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THIS IS not a good time for Mother’s shenanigans. I have a three-thirty flight to Los Angeles; my suitcases are loaded in the back, and my boarding pass is in my shoulder bag. I figure I have thirty minutes to deal with Mother and still make my flight. If that isn’t enough time, I’ll deal with her when I get back.

It’s raining so hard the wipers can barely keep up with the drops bouncing off the hood of my Land Rover. On a good day, I’m not the best driver on the road, and this is far from a good day. Visibility isn’t great and the Cranberries screaming out “Zombie” on the radio pinch the corner of my eye. Despite thirty units of Botox, I can almost feel deep elevens furrow my brow. I hit the control button, and the panel goes black. My forehead relaxes, and my eyebrows are safe.

I have to be inside the Los Angeles Convention Center by 10 a.m. tomorrow. I’m in the middle of my ten-city Find True Love in February tour. All the dates are sold out. I have to be there. I am Lulu the Love Guru, expert on finding and keeping love, but there can’t be a Lulu event if Lulu is stuck in Seattle straightening out whatever mess Mom’s gotten herself into this time. The administrator of Mom’s senior care facility didn’t go into a lot of detail, but I can fill in the blanks. Mom’s been socializing again, but this is nothing new. If he’d just waited an hour, I’d be in the air and unavailable, but that would have been too easy. My relationship with my mother has rarely been easy.

My mother is seventy-four and was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s four years ago, when she forgot she’d put a pan of grease on the stove and almost torched herself. She managed to escape with nothing more than some singed hair, thank God. The bad news was that we discovered she was already stage four. She’d been so good at covering it up that I hadn’t noticed her decline. Looking back, there were signs, of course. She was forgetful of time and phone numbers, but who doesn’t occasionally miss an appointment? Heck, I can’t call anyone without looking at the contacts list on my phone, and I just turned thirty-eight.

I should have paid more attention and gotten her help earlier. Nothing will cure her disease, but things would have been different, at least in the earlier stages. I have a lot of guilt about that, and about a few other things, too.

I pull up the cuff of my black wool blazer as I turn into the parking lot. The rain slowed me down, but I still have enough time to run in and sign whatever Golden Springs wants me to sign and run back out. Mom was a card before she got sick, and now she’s upped the ante. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to meet with the administrators. This isn’t even Mom’s first facility—it’s her third.

The first adult care residence had documented each episode of her compulsive spooning and other nocturnal infractions until she got booted. Apparently, she’s at it again. Mother has never liked sleeping alone and, eyeing all the possibilities laid out before her like a senior-living man buffet, she doesn’t think she should have to, either.

When I was growing up, she made me sleep with her when she didn’t have a man. I hadn’t minded because that meant there wasn’t anyone else in our lives and I had Mom all to myself. I’d crawl into her bed, or she’d crawl into mine, and we’d laugh and talk while she held my hand. Those are some of the best memories I have of Mom and me.

Golden Springs doesn’t have valet service like Mom’s last facility, so I find a parking spot as close to the front doors as possible. That still leaves a few huge puddles and a stream of water between me and the sidewalk.

If I’d known I was going to take a detour halfway to the airport, I would have left earlier. If I’d known I was going to hop puddles, I certainly wouldn’t have worn my Dior hobble skirt or Louboutin pumps.

With my movement restricted, I slide out of the SUV and land on a spot of asphalt that isn’t completely covered in water. Rain hits my face, and I raise my shoulder bag over my head like a makeshift umbrella and skip and hop across the parking lot as best I can. Big fat drops bounce up from the ground as I pick up the pace. I’m close enough to the sidewalk that I make a daring leap at the curb. My leap is more rabbit hop than graceful gazelle, and I land in a deep puddle. Cold water fills my leather pumps, and I suck in a breath. If I were a swearing kind of girl, I’d let loose with some f-bombs right about now, but my mother raised me to be a “lady.” Instead, I say, “Crap,” which is hardly better by Mother’s standards.

I hurry up the sidewalk and pass a golden fountain shooting a ridiculous amount of water into the pouring rain. The automatic front doors open and my shoes are squishy as I approach the front desk.

“I’m Lou Ann Hunter and—”

“Over there,” the receptionist interrupts as she points to the offices down one hall. “Third door.”

Yeah, I know the drill. I pass two couples sitting in the hall; they eye me like they’re not really happy to be here either. Like parents being called to the principal’s office.

I knock twice and open the door. My gaze instantly lands on the troublemaker, swallowed up in a puffy leather La-Z-Boy. Her long dark hair is loose and pulled to one side, and the Louis Vuitton Bumbag I got her for Christmas is belted around the waist of her velour tracksuit. Mother has always been particular about her appearance, and even with stage four Alzheimer’s, she still manages to draw a perfect red lip. “Hello, Mom.” She glances at me before returning her attention to a wall clock. Mother can read the numbers but has no real concept of time. Just like she can pick out words and read short sentences, but her comprehension of what she’s read is dicey. When it comes to context and retention, she usually craps out.

“Why are you here?” she asks. No friendly hello or motherly “It’s good to see you, Lou.”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure about to find out.”

Douglas, the administrator, doesn’t offer a much friendlier greeting. “Ms. Hunter.”

I know this drill, too. I smile and dig down deep and channel my inner Patricia Lynn Jackson-Garvin-Hunter-Russo-Thompson-Doyle. Mom’s been married five times and deals in charm like Vegas deals in cards. She discards just as easily, too. “Douglas.” I step forward and shake his hand. “I’m sorry my hands are a little cold. The weather is horrible.”

He doesn’t smile, and I get a little worried.

Mother hasn’t looked at me again, making me wonder if they have drugged her up.

Douglas gestures to the chair across from his desk and says, “Please take a seat.”

“Of course.” I place my purse on the floor and slide my feet out of my shoes, kicking them upside down so the water will drain out. “So, has Mom been wandering at night again?” I glance at her, and she cuts me a look before returning her attention to the clock. She doesn’t appear to be drugged, and I can’t tell which version of her is with us today. “How’d she get out of her room this time?” Mom has what is called a passive infrared sensor, or PIR, alarm that signals the nursing station when the stream is broken. She’s had different alarm systems in the past, but she’s like Houdini and finds a way out. This one has worked the best—until now.



Tags: Rachel Gibson Fiction