The Light of Day (13 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Cora

Every now and then I think back to my childhood and realize that things which appeared so black and white at the time aren’t quite as simple.  I always hated my mother’s friends — the ladies with the perfectly tailored suits, or the ones with the outrageously expensive clothes that were cut too high or too low for someone their age.  Then I realized that my mother didn’t really have friends, just small groups that she associated with depending on her mood and theirs.

              When my mother wanted to feel like a part of the elite, she associated with women from old money — the women whose husbands or families had founded a piece of the city, whose names were on buildings and streets.  Those women who dressed in blazers and pumps and drove their Mercedes sedans to luncheons and committees and city council meetings.

              And then there were the times she wanted to feel young, to feel wild and free and beautiful.  It was then that she sought out her younger friends — the ones who had snagged a big fish or come into money recently.  The ones who spent their days tooling around in Audi convertibles or Mercedes SUVs, hopping from a session with their personal trainer to a massage, followed by salon appointments and manicure sessions.  Each day was rounded off with a trip to the local hotspot to pick at a salad and start happy hour.

              These two groups ran my mother’s life until she got sick and dropped off the proverbial social map.  Now, my mother has no visitors, which is why I’m currently walking up to knock on her front door and see her on a day that is not Monday.  I’m here to try and be her friend, whatever that means.

              After my argument with Jake the other night, Mia texted me.  I still think he somehow made that happen, but since I’ve stopped talking to him, I can’t quite be sure.  I didn’t answer her call because I wasn’t ready to hear her voice, knowing if I did I would break.  Instead, she accepted that unwritten boundary and we texted, and when I told her enough of what had happened, from my day with my mother to my hurtful comments to Jake later on, to Jake’s reaction and subsequent questions, she told me the one thing I know is true: we push people away because we fear that they’re eventually going to leave, and we want to be the ones to take a stand and step away first.

              I know Mia understands this, has even lived it to a point, just as I know part of the reason she told me was because of my relationship with Jake, and the other part was to remind me of my relationship with my mother.  She’s pushed me away her whole life, just like I’ve done the same to her.  Mia’s comment made me realize that it’s the same fear inside both of us that’s causing us to push.

              Taking that new knowledge, I’m at my mother’s taking the first step.  

No one checks on my mother if there isn’t a purpose — not Sassy, not my father, not me.  Sassy loves her, I can tell in the easy way she deals with her, the absolute care she takes making sure my mother gets proper nutrition and exercise, both mental and physical, but it’s also her job.  My father sits and talks with her every night, sometimes reading to her, sometimes brushing her hair or just holding her, as if she’s become his child and not his lover.  And me… I do her hair, her nails, give her back the beauty that’s always been so important.  Three days ago I tried to give her back some memories, but like usual I ruined it because I was more concerned about my feelings than hers.

              Not today, though.  Today, I’ve decided to drop by just to be social, to talk to her and let her know that I want to be with her, not because she needs something or because I do, just
because
.  I failed last time because I made it about the past.  Now, I realize I need to make our relationship about what it can be, not what it once was or wasn’t.  I have zero idea what step this translates into in therapeutic terms, but it’s one I know I need to conquer if I’m going to continue moving forward.

              The housekeeper who answers the door is new, because when my mother got sick she asked my father to get all new staff, people who wouldn’t know who she had been and be sad every time she forgot something they didn’t.  I smile when the woman remembers me from earlier in the week, thanking her when she points me in the direction of my mother’s rooms.

              “Miss Sassy is out doing some shopping since it’s her afternoon off.  Mr. Whitley will be home shortly.  Would you like to stay for dinner?”

              I shake my head no, thanking her as I head up the stairs and into my mother’s rooms.  When I step inside, I don’t see her, but I can hear someone in the closet, so I walk across the large space to the French doors and peek through them.  She’s in there, wearing a bustier that’s become too large for her bony frame, and a garter belt already hooked to a pair of sheer stockings.  Her hair is falling out of rollers she must have tried to put in herself, her face is pale and unmade, and she’s racing around tearing clothing from hangers before holding it up, muttering something and throwing it to the ground before moving on.  Her movements are hurried, panicked, and her mutters are growing increasingly louder as she rejects silk pant suits, dresses, blouses, skirts.

              When her eyes fix on me, I’m paralyzed, immobile as I struggle to comprehend the woman in front of me.  Before I can stutter out an excuse and leave, she snatches her tattered and over-worn blue robe up and marches across the plush carpet toward me.

              “Finally.  I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour.”  She sweeps by me, out of the closet and I stay where I am, watching her head toward her vanity, shocked at the vision in front of me that looks and sounds so much like I remember.  Her eyes meet mine in the mirror and she snaps again.  “Well? Where are your tools? Don’t tell me you forgot.  Never mind, you can use mine.  I don’t have time to wait while you go and get yours.”

              My legs feel numb as I walk over and stand behind her, taking the brush and curling iron that she’s motioned to.  She doesn’t recognize me.  I’ve never seen my mother have an episode, though I’ve read extensively on them, scoured the Internet and the Alzheimer’s and dementia website for any information they could offer.  The reality is that no one understands what triggers specific memory lapses, aggressive behaviors or black moments.  The time of day, environment and physical discomfort are all things that can be a factor, but not always.  Right now, I have no idea where my mother is or what she needs, so rather than ask her, I grab the curling iron and wind it through a strand of loose hair, uncurling the haphazard rollers with my free hand.  For a few minutes, I unroll and twist, gaining a rhythm that’s familiar while my mother sits with a straight back and talks non-stop about what she needs me to do to get her ready for her benefit tonight.

