by Joni Cole
Dawn was stealing from my mother, if not always by pocketing cash, then in sneakier ways. Armed with my mom’s ATM card and PIN number, Dawn withdrew hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars a week from my mom’s checking account, all with my mom’s blessing. While part of Dawn’s job was to curb my mom’s increasing bouts of compulsive spending, instead she took advantage of this cloud cover of consumption, presumably in the hopes that it would obscure her own siphoning off of the spoils.
Who was to say whether my mom needed yet another dozen collared sweatshirts sporting images of cardinals or kittens, or that second ruby ring, or those hard-cover mystery books that she no longer could see to read? But what about all those miracle anti-aging creams that she didn’t even remember ordering? Or the Costco-size party platters that mysteriously came and went from my mom’s refrigerator? Or those sixty-eight dollar Victoria Secret’s “invisible” push up bras, consisting of nothing more than two self-adhesive silicone cups?
It happened to be me, home on a visit, who found the Victoria Secret bras (what there was of them), still nestled in their egg-shaped packages, just biding their time in an out-of-the-way closet. The bras, a generous C cup, were useless to my mom with her collared sweatshirts, but just the right size and level of trampy-ness for the well-endowed Dawn.
Something had to be done.
Like all things related to my mom’s care, it fell to Jeanne, the oldest among us five children, and the only one who still lived in our hometown, to fire Dawn when the obvious could no longer be ignored.
The reaction was swift and brutal.
Dawn to my mom (calling several times a day): “Your daughter says we can’t be friends any more. She won’t let me see you!”
My mom to me: “Goddamnit!” (I cringed, thinking of the newest Visiting Angel overhearing such language.) “Your sister thinks she can tell me what to do with my life! I’m calling my lawyer! Whose money is it anyway?”
My sister to me: “What was I supposed to do? The woman was a thief!”
Oh boy. I settled into my chair next to the phone. When it came to managing my mom’s care, Jeanne’s role was to take on all the responsibility, then bear the brunt of our mother’s displaced anger at being incapacitated and dependent. My role, as the youngest daughter who did nothing and was hence immune from my mother’s wrath, was to listen to my sister rail about this injustice for as long as she wanted.
Three weeks after Jeanne fired Dawn, she rehired her, caving under my mother’s relentless anger and tears. Like all five of us grown children, Jeanne had almost come to terms with the fact that our mother seemed to prefer her obnoxious dog over us. Still, it proved too much for her to accept that some white trash con artist had supplanted her in our mother’s affections, as well.
Fortunately, Dawn’s second stint as my mother’s caregiver only lasted a few more months. Dawn began helping my mom spend her money with such abandon (More beauty products! Furniture! Car shopping!) that even the unassuming Visiting Angels felt compelled to report her behavior. What’s more, Jane, the housekeeper, squealed to my sister that Dawn had started leaving my mom alone while she ran errands. And those two weeks Dawn had suddenly needed off for a family emergency? She was really in court-ordered rehab.
The second time Jeanne fired Dawn, the reaction was surprisingly quiet.
Dawn called my sister and threatened to sue her for something or other, no doubt inspired by all those hours she spent by my mother’s side watching Court TV. She also tried to reach my mom a few times, but the other caregivers—and the specter of the Office of Aging—kept her at bay.
I called my mom, who mentioned briefly, “I think Dawn was stealing from me. Your sister had to fire her.” (And just like that, she had dismissed Dawn from her life, eventually finding a new—and thankfully law-abiding—favorite caretaker.)
Meanwhile, my sister and I still talk occasionally about Dawn, asking ourselves and each other, “How stupid could we be to let a crook take care of our mother?”
But now, of course, I have learned that not being stupid isn’t always that easy. I’m sure if my sister and I appeared on one of the judge shows my mom loved to watch, viewers like me would have had a field day. Those daughters gave that woman their mom’s PIN number?! She was draining her savings for God’s sake! And to make matters worse, they hired her not once but twice!
