by Deidre Berry
There was a collective sigh of relief, however, there were also mixed reactions regarding the doctor’s suggestion to put Mama Nita in a nursing home.
“Oh, hell, no!” Pam said. My sister had worked briefly as a certified nurse’s aide back when she was trying out careers, and knew from firsthand experience that a great number of nursing homes were nothing more than death camps for the elderly and infirmed. The staff are usually overworked, underpaid, and just generally couldn’t care less about their patients.
You can walk into any nursing home anywhere in the world and you will find that they all have that same distinctly disgusting smell. Know what that is? It’s the smell of death and disease. Of hopes and dreams, and lives shriveling up and dying right before your very eyes.
Nursing homes are definitely a necessity, but it’s not where I wanted my grandmother to be.
Plus, every other day on the news there is some story about nursing home abuse, violations, or misconduct. So, of course, I was in agreement with Pam.
“My grandmother is not going into anybody’s nursing home, anywhere on God’s green earth,” I told Doctor Butler, “so—moving on, next topic of discussion!”
“Mrs. Cantrell is going to make a full recovery from her ordeal,” the doctor replied, “but what you need to understand is that with this disease advancing at the rate that it is, she now requires around-the-clock skilled nursing.”
“Didn’t you just hear what my sister said?” Pam asked, incredulous. “In black families, Big Mama is taken care of at home until the day she dies. We don’t put her away in a nursing home and forget about her.”
Doctor Butler, who was not African-American, looked highly offended, not to mention frustrated.
“Eva and Pam, y’all need to calm down and hear the man out, because at this point we can’t handle Mama Nita by ourselves anymore,” said Gwen. “We need to try some other options.”
“And throwing her away in a nursing home is not an option!” I said. “Point blank, period, end of discussion.”
Regardless of the opposition, the good doctor went on to explain just what our options were in regards to caring for Mama Nita from there on out. 1) Put her in a nursing facility where her care would be paid for by insurance, Social Security, and Medicaid. 2) Contract with a home health agency for in-home care. 3) Pay for a private duty nurse out of our own pockets.
“So what it boils down to is that we really only have one option,” Pam said, “Because the second so-called option is just as bad as the first.”
Again, I had to agree with my sister. Just as with nursing homes, I had heard horror stories about how some home health agencies are staffed by unreliable, unlicensed personnel with no credentials to speak of, other than the agency’s eight-hour training course on how to be a home companion.
Clearly, paying for a qualified live-in nurse was really the only choice we had as a family, and for that, we were going to need some serious money.
Let’s Make a Deal
Hours after that crucial family meeting, I had a sit-down with Larry Nichols from Hue Magazine. He was the reporter who had somehow wormed his way into Gwen’s good graces and harassed me at the airport for an interview.
I hadn’t wanted to speak with him at the time out of loyalty and respect for Donovan, but after thinking it over, I had come to realize that I’d been misguided. Where was Donovan’s loyalty and respect for me when he was busy setting up offshore bank accounts in my name, implicating me as a willing participant in his grand diabolical scheme? Besides, Larry was offering five thousand dollars for the exclusive interview.
Technically, I was selling out, but since I planned to use every penny of that money on Mama Nita’s care, it was a no-brainer for me.
I had gotten Larry’s business card from Gwen, and as I dialed his number, I thought back to that moment when I was sitting in jail wondering what it was in life that I was passionate about. I’m passionate about getting my career back on track and regaining independence, but most of all I’m passionate about my family. Being back with them made me realize that there were no limits I wouldn’t go to contribute to their health, welfare, and well-being.
So if some funny-looking guy with a big jughead wanted to pay me to know me, then so be it. Cut the check!
I met up with Larry at the fabulous Charlie Trotter’s restaurant in Lincoln Park. One of the best restaurants in Chicago, CT’s is the height of elegance and fine dining. When I walked in it almost brought a tear to my eye because I was reminded of the good old days when Donovan used to eat in places like CT’s every night of the week.
I wore a cranberry Alexander McQueen sweater dress from two seasons before, and a pair of black patent leather sling back heels that I’d bought from Payless for $22.99. It was a tasteful mix of high and low fashion, of which I was sure Michelle Obama would be proud.
Larry had been waiting for me in the lounge area, and when he came over to greet me, I was instantly reminded of one of my English professors from the University of Chicago. Along with those bottle-thick Harry Potter glasses of his, he was wearing brown Hush Puppy loafers that matched his slacks, a white Polo shirt, and a tan corduroy jacket with brown patches of suede at the elbow. “Ms. Cantrell, so glad you made it.” Larry said, looking and sounding relieved.
