Impersonation

by Heidi Pitlor

  “Have you noticed,” I began, turning a little toward Norm, “that your mother’s memory hasn’t been so good lately?”

  “It hasn’t?” he said.

  “Yes, I mean, should we worry that she might not remember how to get home—or where she lives, you know, her address? You hear about these people with memory loss or Alzheimer’s wandering off.”

  “Alzheimer’s?” Norm said. “She’s not that bad off.”

  I knew from Bertie that they spoke at most once or twice a year on the phone. I refrained from telling Norm that you can detect far more about a person by being in same room, that Wichita was 1500 miles away from here, and that an adult only child should visit his elderly mother who lives alone more than once every five years.

  The rest of the morning passed with no sign of Bertie, so we left Norm at her place and were home by lunchtime. As I made grilled cheeses for Cass and me, my phone rang. My mother, who skipped any niceties. “I’ve got twelve ‘friends’ on Facebook already! But I never should have accepted that friend request from Patty Copeland. Now I have to read daily updates about her oh-so-successful kids and award-winning grandkids.”

  “Then don’t go on Facebook every day,” I said.

  “I posted my first picture this morning. It’s that photo we took when we went to Nathan and Setti’s anniversary party in New York?” Nathan and Setti’s only child, a daughter, had been a student at Columbia. They had gathered the family two years ago at a hotel in the Bronx. “We’re all standing near Times Square, outside The Lion King? It’s the rare picture where everyone is smiling and looks good.”

  “I think people usually post newer pictures, Mom. And—we didn’t even see the show. That would have cost a—” And that, I understood, was why she had posted the picture. “Mom, why do you want to impress Patty Copeland? Who cares what she thinks?”

  “I don’t care,” she protested, and sighed. “How’s that book coming?”

  “Slow.”

  “Is it Gloria Steinem?” she asked.

  “It’s not Gloria Steinem. It might not even be anyone you’ve heard of unless you watch Ellen Degeneres or read the news these days. We agreed to stop doing that after the election, right?” Admittedly, I peeked at the headlines every now and then to make sure we were not in the midst of a civil war.

  “Ellen De—is it that red-haired comedian who did that awful thing with the mask of you-know-who’s head? I wouldn’t call her influential,” my mother said. “What’s the worst that would happen if you just told me? Remember when you were writing for the actor—you told us some things. I still remember—‘at the Oscars, the winner can’t talk for more than forty-five seconds’! Nothing happened to you then, right?”

  She was referring to a memoir I had ghostwritten for an octogenarian who had starred in a few epic war films, or Oscar bait. Although he had been nominated twice for Best Supporting Actor, he had never won. “Moving on here,” I said.

  A prolonged nothing ensued from my mother. I could all but hear her thinking, “Why did you even mention this book at Tabitha’s?”

  “I should never have said anything about this job,” I said, and thought a moment. “Maybe I felt judged by you guys that night. I wanted to show you and Ed that I wasn’t a failure.”

  “What? Sweetie,” she began.

  “Anyway, Bertie is missing. She disappeared a couple days ago. I’m trying to work and take care of Cass and find her—and please don’t remind me how many times you warned me about becoming a single parent.” I may have needed a villain right then, someone other than myself to blame for the fact that so much was at stake every minute of every day. It had been since Cass was born.

  “Where is she?”

  “Missing,” I snapped. “We’ve been looking all over the place for her.”

  “You called the police?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she wander away? Has she done this before? Does she have dementia?” She paused, probably letting various implications sink in. “You can be honest—just tell me, Sweetheart.”

  “I haven’t been relying on her as much to help watch Cass. But even once a week was too much, I guess.”

  “You can’t rely on her at all if she’s missing. You know, people with Alzheimer’s wander out of their homes and forget how to get back.”

  “You think I didn’t know that?”

  “Jesus, Allie.” Another silence rose up and bled out between us. “What can I do?”

  “Find Bertie? Send me fifty grand?”

  “Should I come up there? Maybe we should just drive up.”

  “No.” But after we had said goodbye, I wished that I could go for a walk on my own to clear my head, and leave Cass home. Maybe I should have considered saying yes.

  Ellen grooved down the aisles amid the audience and up onto the stage. She introduced the day’s guests: “Russell Sharpenberger, dog-trainer extraordinaire! Lana Breban, lawyer-activist extraordinaire! Bruno Mars, who needs no introduction!”

  Cass, sitting next to me on the couch, laughed as Russell Sharpenberger got a shih tzu to balance a soccer ball on its nose, and again when a standard poodle performed a loose rendition of the Electric Slide.

  Then Lana came out. She vigorously shook Ellen’s hand and took a seat on the soft white chair across from her. Her dark hair—darkened, I thought—now hung above her shoulders.

  “You just got back from Geneva, where you spoke at a summit about international women’s rights,” Ellen said.

  Lana nodded. “Lovely place, Geneva.”

  “Lovely cookie, too,” Ellen said. “Pepperidge Farm, that is. Is that going to make any of my sponsors angry?”

  The audience howled with laughter.

