How Lulu Lost Her Mind

by Rachel Gibson

  “You’ll have to get in line behind Mrs. Shone.” Douglas sighs and replaces the paper. “She’s threatened a civil lawsuit against Golden Springs unless your mother is discharged immediately.”

  Wow, that’s vindictive, especially toward a woman with Alzheimer’s. “What’s she afraid Mother’s going to do now? The guy’s practically dead already.”

  He looks up from his paper. “Mr. Shone has made a miraculous recovery.”

  I blink several times. “What?”

  “He’s awake and seems to recognize his family.”

  Mom has a little smile on her face. She’s very pleased with herself, and I suppose she has that right. Not just any woman can spoon a man out of his coma. I pick up my purse and raise my chin. There’s only one thing left to say. “Tell Mrs. Shone that Patricia Jackson says, ‘You’re welcome.’ ”

  2

  HERE SHE comes. My mom, the miracle worker.

  A nurse’s assistant wheels Mother through the big automatic doors and into a beam of sunlight slicing through heavy clouds. Her big pink Caboodle filled with lipsticks sits on her lap as if it’s her most prized possession. Mom is still in good physical shape and more than capable of walking. In fact, she usually argues with anyone who tries to help her. This is the first time I’ve seen her in a wheelchair since her appendix ruptured in 1998. It’s a little disconcerting, but maybe it’s Golden Spring’s policy to wheel troublemakers out the door ASAP.

  I’ve driven the SUV as close to the big fountain as possible and opened the back so her essentials—clothes, orthopedic shoes, bags of Pirate’s Booty, and Bob Ross paintings—can be loaded inside. What doesn’t fit will be delivered to a storage unit until I can find a new facility for her.

  The aide turns the wheelchair’s brake lever and helps Mom into the Land Rover. I take her Caboodle, which is heavier than it was the last time I picked it up, and put it in the back seat. “We will sure miss you, Patricia,” the aide says as she buckles her in.

  “Where am I going?”

  “With your daughter.”

  She wrings her hands, and her voice shakes like a lamb to slaughter as she says, “But I don’t want to go with her.”

  I try not to let that sting, but it does. I tell myself she doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s not her fault. Not like when I was nineteen and she told me, “You turned fat in college.” Which might have been true but hurt all the same.

  We head out of the parking lot, and Mom looks up at the wet leaves stuck to the sunroof. Her blue eyes have gone blank. I suspect she’s been double-dosed with Xanax and it’s just kicking in, thus the need for the wheelchair. I don’t have a wheelchair or even a cane at home. If she can’t walk, I don’t know how I’ll get her to the elevator and up to my condo.

  “It’s a pretty day,” she says as the clouds grow thicker.

  Yep. It’s a pretty awful day. I’ve never missed an event, and my mind shifts into crisis management mode. I have to talk to my agent, Margie, who should already be in LA by now. I need to speak to my publicist, Fern, and my assistant, Dakota, as soon as possible.

  The streets are still shiny black from rain, and I hit a big pothole filled with water. I’m glad I’m not in a Smart car as I push the phone connection on the steering wheel.

  “You hurt my neck.”

  Really, Rain Man?

  “Earl’s a better driver than you.”

  I can’t speak with Margie or anyone else if Mom isn’t quiet, so I disconnect. “How do you know?” I’m reasonably certain Earl doesn’t have a car, let alone take Mom out for spins. Heck, I’m not certain Earl even exists.

  “He has a shiny green car with a big back seat.”

  “Are you telling me that Golden Springs lets the residents drive on the street?”

  “Yes,” she insists. “It’s a convertible and very fast.”

  The bull is getting thick now. “How fast?”

  “It’s the fastest set of wheels in town.” She looks me dead in the eye and says, as if she’s an expert in street drag, “It gets rubber in all four gears.”

