All About Eva (19 page)

Pam shook her head and moaned, “Oh, Lord . . .”

Gwen whirled around in Pam's direction, and asked, “What are you over there ‘Oh Lording' about? 'Tis the season to be jolly, right? I had two glasses of champagne, and y'all are up in here acting like I'm sloppy, falling-down drunk. And if I was, so what! I'm the mama around here!”

Pam and I raised our eyebrows and looked at each other as if to say, “Yeah, right!”

Mama of the house, indeed. As if she were the one who cooked our breakfast every morning before school and took us down to Miss Lenora's Beauty Box on Saturday mornings, if she were too tired from the previous workweek to press 'n curl our hair herself.

The true “mama of the house” was out in the living room with her mind in the grips of a vicious disease that had rendered her a shell of her former self.

While Gwen was off traipsing around the globe as if she didn't have kids, or a care in the world, my grandmother was the one making all the sacrifices and working hard to put food on the table for not only me and Pam, but for anyone who showed up on our doorstep with a long face and a sad story.

And they came often. There is at least one house in every neighborhood that people flock to the most. Ours was it.

Even though Pam, Uncle Booney, Mama Nita, and I were the primary residents, the three-bedroom garden apartment in Cabrini-Green was always crowded with neighbors, friends, and extended relatives.

People sat in the kitchen having political discussions about “the man” and the sorry state of the country. They sat in the living room and watched the
Cosby Show
and
Dynasty
on the bulky floor model TV that also doubled as a plant stand. And at all times, there were at least two people sitting on the front or back porch smoking a cigarette and/or reefer and watching the world go by.

“Looking good, looking good . . .” Gwen said, as Pam brought the eighteen-pound turkey out of the oven and set it on the stove. “What do y'all need for me to do?”

“Set the table, and rally the troops,” I said, while removing the homemade cranberry sauce from the fridge, which I was pleased to see had set perfectly. Gwen went out into the living room and came back a couple of minutes later looking scared and on the verge of hysteria. “Where's Mama?” she asked.

“In the living room with Olivia and Kelly,” I said.

“No, she not,” Gwen said. “The kids are out there taking a nap, and I just checked the whole house, and she is nowhere to be found!”

“Well, you stay here with the girls,” I said, taking off my apron. “Call all the neighbors, and go throughout the house and check all the closets.”

Pam turned off all the burners on the stove, and the two of us ran into the living room where we scrambled to put on our boots and coats.

It was a very dangerous thing for a victim of Alzheimer's to wander away from home unattended, but it was even more so in extreme temperatures.

Awaiting us when we walked outside was a bone-chilling eighteen degrees that, combined with the high winds coming off Lake Michigan, forced the wind chill well below zero. To make matters worse, it was still snowing just as it had been all day, adding to the several inches that had already fallen.

There were other houses to the east and west of us, leaving north and south as the only logical directions to take off in.

“I'm going this way,” Pam said, and took off running south up Kessler Avenue without taking the time to discuss a solid plan of action.

As I began to head north, I put my detective hat on and noticed that there were tracks in the snow that led straight away from Mama Nita's house and into the Hensons' yard, directly across the street. The Hensons' yard went straight through to Parker Avenue, where there are businesses and a lot more traffic.

I followed those tracks in the snow for fifteen minutes until I saw a lone figure standing at a bus stop. It was Mama Nita. We were a half block away from each other, but I recognized the gray slacks and black turtleneck sweater that I had helped her get dressed in that morning.

I don't know where she thought she was going, but she had somehow managed to remember where the nearest bus stop was, which had been her preferred mode of transportation for the more than forty years since the accident that killed LeAnn. She couldn't stand to be in a car even as a passenger, let alone behind the wheel.

As I ran to her, that infamous Chicago hawk ripped right through my bomber jacket, and frigid air stung my lungs every time I inhaled.

I was glad to see Mama Nita, but at the same time, she was a heartbreaking sight to behold.

Not only wasn't she wearing a coat, but my heart nearly stopped when I looked down and realized that she didn't have any shoes on either. Without hesitation, I pulled my UGG boots off, and luckily, she didn't fight me as I slipped them onto her feet.

I then took off my bomber jacket and put that on her as well. “Come on, Mama Nita,” I said. “Let's go home.”

I put my arm around her waist and headed back in the direction of home, but it was slow going. Even through her sweater, I could feel that her skin was extremely cold to the touch.

My bare feet were so cold, they burned, and felt like blocks of ice, and Mama Nita was having a hard time because there was no telling how long she had been out there.

On a good day it would have been a fairly short walk back to the house, but in those conditions, there was no way we were going to make it.

We needed help.

