being seen with her. She was the most beautiful and stylish mom at any of the schools I attended. While other mothers picked up their children from school in minivans, my mom rolled up in a red Mercedes 560SL convertible, a gift from husband number three, Vinny Russo, just before she divorced him.
I wrap a flat noodle around my fork tines. There had been many times she’d driven that fancy car along the poverty line, but no one ever guessed, because she looked so damn good doing it.
“We ate this in China.”
I look up at Mom and smile. “Yes.” It was Bangkok, but who cares? I took her with me on my first world tour ten years ago, and it was one of the best times we had together. I’m happily surprised she recalls anything of that trip and raise my fork to my lips.
“I hope I don’t get the runs.”
Good God. I look at my fork and set it back down on my plate.
“Pork gives me the runs.”
Normally, my mother never would’ve talked about bodily functions at the dinner table and would have sent me to my room if I did. I guess this is her new normal and push my plate to the side. “We went to the outdoor market,” I say to distract her from her real or imagined pork issues. “You bought a pointy straw hat that was painted with elephants wearing the same kind of pointy hat.”
“That’s silly.” Her brow furrows, and she shakes her head.
“You thought it was funny.” So had I. We’d laughed about it for months afterward, and I’m sad that she doesn’t remember that part.
“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