              A benefit to aide children in public schools in the greater Portland area, who were victims of budget cuts, raising money to keep music programs alive.  A benefit that she headed almost seven years ago, when I was fifteen and still subject to her whims. I attended, but ended up getting drunk and making out with a member of the wait staff in the coat closet.  He got fired and I got slapped by my mother before she dissolved into a fit of tears and had to be carried away by my father.

              I got myself home later, but the details of how are a little fuzzy.

              I listen to her ramble for almost ten minutes without saying anything, and when her hair is done, I move to her vanity to hand her the mirror as I would any client and let her admire it from every angle.  She nods her approval, and I shift to her vanity to search through her cosmetics and begin on her face.  I’ve rubbed on foundation and eye highlighter, curled her lashes and I’m lining her eyes with a charcoal pencil that will surely look too heavy with her thin face when my father walks in.

              I see him stop, his eyes wide, and then his face is happy, as if what he’s seeing is normal.  Before I can think of how to warn him, he says my name and I feel the world tilt under us all.

              “Cora?” my mother repeats.  Only this time, her voice isn’t the authoritative, fundraising queen that it was a moment ago, it’s smaller, unsure, and I know that we’ve somehow failed.  That I’ve somehow failed.  “James, where’s your tux? We have to go soon.”

              My mother stands, but I can see her hands clenching at the neck of her robe — the dingy, threadbare robe that’s been her security blanket these past months and looks almost as worn as she does under the make-up.  She looks to me and then my father, whose eyes are sad as he walks toward her.

“Suze,” he says and I hear it in his voice, the pain, the sadness.  The fucking heartache.

              She steps out of his reach when he gets close enough, her hands still clenched at the throat of her robe, only now they’re clenching and unclenching.  Her face that had been flushed with irritation only moments earlier is now pale with fear and grief.  Jesus, the grief coming off all of us is so heavy I feel like I can reach out and touch it.

              “No,” she says but he doesn’t move.

              “Suze,” he tries again, but she’s shaking her head, the curls I put there springing back and forth.

              And then she’s falling into his arms and her sobs are echoing around us.  My dad gathers her close, stroking her hair and murmuring to her in a gesture so familiar it could be anytime from the former years.  She’s sobbing and clinging, he’s holding onto her, always holding her up, and when his eyes meet mine over her head, they’re filled with helplessness.  Instinct has me reaching out to lay a hand on her back, saying her name as I do.

              “Mom.”

              Wrong. Fucking. Move.

              When I look back, I’m sure I’ll see that the anger would have come no matter what, that I’ll remember that aggression is common in Alzheimer patients, but right now, when she whips around to glare at me, all I can see is hate.

              “Don’t touch me.  Don’t you dare touch me, you who comes into my home uninvited and unwanted.  Why, so you can laugh? So you can remind me of what I’m not? So you can rub my face in the fact that I’m crazy?”

              I’m so stunned I can’t speak for a second, and when I do, it comes out in a stuttered rush.  “No, no, of course not.  I would never laugh at you — I just want to help.”

              “Well you can’t,” she screeches, her voice cracking and her breath heaving.  “No one can.  Oh, God, no one can.  Leave.”

              “Mom,” I start and she whirls to me again, her hand raised as if to strike.  We both stand there, neither of us moving, and I can see the memory in her eyes, and the fear, though I wouldn’t have blamed her for doing it.  She trembles, once, twice, her body giving in and crumpling before my father sweeps her up and cradles her.

              “Go away, goddammit.  I don’t want you here.  I don’t want anyone here.”

              I look to my father but he’s not looking at me, he’s only looking at her as he walks her toward the bed, pulling back the covers and laying her down before he lays with her, wrapping her close and holding her.  He murmurs more words, never even glancing in my direction, and it’s worse than the physical blow my mother wanted to deliver, this ability he has to shut me out.

              I’m on the outside looking in and, even though it shouldn’t, it hurts that neither of them acknowledge me, not even him to tell me that it’s not my fault.  It’s childish and still, I can’t help but wish he could have at least looked at me and shown me that he understands why I came, why I tried to make her happy.  But he doesn’t, not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t think about it, or about me.  He never really has, and though I don’t want to blame him for it, I do.  Goddammit, I do, and somehow that makes me feel even guiltier.

Wiping my cheeks, I take a deep breath before I do what she wants and I walk away.

~

I know going home isn’t really a good idea, not in my condition, so I park near the salon and try window-shopping.  When nothing catches my eye, I walk along the river and stare at the few boats brave enough to be out in this weather.  I watch the little kids run and splash in their colorful boots and jackets, and the runners who ignore everything as they push themselves to go faster and farther.  I could go again, scrounge up some gear from my car and run out whatever it is I’m feeling, push it all down until my lungs are burning and my brain is too tired to think of anything but my aching muscles.

              I could call Mia again, tell her what happened.  I know she’d talk me through it, as would my sponsor, Kari. Really, I should go and find a meeting, listen to people share and lose myself in the comfort of those who are like me — weak, and trying to be better.  Anything that will take my mind off things and help me cool down, so that when I do go home I’m in control.  Especially since Jake and I haven’t really spoken in the three days, not since I tried pushing him away and he pushed back.

It’s definitely smarter to avoid him and anymore emotional warfare until I get myself under control.

              Even as I think these things I find myself rounding the corner to our building, pressing through the front door and swinging toward the stairs and taking them two at a time.  I key in the door and fling it open, my breath heaving, my brain just registering that I walked ten blocks through the rain and am now dripping wet as I stand in our door frame, staring at Jake as he clacks away at his controller, playing some fucking video game that’s all about annihilating people.