Love Is a Rebellious Bird

by Elayne Klasson

  We were together day in and day out. In that time, we discovered many things about one another, things that despite the long years of our friendship, we’d never had the opportunity or close proximity to learn. I found out that you had an insatiable appetite for junk food, couldn’t pass a fast-food restaurant without demanding we stop for some greasy treat. I learned that you’d again become a Zionist. As when you were the regional president of AZY, the national Jewish youth organization, you idealized the State of Israel, and, judging by the daily volume of mail you received at the house in Beacon, were a large contributor to Israeli causes. These organizations were left-leaning ones, groups promoting peace within the Middle East and with the Palestinians, rather than the more right-wing, hardline factions, but still, your renewed connection with Israel somehow surprised me. I also discovered that you’d been well-respected in town, serving on any number of committees in Beacon: Friends of the Library, the Art Guild, the Commission to Keep the Hudson River Clean. But you no longer had any interest in these groups and would wave me away impatiently when I conveyed a message from a committee member reminding you of a meeting. “Not now.” You’d shake your head. “Too busy.” Yet the breadth and scope of your involvement in local issues was impressive.

  We developed a comfortable rhythm. Besides accompanying you to your tests with doctors and therapists, we had appointments with lawyers and estate planners, even meetings with real estate agents. Slowly, the weather turned warmer, and I saw patches of green appear as the snow drifts near your house began to melt. I ate more McDonald’s hamburgers and Taco Bell variations on cheese and tortillas in those weeks and months than I’d eaten during the previous twenty-five years. I rediscovered soft drinks, remembering the root beers and orange sodas of our Chicago childhood, enjoying how thirst quenching a fizzy soda could be. We both hated diet drinks, found artificial sugar distasteful. We laughed at how back then we called the drinks “pop,” that word a dead giveaway of midwestern roots. I asked myself: What had I made such a fuss over? Why had I been so rigid about my eating habits? These foods I consumed with Elliot were very, very tasty. I would just have to visit a dentist as soon as I returned to California.

  Eventually, we reached the top of our differential diagnostic tree. Your forgetfulness and confusion was not due to a brain tumor or a metabolic disturbance or an allergy of any type. The CT scans revealed no seizure disorder. We could find no other branches to explore which would explain your symptoms. You had dementia, pure and simple, probably Alzheimer’s, and your condition seemed to be declining at a fairly rapid rate. The doctors showed us charts and graphs. Although no one could predict the precise rate of decline in months or years, it was certain that you could not continue to live alone. Someone must supervise your care, preferably, I thought, someone who loved you.

  In whatever time was left, you and I would be together.

  14

  Elliot’s Table

  It was never a choice to love you, Elliot. On that long-ago September day, with Miss Schaffer humiliating and haranguing you in front of our fifth-grade class and blood seeping from the gash on your leg onto your white trousers, my heart ran out the door with you. I have tried to examine it from all sides, to explain it here, yet still I cannot. My love for you persisted, became a part of me and proved impossible to get rid of, no easier than amputating a hand or foot. Now, nearing the end, the question I need to ask and answer is, what space did loving you take up in my life? For I do realize there was a cost. Economists call this an opportunity cost, what we lose when we choose one thing over another. The answer, one I am ashamed to admit, is that because of my love for you, I loved everyone else inadequately. If my whole life, I thought of one boy, one man, loving this phantom of perfection single-mindedly, wasn’t everyone else bound to come up short? No one could be as brilliant, as beautiful, as articulate. With no one else did I have the magic, the sensory attraction, the insanity. No one else saw into my soul, then gave and was given such consolation.

  I am not blind. I knew, even before the Alzheimer’s, how forgetful and tepid your love for me could be, how your passion for me never ignited in quite the way I dreamed. But I did not care. Sadly, my obsessive love for you made me reckless and careless with all the other men in my life: Jordan, Seth, others I wisely or unwisely invited into my bed, and even my dear, late husband, Walt. None stood a chance. God help me, perhaps even the children, Miriam and Evan and Joe, may also have suffered from my love for you. Always a little lonely, a little dissatisfied without you, could I have loved the others better?

  So, this is the explanation of why, at the relatively young age of seventy-one, I moved into the Loma Alta Retirement Community. It is why I began dining at Mrs. Rosen’s table, rather than in my own dining room in my own house in the Oakland Hills. I needed to find shelter for you and your shrinking mental capacities. Years earlier, making love to me in a hotel room in Manhattan, you’d said it yourself. “We must be connected for our whole lives,” you declared, and then added a powerful image: “I’ll crawl to see you in the old people’s home.” Those were your words, Elliot, and I did not forget them.

  After I returned from the Hudson Valley early that spring, I spent weeks visiting retirement communities (no longer called old people’s homes) throughout Northern California. I went only to the most highly recommended establishments—those limited to people with fat retirement accounts, long-term care insurance policies, or wealthy offspring. These tours were exhausting, but after a while, I realized there was a sameness to all the places, and it was pointless to keep looking. The first stop on all the visits was the office of the marketing director. Their offices are designed to project a homey warmth, with tall vases of fresh flowers and family photos placed strategically on the furniture. The salespeople wear nice suits and ask if you’d like a cup of coffee or tea. Their main job is to reassure guilty families that they are making a correct decision.

