Getting Sassy

by D. C. Brod

  While I was sorting through her finances, trying to figure out what she could afford, I learned about her “investments.” My mother hadn’t put up an argument when I suggested she make me power of attorney and had let me move her to Oak Park and into the two-bedroom apartment I’d been renting. To say it was a disaster was to say that the Civil War was a misunderstanding. Part of the problem was that she had no one, except me, to talk to. She refused to go to the senior center, which she said was filled with “old, simple people.” (I’m sure they missed her too.) But she hated being alone— which seemed odd for someone who had lived a significant part of her life alone, but her doctor assured me that this was fairly normal. When she was awake, she needed to be talking to someone, and I was it. And she could be awake most of the night. I hired a series of caregivers to spend some time with her, but my mother drove one after the other away, like a batter fouling off pitches. I wasn’t sleeping much and found myself snapping at her for no good reason. I had trouble concentrating and wasn’t getting my work done. In short, I was becoming someone I didn’t recognize. And then she wouldn’t quit smoking, which wasn’t helping her health or my asthma, not to mention the fire hazard risks. During the two and a half months we’d lived together, she had deteriorated, I was losing my mind, and I didn’t know how to stop either. And she seemed miserable as well. Getting smaller and hardening as I watched. Her doctor told me she probably didn’t have more than six months. That was when I looked into the assisted living option. I figured her savings would last six months, but I wasn’t sure that I could.

  We found Dryden in Fowler, which was a ways west of Oak Park. The deal was that I’d move out to Fowler with her and she would quit smoking. So that’s what happened. I was proud of her for quitting. I guess her (and my) health wasn’t motivation enough, but 24/7 companionship was. And I watched her savings dwindle. And now, although she freely admits she’s not up to handling her finances, she always asks about them.

  “I know I’ve asked this before,” she said, “so please forgive me, but how are my finances holding up?”

  “They’re doing fine, Mom.” I drained my glass of cabernet. “You’re in good shape.” So we both lied to each other. All the time.

  After getting my mother settled in her room, I drove across town to meet with the manager at Willoway Care Center. It was an appointment I’d put off making for way too long. I needed to make a decision on where to move my mother, and I needed to make it now. I should have begun looking for a place sooner. When I first realized that my mother’s physical health was improving, I did look at a few places. None of them measured up to Dryden. I felt good about her being there. Now, I had no choice but to move her, and I didn’t want to confront the options I had.

  Willoway Care Center had the advantage of being close. It was clean. It came with good references. And it was about to have a vacancy.

  The woman who showed me around, Jane Goodwin, smiled a lot and called the residents by name. She wore a bright yellow suit with a black blouse and reminded me of a goldfinch. In order to evaluate my mother, she had interviewed her a week ago, under the pretext of being a social worker studying the ageing process (more lies).

  Her make-up was dramatic—dark eyes, arched brows and fresh lipstick—and her skirt was snug, almost tight.

  “This is the first floor dining room.” It was large with lots of windows looking out on a garden. The morning sun would make it a cheery place. She showed me the physical and occupational therapy rooms and then took me to a room that would soon become available—half of it, that is.

  “Hello, Irene,” Jane said to the shape beneath the coverlet on the bed next to the window. The gray-haired thatch poking above the green duvet turned and a sharp-nosed woman squinted in our direction, her mouth drawn inward over her gums.

  “Who’s that?” Irene groped for her glasses on the laminated table next to the bed.

  “It’s just Jane,” Jane said, bending over Irene and giving her shoulder a pat. “You go back to sleep.”

  Irene’s mouth twitched in annoyance, and her little head turned away.

  “She’s a dear,” Jane said to me, keeping her voice down.

  “Is she the one who’s leaving?”

  “No. That would be Phyllis who’s checking out.”

  And before I had to ask why, Jane added, “Her family is moving out east. Vermont.”

  A hospital-type curtain hung between the two beds, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before Irene checked out and my mother got a bed with a view.

  The accommodations weren’t awful, but they weren’t nearly as nice as Dryden. Her living space would, once again, grow smaller. I couldn’t imagine a queen living here. Then I asked the question I dreaded.

  “If my mother’s dementia worsens, will she have to be moved from this area?”

  Jane barely hesitated. “The second floor is our special care unit. Would you like me to show you that area?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked down the hall to an elevator where Jane had to punch a code into a keypad before the doors would open. She gave me a quick, nervous smile before pressing the button for the second floor.

  We rose one floor to the special care unit. The moment the doors opened, the smell hit me. It wasn’t overpowering, but no amount of disinfectant will mask the smell of urine, feces and decay. But the walls were painted with murals of meadows and waterfalls, and near the nurses’ station was a large cage containing a dozen finches in varying colors.

  We passed a common area where about ten residents were seated in a circle in their institutional blue plastic padded chairs. A woman who I assumed was the physical therapist tossed a large beach ball to each resident. Some caught it, others let it bounce off their laps and onto the floor.

  Jane showed me a room similar to the one downstairs, only without any personal touches.

  “But my mother is very aware of what’s going on around her. She’s sharp. These people don’t seem to be... really sharp.”

