THIS IS not a good time for Mother’s shenanigans. I have a three-thirty flight to Los Angeles; my suitcases are loaded in the back, and my boarding pass is in my shoulder bag. I figure I have thirty minutes to deal with Mother and still make my flight. If that isn’t enough time, I’ll deal with her when I get back.
It’s raining so hard the wipers can barely keep up with the drops bouncing off the hood of my Land Rover. On a good day, I’m not the best driver on the road, and this is far from a good day. Visibility isn’t great and the Cranberries screaming out “Zombie” on the radio pinch the corner of my eye. Despite thirty units of Botox, I can almost feel deep elevens furrow my brow. I hit the control button, and the panel goes black. My forehead relaxes, and my eyebrows are safe.
I have to be inside the Los Angeles Convention Center by 10 a.m. tomorrow. I’m in the middle of my ten-city Find True Love in February tour. All the dates are sold out. I have to be there. I am Lulu the Love Guru, expert on finding and keeping love, but there can’t be a Lulu event if Lulu is stuck in Seattle straightening out whatever mess Mom’s gotten herself into this time. The administrator of Mom’s senior care facility didn’t go into a lot of detail, but I can fill in the blanks. Mom’s been socializing again, but this is nothing new. If he’d just waited an hour, I’d be in the air and unavailable, but that would have been too easy. My relationship with my mother has rarely been easy.
My mother is seventy-four and was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s four years ago, when she forgot she’d put a pan of grease on the stove and almost torched herself. She managed to escape with nothing more than some singed hair, thank God. The bad news was that we discovered she was already stage four. She’d been so good at covering it up that I hadn’t noticed her decline. Looking back, there were signs, of course. She was forgetful of time and phone numbers, but who doesn’t occasionally miss an appointment? Heck, I can’t call anyone without looking at the contacts list on my phone, and I just turned thirty-eight.
I should have paid more attention and gotten her help earlier. Nothing will cure her disease, but things would have been different, at least in the earlier stages. I have a lot of guilt about that, and about a few other things, too.
I pull up the cuff of my black wool blazer as I turn into the parking lot. The rain slowed me down, but I still have enough time to run in and sign whatever Golden Springs wants me to sign and run back out. Mom was a card before she got sick, and now she’s upped the ante. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to meet with the administrators. This isn’t even Mom’s first facility—it’s her third.
The first adult care residence had documented each episode of her compulsive spooning and other nocturnal infractions until she got booted. Apparently, she’s at it again. Mother has never liked sleeping alone and, eyeing all the possibilities laid out before her like a senior-living man buffet, she doesn’t think she should have to, either.
When I was growing up, she made me sleep with her when she didn’t have a man. I hadn’t minded because that meant there wasn’t anyone else in our lives and I had Mom all to myself. I’d crawl into her bed, or she’d crawl into mine, and we’d laugh and talk while she held my hand. Those are some of the best memories I have of Mom and me.
Golden Springs doesn’t have valet service like Mom’s last facility, so I find a parking spot as close to the front doors as possible. That still leaves a few huge puddles and a stream of water between me and the sidewalk.
If I’d known I was going to take a detour halfway to the airport, I would have left earlier. If I’d known I was going to hop puddles, I certainly wouldn’t have worn my Dior hobble skirt or Louboutin pumps.
With my movement restricted, I slide out of the SUV and land on a spot of asphalt that isn’t completely covered in water. Rain hits my face, and I raise my shoulder bag over my head like a makeshift umbrella and skip and