  The two discussed Lana’s work mentoring new women leaders through the Alliance for International Women’s Rights, as well as her now infamous speech at the European Women’s Lobby. “Did you tell anyone beforehand that those women would be breastfeeding publicly?”

  “No,” Lana answered with a sly smirk.

  “And did you encourage those women, or was it their idea? To do what they did? In front of live-streaming cameras?”

  “Let’s just say that I didn’t do much to dissuade it,” Lana said.

  Ellen looked flatly at the camera.

  “I got to hold every baby afterward and oh my god, was that fun! I miss when my son was that little. What’s better than the wonderful weight and smell of a baby? And wasn’t it the best, all those women so freely feeding their babies?”

  The audience rose to their feet and clapped.

  Ellen said, “Some people call you an angry feminist and an elitist. I mean, I don’t of course, but what do you say to people like that?”

  “The word ‘feminism’ has gotten weaponized. This doesn’t bother me. If women’s equal pay and rights are negative things to you, then you are not someone who concerns me.”

  A few audience members hollered their approval. It occurred to me that what was left of Lana’s accent had entirely dissipated. Maybe I was just imagining this.

  She went on: “I’m not interested in ignorant people or in their judgment. I am more concerned with supporting women and families by getting better parental leave, and working with the government to raise subsidies without raising taxes.” Yes, her accent was gone now. “I am concerned with talking to men about why promoting women is actually good business practice. And also why women in leadership is not only necessary but critical to our nation’s success.”

  Ellen nodded.

  I thought I heard a woman yell, “You’re my president, Lana!”

  “So,” Ellen said. “Lana, can I get you to do a dance with me?”

  She laughed and said, “I am not sure that this is something you want as a part of your show. I have two feet that are so far left they can hardly hold me up.”

  “Well then, how about we just sing a song? Could you help me sing us to commercial break?”

  “I’m no great singer, but I’ll try,�
�� Lana said.

  Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” came on, and Lana and Ellen rose from their seats. A man wearing headphones scurried on stage, handed them each a microphone, and the two women began: “All I’m askin’ . . . is to give me my propers . . .” Lana’s voice was imperfect, just as she had claimed, and her accent made a comeback. These things lent the scene a certain vulnerability and sweetness.

  Cass, who had wandered off, came back in the room and pointed to Ellen. “Is that a man or a woman?”

  “A woman,” I said. “Why does it matter? What if she’s a little of both?”

  “You can’t be both.”

  This was what he knew—this was what he was shown every day on Nickelodeon and at Little Rainbows.

  I flicked off the TV. “Give me one hour to work and then we can do something fun.”

  “A whole hour? I hate when you work,” he said. “All you do is work.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I found her,” Norm said over the phone. “Outside the Shop ’n Save. She’s been staying with her friend Ruth.”

  I was stunned, and a laugh-cry erupted. “Who is Ruth? I don’t think I know any Ruths from around here. You sure this was a friend?”

  “She lives over in Becket. They ran into each other when my mother was out for a walk the other day. Ruth’s sister is visiting and I guess my mom knows her, too. They had some big reunion—they’ve been watching old movies, cooking, playing Scrabble. Anyway, my mother came home a few hours ago, and she was out of food, so she walked to the store, and then she forgot how to get back home. I saw her just standing there in the parking lot, asking some random man if he could help her.” He sighed. “We’re here at her house, if you want to come over and say goodbye. I’m going to move her back to Wichita with me. She can’t live here on her own anymore. She needs more eyes on her if she’s not going to tell anyone where she is.”

  “What?” I said. “She’s amenable to that?”

  “I can’t afford to put her in some nursing home.”

  “A nursing home? I’m sure there are other options,” I said. “Do you need to rush to a decision right this minute?”

  “Allie, she tried to call you.”

  “She did?” I remembered one call yesterday—but no message—from a number that I did not recognize. “Listen, if she stays, I’ll try to help her out more. Maybe Ruth can come over and pitch in sometimes, too.” It was a desperate, self-interested thought; if she moved away, I would have no one else to help watch Cass.

  Over at her house, Bertie sat alone on the middle cushion of her butterscotch-colored couch with her eyes on the carpet like a girl who had just gotten in trouble at school. Norm stood beside her, his arms crossed.

  “Allie,” Bertie said. “I should have tried calling you again. I wasn’t really thinking, I guess. I’m sorry.” It was heartbreaking to see her so reduced.

  “It’s my fault,” I said. “I should have picked up.” I took a seat across from her, and Cass crawled onto my lap. The heft of him made this moment one degree better.

  She said, “My friend Ruth and her sister and I did have some fun.”

  “Oh, Bertie. You got swept up in the moment. It’s sweet. There’s no need to apologize.”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘sweet,’ ” Norm said. His hair had caught on a plaster ceiling whirl. I could not take my eyes off the blond lock that stood at attention, firmly tethered now. “My mother almost got in a car with a goddamned stranger at the Shop ’n Save.” He stepped forward and his hair finally broke free from the ceiling.

  “I did not,” she said. “I’m not senile.” She picked at a seam on her couch as she spoke.

  “Of course you’re not,” I said. I could feel Norm’s eyes on me, but I kept going. “How about we talk about what’s next for you? Maybe we can help you decide what’s best for yourself?”