“Of course I made it.” I smiled, turning on the charm, “I called you, didn’t I?” My tone was sweet and friendly, because after all, he was the man with five grand in his hand, so no need to be as nasty and dismissive as I was the first time around.
At Larry’s request, we were seated at a table for two in the quietest area of the restaurant. A hot two seconds after we placed our food and wine orders, Larry put a mini-cassette recorder in the middle of the table and pressed record. “So tell me a little about yourself and how you came to know Donovan Dorsey,” he said, all business.
I started with the facts, which were pretty straightforward and basic. How Donovan and I met at the Maxim party, and the fairy-tale life I had shared with him up until the day he disappeared in Switzerland.
Larry listened intently and I could literally see the dollar signs in his eyes. I was giving him the story he wanted, and it was exclusive information that no other publication in the world would have except for Hue Magazine, which was as much a staple in the black community as Everett Hair Care products.
Larry and I talked for nearly two hours, and it became clear to me why he had chosen to meet at that particular location. Charlie Trotter’s is a restaurant where you don’t just go for a meal, you go for an experience that includes several courses, accompanied by lots and lots of wine.
Going into the third course, I was a regular Chatty Cathy.
“One on one, outside of this bullshit scandal that he’s created, Donovan was really a great guy— I mean a good, good man!” I said. “But truthfully, the longer the two of us are apart, the more freedom I feel.”
“Really? I’d like to hear more about that,” Larry said in the manner of a psychologist to a patient.
If loose lips truly sink ships, then I was torpedoing Donovan’s ass, giving up details of the good, the bad, and the bizarre.
Like Donovan’s obsession with hand sanitizer, and his insistence that I only wear silk lingerie and pajamas. No sweats, velour, T-shirts, flannel, or flats—EVER. And sneakers were only to be worn while I was actually working out.
The man was a stickler for details most people would consider minute. For instance, the bedsheets had to be changed every other day, like clockwork, and get this, the ends of the toilet paper had to be folded into a point just as they would be at any luxury hotel.
“Sounds like a man obsessed with perfection,” Larry said, still in amateur psychologist mode.
“Oh, very much so,” I said, “and looking back, he looks less like a mentor who I thought was molding me into a better, more refined woman and more like a control freak.”
“But you didn’t feel like you were being controlled while you were in the relation
ship?”
“No, because it wasn’t done in a domineering, Ike Turner kinda way, you know?”
“Yeah, but telling you that he preferred for you not to wear T-shirts is still a form of control, no matter how nice he was in making the request.”
“Hey, no disagreements here,” I said, throwing my hands up. “You said it, so it must be true.”
“If you could use one word to describe Donovan Dorsey, what would it be?”
“Hmm, just one?”
Larry shrugged. “Or two.”
I thought for a few seconds, and the words “shrewd sonofabitch” slipped out of my mouth.
“Okay.” Larry laughed. “And how would you describe yourself ?”
“Miss Understood.”
Larry nodded as if I had his sympathy. “Well, hopefully that will change once people get a chance to read your side of the story.” He raised his wineglass in a toast, and said, “To being understood. . . .”
“Hear, hear!”
The next morning, I was in line at the bank thirty seconds after they opened to cash the check Larry had given me. I hadn’t done much to earn the money, except run my mouth, but I still felt a sense of accomplishment as I watched the bank teller count out all of those hundreds and fifties. Money that I in turn counted out to Beulah Hutchinson, director of the groundbreaking Healthy Mind Project.
Doctor Butler had put us in touch with Beulah, who helped us realize that we had more options than we had originally thought. For eight hundred dollars a week, Mama Nita would have in-home care from 7:30 AM to 10:00 PM, from a nurse whose specialty is dealing with Alzheimer’s patients and helping to keep their brains active.
From 10:30 PM until 7:00 AM, Mama Nita participated in a night care program, which was like a social club for Alzheimer’s patients.
It was a win-win situation for all of us, but it was only a drop in the bucket. Mama Nita needed long-term care, and for that I needed long-term income.
Not for Nothing
A new year rolled in, and with it came a renewed hope that somehow, some way, I was going to get my proverbial shit together, once and for all. I was especially optimistic because it was a time when barriers were being broken left and right. Change had come to America, and anything you put your heart and mind to was possible. Not only was the incoming president African-American, but New York also had its very first African-American governor who also happened to be legally blind.
