying to figure out what she could afford, I learned about her “investments.” My mother hadn’t put up an argument when I suggested she make me power of attorney and had let me move her to Oak Park and into the two-bedroom apartment I’d been renting. To say it was a disaster was to say that the Civil War was a misunderstanding. Part of the problem was that she had no one, except me, to talk to. She refused to go to the senior center, which she said was filled with “old, simple people.” (I’m sure they missed her too.) But she hated being alone— which seemed odd for someone who had lived a significant part of her life alone, but her doctor assured me that this was fairly normal. When
she was awake, she needed to be talking to someone, and I was it. And she could be awake most of the night. I hired a series of caregivers to spend some time with her, but my mother drove one after the other away, like a batter fouling off pitches. I wasn’t sleeping much and found myself snapping at her for no good reason. I had trouble concentrating and wasn’t getting my work done. In short, I was becoming someone I didn’t recognize. And then she wouldn’t quit smoking, which wasn’t helping her health or my asthma, not to mention the fire hazard risks. During the two and a half months we’d lived together, she had deteriorated, I was losing my mind, and I didn’t know how to stop either. And she seemed miserable as well. Getting smaller and hardening as I watched. Her doctor told me she probably didn’t have more than six months. That was when I looked into the assisted living option. I figured her savings would last six months, but I wasn’t sure that I could.

We found Dryden in Fowler, which was a ways west of Oak Park. The deal was that I’d move out to Fowler with her and she would quit smoking. So that’s what happened. I was proud of her for quitting. I guess her (and my) health wasn’t motivation enough, but 24/7 companionship was. And I watched her savings dwindle. And now, although she freely admits she’s not up to handling her finances, she always asks about them.

“I know I’ve asked this before,” she said, “so please forgive me, but how are my finances holding up?”

“They’re doing fine, Mom.” I drained my glass of cabernet. “You’re in good shape.” So we both lied to each other. All the time.

After getting my mother settled in her room, I drove across town to meet with the manager at Willoway Care Center. It was an appointment I’d put off making for way too long. I needed to make a decision on where to move my mother, and I needed to make it now. I should have begun looking for a place sooner. When I first realized that my
mother’s physical health was improving, I did look at a few places. None of them measured up to Dryden. I felt good about her being there. Now, I had no choice but to move her, and I didn’t want to confront the options I had.

Willoway Care Center had the advantage of being close. It was clean. It came with good references. And it was about to have a vacancy.

The woman who showed me around, Jane Goodwin, smiled a lot and called the residents by name. She wore a bright yellow suit with a black blouse and reminded me of a goldfinch. In order to evaluate my mother, she had interviewed her a week ago, under the pretext of being a social worker studying the ageing process (more lies).

Her make-up was dramatic—dark eyes, arched brows and fresh lipstick—and her skirt was snug, almost tight.

“This is the first floor dining room.” It was large with lots of windows looking out on a garden. The morning sun would make it a cheery place. She showed me the physical and occupational therapy rooms and then took me to a room that would soon become available—half of it, that is.

“Hello, Irene,” Jane said to the shape beneath the coverlet on the bed next to the window. The gray-haired thatch poking above the green duvet turned and a sharp-nosed woman squinted in our direction, her mouth drawn inward over her gums.

“Who’s that?” Irene groped for her glasses on the laminated table next to the bed.

“It’s just Jane,” Jane said, bending over Irene and giving her shoulder a pat. “You go back to sleep.”

Irene’s mouth twitched in annoyance, and her little head turned away.

“She’s a dear,” Jane said to me, keeping her voice down.

“Is she the one who’s leaving?”

“No. That would be Phyllis who’s checking out.”

And before I had to ask why, Jane added, “Her family is moving out east. Vermont.”

A hospital-type curtain hung between the two beds, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before Irene checked out and my mother got a bed with a view.

The accommodations weren’t awful, but they weren’t nearly as nice as Dryden. Her living space would, once again, grow smaller. I couldn’t imagine a queen living here. Then I asked the question I dreaded.

“If my mother’s dementia worsens, will she have to be moved from this area?”

Jane barely hesitated. “The second floor is our special care unit. Would you like me to show you that area?”

“Yes.”