  I believe that Mother is channeling the Beach Boys. What I don’t believe is that she’s been racing around town in a Little Deuce Coupe with a man named Earl. Although… there was the time a few years ago when she told me that her “boyfriend,” a Gypsy Joker named Axle, wanted her to join his motorcycle gang and be his “old lady.” There really had been a founding member of the gang at the same memory care facility, but the name on his leather jacket was Flea. While calling Flea her “boyfriend” might have been a stretch, there was some truth to the story, and it enters my head that maybe—just maybe—there’s some truth to Earl, too.

  “It’s a pretty day.” She smiles as she looks up through the sunroof at the angry sky. The Alzheimer’s brain is such a mystery. Some days are better than others. Some days are good, others not so good. Sometimes her eyes are pleasant but blank, other times they’re filled with a thunderstorm. Both are on opposite sides of her mental deterioration. Most of the time, she is somewhere in the middle. Thank God.

  She gives me a little smile and turns her face to the passenger window. I don’t know what she’s smiling about, and I don’t think she knows either. Warm air blows across the front of her red coat and flutters her long brown hair. She’s always loved her natural curls and brags that she doesn’t have one gray strand. That’s still true, but she can’t take care of it like she used to, so it hangs down her back or she pulls it into a side scrunchie, like today. Last year she actually told me I was in a hair rut.

  In my twenties, I used to wear my hair in a single braid because it kept the whole mess from my face. Now the braid is part of my branding.

  My gaze drops to her lap, then returns to the road. She’s stopped wringing her hands, and I think she’s finally settled in and is calm enough for me to attempt another call.

  “Where are we going?”

  Guess not. “My condo.”

  “I’m having dinner with Earl.”

  I make the mistake of telling her she’s not going back, and her smile drops. “I have to have dinner with Earl or that Stella will get him to have dinner with her. She’s had work done.”

  I’m not averse to getting a little “work done” here and there. When I was a kid, I had a nasty widow’s peak like a vampire. When I got my first big check, I had it lasered off my forehead. It took almost a year of regular zapping until I didn’t look like the offspring of Count Dracula.

  “I have to go back home.”

  “Okay,” I lie to calm her down. It’s not like she’s going to remember anyway.

  Her smile comes back, and she looks up through the sunroof again. “Okay.”

  Margie and the rest of the team are probably at the Marriott by now, attending to last-minute details and waiting for my arrival. I hit the connect button again, and the sound of a ringing phone comes through the audio speakers. Mom cranes her neck to look in the back seat but is blessedly quiet.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Margie Kratz at the Kratz Tolson Agency. I am—”

  “Who’s that lady?”

  Mom looks at me, and I put a finger to my lips. So much for quiet.

  “—at this time. If—”

  “Where’s she at?”

  “—phone number and a brief message—”

  “Why is she talking to me?”

  —beep. “Hi, Margie. It’s Lou Ann, I—”

  “Who’s that you’re talking to?”

  “Mom, shhh for a minute. I’m still in Seattle. Mother is staying with me at the condo. Something—”

  “I don’t want to stay with you.”

  The pinch in the corner of my eye is back, threatening my elevens once more. “This has been the day from hell, and I’ll—”

  “Take me back!” Mom is wringing her hands and her head is on a swivel. So much for the double dose of Xanax keeping her calm. Maybe next time she’ll need to be hit with a tranquilizer dart.

  “I’ll explain what’s goin—�
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  “Take me back! Someone help me.”

  I rub her shoulder to reassure her. “We can talk about—”

  “Call Tony!”

  Everything in me goes dark, and my hand falls to my lap. It’s a good thing I’m stopped at a light. Margie’s phone beeps and I disconnect. Mom hasn’t mentioned that name in a while. I don’t know what has triggered her memory, but whatever it is hasn’t triggered her memory of what happened. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “He’ll take me back.”

  On an intellectual level, I understand why she asks about him. Tony was a big part of our lives. There were times when he got along better with Mom than I did. They had common interests that I didn’t share, like painting and opera, brussels sprouts and serial cheating.

  “I need Tony!”

  On an emotional level, it’s a stab to the heart. I know Mother probably doesn’t remember what that rat bastard put me through, but her asking for him feels like a deep betrayal.

