Getting Old is to Die For

by Rita Lakin

  Linda looks from me to her. “I’m so glad you both came along to help me through. I couldn’t face this alone. Frankly, I’m terrified.”

  I give Evvie a look to say, See, you meanie, I told you we should come along, and her look back says, I know, I’m sorry I was such a pill!

  I love that we can read one another’s minds.

  “What should I do? How should I handle it? What should I say?” When Linda gets agitated, it’s even harder for her to speak clearly. She shifts in her seat, constantly squirming as she tries to hold a knee from swinging back and forth.

  Evvie climbs back to sit on the other side of her. She takes Linda’s shaking hand in hers. “Just be yourself. Let things just happen,” she says.

  Good for you, sister.

  Linda asks, “But what if they look at me with revulsion? I won’t be able to stand it.”

  “They won’t, I promise you,” Evvie says.

  “You swear?” Linda says in an almost childish voice.

  “I’d take odds on it.”

  Good old Evvie, always right there in a crisis.

  “Me, too,” I add.

  Marjory takes a brush and brushes Linda’s hair gently.

  As she leans into her assistant, Linda says, “I just know I’ll ruin their whole weekend. I should have planned to come afterward. How can I do this to them? Hello, Mom and Dad, here’s your dying daughter.”

  Now Marjory gets upset. “Don’t you keep saying that, Linda. You have an illness. You’re being given the best of treatments. You don’t know anything about the future other than that you’re here now, and that’s all that matters!”

  Linda turns and hugs her. And Evvie and I watch, tearing up a bit.

  “Now, let’s get you looking beautiful,” Marjory says, reaching into a purse and pulling out a lipstick.

  The limo pulls into the circular driveway of a very large and gorgeous estate. The driveway takes us past rolling lawns and exquisite gardens. The house is reminiscent of the one Linda lives in, only larger. Linda sits with the three of us, all holding hands. I look at Linda. Her eyes are closed and I think she is praying.

  The front door opens immediately as the limo pulls up. The Silverstones have obviously been watching for us through the windows.

  There they are, just as they looked in the photos I’ve seen. Very healthy-looking, very agile, looking years younger than a couple in their nineties. Very tall, standing straight, arms around one another, big smiles.

  I say a little prayer myself.

  They look eagerly at the back door. The driver runs around to open it for us. Evvie and I get out first, smile and give little waves. We introduce ourselves. The Silverstones shake hands with us.

  Marjory is out next and she walks with the limo driver to the trunk, where they remove Linda’s metal walker. I watch the parents reacting to this unexpected happening.

  The driver wheels it to the door of the limo as Marjory helps Linda out. With the driver’s help, the two of them position her behind the walker as she holds on as best she can.

  For a moment, nothing happens. It is a quiet tableau, our side watching the parents transitioning through a gamut of emotions as they see their convulsively shaking daughter.

  Then, in moments, they are both beside her. They take each arm in support. Their questions fly; her answers are very slow. Like the doctors they are, the questions go quickly to the heart of the matter.

  “What is it?”

  She hesitates, hardly able to face them. “Parkinson’s.”

  The parents gaze at one another for a moment, their silence speaking volumes. With remarkable control her father asks, “Who’s treating you?”

  “Phil Orloff at the Medical Center,” she says, staring down at her shaking hands in theirs.

  “Good man. Couldn’t be better,” her father says gruffly. “What are you taking?”

  “Mirapex.”

  “Did you bring your medical records?”

  “Yes, in my briefcase.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” her mother finally asks, eyes watering.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “So you let us worry anyway, as to why our only child doesn’t want to be with us?” Her father tries to sound strict, but his voice is faltering.

  “I’m going to die.”

  I hear Evvie, beside me, gasp. I feel we are holding our breaths in the pause that follows.

  Her father straightens and faces his daughter squarely. “So are we all, and God will let us know the time. We don’t know and we shall not guess. We will enjoy whatever time we have.”

