Significant Others (2 page)

Too late, Mom, it already is a circus.
In case you didn’t know, Millennium Gardens got its name from the approximate age of its 15,000 residents. Gardens was really a misnomer. Other than some broad-based palms scattered around the complex like an afterthought, the sparse pink hibiscus bushes and some less spectacular landscaping, the complex seemed more guard-like than garden-like.

Practically every city in South Florida had its own version of Millennium Gardens. When my mother first saw the condo, she referred to the complex as “the barracks” because of its “Early American Army” architecture and the cookie-cutter four-story tan stucco and concrete block structures that stretched into infinity. Since then, she and “the barracks” had come to terms with one another. But it was still a love-hate relationship.

Millennium Gardens was a city within a city. I had to admit it contained just about everything a senior could want, including a medical center, roving ambulances, fire rescue vehicles, and an on-premises pharmacy, which also sold milk and deli sandwiches. It even had places of worship for every flavor of Judaism—Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform.

The entire complex was surrounded by barbed-wire fencing to keep the rest of the world out, with the help of some jovial, uniformed Rastafarians who monitored the gates and patrolled the grounds.

But occasionally some lost souls managed to slip out or, as my mother says, “had to be hauled away.” Just yesterday she told me about an elderly couple in a condo at the end of her hall, found curled up in each other’s arms in bed. Theirs had been a sweet and peaceful death. They weren’t exactly a “couple” in the traditional sense, because they weren’t married to each other. But they had made the decision to leave this earth together. Certainly theirs could be considered a “till death do us part” kind of commitment. And speaking of “till death do us part...”

“Mom, do you know what tomorrow is?” I asked tentatively.

“I don’t need you to remind me,” my mother bristled. “I don’t need a calendar. I live with your father’s death every day of my life. Of course I know what tomorrow is.”

“I just don’t want you to be alone,” I said.

My mother responded with a wild, shrill laugh.

“Alone? Honey, I
am
alone. I’ve been alone for 364 days.”

“Well, I wanted to be there for you tomorrow, so I’m coming down.”

“So come. It’s a free country.”

“Mom,” I pleaded, massaging the spot on my scalp like I do when I’m getting a headache. “I miss him too.”

“I know,” she answered faintly.

I held the phone tightly while she cried into the mouthpiece and I tried my best not to. The sound of my mother’s tears unnerved me.

The BlackBerry was buzzing again. I looked at the message. I needed to call this client back as soon as possible. But my mother might be delusional or, at the very least, confused. I seriously doubt she really saw Jesus in that tree, though she firmly believed she did. I’m convinced Mom just needed something to hang on to. I think the fragility of life was partially responsible for her anxiety and for what she saw—or thought she saw—in that tree on the golf course.

“Fran from down the hall was rushed to the hospital a few days ago. She never came home. It was complications from pneumonia. She had a do-not-resuscitate order.”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I know you and Fran were good friends.”

“The funeral is tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have a ride?”

“Yes.”

People were dying all around my mother. Her complex was like a warehouse for the dead. I had to get her out of there.

My mother was obviously trying to tie up loose ends. She was divesting. According to my mother, by the time she entered assisted living, she’d be down to a shoebox, into which would fit all of her possessions. Then another resident would steal the shoebox and she’d have nothing left.

Recently, some of my Mom’s friends had traveled that route, that downward path from independent living to assisted living to a nursing home, and from there to hospice and after that, who knew?

She didn’t think I knew what she was doing, but even I could see she was planning for the end. She’d passed on her recipes for chicken soup and matzo balls and her challah-egg soufflé to me, and her recipe for potato latkes and split pea soup, which I had dutifully passed on to Hannah.

“Look, Mom, I’ve got to return a call, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?” I said, my voice faltering.

“Are you flying all the way down here to check up on me, Honey?”

“Not to check up,” I assured, sighing. My client was going to have to wait. My mother wasn’t finished talking.

“I want to see you, and I’m going to help you pack and move you back to Atlanta,” I said.
Where you belong.