On the other hand, I could make the case that Dawn was my mother’s crazy friend—and everybody needs a crazy friend. So what if she let my mom spend money on things she could no longer use. So what if she lied and stole along the way. If I was dependent on round-the-clock care, how much would I pay for some fun? How much would I spend for a semblance of control, for the illusion that I could turn back the clock?
Reality or no, Dawn and my mother were Ethel and Lucy, still having adventures long after the show was canceled. And like my mom used to yell when she wanted what she wanted, “Whose money is it anyway?”
Walking the Labyrinth
I am standing in my stocking feet in a college gymnasium, about to “walk the labyrinth” with a dozen or so conference goers. I came to this conference to teach a writing workshop, but afterwards the organizer invited me to participate in the other activities, all geared toward personal transformation and spiritual growth. I wanted to cut out early—do some Christmas shopping and take the afternoon off—but what does that say about me? Nothing I’d care to hear, I’m sure.
This particular “labyrinth” is a circle painted on a drop cloth that covers half the gym floor. The purple lines on the labyrinth create a circuitous path that, according to Labyrinth Lady, our leader in this exercise, represents a spiritual pathway. “Think of it as a walking prayer or meditation,” Labyrinth Lady tells our small group. “A metaphoric journey to the deepest center of your self.”
The gym falls quiet, too quiet, save for a strain of flute-y music coming from the CD player on the bleachers. We are to begin our journey when we feel ready, entering the labyrinth in measured intervals. “Be attentive; open to the experience,” Labyrinth Lady has instructed. “You only have to enter and follow the path.”
The Weeper, of course, goes first, just as she was the first to volunteer to read her writing in my workshop. In this conference full of touchy-feely types, The Weeper takes the prize for over-shares. Next goes Yoga Ono, (Oh, yes, I have made up names for everyone at the conference), then Mother Earth, who presses her palms together and bows her head before stepping onto the drop cloth.
I am struck, once again, by Mother Earth’s giant owl necklace made of wire mesh and feathers with a Double D wingspan. She designed the piece herself, as part of her sacred symbol line of jewelry that she sells online. When I first saw the necklace, I thought it was so ugly I felt compelled to gush over it with such conviction that we both agreed I should be on her emailing list.
I bide my time as a few more walkers enter the labyrinth, my goal being to insert myself somewhere in the middle of the group. I wish I was anywhere but here. Spiritual paths, sacred symbols, music with wooden flutes—I can’t relate to any of this.
Now!
I make my move, cutting off the Administrative Assistant from a Small Midwestern University who has approached the labyrinth at the same time as me. I don’t know if this woman actually is an administrative assistant from a small Midwestern university but she fits the stereotype, hence I have dubbed her as such. “Sorry,” I mouth to her, but refuse to give way. Like the rest of the world, I have no trouble taking advantage of low-level administrators.
In the labyrinth, I remind myself to be open to the experience; to journey to the center of my self. But try as I might, I can be neither introspective nor even focused, partly because of all the purple paint splatters outside the lines on the drop cloth. You would have thought that the painters would have done a better job, especially given that this labyrinth is supposed to look like the famous one in Chartres Cathedral.
Splat! Splat! Why is Labyrinth Lady so fat? Every time I see a
nother splatter, this ditty pops into my head. This is what always happens to me when I try to be spiritual; my mind automatically goes in the opposite direction. I become the Maker Funner, and I can’t stand maker funners.
Time drags. Eventually the walkers become spread out through the labyrinth. Some meander at a solemn pace; others skip or sway. Occasionally two walkers hug spontaneously when crossing paths. This is exactly the kind of behavior the conference organizers have encouraged, with no regard for personal space. Earlier in the day, I was hiding in the back of a presentation on Singing Your Peace, hoping against hope that the workshop leader wouldn’t notice me, when a frail, bald woman approached me.
“Can I rub your back?” she whispered. “You look tense.”
