Sally stepped forward and hugged me, and I could see the tiniest quiver in her chin, giving away her tender heart. I sighed.
I sat down on the iron bench on the front porch, knowing I wasn’t getting past that barricade of daughters any more than Dan was going to get up and salsa.
Lauren sat down beside me and said, “Momma, this is an intervention.”
“A what?” My voice was high and squeaky.
“You know,” Annabelle interjected. “Like on the show. ‘Your behavior has affected me in the following ways...’”
I looked at all of them like they had announced they were joining a cult and taking me with them on their comet to heaven tomorrow.
“We’re just worried about you and Daddy being here alone at night—” Louise started.
“Okay, okay.” I cut her off. “I’ll hire a night nurse or make arrangements for that dreadful assisted living. Is that what you all want? Could I please just get inside and lie down? It has been quite a long trip.”
“That’s the thing,” Jean said.
And that’s when I could feel my own chin start to quiver. I somehow knew before my youngest even said a word that my home wasn’t my home anymore. I glared at Annabelle. “Did you know about this?”
She put her hands up in defense. “I promise I didn’t know a thing.”
I got up, pushed Jean aside and opened the front door. I gasped at how little furniture was left, the tears flooding to my eyes. Forty-five years of memories in this house, on this street, and—just like that—everything had changed. That seemed to be the theme of my life. “I can’t believe you didn’t even let me say good-bye,” I said softly.
“Momma,” Martha said kindly, “you would never, ever have said good-bye.”
“You never would have been able to part with anything,” Lauren said. “But we knew that this was what you really wanted.”
“So we were only trying to help,” Sally added.
Jean waved her hand as though she hadn’t just destroyed my past in a weekend while I was lounging on the Vineyard totally unaware that my life was being pulled out from under my feet.
“Before you get all upset,” Jean said, “why don’t we get you and Daddy back in the car and go over and check out the new place.”
“If you don’t like it, we’ll move all your stuff back,” Martha said.
“They called,” Lauren said, “and one of the new, remodeled units came available in the best place in town. We knew if we didn’t get it now then we would never get one.”
I was so angry I couldn’t speak.If you can’t say anything niceand all that was running through my mind as I got back in the backseat of the car. I crossed my arms indignantly. Annabelle was trying to calm me down, but I couldn’t even hear what she was saying, seething like I was. I patted Dan’s shoulder. “Our girls sure are something,” I said. “We might have raised them a little too headstrong.”
When we opened the door to our new light-filled assisted living apartment a few minutes later, my arm linked in Annabelle’s—she was the only member of my family, after all, that hadn’t completelybetrayed me—we gasped in unison. Though I had shakily decided that I would move, I hadn’t even begun to look for places. In my mind’s eye, I had pictured worn laminate countertops and sterile, white hospital linoleum tile floors, inpatient white walls and sheet glass windows with those thick, black frames.
But this place, with its hardwoods, marble countertops, breakfast island and modern bathrooms complete with soaking tubs and lifts felt more like a spa than a nursing home. And the floor-to-ceiling French doors and windows leading to our private balcony illuminated the entire living space. I put my hand up to my mouth. “Oh my goodness,” I said, examining the waterproof lift remote by the tub. I’ll be able to take a bath again.” Then I looked over at my husband. “So what do you think, Dan?”
He said nothing in response.
“We can get up every morning and have our breakfast on the balcony overlooking the little lake,” I added.
“Yeah, D-daddy,” Annabelle said. “You and Lovey will be dining al fresco all the time.”
He looked up at Annabelle expectantly, like he was waiting for something else. And she smiled proudly as he said, “I think that’d be nice.”
The best part about the apartment was that it was filled with all my things. The Fabergé eggs collected on a glorious trip to Russia, the Herend from Hungary, Dan’s German Lugers from the war. The first antique chest we had ever bought together was perched in the corner of the small living room, a new TV hanging over top, and, of course, Dan’s chair, his lifeline of the past few years, was right across from it.
“So what do you think?” I asked my husband again, not exactly expecting a response but so practiced at figuring his needs into my daily equation that I didn’t know what else to do.
“I think my chair looks nice.”
All my girls laughed, I’m sure from a mixture of relief and happiness.