  “She is feisty,” Jane allowed. “As I said, we evaluate and make decisions based on what is best for her.”

  “Who would she talk to?”

  “These people talk to each other.” She seemed surprised that I’d asked.

  “I don’t see anyone talking.” Another lump was rising in my throat, and it hurt to swallow. “My mother loves to visit with people.”

  “Your mother isn’t ready for this floor, Robyn.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “In many cases a patient with encroaching dementia never has to move up here.”

  I nodded. What she didn’t have to say was that they died before their dementia got bad enough, which might have been preferable.

  As we approached the elevator, I looked back and noticed a man strapped into a pale blue vinyl armchair, his chin on his chest and his hands twitching as if they were the only part of him still alive.

  If she lived long enough, this was where she would wind up. That was the sad, sad thing about dementia and ageing. No one got better.

  When I got home I took Bix for short walk and tried not to think about my mother’s living situation. But it was like trying to ignore a big spider on the ceiling in your bedroom. When I finally managed to turn my thoughts elsewhere, they wandered only as far as Mick’s wall safe, which was, I’d come to realize, another pointless intellectual exercise. Because even if I could break into his office, even if I could figure out the safe’s combination, and even if I could do all this without being caught by building security or by Mick himself, what good would it do me? I needed a lot of money. So even if he had ten grand in there, what would that buy me (aside from ten years in prison and/or a violent death)? Ten thousand would be devoured by Dryden Manor within two months. Still, it was disconcerting for me to acknowledge that I might consider jail time before having my mother move in with me again.

  The sun was making a feeble effort to leak past the clouds, which only served to make the air heavier. I flapped the bottom of m
y T-shirt for a little air conditioning. Bix teetered as he lifted his right rear leg over the curb in order to urinate into a storm drain. In spite of my mood, I had to smile. He’s a pudgy, short-haired terrier mix, and with his round little stomach and dainty paws he’s a rather comical looking sort. He’s also the most angst-ridden, fastidious dog I’ve known.

  We passed the Psychic Place on our way home. The curtains were drawn and the silver writing on the window sparkled. Erika Starwise had moved into the shop in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. One afternoon the storefront was bare, the window a large pane of dirty glass with a view of a small anteroom empty except for an electric pencil sharpener, still plugged into the wall, sitting on dirty taupe carpeting. A door leading to the back of the shop was open, and the space behind it dark, as though it led to nowhere. The next morning when I took Bix with me to the Wired Lizard, a mural of stars and moons spanned the purple-draped window, and what appeared to be a nebula surrounded the words painted over the glass: The Psychic Place. Beneath, in smaller letters, was: Erika Starwise, Medium.

  When I’d called her to ask for an interview, we’d talked about a good time to do it. She told me she was lining up a séance that I might find interesting. And, since that had to be better than just listening to her tell me how clairvoyant she was, I agreed. Three days later she’d called back and invited me to a séance being held tonight. The invitation came with specific conditions. I was not to use the real names of the attendees, nor was I to take any photographs. I’d asked Erika if I could come early so I could interview her prior to the séance, but she told me that would not be possible. “I must distance myself from the living prior to a séance. Perhaps, if I’m not too exhausted, we could talk afterwards.” Then she’d asked me if I’d arrive a little later than the others—say, seven fifteen—so she would have time to assure her client that she would remain anonymous in the article. Erika Starwise’s behavior left me a bit suspicious of her, if not of her profession.

  I do believe in psychic phenomena. There’s more to this world than what we can see—at least I hope there is—and I suppose that some people can peer over that fence, so to speak. But I was raised and schooled to be dubious. My mother blew the Santa myth for me when I was seven, and journalism school taught me to check things out. But Erika Starwise had an impressive website, chock-full of recommendations. She’d had a successful business in California, and I made a mental note to ask her why she’d moved from the L.A. area to Fowler of all places. Further Googling revealed a number of conferences where she’d been featured and a yearly retreat she’d helped to establish.

  When Bix and I returned to the apartment, I checked my voicemail while Bix retired to one of his two doggie beds. He has identical beds—one in the living room and another in my bedroom—so he doesn’t have an anxiety attack when he wants to be in the same room I’m in, but has nowhere to curl up.

  I had two voice mail messages. The first was from Connie telling me that the leniency Dryden was giving me in paying for my mother’s room was “highly irregular,” but April had made the decision and now Connie must abide by it. But if my mother had not been moved out of Dryden by the fifteenth, Connie would see our feckless butts in court. Well, those weren’t her words exactly, but the sentiment was there.

  The second message began with: “Hey there. It’s me.” Before I could ponder the possibilities, he added, “Mick. Mick Hughes.” I assumed he was calling about the money we were diverting to Dryden. But then he went on, “How about I take you to the casino on Saturday night. A little gambling, dinner...”

  Sighing, I punched “7” to erase the message, then “off” and returned the phone to its charger. Mentally, I dusted off my file of excuses, knowing I’d go with the truth. There were variations on the truth, of course, but wasn’t it always the hard one that worked the best? While it was true that I experience a Bix-like state of agitation the moment I set foot in a casino, that was only a stop-gap excuse. Mick would suggest another baseball game or maybe just dinner, and then I was busted. No, it was best just to say outright that I liked him as an accountant and money manager, but his personal life made me a little nervous. Maybe my honesty would cost me an accountant, but we’d both move on. I wasn’t the kind of woman who men pursued beyond the end of the block.

