“Elephants don’t wear hats.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Why try to explain? She’ll just get more confused and I’ll still be sad. I look at her in her cheetah cap, which apparently isn’t silly, and wonder why we didn’t go on more trips together after that. Was I too busy to ask or was she too busy to go? She was probably absorbed with relationship drama and I was probably absorbed with Lulu. With pushing my business, growing my success, and making a living. But neither of us has those excuses now. Her relationships are mostly imaginary, and Lulu is more successful than I’d ever dreamed it would be. I have more money than I can spend in two lifetimes, and we could tour the world if we wanted.
Now that it’s too late.
After dinner, Mom takes up her favorite position in front of the Game Show Network, and I make sure she knows where to find the remote.
“That Wink Martindale is foxy,” she gushes.
I glance at the TV and Mr. Martindale’s pompadour. He looks more Beavis than foxy.
“Ooohh, a cassette player. That’s a good prize.”
“I’ll be down th—” I save my breath because she’s too wrapped up in Wink and his state-of-the-art cassette player to listen.
Golden Springs gave me stacks of files and paperwork I know I can’t ignore, so I sit in my office looking over outlines of her daily and weekly schedules. My gaze skims the paragraphs stressing the importance of routine and the concern for sufferers when the routine is disrupted. First, I already know that Alzheimer’s patients find safety in routine. Second, where was Golden Springs’s concern when they disrupted my mother’s routine today?
Included in the paperwork is a list of the best foods for memory sufferers. It’s funny, though, I don’t recall the facility feeding her an abundance of salmon or chickpeas or ginger soup.
I study pages filled with lists of doctor appointments and medications. She takes medicine to help with everything from memory loss to constipation. There’s a box filled with prescription bottles and over-the-counter remedies.
I thumb to the list of memory caregivers and start dialing. The first thirteen are either already employed or work for a care service and not qualified to dispense medicine.
Like I am?
Number fourteen is Lindsey Benedict, a twenty-six-year-old from Spokane. She has a bachelor of science in nursing from WSU and provides in-home health services. I hadn’t thought about having anyone actually living with us, but I call her anyway.
Lindsey picks up and eagerly lists off her credentials and accomplishments. I don’t know half of what she’s talking about, but it sounds impressive. She tells me that she is an independent caregiver and not associated with an agency. Then she talks about salary and acceptable working conditions, which all sounds reasonable until she informs me that I am responsible for payroll and withholding taxes. I ask myself why I would want the added headache and flip to the next page.
Down the hall, the laugh track hits a crescendo, and my eyebrows make a valiant effort not to knit a unibrow across my forehead. While Lindsey gives me her references, I look at the next name on the list, At-Home Eldercare Agency. They have several phone numbers and want me to call and schedule a consultation in their office before they’ll even come and assess Mom.
“I can be there tomorrow at seven a.m.,” Lindsey says.
I’d only need her until I find Mom a new care facility. Two months. Three months max. “You’re hired.”
I hang up the phone and realize that I didn’t write down her references or anything else. She sounded young, and I wonder how long she’s had her degree. I wonder if she parties like I did when I was twenty-six. I wonder if I’m inviting a wacko into my home. One wacko around here is quite enough.
I plant my palms on the desk and stand. I can’t worry about that now. If she’s dropped off by a prison bus tomorrow, I’ll worry. Right now, I’m exhausted and want to curl up in bed, but first, I have to give Mom her sleeping medication and help her change. She chooses a leopard-print nightie to match her bath cap. “Isn’t this pretty?” she asks as she pets the marabou trim around the collar. “I got it on the Google net.”
She means the internet. She may have lost a good portion of her ability to read, but she knows how to get online and shop like a boss. “Yep, it’s special, all right.”
“It reminds me of Tina at Global Travel.”
Tina worked with Mom and she’d never met an animal print that she didn’t drape around her neck. “That’s when we lived in Tacoma.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Reno?”
“I’m sure.” Mom worked at Harrah’s in Reno dealing cards. I hated when she worked there, but it was better than when she worked at Daniel Law Office and Mrs. Daniel threatened to kill her at the company Christmas party.
“Oh. I thought for sure it was Reno.” One thing I will say about Mom, she always had a job. From blackjack dealer to receptionist at a law office and everything in between, Mom always worked to support us. Sometimes we skated close to the poverty line, but it was never on account of unemployment.
I kiss her good night on the cheek and think about locking her in her room so she can’t roam around like when she stayed with me before, and Wynonna found her in the pantry straightening cans and hiding my chef knives. The bathroom is down the hall, though, and she might need to use it. I keep the hall light on for her just in case and leave the door open a crack.
I shut my bedroom door behind me, and I pull on my favorite flannel nightshirt and let out a sigh as I slide between the sheets. I’m tempted to take something to help me sleep, but I can’t with Mom in the condo. Light from the hallway falls into my room, and I fully expect it to keep me awake as my mind races over the details of the day. Much to my surprise, I am pulled into the deepest layer of sleep, the kind where you don’t move or think or dream. The kind that is very hard to wake from, even when something shakes you.
“Lou Ann.”
My eyes are heavy, and I struggle to crack them open.