  “You are doing the very best for your parents,” they tell daughters and sons. Mom or Dad will certainly prefer living among people their own age and partaking in full and stimulating programs. This, adult children are told, is preferable to living with their own kin where they would be tucked away in a suburban house, empty and quiet by day and confusing and chaotic in the evening. Life at Loma Alta (or Hidden Hills or Rio Vista) will be far superior.

  I was one of the few people who arrived in those marketing offices alone, sans family. I sat before the well-coiffed saleswomen or men and scanned what seemed to be the same shiny sales packet they handed me. All the communities had an art instructor or two, live music after dinner, and buses which ferried residents to grocery stores, cultural events, and even the local outlet mall. You will love the outlet’s bargains, I was told. The retirees, both men and women, shown in the brochures looked healthy, vibrant, and well dressed. I was sure this perfect balance of genders belied the actuarial facts of male and female life expectancy. In truth, few men are actually in the mix. Oh well, none of it mattered. I was bored to death by the brochures and the presentations. My single question for these marketing directors was: Did they have a comprehensive program on-site for those with a diagnosis of dementia?

  Frankly, I’ve always found outlet malls exhausting and avoid them despite any bargains to be had. Instead, I could hardly wait to investigate, with you, all the fast-food establishments in the area. My time in New York had reawakened a fondness for bacon-wrapped cheeseburgers, chocolate milk shakes, and potatoes cooked in God-knows-what animal fat. Before each appointment with the marketing directors, I did a quick Google search to locate how many Jack in the Boxes, In and Outs, and McDonald’s were in the immediate vicinity. You did not yet know about In and Out, Elliot. It thrilled me to think what pleasure that particular chain would give you.

  The living spaces I toured also had a sameness to them. There were pedestals outside many of the doors on which residents could place some knickknack reflecting their previous interests: cross-stitched samplers embroidered with
the grandchildren’s names, watercolors of tropical islands visited, even Hummel figurines depicting doctors or lawyers, or whatever profession represented the life’s work of the inhabitant inside the apartment. These small objects on display seemed sad to me. I had no interest in advertising my identity to those passing through the corridors. I’d already decided that I wanted few memorabilia in this new apartment, only minimalist simplicity, no statues or bric-a-brac. The flats all had a boxy layout; sentimental tchotchkes could not camouflage uninteresting design. Most importantly, both of us would be starting out with a clean slate; our apartment would contain few memories, neither yours nor mine.

  Any two-bedroom apartment would suffice, I told the salespeople. I told them that in a few months, a friend would be arriving from his home in New York. I explained your diagnosis and said you’d live with me for as long as possible. I hoped to be a buffer between you and any tasks that were problematic for you. But I needed to know that eventually, whenever your cognitive and physical function began to worsen to the degree that I could no longer manage to care for you, that you could receive excellent care by experienced staff in a first-rate unit that was part of the same facility in which I lived. So I insisted that the marketing people tour me through the areas that most people preferred not to see—the places housing people in wheelchairs, people who stared vacantly at blank walls, and even the rooms occupied by elderly people in mismatched clothing who were sometimes tethered to their beds with straps. Of course, these were the areas the sales associates would rather not show me.

  I’d done my homework, not to mention that I’d been a social worker for forty years. I knew what a good Alzheimer’s program should include. I had read so much, I could design such a program myself. More importantly, I was in possession of firsthand knowledge of you and what would and would not make you comfortable. The visits went something like this:

  “You wish to look at our Memory Care Unit, Mrs. Sherman? This is for”—and they’d pause and look down uncomfortably at the paperwork I’d completed—“your husband?”

  “No, he’s not my husband. It’s for my friend. A bit down the road.”

  The expected conversation about finances and legal matters would ensue. And then, obvious relief when the administrator learned that we both, you and I, had had the foresight to purchase generous long-term care policies, and that I also had the necessary legal documents to authorize me to make decisions involving your care. How happy they were that these unpleasant matters were so easily resolved. With practiced cheerfulness, they first showed me the billiard tables, the swimming pools, the residents’ art exhibits, and the dining rooms cum restaurants.

  “Would you like to join us for lunch?” one asked. “I’d be glad to order us a meal. We could go the restaurant. Maybe you’d like to meet our dietician.”

  “That’s okay. I’m sure your food is delicious,” I replied and thought that whenever we tired of the dietician’s meals, we could pop out for a quick bacon cheeseburger.

  I barely glanced around on the tours. The endless hallways blurred together. Finally, the administrator would lead me either to the elevator, or on a walk through well-manicured lawns to see a unit separated from the others. One community I toured was so huge, that we hopped on a conveniently placed golf cart to make the trip. At the entrances to these Memory Care Units, there were always keys to turn or numbers on a keypad to press. There would be apologies and fumbling embarrassment about the locks.

  “We don’t want anyone wandering away, getting lost,” the administrator would explain. “That’s everyone’s worst nightmare.”

  “I imagine,” I would say. “Perfectly understandable.” Then I’d ask, “But when exactly was the last time someone wandered off?” I’d fix the administrator with a hard look, waiting for an answer.