I stopped at a house on the corner of Twenty-fifth and Parker Avenue. The woman who opened the door said a cheery “Merry Christmas!” then screamed in horror when she fully realized the condition Mama Nita and I were in: an old woman possibly near death from the freezing cold, and a younger one with no shoes or coat, both of us so numb from the cold, we could hardly walk.

“Willie Lee and Johnny, y'all come over here and help me!” the woman yelled out, and then she and her family practically dragged my grandmother and me into the warmth of their home.

Thank God for the kindness of strangers.

Hypothermia and severe frostbite kept Mama Nita hospitalized for several days.

I wasn't exposed to the harsh elements for long so I had already made a full recovery, but every day during that period of time, the entire Cantrell clan convened in my grandmother's hospital room at Jackson Park Hospital.

As a family, we were all worried, and everything was put on hold until Doctor Butler, her personal physician, announced that amputation of some of her toes would not be necessary, as they had initially thought.

There was a collective sigh of relief, however, there were also mixed reactions regarding the doctor's suggestion to put Mama Nita in a nursing home.

“Oh, hell, no!” Pam said. My sister had worked briefly as a certified nurse's aide back when she was trying out careers, and knew from firsthand experience that a great number of nursing homes were nothing more than death camps for the elderly and infirmed. The staff are usually overworked, underpaid, and just generally couldn't care less about their patients.

You can walk into any nursing home anywhere in the world and you will find that they all have that same distinctly disgusting smell. Know what that is? It's the smell of death and disease. Of hopes and dreams, and lives shriveling up and dying right before your very eyes.

Nursing homes are definitely a necessity, but it's not where I wanted my grandmother to be.

Plus, every other day on the news there is some story about nursing home abuse, violations, or misconduct. So, of course, I was in agreement with Pam.

“My grandmother is not going into anybody's nursing home, anywhere on God's green earth,” I told Doctor Butler, “so—moving on, next topic of discussion!”

“Mrs. Cantrell is going to make a full recovery from her ordeal,” the doctor replied, “but what you need to understand is that with this disease advancing at the rate that it is, she now requires around-the-clock skilled nursing.”

“Didn't you just hear what my sister said?” Pam asked, incredulous. “In black families, Big Mama is taken care of at home until the day she dies. We don't put her away in a nursing home and forget about her.”

Doctor Butler, who was not African-American, looked highly offended, not to mention frustrated.

“Eva and Pam, y'all need to calm down and hear the man out, because at this point we can't handle Mama Nita by ourselves anymore,” said Gwen. “We need to try some other options.”

“And throwing her away in a nursing home is not an option!” I said. “Point blank, period, end of discussion.”

Regardless of the opposition, the good doctor went on to explain just what our options were in regards to caring for Mama Nita from there on out. 1) Put her in a nursing facility where her care would be paid for by insurance, Social Security, and Medicaid. 2) Contract with a home health agency for in-home care. 3) Pay for a private duty nurse out of our own pockets.

“So what it boils down to is that we really only have one option,” Pam said, “Because the second so-called option is just as bad as the first.”

Again, I had to agree with my sister. Just as with nursing homes, I had heard horror stories about how some home health agencies are staffed by unreliable, unlicensed personnel with no credentials to speak of, other than the agency's eight-hour training course on how to be a home companion.

Clearly, paying for a qualified live-in nurse was really the only choice we had as a family, and for that, we were going to need some serious money.

Hours after that crucial family meeting, I had a sit-down with Larry Nichols from
Hue Magazine.
He was the reporter who had somehow wormed his way into Gwen's good graces and harassed me at the airport for an interview.

I hadn't wanted to speak with him at the time out of loyalty and respect for Donovan, but after thinking it over, I had come to realize that I'd been misguided. Where was Donovan's loyalty and respect for me when he was busy setting up offshore bank accounts in my name, implicating me as a willing participant in his grand diabolical scheme? Besides, Larry was offering five thousand dollars for the exclusive interview.

Technically, I was selling out, but since I planned to use every penny of that money on Mama Nita's care, it was a no-brainer for me.

I had gotten Larry's business card from Gwen, and as I dialed his number, I thought back to that moment when I was sitting in jail wondering what it was in life that I was passionate about. I'm passionate about getting my career back on track and regaining independence, but most of all I'm passionate about my family. Being back with them made me realize that there were no limits I wouldn't go to contribute to their health, welfare, and well-being.

So if some funny-looking guy with a big jughead wanted to pay me to know me, then so be it. Cut the check!

I met up with Larry at the fabulous Charlie Trotter's restaurant in Lincoln Park. One of the best restaurants in Chicago, CT's is the height of elegance and fine dining. When I walked in it almost brought a tear to my eye because I was reminded of the good old days when Donovan used to eat in places like CT's every night of the week.