Every time I brought up the subject, she was ready with a handy excuse. “Aunt Helene and I have tickets to the Miami opera.” “We want to catch that new gallery opening in South Beach.” “There’s a great show coming to the clubhouse.” “We’re going to hear a Japanese choir that sings in Hebrew.” “Aunt Helene is still getting over Harold’s death. She needs me.”

But I knew the truth. My mother needed Aunt Helene more.

“Donny is going to pick me up from the airport,” I said.
And yes, I wanted to see this big-deal tree for myself and try to make some sense of a situation that made no sense at all.

“Have you told anyone else about this—apparition?” I ventured.

“Just Max,” she replied. “Max says someone is trying to send me a message.”

“Max?” I choked. My father hadn’t even been in the ground for a year and she was already quoting another man to me? I stomped down my indignation and managed to sound calm.

“Max who?”

Someone else was beeping in, trying to reach me. I checked the number. It was my assistant, probably with some emergency only I could solve. But my mother was still talking.

“Max Fisher, the widower who lives down the hall in 411,” my mother explained. “I told you about him. He was with his significant other, Jean, for six years. But she developed Alzheimer’s. He’s already booked a seniors’ Christmas cruise to the Caribbean, but Jean’s in a nursing home now, so she can’t go. He was so upset when I talked to him on the phone. He’s already paid for the cruise and he’s thinking of canceling. I told him not to be so hasty. He won’t go alone, and it would be a shame to waste the tickets. He asked me to go with him, and I’m considering it.”

My mother paused for emphasis, and then started stuffing words into the gaping silence.

“And why not?” she challenged. “Do you think nobody but your father could be interested in me? You think I haven’t had admirers before? Remember my old choir director?”

“Arnold Macovsky? The one with the six kids?”
The one who was too busy making babies with his wife to have time to even look at another woman? That Arnold Macovsky?

“Exactly. You’ll like Max. I want you to meet him.”

Wonderful. I can kill two birds with one stone—see Jesus and meet Max.

The BlackBerry was still buzzing, so I knew it had to be important. The office would just have to wait. My mother was still too fragile to be rudely interrupted.
Slow down, Honey Palladino, this is your mother on the phone.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus on the conversation at hand and began the role-reversing task of grilling my mother.

“How well do you know this Max person? Are you two dating?”

“Of course I’m not dating, not this soon after your father,” she said defensively. “We’ve been out to dinner a few times. Sometimes we spend the evening sitting and watching TV. He keeps me company so I don’t have to think about your father. When I slip and call him Stanley, he doesn’t seem to mind too much. I don’t think he hears very well.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t go on a cruise with another man. I know you aren’t going to share a room.”

“Private balcony staterooms are very expensive,” my mother answered, “especially at Christmas. And the ship is going to some wonderful places—Barbados, St. Lucia, St. Johns, Antigua, St. Maarten and St. Thomas.”

“That sounds like a lovely itinerary,” I said, stalling for time, drumming my fingers on the end table. “But if you want to go on a cruise, I can take you.”

My mother laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You never have time,” she insisted. “A relaxing cruise is just what I need. I can picture myself in perfect peace on my private balcony overlooking the ocean. You can lose yourself in an ocean.”

“Private balcony staterooms are one thing,” I countered. “But what about privacy?”

“I can always dress in the bathroom. It will be fine.”

“But are you going to m-make out with M-Max?” I stammered.

“Make out?”

“Are you going to have sex?” I clarified.
Is that plain enough for you, Mom?

“Honey, how can you talk to your mother like that?”

“Because I’m concerned about you.”

“I’ll let you know when I get back.”

“Mom, don’t you think you’re too—I mean, is this appropriate behavior?”

“For a woman my age, you mean?” she shot back. Now I’d insulted her.

“I didn’t say that. It’s just that I don’t know anything about this Max person. For instance, where did you meet him?”

“At my bereavement group.”

“Your bereavement group?” I echoed, feeling faint. I dropped a pair of flip-flops into my suitcase and slumped onto the bed.

“Yes, Aunt Helene told me about it. It’s really sort of a social group. That’s where everyone at Millennium Gardens meets their significant others.”

Significant others? I wondered if I had time to catch an earlier flight. I knew I was being childish, but my father was the only significant other I wanted in my mother’s life, even though he was no longer capable of being a significant other, except in the spiritual sense.

