“Call Tony!”
Everything in me goes dark, and my hand falls to my lap. It’s a good thing I’m stopped at a light. Margie’s phone beeps and I disconnect. Mom hasn’t mentioned that name in a while. I don’t know what has triggered her memory, but whatever it is hasn’t triggered her memory of what happened. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“He’ll take me back.”
On an intellectual level, I understand why she asks about him. Tony was a big part of our lives. There were times when he got along better with Mom than I did. They had common interests that I didn’t share, like painting and opera, brussels sprouts and serial cheating.
“I need Tony!”
On an emotional level, it’s a stab to the heart. I know Mother probably doesn’t remember what that rat bastard put me through, but her asking for him feels like a deep betrayal.
“He’s like a son.”
“Fuck!” I always hated when she used to call him “son,” and that was when I loved the man. Now she’s just twisting the knife. “He’s not your son. He’s an asshole.”
“Don’t curse, Lou Ann.”
The light turns green, and I drive through the intersection. “If you stop talking about him, I won’t.” I turn on the radio and tune into an oldies station. Neither of us speaks, but she is the only one who seems to have calmed down. Mother hums along to the Everly Brothers while my thumbs drum out agitated beats on the steering wheel.
Mom’s chaos has put me in an impossible spot. I have to be in LA in the morning, but I don’t know how I’ll manage it. I can’t drag Mom with me, and I can’t call the home care nurse, Wynonna, that I used a year and a half ago. The much-maligned nurse was actually quite good at her job and had the patience of a saint, but Mom got it into her head that Wynonna was and is the root of all past, present, and future evil. Everything from stolen shoes to Pirate’s Booty theft is blamed on Wynonna’s malicious skullduggery.
I’m overwhelmed. I have so much to think about. So much I have to remember to think about, yet the one thing best forgotten is the one thing Mom remembers. The Tony chapter of my life was horrible, but it’s over. Thank God I didn’t actually marry the man. He never crosses my mind, and I feel nothing for him—except for anger when Mom brings him up, I guess.
The drive to my condo usually takes about forty minutes, but I make it in twenty-five. I want out of my wool clothes and ruined shoes. I need a glass of wine or two or maybe three.
I live in Millennium Tower and have a spectacular view of Elliott Bay on one side and downtown Seattle on the other. The walk from my parking spot to the elevator isn’t far. I’m grateful Mom can manage to walk on her own, and we arrive in the apartment all safe and sound.
The condo is mostly constructed of glass and steel and filled with white marble and quartz. I love the ultramodern design, and I’ve covered the cold stone floors with vibrantly colored rugs to warm it up. I leave Mom standing in front of the windows and quickly change into jeans and a Lulu Sweetheart sweatshirt. When I return, she’s still staring out at Elliott Bay, and I wonder what she’s thinking as she looks at the vivid orange and purple sunset.
I call down to the concierge and ask for everything in the SUV to be brought to me, and I place my usual order of Thai favorites from the restaurant down the street. I’m fairly sure Mom likes Thai. It can’t be worse than stuffed green peppers at Golden Springs.
“Are you hungry?”
She turns to look at me. There are deep creases in her forehead and fear in her eyes. “You live here.”
I’ve lived here for the past five years, and for a few months she lived here too. “Yes. You bought me a flamingo oven mitt as a housewarming gift when I moved in.”
Her forehead clears. “And a cow creamer.”
“That’s right.” I look at her and smile. I’d forgotten about the cow creamer. “It moos when you pour it.” She laughs, and I am reminded of the good times. The times we’d been so close there was nothing in the world between the two of us.
The phone rings and I let it go to voicemail and take Mom to her bedroom. She stops in the doorway and starts wringing her hands again.
“What’s wrong?” Mom wringing her hands is a fairly recent behavior, and I notice it’s getting worse.
“Where’s my happy little clouds painting?”
In storage with all the others. Mother discovered her joy of painting while in the first care facility and is a Bob Ross devotee. I still have all her paintings, but I replaced those particular happy clouds with a print of irises. “I like the flowers.”
“Well, I don’t! It’s awful. I want my happy little clouds!”
“There are two of your paintings in the back of my car. We can put one of those up.” She relaxes somewhat and plants her behind in her La-Z-Boy recliner. “Where’s the clicker? Who stole the clicker?” Before she can go into her Wynonna rant, I open the compartment in the leather arm where the clicker’s always been kept. I set her up with the Game Show Network and Tic-Tac-Dough, but she’s not through with her demands. “Where’s my Booty? I always have Pirate’s Booty when I watch my shows.” I promise her that all her things will be brought up shortly, and she calms down a bit more. I just hope she stays calm long enough for me to talk with Margie.
“Okay,” I begin when I return to the living room and get Margie and Fern on the line. “I got a call from Golden Springs Assisted Living when I was driving to the airport this afternoon.” I hit the high and low notes of my day for them both. Well, the low notes anyway. When I’m finished, my agent of nearly twenty years says, “Well, that explains the crazy voicemail. I thought you were being kidnapped or murdered.”
“I’m not that lucky.” I move to my white linen couch, and the three of us talk about my options. Margie is more than just my agent; we’re friends. She’s smart, savvy, and I trust her.
The conversation is short; there is only one solution. “I can’t bring Mom with me, and I can’t hire a nurse in time to make LA.” Even if I find the most qualified nurse in the next ten minutes, leaving Mom with a stranger is out of the question. I can’t do that to her. She’s the only mom I’ve got, and I love her. Her routine has already been disrupted, and she’s afraid. Mine is the only face she recognizes, and she distrusts anyone she doesn’t know. Heck, sometimes she distrusts me, too. When she’s upset, her emotions spiral, and she has to have a target. I know because I’ve looked down that barrel more times than I can count in the past few years. Mom has been an emotional yo-yo throughout her life, but she was never angry—until now.