There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me (43 page)

Having her in a facility gave me the freedom to handle the sale of her homes and have tag sales for the excess crap. I discovered that she had been shopping on QVC and HSN for copious amounts of jewelry. She had burned through money I had allotted her over the years and had even siphoned from a retirement fund. There were hundreds and hundreds of little boxes and bags filled with birthstone rings and earrings. I had never seen so many cubic-zirconia items in one area. She bought in bulk and had intended to give it all away to friends and employees and one of each to her granddaughters. It was insane. In
addition she had various collections of everything from taxidermy, vintage record players, quilts, tiles, antique doors, or orange crates filled with door fittings. She had milk-glass table settings, Depression-glass collections, rugs, sterling-silver settings for twelve, over a thousand vintage tablecloths, assortments of paint-by-number art mixed in with period oil portraits, bolts of fabric, multiple pieces of antique furniture, and unfinished crafts from the seventies.

I had to sort through it all and decide what to do with it. I basically kept the good stuff and put the rest up for sale. We had three massive two-day tag sales to rid ourselves of the clutter. We made a good chunk of money on these sales and the money went directly to her living costs.

One day I called to speak to my mother and they said she had gone out with a male friend. My mother had two friends at this point and I was one of them. The other was an accountant’s assistant who had been helping Mom pay bills. She was a woman.

I asked with whom she had gone out and to where, and why had they not called me?

They said that a man came to visit her and that Mom seemed to know him, so she left with him. The jailbreak had been a success. He was not on the accepted list of visitors and these idiots had no idea that they were allowing my mother to be checked out by a
National Enquirer
reporter. My head exploded with rage.

This bozo snuck Mom directly to the bank, at her request, and she had tried to take out money. I actually guessed she would go back to Haworth, because she maintained her account there and was always talking about money and being stolen from. She wanted to flee and this was her ticket to escape. I hung up on the numbnut attendant at the facility and immediately called the bank and asked if my mom was there. They informed me that yes, she was. A man in fact had accompanied her. She was trying to withdraw money from her account at that moment.

I explained in an agitated tone that this man was not a friend and had basically kidnapped her. I begged them to please not release any funds, saying that she had been under psychiatric observation and was currently living in an assisted-living facility. I had no legal right, technically, to stop anything, because the account was in her name. I made a dramatic, agitated, yet crystal-clear case and explained that my mom was not of sound mind and would do something damaging with any money. They agreed to deny her access this time but would need more documentation on the legal restrictions, which were already being prepared.

I thanked them profusely and said I would get the paperwork ASAP. I had by then known these bank clerks, policemen, and mailmen for over twenty-five years.

Mom got very angry that she was denied access to her account and stormed off. The bank had said it was some paperwork mix-up and told her to ask her daughter to help. The slimeball reporter next took Mom to a diner, where she proceeded to blab all about her horrible daughter over a cheeseburger. She told the dramatic details of how I “divorced” my own mother and stole everything from her. She went on a tirade about evil Perry and how he had brainwashed me. She loved saying I had basically joined the Agassi cult. Mom painted herself as a true victim and me as the ultimate betrayer. “Hiya, Peter!”

He took copious notes and had the story of a lifetime. America’s Sweetheart was actually a Daughter Dearest! He had gotten everything he wanted, and Mom loved being able to vent and be heard. She felt wronged in every way and was letting the world know the “truth.” He dropped her back at the facility with the same ease with which he had had her removed.

I moved her out of the facility the next day and sued the
Enquirer
. I won the case and gave the money to Alzheimer’s research. The story was blocked and I was ultimately protected.

Because of the wandering situation and the trust in strangers, as well as her mounting paranoia, I had Mom analyzed and consequently declared incompetent. My request to become legally affirmed her health proxy and guardian was thus immediately facilitated. Once again I was taking care of her, but this time it was out of necessity, not obsession. I tried to be up-front about it with her but was worried she would feel like I was trying to find more ways to betray her and steal from her. She seemed not to grasp anything that I tried to explain. Having more control made it much easier with regards to real estate sales and other legal decisions. I found another facility in New York City that specialized in patients with Alzheimer’s and the many other forms of dementia. It was located on the Upper East Side at Eightieth and York. It only took two trains to get to and was close to Mom’s and my old neighborhood.

Plus, I could sleep at night knowing she was closer to me in New York City, and with any luck I would not be getting any more phone calls from the police. In addition I could have my children still spend visits with her, which made her smile.

As a part of the entrance protocol, Mom had to be taken to a psychiatrist to be analyzed. I took her to a small office on the ground level of a big brick building. The doctor asked Mom simple questions about the weather, the day, and who our president was. It happened to be Presidents’ Day so the question regarding our president was clearly appropriate.

But when asked the question, Mom couldn’t remember the president’s name. It was a cloudy day, and when asked about the weather, Mom smiled and said it was a great day outside because her daughter was with her. She recalled her birthday and other details about herself with no problem, but it was clear there was some sort of impairment.

The next part of the test involved her answering some comparison
questions. There was clearly one best answer to each comparison. This showed me something so extraordinary and sweet and heartbreaking.

“How are a boat and a vehicle the same?”

“They both have motors.”

“How are a baby and a bud the same?”

“They both smell really good.”

She failed.

This last question killed me, because it was so clear as to the way she thought. She thought with an innocence of a child. Some boats did have motors, and buds and babies did smell pretty delicious. She would not get cognitive credit for being anything but literal. Varied interpretation was not the desired goal. I tried to argue that they were not entirely wrong answers. Yet again I felt the need to stick up for my mother in front of a total stranger. The doctor later explained to me that based on all the tests and the brain scan, Mom was showing signs of developing dementia. All my frustrations, fear, and worry and what little anger I really and rarely possessed melted in abject, gut-wrenching, and profound sadness.

