Habit (30 page)

Okay, deep breath. Stuff the tail back in the pants.

Why does this keep happening? I thought this happy ending we're having meant I was saved from the fate of being a piece of salami terminally squished between two pieces of Wonder Bread. Maybe Sam's right: Do I run around trying to fix my own delusions all the time? Some kind of need to be needed? You figure it out, and when you do, I don't want to know. I'm busy.

Wretched girl, woe on you!

At dinner that night, Sam describes his morning:

Sam was sitting at his desk in the Latin room taking his exam with all the other students. The grammar section was a wash, as expected. But the
Catullus and Lesbia
section—that he could do. He was rolling along writing out verbatim all the gibberish about biting the lips etc., and the door to the classroom opened. Everyone in the room looked up. The headmaster of his school walked in, along with the headmistress of the girls' school. They conferred quietly with Mr. Goodfellow, then all three approached Sam's desk and ordered him sternly to step outside.

Was Sam Morse in trouble? Everyone watched in fascination and horror as Sam, appalled, got up in the middle of his tenth-grade Latin exam and made the long walk out to the hall with the heads of the two schools.

—How are you doing, Sam? asked Mr. Zane.

—Fine, said Sam.

—How's the exam going?

—Uh . . . fine.

—We want you to know that you can take it on another day if you like.

—Oh.

—Would you like to go home and take it on another day?

—Uh, no thanks. I'm, uh. I'm fine.

Every once in a while, Colette and I speculate on how Ma's death will affect us when the time comes. At the height of my exasperation, I was sure I'd feel nothing but relief when this job is over. Colette has always thought otherwise, and these days I'm beginning to grasp that she's right. I don't like to think about Ma's death too much, but the image I have is from the Coyote/Road Runner cartoons—they've been on one of their classic chases along dusty desert trails, and the Road Runner veers off just before they get to a cliff. The Coyote doesn't react fast enough, and he keeps running several yards off the edge of the precipice.

When he loses momentum, there's a pause, suspended midair, still in running position. He turns his head, looks blankly at the camera. He blinks once or twice. Then gravity takes over and he plummets (leaving his blinking eyes behind for a second or something), splats face down, limbs akimbo, stamping a permanent Coyote-shaped snow angel on the floor of the canyon thousands of feet below. Whatever the emotional equivalent is of his suspended blinking moment followed by that surprise free-fall, there's no way around it: That's what I'll be going through when Ma meets her maker.

And this I know: When I stumble cursing to answer the phone much too early in the morning, and I don't see Ma's phone number on caller ID after all, a fist will clamp around my heart. When I find myself keening mawkishly in the condiments aisle at the supermarket, clutching a bottle of
plain olive oil
to my breast, I will be profoundly grateful. Because all I've ever really wanted is to feel this way about my mother.

When I studied French, we read
The Myth of Sisyphus
by the philosopher Albert Camus. Camus had his own take on the situation. He likened Sisyphus to a drone in an office or factory, working a pointless job. He imagined what Sisyphus was thinking each time he had to trudge back down the mountain after his runaway rock and start over. The hopelessness. But Camus also decided that once Sisyphus could actually own up to how ridiculous his activity was, he would find peace. If he could acknowledge this truth, he could learn to live with it.

So here I am, acknowledging my truth.

Okay, I don't really remember all that from my college French classes—I reviewed it on Wikipedia this morning. But the point is there is nothing wrong with me for having this urge to push rocks up hills. Even if it's true that where the rocks end up doesn't always make much difference in life, what's the harm in trying, if I feel inclined?

Shoot me. I'm a rock roller.

And honestly, a simian attitude just happens to come with this territory; it's even fun to hang by your tail on occasion. The key is self-awareness. As long as my conscience can cop to what I'm really doing, I'll have acceptance and peace whenever I need it.

Fine: I'm a
monkey
rock roller. A
monkey coyote
rock roller. On rye, easy on the mustard, pickle on the side.