  Linda’s father lifts her up out from behind the walker and into his arms. Mrs. Silverstone moves closer. Now their arms wrap about one another, hugging and crying. “You’re with Momma and Poppa now and everything will be all right.”

  With that he carries Linda into the house, with Mrs. Silverstone at his side, holding her daughter’s hand.

  Marjory briskly takes a suitcase out of the limo and holds it alongside the walker, then wheels both inside. Tears run down her face.

  The driver gets into the limo and parks the car in the nearby parking areas.

  Evvie and I look at one another, standing alone near the open doorway. We are sobbing.

  “You know what we need?” Evvie blubbers, clutching me.

  “Yes, our families. We need our families.”

  “We have to go back up north. I want to go home and see my daughter, and my grandchildren,” Evvie wails.

  “Me, too,” I wail back. “As soon as possible.” We pull ourselves together and enter the mansion to join the others for lunch.

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 3, 1962

  GRIEF

  Emily and her cousin Martha wanted to help, but their chatter was giving Gladdy a pounding headache. Martha kept asking questions about why they had to do these strange things to prepare for sitting shiva. Gladdy sighed. Twelve-year-old redheaded Martha not only looked like her mother, but she was so much like Evvie was at that age. Restless, impatient, highly excitable, and exhausting.

  “Why do we have to shiva?” Martha asked, holding her hands tightly across her chest and pretending to be cold.

  Gladdy answered her, “It’s not about cold. ‘Shiva’ is Hebrew for seven; we have to mourn like this for seven days.”

  “That long?” Martha is not happy about this news.

  “Are we religious, Mama?” Emily wanted to know. As sad as Emily was, she was caught up in the excitement of preparing to have guests come over.

  Gladdy thought about what it would be like in a few days, when there would be no more visitors and everyone would go back to their lives and she and Emily would be totally alone. Then it would really hit her that her daddy would be gone forever. The truth about their future would bring the sorrow back. She told her, “No, not really,” as she continued to line up every straight-backed chair she owned into a semicircle around the living room.

  “Then why are we doing this?” asked Martha.

  “It’s our way of honoring our mother and father, your grandparents, who were religious.”

  “But why can’t we wear shoes?” Martha continued.

  Gladdy explained that the dark clothes they wore and the fact that they were shoeless was to show they were humbled by this sad occasion.

  “What’s ‘humble’?” Martha insisted.

  Evvie, who was covering all the mirrors in the house with sheets and towels, now stood on tiptoes to cover the one over the fireplace in the living room. She was careful not to dislodge the many photos of Jack set along the mantel.

  “Martha,” she called to her daughter, “stop being a pest and come help me. ”

  Martha ran over to Evvie, to do her bidding. Emily went to help her mother move chairs. “It’s sad we don’t have any grandparents like other kids have. ”

  Martha commented, “Well, I have Grandma and Grandpa Markowitz.”

  Gladdy exchanged glances with her sister that spoke a thousand wor
ds. Joe’s family was as good as having no family.

  At that moment, Joe walked by, carrying a small basin of water on his way to the front door. He smiled at his daughter. “And you’re very lucky to have them.”

  “Are they coming today?” Martha asked eagerly. Gladdy and Evvie knew why she was so enthusiastic. They always bought her love with expensive gifts on birthdays and holidays. Other than that, they were hardly around.

  Evvie glanced at Joe, eyebrows raised. “Yes, Joe,” she said, barely hiding her disgust, “when will they arrive to show their respect for Jack’s passing?”

  Joe mumbled, “You know how they are. They can’t take depressing occasions.”

  “Yeah. I remember how they avoided the depressing occasion of our marriage.”

  Gladdy saw Martha lower her head as her parents sniped at one another. As if you could fool children. “Girls,” Gladdy said to get them out of the room, “get the pillows, please.”

  They eagerly ran to do as she asked. Martha asked as they were heading for the hallway, “When can we eat? I’m starved. We haven’t had a bite since yesterday.” Martha was also a drama queen just like her mother. Gladdy glanced at her serious, unsmiling daughter. Emily was always the quieter one, letting her cousin be the leader. Emily had been crying all night, but she would be brave today for her mother’s sake.