You can’t be serious? I thought. But instead of saying no, I smiled and nodded. The last thing I wanted was for this poor woman to assume that I was one of those awful people who thinks cancer is contagious. Determined to help me relax, she kept rubbing and rubbing my shoulders until, thankfully, her strength gave out, right before my trapezoids strangled one another.
The center of the labyrinth is painted in a rosette design, the symbol of enlightenment, among other things. Labyrinth Lady has told us to pause here; to reflect or pray or give thanks. Big things can happen in the center, she intimated. I watch the others who arrive before me. Yoga Ono stretches her arms toward the beam of light funneling through one of the high, gym windows. The Administrative Assistant from the Small Midwestern University twirls with abandon. The Weeper, of course, is weeping.
Oh, give it a rest, I snap at her silently. Why do you have to be such a ball baby? But by now I am near tears myself. When I reach the rosette I feel nothing even remotely profound. What is wrong with me? I think. Why is everyone else so good at walking the labyrinth? Was I behind the door when God handed out sacred symbols? On the way out of the labyrinth I cross paths once again with Mother Earth and her giant owl necklace. We smile and she engulfs me in a hug, she likely thinking enlightened thoughts; me thinking, I can’t wait to hit unsubscribe.
On my way home from the conference, I stop at the mall around dusk. Better late than never, I think, wishing I had made my escape hours ago. The outside of the building twinkles with white lights. Inside, holiday music fills the air. I stroll down the aisles, admiring the festive decorations. Christmas is still ten days away, but one of the department stores is already having a sale on all seasonal items, so I buy a little snow globe to add to my growing collection.
The atrium of the mall has been converted into Santa’s Village, replete with workshops for the elves and a sleigh where kids can sit on Santa’s lap, at least during his working hours. I buy myself a soft pretzel and soda and sit at one of the nearby tables. At this hour the mall is fairly quiet and peaceful. It has been a long day and feels good to just be—to not have to keep pretending.
My new snow globe displays two tiny reindeers prancing around a Christmas tree. I turn it over and glittery snowflakes swirl throughout the glass. I love snow globes, the way the tiny scenes contained within them transport me to a miniature, magical world. I turn the globe over again, admiring the pretty effect. I used to believe the figures within snow globes came to life when no one was watching. Even now, I look at the one in my hands, hoping to catch a sign of movement.
I know I am not religious, at least not in the traditional sense. And, clearly, I am a failure at labyrinths. But it occurs to me now, sitting in the middle of this mall, right next to Santa’s village and sleigh, that I do believe in miracles. I believe there are all sorts of spiritual pathways, including one for me. And I do have a sacred object. I turn the globe again and watch as the snow settles over the reindeer. Indeed, I smile, I have a whole collection of them.
The Year of the Dog
According to the Chinese zodiac, I was born in the Year of the Dog, a fact I learned from a paper placemat at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You would think this would have thrilled me, given that I’m a dog freak. And by freak I don’t just mean that I anthropomorphize my own precious Chihuahua mutt, a little-big man who loves his human Mommy sooo much.
No, I get mushy hearted when I lay eyes on any dog—snorting pugs and leaping Labs (too cute), mixed breeds like Labradoodles and Bassetcats that defy the laws of nature (so precious), even my neighbor’s dog from childhood, a scruffy-haired mutt named Fred who chased me back to my own yard, where I fell while scrambling over our patio wall and ended up scarred for life.
Just like every other true dog freak in the world, I simply can’t resist accosting dog-walkers in the street, asking to pet their pooches. A similar feeling overtakes me in parking lots, whenever I see a dog waiting behind the steering wheel for its owner to return from Pet-Smart or the grocery store or the casino. If my daughters are with me, I feel compelled to draw their attention to this adorable scenario, “Look! Look, girls! Isn’t that precious, a Rottweiler driving the car!” Then I wave and shout baby-talk at it through the cracked-open window, until the formerly calm dog goes berserk, trying to leap through the glass, either to frolic or to kill this strange lady in the parking lot.
