“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.
“It’s a pretty day.” She smiles as she looks up through the sunroof at the angry sky. The Alzheimer’s brain is such a mystery. Some days are better than others. Some days are good, others not so good. Sometimes her eyes are pleasant but blank, other times they’re filled with a thunderstorm. Both are on opposite sides of her mental deterioration. Most of the time, she is somewhere in the middle. Thank God.
She gives me a little smile and turns her face to the passenger window. I don’t know what she’s smiling about, and I don’t think she knows either. Warm air blows across the front of her red coat and flutters her long brown hair. She’s always loved her natural curls and brags that she doesn’t have one gray strand. That’s still true, but she can’t take care of it like she used to, so it hangs down her back or she pulls it into a side scrunchie, like today. Last year she actually told me I was in a hair rut.
In my twenties, I used to wear my hair in a single braid because it kept the whole mess from my face. Now the braid is part of my branding.
My gaze drops to her lap, then returns to the road. She’s stopped wringing her hands, and I think she’s finally settled in and is calm enough for me to attempt another call.
“Where are we going?”
Guess not. “My condo.”
“I’m having dinner with Earl.”
I make the mistake of telling her she’s not going back, and her smile drops. “I have to have dinner with Earl or that Stella will get him to have dinner with her. She’s had work done.”
I’m not averse to getting a little “work done” here and there. When I was a kid, I had a nasty widow’s peak like a vampire. When I got my first big check, I had it lasered off my forehead. It took almost a year of regular zapping until I didn’t look like the offspring of Count Dracula.
“I have to go back home.”
“Okay,” I lie to calm her down. It’s not like she’s going to remember anyway.
Her smile comes back, and she looks up through the sunroof again. “Okay.”
Margie and the rest of the team are probably at the Marriott by now, attending to last-minute details and waiting for my arrival. I hit the connect button again, and the sound of a ringing phone comes through the audio speakers. Mom cranes her neck to look in the back seat but is blessedly quiet.
“Hello, you’ve reached Margie Kratz at the Kratz Tolson Agency. I am—”
“Who’s that lady?”
Mom looks at me, and I put a finger to my lips. So much for quiet.
“—at this time. If—”
“Where’s she at?”
“—phone number and a brief message—”
“Why is she talking to me?”
—beep. “Hi, Margie. It’s Lou Ann, I—”
“Who’s that you’re talking to?”
“Mom, shhh for a minute. I’m still in Seattle. Mother is staying with me at the condo. Something—”
“I don’t want to stay with you.”
The pinch in the corner of my eye is back, threatening my elevens once more. “This has been the day from hell, and I’ll—”
“Take me back!” Mom is wringing her hands and her head is on a swivel. So much for the double dose of Xanax keeping her calm. Maybe next time she’ll need to be hit with a tranquilizer dart.
“I’ll explain what’s goin—”
“Take me back! Someone help me.”
I rub her shoulder to reassure her. “We can talk about—”
“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.