  “He’s like a son.”

  “Fuck!” I always hated when she used to call him “son,” and that was when I loved the man. Now she’s just twisting the knife. “He’s not your son. He’s an asshole.”

  “Don’t curse, Lou Ann.”

  The light turns green, and I drive through the intersection. “If you stop talking about him, I won’t.” I turn on the radio and tune into an oldies station. Neither of us speaks, but she is the only one who seems to have calmed down. Mother hums along to the Everly Brothers while my thumbs drum out agitated beats on the steering wheel.

  Mom’s chaos has put me in an impossible spot. I have to be in LA in the morning, but I don’t know how I’ll manage it. I can’t drag Mom with me, and I can’t call the home care nurse, Wynonna, that I used a year and a half ago. The much-maligned nurse was actually quite good at her job and had the patience of a saint, but Mom got it into her head that Wynonna was and is the root of all past, present, and future evil. Everything from stolen shoes to Pirate’s Booty theft is blamed on Wynonna’s malicious skullduggery.

  I’m overwhelmed. I have so much to think about. So much I have to remember to think about, yet the one thing best forgotten is the one thing Mom remembers. The Tony chapter of my life was horrible, but it’s over. Thank God I didn’t actually marry the man. He never crosses my mind, and I feel nothing for him—except for anger when Mom brings him up, I guess.

  The drive to my condo usually takes about forty minutes, but I make it in twenty-five. I want out of my wool clothes and ruined shoes. I need a glass of wine or two or maybe three.

  I live in Millennium Tower and have a spectacular view of Elliott Bay on one side and downtown Seattle on the other. The walk from my parking spot to the elevator isn’t far. I’m grateful Mom can manage to walk on her own, and we arrive in the apartment all safe and sound.

  The condo is mostly constructed of glass and steel and filled with white marble and quartz. I love the ultramodern design, and I’ve covered the cold stone floors with vibrantly colored rugs to warm it up. I leave Mom standing in front of the windows and quickly change into jeans and a Lulu Sweetheart sweatshirt. When I return, she’s still staring out at Elliott Bay, and I wonder what she’s thinking as she looks at the vivid orange and purple sunset.

  I call down to the concierge and ask for everything in the SUV to be brought to me, and I place my usual order of Thai favorites from the restaurant down the street. I’m fairly sure Mom likes Thai. It can’t be worse than stuffed green peppers at Golden Springs.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She turns to look at me. There are deep creases in her forehead and fear in her eyes. “You live here.”

  I’ve lived here for the past five years, and for a few months she lived here too. “Yes. You bought me a flamingo oven mitt as a housewarming gift when I moved in.”

  Her forehead clears. “And a cow creamer.”

  “That’s right.” I look at her and smile. I’d forgotten about the cow creamer. “It moos when you pour it.” She laughs, and I am reminded of the good times. The times we’d been so close there was nothing in the world between the two of us.

  The phone rings and I let it go to voicemail and take Mom to her bedroom. She stops in the doorway and starts wringing her hands again.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom wringing her hands is a fairly recent behavior, and I notice it’s getting worse.

  “Where’s my happy little clouds painting?”

  In storage with all the others. Mother discovered her joy of painting while in the first care facility and is a Bob Ross devotee. I still have all her paintings, but I replaced those particular happy clouds with a print of irises. “I like the flowers.”

  “Well, I don’t! It’s awful. I want my happy little clouds!”

  “There are two of your paintings in the back of my car. We can put one of those up.” She relaxes somewhat and plants her behind in her La-Z-Boy recliner. “Where’s the clicker? Who stole the clicker?” Before she can go into her Wynonna rant, I open the compartment in the leather arm where the clicker’s always been kept. I set her up with the Game Show Network and Tic-Tac-Dough, but she’s not through with her demands. “Where’s my Booty? I always have Pirate’s Booty when I watch my shows.” I promise her that all her things will be brought up shortly, and she calms down a bit more. I just hope she stays calm long enough for me to talk with Margie.