  Beyond the usual programs of occupational therapy and mental and physical stimulation, I had three unwritten criteria. First, I had to be able to visit any time, any day, and stay for as long as I liked, as well as to take you for outings as you were able. Second, the place must be clean and smell good. There could be no odors of urine, feces, or stale food lingering in the air. Finally, there could be no piglets or puppies on the wallpaper, no pastel clown decals, or anything else about the décor that smacked of the nursery and infantilizing the residents. I scrutinized the staff to see if there were any overtly sadistic-looking types—a muscular fellow who looked like a capo in a concentration camp, or a frizzy-haired harridan who could have worked on the psychiatric ward of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I knew all about elder abuse and that employees in the low-paying and difficult Alzheimer’s units were generally not Mother Teresas. I looked for compassionate caregivers and, to my relief, found many. My worst fear was bullies who preyed on the confused elderly when no one was watching. And I’d be watching. “Don’t mess with me,” I hoped my eyes said. “I’ll be checking for unexplained bruises or missing valuables.”

  As soon as the house in Oakland was sold, I moved into Loma Alta. I won’t deny it, Elliot, there were sleepless nights. When I did sleep, the dreams invariably featured my house in the hills. I never went back to visit or spy on the new occupants. I didn’t need to—I went there at night in my dreams. The dreams took place in rooms I’d lovingly remodeled and included the bay windows and light refracted by the stained glass. These amazingly specific dreams continue to this day. The characters vary, but not the setting. Someone is always trudging up and down the scuffed wooden staircase, or putting mason jars on pantry shelves, or letting down the folding ladder going up to the attic. Sometimes, the tone is pleasant: I am tucking a child into bed, usually Joseph. My youngest is still small and I see his shiny brown hair, cut in a bowl cut as it used to be, his dark eyes peering out from a thick quilt as I kiss his damp forehead. Sometimes, the dreams are frightening—I’ve forgotten to lock the front door and I hear an intruder’s heavy step as he walks through the hallway toward my bedroom. I wake up with my heart pounding and I wonder if I have shouted out. Always, my dreams occur in that house I loved so much, now occupied by others. I wonder if my dreams will ever take place in this boxy two-bedroom apartment, spare and clean and decorated in black, white, and beige. Will I ever have enough life here to provide fodder for my dreams?

  I’d hired capable Trina to organize closing the house in Beacon. She became much more than a housekeeper, helping with all aspects of your care, including hiring caretakers to come in at night in case you began to wander. Bless that dear woman, she patiently went through every item in the house, helping you decide what to ship out west, what to give away, which objects to sell. I talked to both of you almost every evening, getting efficient updates from Trina and halting, rambling conversations from you. Sometimes you relayed local news from the Beacon paper, sometimes you gave annoyed reports of workmen who were readying the house for sale.

  “Too much noise,” you said one night when I phoned. “Who hired a roofer? My roof is perfectly solid.”

  “The inspector found several places that need to be reshingled,” I answered. “This past winter was so harsh, everybody had roof damage. Remember those snowfalls? But, no more. You won’t have to deal with anything like that out here. No roof repairs ever again. And, the weather. It’s already warm and sunny. No snow to shovel in California.”

  “California?” you sputtered. “Oh, I haven’t got time for a visit to California now. Too busy. Besides, Lillian hates California. She’ll never come out there.”

  I forced myself to breathe slowly, not to take anything personally.

  “Elliot,” I said. “You’re moving out here. Remember? To California. To an apartment I got us. That’s why you’re fixing up the house. You want to get a good price when you sell it. And Lillian’s up in Canada. Running her restaurant.”

  You didn’t answer at first. I’d said too much and I could imagine you were puzzling over my words. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” you finally asked. “All the way to California? That’s a pretty long tri
p.”

  “I do, Elliot,” I said, relieved you had understood. “I think you’ll like it. I think we’ll enjoy it together. It’s nice here.” I realized that what might be worrying you was the actual trip. I reminded myself to slow down, take one step at a time, as the doctors had recommended. Elliot would be thinking very concretely, making short-term rather than long-term plans.

  “Trina will fly out here with you when it’s time,” I said. “She’ll take you to the airport and be on the plane with you. I’ll pick you up. You won’t get lost. You don’t need to worry. Besides,” I said, “you are going to love the garlic fries I’ve found.”

  Two months after I’d moved into Loma Alta, Trina phoned to say that the Beacon house was ready for the realtors. She also thought Elliot was ready to make the trip west. I booked a flight to San Jose, its smaller airport easier to navigate than the massive one in San Francisco. I had longed for this news, fearing your condition would worsen before you could leave and that something terrible might happen while you were still there in New York, a fall, perhaps, or an accidental fire. But now that a date was set for your departure, I felt a new anxiety. I could keep my secret no more. I still had not told anyone, other than the management at Loma Alta, that you would be joining me. It was time. Where would I start? I made an appointment with Dolores. I sat in the comfortable rocking chair she kept in her office. She smiled slyly at me. She’d received an email from the sales office that morning that someone was arriving to join Judith Sherman in her apartment.