Given my freakish love of dogs, it took me by surprise when my immediate reaction to my Chinese zodiac sign was…what? Disappointment? Peevishness? An urge to snap at someone? The feeling was similar to when I was a little girl and fantasized that my real parents were royalty from a magical kingdom. Then I looked in the mirror and saw my father’s entire side of the family looking back at me, and had to face the disappointing truth. I simply came from loving, hard-working, oppression-fleeing Eastern Europeans with droopy eyelids and ridiculously large earlobes.
The placemat noted that people born in the Year of the Dog possess the best attributes of human nature. They have a deep sense of loyalty. They are honest. They inspire other people’s confidence because they know how to keep secrets. In addition to those stellar qualities, being a dog just sounds better than some of the other choices in the Chinese zodiac. People born in the Year of the Rat, for example, also are credited with positive attributes—they’re ambitious, and industrious—but then there’s that whole bubonic plague thing, which can’t be overlooked.
So what was it about my Chinese zodiac sign that prickled me? If I had been seeing a therapist at the time, I could have discussed my vague, discordant feelings for hours, or at least until my insurance coverage ran out. That’s what I did in an attempt to come to terms with Western astrology, which denotes me as a Pisces, the water sign, despite my aversion to swimming and beach vacations. In junior high, where learning to swim in the school pool was a required humiliation, I couldn’t even master the dead man’s float. At the time, I rationalized that this was because I lacked the percentage of body fat required for buoyancy. (Oh, to have those problems now!) But this didn’t explain why I also couldn’t turn a cartwheel or, for that matter, why I hated people touching my hair, or why I constantly licked my lips.
Eventually, it was a simple word association game—equally useful for breaking the ice at parties and conducting psychiatric evaluations—that illuminated my problem with being born in the Year of the Dog. In case you have never been to a lame party or had a psychiatric evaluation, here is how word association works.
I say the word lilac, for example. Now you respond with the first word that comes to mind. Then I repeat the same word to probe further, or follow up with another related or random word. For instance, I might say pillow or marginalia or grandma. It really doesn’t matter because when you word associate there are no wrong responses, that is unless your uniform response to every word is bloodbath, in which case you are likely a psycho or should stop watching Quentin Tarantino movies on high definition TV. But either way, you will have gained self knowledge, and that is always a good thing.
Below is a re-creation of my own experience when I played the word association game, in an effort to get to the bottom of my discomfiture with my Chinese zodiac sign.
Dog.
Adorable-Cuddly-Precious!
While I wished I possessed those attributes, none of them stirred any disturbing emotions in me, other than a desire to find my own little big-man wherever he was hiding, and kiss him all over his fuzzy head.
Dog.
Domesticated.
Dog.
Loyal.
Ah, here I did feel some flutters of disquiet. But loyalty is a good thing, right? Whoever invented the Chinese Zodiac seemed to think so, as do most people. Loyalty, after all, is one of the main reasons we dog freaks love our dogs. Think about the true story of that famous Akita named Hachikō, who waited at the train station every day for his master to return home from work. In fact, Hachikō was such a loyal dog he continued to meet the train every afternoon for nine years after his master died. Then when he died, the train station erected a statue of him. Whose nose doesn’t sting just thinking about that bizarrely touching story?
And, of course, loyalty in humans is an equally admirable trait. Without loyalty, people wouldn’t have lasting or meaningful relationships. We also wouldn’t have incentive programs like frequent flyer miles or guest rewards. And we certainly wouldn’t have any Chicago Cubs fans. But then again, when I thought of loyalty, I also thought of an old friend of mine I’ll call Mary, whom I knew when I lived in Philadelphia.
When Mary and I were in our late twenties, we found ourselves in similar circumstances when each of our fairly new boyfriends moved out of state (hers to California, mine to Minnesota). Note, I’m using the term “boyfriends” loosely, given that neither of us had been dating these men long enough to secure a commitment. Regardless, as a result of their moves, both of us suddenly found ourselves in that cruel limbo of “what ifs” and “what nows,” more commonly known as the long-distance relationship.