  Evvie answered, “I told you we aren’t allowed to cook. People will be coming soon and they’ll bring delicious things for us.”

  By now Joe was out of their range of hearing. He was placing the water and washcloths outside Gladdy’s front door so that mourners could respectfully wash before entering. He also left a small note telling people to just walk in. The door was left open.

  Evvie raised her hands as if to stop her sister’s words before she could say them. “I know, I know, no fighting in front of the kid. But sometimes I just want to wring his neck.”

  The girls came back with large bed pillows. Emily said, “I brought a big blanket to put under them, too, so the pillows wouldn’t get dirty.”

  “Where should we put them?” Martha asked. Gladdy smiled at the two girls trying so hard to be helpful. She felt the tears wanting to burst, but she managed to hold them back. “Along the wall, so when we sit, we can lean.”

  Joe came back into the living room, wiping his damp hands on his khaki pants. “Well, that’s done. If you don’t need me for anything else, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

  Evvie’s eyes were slits. “Leave us to it!”

  Gladdy grabbed Evvie’s hands, to stop her from whatever she might do next.

  Evvie took a deep breath and spit out, “I guess you’re right. I don’t need you for anything else.” He shot her a sharp glance, looking for the innuendo. She managed to keep a tight smile on her face, knowing Martha watched every movement of her parents’ dance.

  Their first visitor stood in the doorway. Joe quickly headed out of the room. “Come on, Martha, let’s go.”

  Martha looked nervously from one parent to the other.

  Evvie’s voice was like ice. “Martha will stay here with her aunt and cousin, out of respect for her uncle Jack.”

  For a moment everything stopped, except for the innocent mourner who moved tentatively farther into the room.

  Joe, furious now, turned and hurried out. Martha breathed a sigh of relief.

  The neighbor, Mrs. Baroni, a rather shy woman from apartment 4B, stood where she was, uncertain.

  “Mrs. Gold,” Mrs. Baroni said, with what she thought was the proper funereal tone. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I brought you a little something.”

  Martha quickly grabbed the bowl. “I’ll take it to the kitchen.” Emily followed after her.

  Gladdy and Evvie seated themselves on the floor on the pillows. “Thank you,” Gladdy said.

  Her neighbor looked confused as to where to sit. “Please,” Evvie said, “use the chairs; you don’t need to get down here. ”

  Mrs. Baroni gratefully lowered herself down on a plain kitchen chair.

  Gladdy thought about the reading she had done to prepare properly for this tradition, according to religious lore. It told her that the bereaved ones sat on the floor to represent having been struck down by grief. How true, struck down was just how she felt. She wondered if she’d be able to get through this day without screaming and tearing out her hair. Maybe that was allowed as well. She remembered photos of Indian women keening and throwing their bodies onto their husbands’ caskets. If only she could do that, too.

  She could hear Martha say from the kitchen, “It’s just soup. I hate soup.”

  Mrs. Baroni looked chagrined. “I thought a little minestrone would be good.”

  Evvie reassured her. “Yes, it will be wonderful. Thank you again.”

  What are we supposed to do? Gladdy wondered. No one was comfortable. Maybe that was the point. The dead were gone, and the living should suffer in some way as well.

  All she wanted to do was lock herself in her bedroom, hold tightly to Jack’s pillow, and never stop crying. Instead she felt like a hostess at a bizarre party that no one wished to attend.

  Mrs. Diamond, from the deli across the way, whose son had been in Jack’s American Literature class last year, brought matzo ball soup.

  Mrs. Gromsky from 6D, who used to sit on the stoop and tell Jack stories about her native Russia, brought borscht.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hanrahan from 2B brought potato soup. Mr. Hanrahan reminisced about how Jack enjoyed his Irish jokes.

