“So you all finally did it, huh?”
“Did what?” Daphne chuffs, her voice not fully devoid of guilt.
“Offed my mom. Sent her to the great department store in the sky. What finally pushed you over the edge?” I quip. “Was it her demands to be taken to the Leathers and Feathers lingerie store? Did you find the food she squirrels away rotting under her bed? Please don’t tell me she asked if she could borrow your silk bonnet again.”
Daphne bellows in laughter. “She did ask me to take her for drinks at the Rainbow Room, but then she said there’s a dress code and what I have on won’t work. Apparently, women can’t wear pants. Is that true?”
“Well, the Rainbow Room closed two decades ago, but I’m guessing that back in the 1970s, pants for women were banned. On the upside, my mom’s a cheap date. A positive by-product of drinking herself thin for sixty years to maintain a sample-size figure. You could easily take her to the nearest dive bar, and she wouldn’t know the difference once you got a gimlet in her hand.”
“I think it’s safe to say your mom has forgotten she’s a calorie counter. She’s up to dessert three times a night because the minute she finishes one, she forgets that she ate it and demands another. I’ve tried to ask the night staff to limit her sugar intake, but I think they’re giving in to Helen because it’s easier than listening to her complain about poor table service.”
Admittedly, my mother’s inability to remember her fat-phobic lifestyle has worked in my favor since I moved her across the country alittle over a year ago to be closer to me. In California, Helen has become my most stalwart snacking companion.
“Well, good for her; she’s making up for missed life pleasures.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Daphne agrees with a wink, and I know she’s referring to more than my mother’s sweet tooth.
“Back to offing my mom. If you were going to do it, how would you go about it? I promise not to squeal. Extra Ativan in her scrambled eggs? Maybe wrap her up in Kate’s afghan and watch her body break down from an allergic synthetic reaction? Trust me, only cashmere has ever touched those limbs.”
“Oh, I could never.” Daphne releases a hearty laugh, and her box braids keep time with her chuckles. “Did I tell you she said I look like Aretha Franklin? Said I sing like her too, so I think I’ll keep Helen around for a little while longer.” I am grateful that Daphne took that not as an insult to her size, but rather as a compliment to her singing voice that brightens the hallways at Mercy Community Care. My mom may have meant it as both. “But now that I know how you think, I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
“Truthfully, Daphne, I’d be happy to know anybody is looking out for me. Even if it’s to watch out for me committing matricide,” I admit. Daphne doesn’t play into my “poor me” mindset and keeps the conversation moving. I’m envious of her positivity and her unwillingness to indulge in self-pity, even surrounded by sorrow, as she is.
“What did you have planned for you and your mom today?”
“I thought I’d take her to the garden store with me. I want to change up the flowers in front of my house to maybe help it sell. My mom’s mind may be going, but she still has great taste, including when it comes to garden design.”
“Yes, she does. Do you know she told me I should get rid of the guy I’m dating, and you know what? She’s right. That man ain’t worth the dirt on the bottom of my running shoes.” Daphne kicks up her leg for emphasis, her cotton nurse’s scrubs being flexible and all. I notice herworn-in sneakers are the same style as the ones I have sitting in their pristine box in the back seat of my car.
“The nursery shouldn’t be too crowded on a Monday afternoon, and it’s such a beautiful day. Thought it would be a nice change from going to the mall,” I share. My mom asks to go to the mall every time I visit, but I don’t need to be tempted by the addictive waft of waffle cones, and she doesn’t need reminders to beg me for new bras like the lacy polyester ones the women in her favorite smut shows wear.
“I don’t see her in there.” I point to the tidy communal space where a few residents are taking in the first in the lineup of afternoon celebrity talk shows.
Daphne leans over the front desk and lowers her voice to say, “I get the feeling Ms. Helen’s not up for an outing today. She’s not her regular feisty self, but I bet she would love for you to sit with her in her room. There’s nothing wrong with staying still, as long as you’re together.”
“Is that code for she wasn’t minding her manners and being nice to the other residents at lunch, so you banished her to her room?” I point to the cluster around the TV.
When I first moved my mother into Mercy, her cognition was waning, but she still had many moments of sharpness that manifested in her refusal to socialize with anyone in the facility who had an outward appearance of age or failing health. I would walk down the hallway with her, and she would point out who lived in what room, identifying each resident by their ailment. While she couldn’t remember anyone’s name, she was quick to point out who had a walker, who was on oxygen, who wore tragic brown leather orthopedic shoes. Daphne called Helen’s unwillingness to dine with anyone sporting a handicap “unique.” Thomas and I called her a “sickist.” While Helen Steele had not one racist bone in her body, if you sat her next to someone in a wheelchair, the insulting slurs would fly due to her mangled mental state.
“I said she’s not herself today, but she is something else,” Daphne clarifies with a cluck of her tongue against her teeth.
“Touché.” I laugh along with Daphne and follow closely behind her as we head down the hall.
“She’s still in her robe. I put some blush and lipstick on her, but she wouldn’t let me help put her earrings in,” Daphne reports. Helen Steele wears a full face even when in her housecoat, so that’s no surprise.
“She also refused breakfast and lunch, but maybe you can get her to come out of her room for a snack. We don’t like our residents to begin a habit of isolating. It can turn into full withdrawal from the present into the past of the mind.” Refusing meals, that sounds exactly like my past mother.
“Got it.” I give Daphne a salute because she is most definitely now the ranking officer when it comes to my mom.
“Ms. Helen,” Daphne lilts as she opens the door to my mom’s suite. “Callie’s here to see you.”
We both stop in the doorway to see if my mom, sitting in her favorite wingback chair that we brought out with her from her apartment in New York, will respond to Daphne’s greeting. Her gaze does not divert from the off-center red maple tree outside her window.
“Your daughter has a lovely orange top on today, and her cheeks are looking all rosy. Doesn’t Callie look pretty, Ms. Helen? What has you all fit for the day, Callie?” Is Daphne telling the truth, or is she making polite conversation to pull my mother into the here and now?
“She wouldn’t let me touch her hair today either,” Daphne continues in a quiet tone, leaning toward me. “She kept asking for Reggie.” Daphne crosses the room and lightly taps my mother in a teasing gesture.
My mom scolds Daphne for not knowing such pertinent information. “Reggie’s the best.”