  “Okay,” I begin when I return to the living room and get Margie and Fern on the line. “I got a call from Golden Springs Assisted Living when I was driving to the airport this afternoon.” I hit the high and low notes of my day for them both. Well, the low notes anyway. When I’m finished, my agent of nearly twenty years says, “Well, that explains the crazy voicemail. I thought you were being kidnapped or murdered.”

  “I’m not that lucky.” I move to my white linen couch, and the three of us talk about my options. Margie is more than just my agent; we’re friends. She’s smart, savvy, and I trust her.

  The conversation is short; there is only one solution. “I can’t bring Mom with me, and I can’t hire a nurse in time to make LA.” Even if I find the most qualified nurse in the next ten minutes, leaving Mom with a stranger is out of the question. I can’t do that to her. She’s the only mom I’ve got, and I love her. Her routine has already been disrupted, and she’s afraid. Mine is the only face she recognizes, and she distrusts anyone she doesn’t know. Heck, sometimes she distrusts me, too. When she’s upset, her emotions spiral, and she has to have a target. I know because I’ve looked down that barrel more times than I can count in the past few years. Mom has been an emotional yo-yo throughout her life, but she was never angry—until now.

  “Realistically, what are you thinking?” Fern asks, and it really hits me that I’m canceling LA. My publicist is efficient and organized and very good at her job. I hired her to defuse the Tony chapter, and I’ve kept her ever since. I trust her, too.

  “Realistically?” I switch the phone to my other hand. No matter how tempting the prospect, I can’t leave my mother right now. “I can’t make LA.” My chest feels tight, and my heart pounds at the same time. “This has never happened to me.” I stretch out on my back so I can breathe. I’ve always made every deadline and event. Like the women I hire, I’m on top of everything. I get it done. I’m in control.

  Not this time. I control nothing and I hate it.

  “Realistically,” Margie says, “we should think about canceling the rest of the tour and rescheduling.”

  “All of it?” I wheeze.

  “That’s my thought, too,” Fern says, and I can’t believe this is actually happening. “It’s better to make one decisive announcement than to issue four more over the next few weeks. We’ll put out a statement that you need time to deal with family issues. Your fans will understand, and they’ll be grateful you didn’t draw this out.”

  Even after the decision is made and I hang up the phone, none of this feels real to me. I don’t pull out of commitments, and
I can’t wrap my head around what will happen next. The only thing that does feel real is the knot in my stomach.

  This is not my life. I started Lulu in a lonely dorm room my freshman year at Gonzaga, where I’d hoped to graduate with a degree in journalism. Why journalism? Why not?

  I hadn’t known anyone when I arrived there, but that wasn’t unusual. Mom and I moved around a lot when I was a kid. I’d gone to fifteen different schools by the time I graduated high school. I was always the new kid. Often invisible and insignificant—the kid who fell through the cracks.

  I worked two jobs to put myself through school and, by my sophomore year at Gonzaga, I’d saved enough money to buy my own computer: a used iBook G3 clamshell—indigo—that allowed me to create my first blog, Lulu’s Life, on WordPress. I carried that iBook everywhere, writing about my life as a lonely girl and commenting on the people I saw around me. Several hundred people joined my page. We chatted and laughed and commiserated, but the blog really took off when I transferred to the University of Washington my junior year and linked Lulu’s Life with Friendster and Myspace. To my surprise, I started dating instead of hiding. I began writing more about relationships and heartbreaks and less about loneliness.

  The doorbell rings and two men arrive with a cart of Mom’s belongings. I show them to her room, and she smiles and flirts because she just can’t help herself. She compliments their muscles and calls them handsome. While I’m used to Mom’s behavior, it’s still embarrassing. Of course, she keeps it up until they leave.

  “Here’s your Booty,” I say, and hand her a bag of her favorite cheesy popcorn. As I take down the irises print, my thoughts return to my old blogs and the summer Margie first contacted me and changed my life forever.