  Mrs. Kim from the Chinese laundry around the corner, who did Jack’s shirts with just the right amount of starch, brought wonton soup.

  She could hear Martha whining in the kitchen. “Everything’s soup. Where’s the food?” It actually made her smile.

  A group of professors and staff members arrived from Columbia bearing a huge gift basket. Maybe now Martha would find something she could eat.

  The sight of their distraught faces almost released her hysteria, but Gladdy was determined to soldier on, to use that military forbearance.

  Everyone had something wonderful to say about her Jack. Bless them all, but please—go home; she needed to be left alone.

  Some of them asked what she would do now.

  Gladdy told them she’d probably go back to school and complete her Library Science degree.

  Evvie looked at her, surprised. Gladdy had astounded herself. She hadn’t given the future any thought. As far as she was concerned she had no future without Jack. But she knew reality would soon set in and she’d have to find a way to support herself and Emily.

  The day finally ended. People had come in and out almost nonstop, including their own close friends, every one of them, a sharp reminder of how much Jack would be missed.

  Gladdy and Evvie got up from the floor, stretching, their backs aching.

  Their daughters were invited next door for pizza. They ran out, once they had permission. She heard Martha telling Emily that at last they’d get real food. Suddenly Gladdy heard them talking to someone in the hall. No more visitors, please, she thought.

  Two policemen entered the living room looking properly somber.

  “We’re sorry about your loss,” one of them said.

  Gladdy thought she might scream if she heard those words one more time. “Why are you here? Have you found the man who killed my husband?”

  The taller, heavier one said, “No, m’am, nothing yet.”

  “Don’t you dare give up, you hear me?” Gladdy couldn’t take another minute of this.

  “We won’t. We came because we need a photo of your husband.”

  Evvie grabbed one off the mantel and handed it to them. “Please go, my sister needs to rest.”

  They nodded and left.

  Gladdy stood there, staring at nothing. “They’ll never find the killer, I know it.”

  Evvie put her arms around her. “We should eat something. Do you want soup or do you want soup?” She imitated Martha’s pouting face.

  �
�Let’s have some soup,” Gladdy said, managing a smile.

  They ate the matzo ball soup in the kitchen lit with memorial candles. While trying to fit all the containers into the refrigerator, Evvie asked, “Did you mean it about going back to college so you could work as a librarian?”

  “I guess. I’m going to have to do something. I might as well do what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “We’ll work it out. You go to school, get your degree, and get a library job. I’ll take care of Emily.” She held up the last bowl. There was no more room to fit it. “We have to eat this one now, we have no choice. How’s minestrone go with matzo balls?”

  Evvie gave Gladdy one of her special looks. Half smile, half grimace. Then they put their arms around one another. “It’s just you and me and the kids, babe. We’re all the family we’ve got.”

  With that, they both let go and sobbed.

  TELLING THE GIRLS

  We are in Murray’s Deli having the early-bird special, which we almost missed due to the fact the limo didn’t get us back from Naples until five o’clock. Evvie and I decided that breaking our news to the girls would be better served, pun intended, while eating out, something we all love to do. I may even offer to pay for dinner, for further softening of the unexpected turn of events we’re going to throw at them. I have warned Evvie to wait until after everyone’s eaten. Tact and full satisfied tummies will be needed here.

  Okay, the brisket is on order (Ida), as are the boiled chicken (Bella), and stuffed cabbage (Sophie). Evvie is having the chicken fricassee, and all I want is a salad after that huge lunch we had at noon.

  The girls are digging into the rye bread and the pickle and sauerkraut dish with gusto while they wait for the appetizers to arrive. Which will be followed by the soups and salads and then the main dish, and after that, the dessert, which everyone always wraps to take home. They are in a very good mood when it comes to going out for early birds. I hope they stay that way.

  “So,” says Sophie, “how did it go?”

  “Very well,” I tell them. “The parents were terrific.”

  Evvie adds, “They were thrilled Linda came and immediately confronted her illness as a family problem that they will all deal with together.”