I wore a cranberry Alexander McQueen sweater dress from two seasons before, and a pair of black patent leather sling back heels that I'd bought from Payless for $22.99. It was a tasteful mix of high and low fashion, of which I was sure Michelle Obama would be proud.

Larry had been waiting for me in the lounge area, and when he came over to greet me, I was instantly reminded of one of my English professors from the University of Chicago. Along with those bottle-thick Harry Potter glasses of his, he was wearing brown Hush Puppy loafers that matched his slacks, a white Polo shirt, and a tan corduroy jacket with brown patches of suede at the elbow. “Ms. Cantrell, so glad you made it.” Larry said, looking and sounding relieved.

“Of course I made it.” I smiled, turning on the charm, “I called you, didn't I?” My tone was sweet and friendly, because after all, he was the man with five grand in his hand, so no need to be as nasty and dismissive as I was the first time around.

At Larry's request, we were seated at a table for two in the quietest area of the restaurant. A hot two seconds after we placed our food and wine orders, Larry put a mini-cassette recorder in the middle of the table and pressed record. “So tell me a little about yourself and how you came to know Donovan Dorsey,” he said, all business.

I started with the facts, which were pretty straightforward and basic. How Donovan and I met at the Maxim party, and the fairy-tale life I had shared with him up until the day he disappeared in Switzerland.

Larry listened intently and I could literally see the dollar signs in his eyes. I was giving him the story he wanted, and it was exclusive information that no other publication in the world would have except for
Hue Magazine,
which was as much a staple in the black community as Everett Hair Care products.

Larry and I talked for nearly two hours, and it became clear to me why he had chosen to meet at that particular location. Charlie Trotter's is a restaurant where you don't just go for a meal, you go for an
experience
that includes several courses, accompanied by lots and
lots
of wine.

Going into the third course, I was a regular Chatty Cathy.

“One on one, outside of this bullshit scandal that he's created, Donovan was really a great guy— I mean a good, good man!” I said. “But truthfully, the longer the two of us are apart, the more freedom I feel.”

“Really? I'd like to hear more about that,” Larry said in the manner of a psychologist to a patient.

If loose lips truly sink ships, then I was torpedoing Donovan's ass, giving up details of the good, the bad, and the bizarre.

Like Donovan's obsession with hand sanitizer, and his insistence that I only wear silk lingerie and pajamas. No sweats, velour, T-shirts, flannel, or flats—EVER. And sneakers were only to be worn while I was actually working out.

The man was a stickler for details most people would consider minute. For instance, the bedsheets had to be changed every other day, like clockwork, and get this, the ends of the toilet paper had to be folded into a point just as they would be at any luxury hotel.

“Sounds like a man obsessed with perfection,” Larry said, still in amateur psychologist mode.

“Oh, very much so,” I said, “and looking back, he looks less like a mentor who I thought was molding me into a better, more refined woman and more like a control freak.”

“But you didn't feel like you were being controlled while you were in the relationship?”

“No, because it wasn't done in a domineering, Ike Turner kinda way, you know?”

“Yeah, but telling you that he preferred for you not to wear T-shirts is still a form of control, no matter how nice he was in making the request.”

“Hey, no disagreements here,” I said, throwing my hands up. “You said it, so it must be true.”

“If you could use one word to describe Donovan Dorsey, what would it be?”

“Hmm, just
one?
”

Larry shrugged. “Or two.”

I thought for a few seconds, and the words “shrewd sonofabitch” slipped out of my mouth.

“Okay.” Larry laughed. “And how would you describe yourself ?”

“Miss Understood.”

Larry nodded as if I had his sympathy. “Well, hopefully that will change once people get a chance to read your side of the story.” He raised his wineglass in a toast, and said, “To being understood. . . .”

“Hear, hear!”

The next morning, I was in line at the bank thirty seconds after they opened to cash the check Larry had given me. I hadn't done much to earn the money, except run my mouth, but I still felt a sense of accomplishment as I watched the bank teller count out all of those hundreds and fifties. Money that I in turn counted out to Beulah Hutchinson, director of the groundbreaking Healthy Mind Project.

Doctor Butler had put us in touch with Beulah, who helped us realize that we had more options than we had originally thought. For eight hundred dollars a week, Mama Nita would have in-home care from 7:30
AM
to 10:00
PM
, from a nurse whose specialty is dealing with Alzheimer's patients and helping to keep their brains active.

From 10:30
PM
until 7:00
AM
, Mama Nita participated in a night care program, which was like a social club for Alzheimer's patients.

It was a win-win situation for all of us, but it was only a drop in the bucket. Mama Nita needed long-term care, and for that I needed long-term income.