We walked down the hall to an elevator where Jane had to punch a code into a keypad before the doors would open. She gave me a quick, nervous smile before pressing the button for the second floor.

We rose one floor to the special care unit. The moment the doors opened, the smell hit me. It wasn’t overpowering, but no amount of disinfectant will mask the smell of urine, feces and decay. But the walls were painted with murals of meadows and waterfalls, and near the nurses’ station was a large cage containing a dozen finches in varying colors.

We passed a common area where about ten residents were seated in a circle in their institutional blue plastic padded chairs. A woman who I assumed was the physical therapist tossed a large beach ball to each resident. Some caught it, others let it bounce off their laps and onto the floor.

Jane showed me a room similar to the one downstairs, only without any personal touches.

“But my mother is very aware of what’s going on around her. She’s sharp. These people don’t seem to be... really sharp.”

“She is feisty,” Jane allowed. “As I said, we evaluate and make decisions based on what is best for her.”

“Who would she talk to?”

“These people talk to each other.” She seemed surprised that I’d asked.

“I don’t see anyone talking.” Another lump was rising in my throat, and it hurt to swallow. “My mother loves to visit with people.”

“Your mother isn’t ready for this floor, Robyn.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “In many cases a patient with encroaching dementia never has to move up here.”

I nodded. What she didn’t have to say was that they died before their dementia got bad enough, which might have been preferable.

As we approached the elevator, I looked back and noticed a man strapped into a pale blue vinyl armchair, his chin on his chest and his hands twitching as if they were the only part of him still alive.

If she lived long enough, this was where she would wind up. That was the sad, sad thing about dementia and ageing. No one got better.

When I got home I took Bix for short walk and tried not to think about my mother’s living situation. But it was like trying to ignore a big spider on the ceiling in your bedroom. When I finally managed to turn my thoughts elsewhere, they wandered only as far as Mick’s wall safe, which was, I’d come to realize, another pointless intellectual exercise. Because even if I could break into his office, even if I could figure out the safe’s combination, and even if I could do all this without being caught by building security or by Mick himself, what good would it do me? I needed
a lot
of money. So even if he had ten grand in there, what would that buy me (aside from ten years in prison and/or a violent death)? Ten thousand would be devoured by Dryden Manor within two months. Still, it was disconcerting for me to acknowledge that I might consider jail time before having my mother move in with me again.

The sun was making a feeble effort to leak past the clouds, which only served to make the air heavier. I flapped the bottom of my T-shirt for a little air conditioning. Bix teetered as he lifted his right rear leg over the curb in order to urinate into a storm drain. In spite of my
mood, I had to smile. He’s a pudgy, short-haired terrier mix, and with his round little stomach and dainty paws he’s a rather comical looking sort. He’s also the most angst-ridden, fastidious dog I’ve known.

We passed the Psychic Place on our way home. The curtains were drawn and the silver writing on the window sparkled. Erika Starwise had moved into the shop in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. One afternoon the storefront was bare, the window a large pane of dirty glass with a view of a small anteroom empty except for an electric pencil sharpener, still plugged into the wall, sitting on dirty taupe carpeting. A door leading to the back of the shop was open, and the space behind it dark, as though it led to nowhere. The next morning when I took Bix with me to the Wired Lizard, a mural of stars and moons spanned the purple-draped window, and what appeared to be a nebula surrounded the words painted over the glass: The Psychic Place. Beneath, in smaller letters, was: Erika Starwise, Medium.

When I’d called her to ask for an interview, we’d talked about a good time to do it. She told me she was lining up a séance that I might find interesting. And, since that had to be better than just listening to her tell me how clairvoyant she was, I agreed. Three days later she’d called back and invited me to a séance being held tonight. The invitation came with specific conditions. I was not to use the real names of the attendees, nor was I to take any photographs. I’d asked Erika if I could come early so I could interview her prior to the séance, but she told me that would not be possible. “I must distance myself from the living prior to a séance. Perhaps, if I’m not too exhausted, we could talk afterwards.” Then she’d asked me if I’d arrive a little later than the others—say, seven fifteen—so she would have time to assure her client that she would remain anonymous in the article. Erika Starwise’s behavior left me a bit suspicious of her, if not of her profession.