Sam got his Latin grade up to a C for the year. Don't ask me how.

Just get Ma to the Abbey. If that happens, I promise: I'll keep my tail in my pants.

And I will never meddle in my children's schooling again.

I promise
.

I
KEEP THINKING
about something that happened to David and me once, in Santa Monica.

It was about fifteen years ago. We were there for an event with just enough time for a quick walk on the beach. The Santa Monica beach is freaky any day of the week. It's like a sideshow: boom boxes and baby strollers, musclemen with tattoos, lots of fake breasts and addicts asleep under cardboard boxes. It's all so weird that nothing really surprises you.

But we were both struck by a group of men walking toward us: three young guys with perfect
GQ
haircuts, very tall and fit, identical black T-shirts carefully tucked into tailored, belted black dress pants. Even their matching dark sunglasses seemed out of place. Was this a fashion shoot? They were all wearing shoes. There was something just off about them.

Then suddenly: those eyes. Vivid blue and alert. Creased smile lines crisscrossing old, well-tended skin. Wallabee shoes, khaki pants. A Mister Rogers-style beige cashmere cardigan sweater buttoned all the way. A baseball cap slightly askew.

He looked right at us, and his face lit up as if we were friends, but he didn't stop moving. The
GQ
guys swept him along—one on either side of him and one a little behind. He turned from side to side to wave with delight at everyone they passed.

Nobody else stopped their kite flying or sunscreen applying or overdosing to look, which was extraordinary.

Ronald Reagan in retirement. Out for a walk with the Secret Service.

I wasn't particularly political in the 1980s. We lived in L.A. then and volunteered regularly at a food giveaway program at our church. We saw the lines grow longer during each year of Reagan's presidency. We had friends dying of AIDS, a disease nobody in power seemed to take seriously—it was just a gay man's predicament, and not worth the trouble. We listened to poetry readings—firsthand stories of murders in El Salvador, committed by the rebels our government openly encouraged. David followed the news more than I, and was particularly disgusted by the Iran-Contra scandal. Reagan emerged so unscathed.

Many disagree about what kind of president he was. It's a matter of perspective. This was our perspective.

Until we had children and the economy began to fall apart in the early 1990s, I didn't think about policy. Selfishly, it didn't concern me until I sensed my own little world was affected. But the entertainment industry began to suffer, it got hard for many actors to find work, and that's when I roused. I took an uncharacteristically intense satisfaction voting Democrat in 1992. I blamed Reagan and his malfunctioning trickle-down economic theories, and wished I could give him a piece of my mind for endangering all of us, especially my children. I'm known to hold a grudge.

Now, here was the man who did not help our dying friends, the man who said homeless people were homeless by choice as he cut programs and their numbers ballooned out of control. Ketchup became a
vegetable
. This was our moment, a chance to tell off a supposed villain. Instead, David and I watched him melt into the beach crowd. Then we looked at each other, eyes brimming.

David thinks what got him so moved was mostly the unexpected jolt of that poignant proof of mortality—this man who had once seemed so powerful and destructive, was all of a sudden just a little boy out for a walk on the beach.

As for me, I just think it will be so lovely if we
all
end up on the beach.

The Abbey has turned out to be more than good; it's excellent.

There was a robin's nest in full production right outside Ma's front door when she arrived late last spring. Her cozy studio now has all the icons hung, by David, the master picture hanger. She's on the second floor with a balcony that looks out on trees and a children's playground. After being wrenched from the lovely gardens she created in Philadelphia and Florida, followed by over a decade on the tenth floor at the Mills House with windows that only opened a crack, then finally enduring that six-month incarceration upstate, Ma's enjoying the open air.