Of all the things I thought my mother would be dying of, dementia was not one of them. Her brain had so long remained seemingly sharp. Because of her wit and ability to notice details in human behavior, I thought her mind would be the last to go. I was sure it would be her liver that went. She was also from hearty German and Irish stock, and because her mother had lived past ninety, I was sure my mom would outlast all of us, or at least her wretched mother.

I took her back to the new facility. It still didn’t feel as if Mom really belonged in a place like this. She didn’t seem like the other people, at least from my perch on self-denial hill. She still had the capacity to communicate with the staff in a way that did distinguish her from the others. She still had her wry, sarcastic approach to some
things, and the staff got a kick out of her. Mom started going to Saturday Shabbat ceremony with a rabbi who loved to sing. She told him she liked the singing and the music.

As time went on, she seemed to settle in a bit more and I made my kids visit more often, even if it was only to do their homework or take her for coffee. I went as often as I could but I really hated going. The moment I would see her I would get a sick and sad feeling in the pit of my heart. She reeked of sadness. She cried every time I started to walk to the elevator to leave. I always promised to come back, but she looked like a puppy in the ASPCA commercials or a starving UNICEF orphan with tears in her eyes.

This might have been the time to talk to her and get some type of closure, but all I could ever do was tell her I loved her and run away. It was too much for me to see. But hearing “I love you” seemed to light up her eyes for a moment and I took it.

But I needed and wanted more.
Please come back, Mom
, I thought.
Let’s try this again. You can do this
.

Mom was already too far gone to have any real conversation at all and nevermind the dual apology I had imagined.

•   •   •

But back at home, my family was thriving. We had fully moved into the new town house downtown. Both girls asked to have their beds moved to be against the wall. I smiled inside, remembering that first night Mom and I spent in our new apartment on Seventy-Third Street. I thought about the mattress being on the floor and against the wall and wondered if genetics were playing a part. There is something very cozy and seemingly womblike about having a wall to push up against.

I resisted moving their beds for them for as long as I could because the rooms were not set up that way and moving the beds would mean blocking a window in each room. The thought of the head of a bed
right under a window made me nervous, but we don’t live in LA, so earthquakes are not a concern. All my fabulous decorating down the drain. My girls were not concerned with the fact that the house had been featured on the cover and inside
Architectural Digest
. They wanted beds moved and crap hung up and taped everywhere!

“OK, fine, I’ll help you move your beds.”

“You’re the best, Mom!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I have never told my girls about the apartment on East Seventy-Third, but they both wanted to shove their beds against the wall and stack the multitude of stuffed animals all along the side. They wedge their warm little sleepy selves with their backs to the wall and now sleep through the night. My younger daughter comes in my room in the mornings and she asks to cuddle and spoon. I now pull my own little girl into my body and I am the outside spoon this time. I am constantly reminded of the glorious nights’ sleep in the bare apartment and being spooned by my mommy, but my daughter and I differ when I ask her whether my arm is too heavy. She often says, “Yes, a little, Mama.” I would have never told my mother her arm was heavy even if I could not breathe. God forbid she lift it off me. I guess I should feel proud my girls feel secure enough to express their feelings to me.

I look at my girls when they are asleep and I marvel at how stunning they are. Their smooth, pure faces and tiny features seem to glow. Granted, it is also because they are asleep and not fighting or talking back, but I do understand how every mother’s child is divinely perfect.

•   •   •

I always thought I would be a great mom. I could handle babies and take care of them and was never scared to have them entrusted to me. I could soothe them and make them smile. I could always make them
fall asleep in my arms and I could get lost in their skin and delicious smell. I was never disgusted by their diapers or bored with having to attend to them constantly.

But I
never
intended for them to grow up!

I never thought past the baby stage. I assumed I’d be a good mom because I could handle infants, never once considering their being eleven.

Now, after many years, I realize that my girls could not be further apart in personality from one another. Rowan keeps her emotions deep inside whereas Grier is a walking, ticking emotional time bomb. They eat differently, dress differently, think differently, and react differently. As I write this, Rowan is eleven going on twenty-two and Grier is eight and wants to be back in my womb. In addition, they could not be more starkly different from me, and how they relate to me is nothing like how I related to my own mom.

It took me a while to realize that just giving birth to them did not mean I knew who they were. It also was a shock for me to find out they weren’t me, either. I assumed that because they were babies that I understood who they were inside.

I have to ask my girls who they are. They are not me. I am not them. It is easy to want to mold them. There is a difference between teaching and crafting. It is our duty to protect and love and impart what we think are life’s truths, but we really need to support our children in ways that nurture their individual selves. And I remind myself that I’m still the parent anyway.

For instance, Rowan is very clear about how her friends treat her and what her needs are. Grier once told her that her best friend was not treating her well, but she kept wanting to spend time with her. Rowan said, “Well, she is obviously not your best friend, then, because best friends don’t treat each other that way!” Later I found out the reason why Rowan said what she did was that I told Rowan the same thing when her best friend was treating her a certain way. She
took what I said, remembered it, and applied it to Grier’s situation. But back when I was a kid and my mother’s daughter, I, like Grier, would have taken the bad treatment just to have people like me. Wow, did I actually teach her that?

I admire Rowan so much because of how sure she is of herself. When she was a baby, I would watch her at the playground trying to get kids to play with her. She would sometimes get rejected over and over and she remained unfazed. I’d hear her say, “No? . . . No? . . . No? . . . OK,” and she would then simply start to dance and play on her own. She was completely content, and sure enough, in a short amount of time the same little kids would start to gravitate toward her. Before you knew it, she was like the Pied Piper.