  Norm gestured violently for me to follow him into the kitchen. He shut the door behind us and repeated everything that he’d already said to build a case against his mother staying put or, as he called it, “courting disaster.”

  “You don’t think she deserves a say in the matter?” I was aware that the situation was more complicated than probably either of us would have liked. There was, of course, Cass’s Ex-Lax incident, as well as the frequently missing dentures and the fact that memory loss in the aged so rarely improved.

  “It’s not just her aging mind or whatever is going on right now. She never had good judgment,” he said. “Does my mother ever talk about me or my family?”

  “A little,” I said. “I take it you two aren’t so close.”

  “She ever tell you about her grandchildren? She has two, a five-year-old granddaughter and a ten-year-old grandson,” he said. I was so close to his own age, maybe a little too like a daughter to her, and then there was Cass, whom she actually saw and tended and maybe even preferred to her own grandchildren. Norm may have felt threatened by me.

  I shook my head.

  “William is nonverbal. He was tough when he was younger—he used to beat on me and my wife, but mostly her. He’s a big kid, big like me. He gave his mom all kinds of bruises and cuts, but we tried to keep his condition quiet and to give him privacy. Even when people were sniffing around to try to find out whether I was abusing her. This one day, William took down part of our fence, and then our dog Lulu ran off and never came back.” Norm began to massage the back of his neck. “He’d punch through his bedroom wall and smash our glasses and plates. After Natalie was born, things got worse. One of us had to be with William at all times, and the other with the baby. We hired someone—I had to get back to work. But our aide couldn’t be there 24-7, and once, when my wife was on her own with the kids, William tried to bury Natalie under a bunch of pillows and some chairs.”

  I kept my eyes on his face. “I didn’t know.”

  “We had to move him into a group home about an hour and a half away. It was the closest one. That’s always the next question—couldn’t he live closer?” He made a gruff noise indicating that what he had just told me was the tip of a very large iceberg. “Well. My mother didn’t understand or approve of our moving William out of the house. She wanted us to try harder to find someone to help out or even move in with us, as if we could afford that. She kept saying, ‘Parents don’t just give up on their children.’ It was hurtful during an already tough time. Anyway, we should get back to her.”

  I opened my mouth to say something compassionate and wise, but nothing right came to mind. Natalie and Cass were around the same age. I wondered if Bertie’s interest in us was at all colored with misplaced guilt or atonement.

  We returned to the living room and stood uncomfortably for a moment, no one saying anything.

  Norm cleared his throat. “Mom, again, I’d like you to come back to Wichita with me and move in with us. Monica and Natalie and I, and William, we’d all like it. You could get to know them better. You could come visit William with us on weekends.”

  I was not certain that I could have been as magnanimous in this situation.

  “We can’t have you wandering around parking lots, asking strangers for help, you know?” he continued.

  “Not that you’d necessarily do that again,” I said, but this was not my battle.

  Bertie looked up at him. “I’d like to sleep on it tonight, okay?”

  He shrugged.

  Cass got onto his belly and wriggled underneath the coffee table, and I caught Norm watching him.

  Maybe Bertie had said what she did in order to placate her son, when in her mind, she was already planning her next get-together with Ruth.

  “ ‘No going to the lighthouse, James,’ he said, as he stood by the window, speaking awkwardly, but trying in deference to Mrs. Ramsay to soften his voice into some semblance of geniality at least.”

  I had first read the novel at Dartmouth, and had reread it a couple of times when I was in my twenties. To the Lighthouse tells of a big family with a surly father who, at the start, go to thei
r summer home on the eve of World War I. It describes the coming of the war, the deaths of certain family members, the abandonment of that summer house in the Hebrides, and then the family’s return ten years later. It is a story about the nature of change, flux, and the human propensity for unattainable ideals, really, a story that was written in a style and language that was in itself in flux, which made it seem that much truer, but was not particularly calming to me. I had too much flux already, more flux than I could deal with. Someone had once said of the book, “Nothing happens, and everything happens.” The same could be said about life, I thought.

  Back at work on Lana’s book, I was glad to be armed with details like Norton’s trips to Yankees games and his enjoyment of the family dog—details at last, and details that would help Americanize Lana. I wrote a quick draft of her fourth chapter, “The Preschool Years,” but of course these tidbits did not add up to the memoir of a feminist mother, and I had to expand what I had been given, once again. I had Norton playing with the dog while watching Caillou (his cooking and cleaning mom, his working and sporty dad). I had Lana turn off the TV and hand her son a copy of the book Daddy Makes the Best Spaghetti. I also wrote how Lana managed chauvinist neighbors and relatives—with people from different generations and upbringings, sometimes all we can hope for is baby steps—as well as the segregation so often found in preschools, the gendered dress-up and the birthday parties.

  On Ghostwriters Talk, people were discussing the process of writing for clients who were fundamentally different from themselves.

  silentpartner: Last year I had a B with a disability. This was memoir.

  secretscribbler: Did B like the book?

  silentpartner: Sight-impaired, but listened to it on tape. Yeah, really liked it, thank god. I just told myself to go for it the whole time. Stop being self-conscious and just become B!