She passed her scooter test and has a shiny blue one with a basket and MOTHER BRIGID tacked to the bumper. Now she can zip around the grounds, a sporty version of
Whistler's Mother
, always in black with her long white hair flying behind like a banner: down to the library to check out the
Wall Street Journal
, over to the dining room for lunch with old and new friends. There's the greenhouse and gardens and sunning herself on the patio by the pool on bright summer days. Movie nights. A spacious art studio with plenty of natural light and easy-to-reach cubbies for all Ma's supplies. Father Basil came for a visit, and Ma went to Carlisle for an overnight in the fall, with everything carefully planned down to the last detail. She keeps talking about how grateful and happy she is.

Sam is learning to drive. He lucked into a great crop of teachers this year, and he's getting all As and Bs. He aced his PSATs. Ben is squiring his girl around in a little blue Camry. Eliza has a job taking pictures for the college paper, and David is at home. Our house is a hive of writers: homework and history papers. David's novel. We confer daily to exchange thoughts, and Colette is just a click away.

I've been reading my chapters to Ma as soon as the printer spits them out. She alternately shouts with laughter, marvels at how much I remember, and blusters in almost-mock indignation at my tendency to dwell on disgusting and personal details. (
Really, Susie. It needs polish; your edges are dreadfully rough!
)

The helpers at the Abbey are called “companions.” Long-Term Care still covers them. They come as needed to give a hand with anything you require, so Ma is treated like a queen by people of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. She appreciates every one of them and it's clear the admiration is mutual. I hear things like “your mother is a lovely lady. . . .” Some of the former aides who used to come around before the Carlisle escapade have even tracked her down to make sure everything's all right. Ma is flattered.

And now, Barack Obama is in like Flynn.

That part didn't sit too well with Ma. For a minute or two during the financial crash, it looked like she was leaning his way. But I hooked up her TV just in time for the Republican Convention, unfortunately. She must have gotten mixed up about that suspicious middle name they kept repeating. She seemed a little agitated for a few days after the election, but we'll cut her some slack. He's in, he's in, he's in.

Oh, and ESD.
Heh-heh-heh.

I stuck it out through all the levels of appeal by phone and by mail, and refused to give up when the final one was denied on the same basis. (
Ms. von Mopfister was not progressing. She needed to be put out of her misery posthaste. Please let us know if you need any further assistance with this matter. Warmest regards, ESD.
)

When we got an appointment for a September phone hearing, I sent all the papers in with weeks to spare. Everything was copied as directed to everyone involved, including ESD: letters of support from the surgeon and the therapists at Cloverfield, letters of lack of support from ESD, the works. By Certified Mail. Signature Required on Delivery. Return Receipt Requested.

The judge's office reminded us repeatedly that Ma could use a lawyer for the hearing, but I kept my fingers crossed and braved it alone. The Friday before the big day, Cloverfield called to warn me that ESD had just piped up with a request for medical records, but their fax machine didn't seem to be working.

The day of the hearing I was on the edge of my seat.

—Ring. Ring.

—Hello?

—This is Judge Bobby Jameson's office calling. Is this Susan Morse?

—Yes, indeed, it is!

The judge gave me a chance to help him pull out the most crucial page of evidence from the pile of stuff I had sent. Then we conferenced in with a medical director from ESD, who tried to spring their favorite trick on us, claiming they had only received the records that morning. I managed to keep my voice level:

—Would you like me to fax you the signed receipt showing that the information was sent to ESD over a month ago, Judge?

—I think we can go ahead for now, Ms. Morse.

Score one for Mother Brigid.

ESD's medical director got plenty of opportunities to give their version. The man did his characteristically ESD-ish best to make their side of the case crystal clear, with brilliant, irrefutable arguments, like:

—
Uh . . .

My closing statement was cathartic. I got to say that despite ESD insisting a full-scale rehabilitation would be futile, indeed Ms. von Moschzisker
had
recovered quite adequately and was currently living independently—no thanks at all to her travesty of a so-called Health Management Organization. Not only that, but also ESD had abandoned my mother much too soon, when her doctors and therapists were adamant she could only recover with their support and treatment. All her bills for the last, crucial few weeks of rehabilitation in skilled nursing had been paid by other means. This was not about money. This was about the principles of respect, and human decency. So there.