  I still had an hour before my meeting with Erika, so I made myself a light dinner of grilled chicken on romaine with black beans and a few toasted walnuts, topped off with a balsamic vinaigrette I’d been trying to perfect. It wasn’t there yet, but I was getting close. Maybe a little more pepper. I ate the meal at a small, ceramic-covered café table wedged into a corner of my kitchen while listening to a Runrig CD and watching for crow activity in the birch tree. I used to eat on my couch, off of the coffee table, while watching television. Then about six months ago I decided if I kept up the habit, I was going to need a bigger couch. At the same time, I stopped buying take-out and introduced myself to the stove, and what developed was, thus far, my most satisfying and longest-lasting relationship, which really wasn’t saying much. I am challenged in that area. Seventeen years ago I married a guy who I’d known for three weeks. I was bowled over by his charm, sincerity, and the way he looked at me. The day after the wedding he dropped the charm and the look changed from adoration to predation. I left after twenty-three days, and there are times when I wonder why it took so long. When you step into a river and see the bulging eyes and double-barreled snout of an alligator, you don’t continue wading to the other side on the off chance that he’s just eaten. No, you turn tail and run. And while I believed that everyone was entitled to at least one colossal mistake in her life, the experience left me thinking that there was something basic about the institution of marriage that I just didn’t get.

  I added my dishes to the nearly full dishwasher, slammed the door shut and set the cycle to quick wash. What was it about me that attracted shadowy guys like my ex and Mick Hughes?

  CHAPTER 4

  When I arrived at the Psychic Place the outer office was empty and the door to the back area closed. I thought about knocking but didn’t want anyone to think the spirit had arrived early, so I browsed around the office, trying to get a sense of Ms. Starwise. I smelled food—burgers?—and wondered if Erika had indulged before company arrived. The office looked better with furniture in it, although the carpet still needed cleaning. The pencil sharpener had found a new home on a black metal desk with a wood veneer top along with a phone and an appointment book. I glanced at today’s entry: “Patricia Melcher, 7 pm” it read. Not that I’d ever use it for the article, but I liked knowing a person’s name.

  A certificate from the Psychic Institute of Cambridge hung on the wall above a metal bookcase. Closer inspection revealed its location to be the Cambridge in England, although I saw no claims that it was associated with the university. On top of the bookshelf, a short row of volumes shared space with a photo of a pretty young girl—maybe twelve—with long, dark hair and a sweet smile. She stood in front of a wooden bridge, and orange and gold leaves covered the ground.

  I had just picked up the photo for a closer look when something touched my shoulder. I jumped and spun around for my first eyeful of Erika Starwise.

  “I startled you.” She retracted her hand and folded it into her other.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I said, thinking she might have cleared her throat and at the same time sensing she’d known exactly what she was doing. I replaced the photo on the bookcase, adjusting it so the angle was as I remembered. “Your daughter?”

  Her gaze wandered toward the picture, then back to me. “Yes,” she answered.

  She was a tall woman, around fifty. Her conservative beige linen jacket and slacks contrasted with her short, spiky red hair and penciled-in eyebrows. Bright red lips curved into a cool smile, and she said, “I am assuming you’re Robyn Guthrie.”

  “I am,” I replied, then added, “And you’re Erika Starwise,” feeling the silliness of the name as it tumbled off my ton
gue.

  She assured me that she was, then said, “We first must settle a few things.”

  I nodded, noting the precision in her speech, almost as though English wasn’t her first language. But I detected no accent.

  Sure.

  “This is an intimate experience you’ve been invited to share. My client was not at all eager to have you here.”

  “I thought you okayed this with her.” I hooked my thumb around the strap of my shoulder bag.

  “Of course I did. You see, when she told me she had two friends who wanted to share the experience, I asked if she could find another. I explained to her that an odd number of participants is the most welcoming number for spirits. Five is an especially meaningful number.” She paused, then added, “As in the five points of the pentagram.”

  “Of course,” I said, not sure if I should be playing it straight here. Did she really believe this or did I detect a wink and a nudge in her delivery? “So she was willing to let me join the group.”

  “Correct.” She hesitated. “Although she was not pleased to have a journalist among us.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?” I was on the verge of adding: because if it is, I’d be more than happy to go home and scrub grout.

  She sighed deeply, but I had the feeling this sigh wasn’t aimed at me. Then she said, “I convinced her that you would follow the terms I mentioned, and I have promised to return her money if we are unsuccessful.”

  “Okay,” I said, hitching my purse strap up on my shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

  “Yes,” she said, eyeing me up and down. Then she walked to the back door and opened it, allowing me to enter the sanctum of her offices, which, until only a month ago, had been the Embroider Me Emporium.

  I stepped into the narrow hall and said, “Do I smell hamburger?” The aroma was undeniable back here.

  “Whopper with fries. It was the deceased’s favorite.” Then she added, “We must make his spirit welcome.”