He hands it to me, but I don’t need to read it. I’ve seen versions of it before. The difference is that the other facilities didn’t include that last sentence. “My mother isn’t a threat to anyone’s health and safety but her own.” I don’t need to glance at my watch anymore. I can’t make the flight. I need to call my agent. “I know that somewhere, in some section of this agreement, is the ‘reasonable care’ clause, holding Golden Springs responsible for the health and safety of my mother. You don’t know how long my mother was wandering around or when she found Mr. Shone. No one knew she was missing, and no one was looking out for her health and safety.” I put a hand on the desk and lean to one side to put my shoe on as best I can. “You didn’t contact me for three days.” Then I issue a threat that I know is empty even as I say it. “I could sue you and let the courts decide who breached the agreement.” I’m royally pissed off, but I’m not a masochist. I know all too well that lawsuits are emotionally draining time-sucks and that there’s no guarantee I’d win. Suing would be a bigger hassle than it’s worth, and what would be the point? I still have to leave with my mother today.
“You’ll have to get in line behind Mrs. Shone.” Douglas sighs and replaces the paper. “She’s threatened a civil lawsuit against Golden Springs unless your mother is discharged immediately.”
Wow, that’s vindictive, especially toward a woman with Alzheimer’s. “What’s she afraid Mother’s going to do now? The guy’s practically dead already.”
He looks up from his paper. “Mr. Shone has made a miraculous recovery.”
I blink several times. “What?”
“He’s awake and seems to recognize his family.”
Mom has a little smile on her face. She’s very pleased with herself, and I suppose she has that right. Not just any woman can spoon a man out of his coma. I pick up my purse and raise my chin. There’s only one thing left to say. “Tell Mrs. Shone that Patricia Jackson says, ‘You’re welcome.’?”
2
HERE SHE comes. My mom, the miracle worker.
A nurse’s assistant wheels Mother through the big automatic doors and into a beam of sunlight slicing through heavy clouds. Her big pink Caboodle filled with lipsticks sits on her lap as if it’s her most prized possession. Mom is still in good physical shape and more than capable of walking. In fact, she usually argues with anyone who tries to help her. This is the first time I’ve seen her in a wheelchair since her appendix ruptured in 1998. It’s a little disconcerting, but maybe it’s Golden Spring’s policy to wheel troublemakers out the door ASAP.
I’ve driven the SUV as close to the big fountain as possible and opened the back so her essentials—clothes, orthopedic shoes, bags of Pirate’s Booty, and Bob Ross paintings—can be loaded inside. What doesn’t fit will be delivered to a storage unit until I can find a new facility for her.
The aide turns the wheelchair’s brake lever and helps Mom into the Land Rover. I take her Caboodle, which is heavier than it was the last time I picked it up, and put it in the back seat. “We will sure miss you, Patricia,” the aide says as she buckles her in.
“Where am I going?”
“With your daughter.”
She wrings her hands, and her voice shakes like a lamb to slaughter as she says, “But I don’t want to go with her.”
I try not to let that sting, but it does. I tell myself she doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s not her fault. Not like when I was nineteen and she told me, “You turned fat in college.” Which might have been true but hurt all the same.
We head out of the parking lot, and Mom looks up at the wet leaves stuck to the sunroof. Her blue eyes have gone blank. I suspect she’s been double-dosed with Xanax and it’s just kicking in, thus the need for the wheelchair. I don’t have a wheelchair or even a cane at home. If she can’t walk, I don’t know how I’ll get her to the elevator and up to my condo.
“It’s a pretty day,” she says as the clouds grow thicker.
Yep. It’s a pretty awful day. I’ve never missed an event, and my mind shifts into crisis management mode. I have to talk to my agent, Margie, who should already be in LA by now. I need to speak to my publicist, Fern, and my assistant, Dakota, as soon as possible.
The streets are still shiny black from rain, and I hit a big pothole filled with water. I’m glad I’m not in a Smart car as I push the phone connection on the steering wheel.
“You hurt my neck.”
Really, Rain Man?
“Earl’s a better driver than you.”
I can’t speak with Margie or anyone else if Mom isn’t quiet, so I disconnect. “How do you know?” I’m reasonably certain Earl doesn’t have a car, let alone take Mom out for spins. Heck, I’m not certain Earl even exists.
“He has a shiny green car with a big back seat.”
“Are you telling me that Golden Springs lets the residents drive on the street?”
“Yes,” she insists. “It’s a convertible and very fast.”
The bull is getting thick now. “How fast?”
“It’s the fastest set of wheels in town.” She looks me dead in the eye and says, as if she’s an expert in street drag, “It gets rubber in all four gears.”
I believe that Mother is channeling the Beach Boys. What I don’t believe is that she’s been racing around town in a Little Deuce Coupe with a man named Earl. Although… there was the time a few years ago when she told me that her “boyfriend,” a Gypsy Joker named Axle, wanted her to join his motorcycle gang and be his “old lady.” There really had been a founding member of the gang at the same memory care facility, but the name on his leather jacket was Flea. While calling Flea her “boyfriend” might have been a stretch, there was some truth to the story, and it enters my head that maybe—just maybe—there’s some truth to Earl, too.