But I was hardly qualified to give my mother relationship advice when my own marriage was unraveling. I’d just found out that
my
significant other was cheating on me with a woman who was young enough to be his daughter.

My husband Marc doesn’t think I know he’s sleeping with his twenty-seven-year-old temp, Trisha. But he isn’t exactly subtle. Maybe I am on the wrong side of forty, but I still can’t believe he’s betraying me. Still, how can I ignore the proof right here in my purse? Pictures don’t lie. Husbands do.

When I arrived at the drugstore to pick up photos from our family Thanksgiving dinner, I was blindsided when, along with snaps of the turkey, I found pictures of Trisha that bordered on the pornographic. The only difference between Trisha and the bird was the turkey was dressed and Trisha wasn’t.

And that wasn’t his only betrayal. I had a feeling he was behind the deal to sell Palladino Properties. As a mergers-and-acquisitions attorney, he was in business to make acquisitions, and somehow he had influenced my mother and was working behind my back to sell our family business. I just didn’t know why. So I’ll admit I didn’t want my mother to give up Palladino Properties, because, right now, the job was all I had. Well, I have Hannah, and my husband Marc, but I don’t have him for much longer.

I considered myself a fairly rational person. But right now what I needed (besides a divorce attorney and a stiff drink) was a priest to help me unravel the mystery of what my mother saw or didn’t see in the Jesus tree, and why. Where am I going to get one of those? I could call my rabbi, but she was going through her own divorce. My mother went to high school with a priest in Pittsburgh.
Before
he became a priest. And they were still in touch. Maybe I should call Father Dominick DeFazio.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” my mother asked quietly.

“I’m reserving judgment,” I muttered, silently ticking off the dozens of tasks that had to be accomplished before my flight—the closings in progress, walkthroughs, appointments with inspectors, and a meeting with my assistant to make sure he monitored my listings, which currently ranged from a $260,000 condo in Decatur to a $3 million mansion on Tuxedo Road. Just an average day on the roller coaster that had become my life since my dad died and my mom dropped out of the picture.

Time was running out for my mother in Boca. Time was also running out for my marriage. I hadn’t had the opportunity to confront Marc about his lies because I didn’t have the time, but I was determined to have a showdown. I’d even marked it on my calendar. Christmas Day. There are no closings on Christmas Day. That was going to be our D-Day. “D” as in divorce.

I was planning to talk to Donny’s wife about it at dinner tomorrow night. Marc was a lawyer, so he thought he had the advantage, but he hadn’t counted on my secret weapon—Barbara the Barracuda, and right now a barracuda was exactly what I needed.

Or maybe what I really needed was a vision of my own, a vision of hope, of a new beginning, rather than the bleak prospect of an unhappy ending. Maybe my mother wasn’t so crazy after all. I wondered what I’d see when I finally came face-to-face with the Jesus tree.

Chapter Two: The Shrine

Boca Raton, Florida

Leaving the Ft. Lauderdale airport, Donny drove me to his condo and used his key to unlock the front door. He moved my luggage into the guest room.

“I set up the scanner in your bedroom so it wouldn’t disturb Mom,” Donny said. “She, um, sleeps a lot.” He looked deflated.

“Thanks, Donny,” I replied.

“Honey? I thought I heard voices. I’m so glad you’re here.” Dee Dee smiled as she came out of her bedroom to greet us.

I folded the Bat Mitzvah Mom into my arms. Had she shrunk since the last time I’d seen her? Were those new lines under her eyes? Age spots on her hands that hadn’t been there before?

Getting old bites, as Hannah liked to say. I never seriously thought it would happen to me. But it was happening, and without my permission. Even my hands with their ropy veins were beginning to resemble my mother’s. My best friend Vicky and I had already found a few age spots of our own. We called them our Chef’s Special Brown Spots, like the signature Chef’s Special Brown Sauce they served in our favorite Chinese restaurant. Maybe Marc was trying to hang on to his youth by hanging on to his youthful temp. That actually made sense in a bizarre kind of way. I just wished he’d realize I’m not thrilled about growing old, either, and maybe we could help each other negotiate the minefield of aging.