God bless David Paterson because I mean, really. What are the odds? It was stories like Paterson’s and Barack Obama’s that inspired me into thinking and feeling that I would not be the underdog who was always coming up short for very much longer.
This was my year. Shit! I could feel it in the air. My exuberance caused me to have a little extra pep in my step when I walked into the lounge at the Four Seasons hotel, where Vance was waiting for me at the bar just like he’d said he would be. “Vance, is that you?” I teased, noting that he was dressed casually, which made him look younger and much more relaxed. He looked good. “I was starting to think you were born in Armani!”
Was it me, or did his eyes really light up when he saw me?
“Look at you!” said Vance, kissing me on the cheek. “You’ve got this laid-back, stress-free aura about you now.”
“It must be the Midwestern air.”
“In that case, bottle it and sell it ’cause you’re even more gorgeous than usual.”
I shrugged off the compliment and tried not to blush. For some reason, seeing Vance again was making me feel some kinda way. Horny, to be specific. Especially since I had seen him naked in all his glory and there was a photographic, pornographic image of what he was working with seared into my brain.
However, it was useless to even entertain lustful thoughts of getting to know Vance better, because he was Donovan’s lawyer—as well as mine (even though I had yet to pay him for his services).
“Happy belated New Year,” I said, sitting on the bar stool next to Vance. “It’s so good to see you here in my neck of the woods.”
“You were kind of in a bad way the last time I saw you, so I just wanted to check in on you and make sure you’re doing okay.”
“Much better,” I said. “My friend Tameka was right. Nothing like family to give you a whole new perspective on things.”
“Would you care for a drink, ma’am?” the bartender asked, sliding a square white napkin in front of me.
It was a Monday, and barely noon, so I ordered a virgin strawberry daiquiri with extra whipped cream.
“Have you heard anything from Donovan?” Vance asked.
“Not a word,” I said with a shrug. “So, how long are you going to be in town?”
“Just until tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “but the real questions is, when are you coming back to New York?”
Like promises, New Year’s resolutions were made to be broken, so I had not made any for 2009. I did, however, make a huge life decision that I hadn’t shared with anyone else yet.
“I’m not going back to New York,” I said, letting Vance in on the secret. “I have some loose ends to tie up back there, but after that, I’m here in Chicago to stay.”
Vance looked crestfallen, but what could he say? I was grown, and it was my life and my decision. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
“No, my family needs me, so it’s pretty much a done deal.” I never thought I would hear myself say those words. All of my life, it was all about Eva and what I wanted and needed. I was actually looking forward to making my family the focal point instead of just myself. “But enough of all that. How do you want to spend your time here in Chicago?”
“Well, the bartender says there’s some good fishing out at the Chain of Lakes.”
“Fishing? This time of year?”
“Illinois is the ice fishing capital of the world,” Vance said. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Ms. Chi-City.”
“Oh, I knew that, it’s just that most folks I know save themselves the hassle and go get their fish battered and fried from Shark’s Fish & Chicken joint.”
“Ah, that’s for wimps!” Vance said. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Dousing that fresh, fluffy fish with hot sauce, and eating it with some cole slaw and hush puppies—that’s where!” I laughed. “And anyway, what does a city boy like you know about fishing?”
“Plenty! When I was a kid, my grandfather used to take me and my cousins up to the Catskills to fish all the time,” said Vance. “It’s fun and relaxing, and we’re going to get some great fish out of it to share with the family.”
“I don’t know who’s going to clean it, because I’m sure not!’ I said, which was a disclaimer, and also my way of agreeing to the fifty-mile road trip out to the Chain of Lakes.
Global warming being what it is, the temperature that day was an unseasonably warm sixty degrees.
We took Vance’s rental car over to Henry’s Sports and Bait Shop on Canal Street and picked up fishing poles, bait, a tackle box, a portable heater, and two of those camouflage head-to-toe snowsuits with the rubber boots built in.
All this for some damn fish? I wondered when the total came out to be $347.67. If Vance had been my man, I would have put my foot down, but since he wasn’t my man, and was a guest in my hometown, I felt it was my duty to oblige him in whatever he wanted to get into while he was in town. Complete foolishness or not.
The ride up to northern Michigan was as beautiful as it was scary.
There were canyons and valleys that stretched as far as the eye could see with nothing but big thickets of trees that I imagined would be beautiful come springtime.
On the other hand, it was scary because the two-lane “highway” that we were traveling on was so narrow that I suffered a panic attack each time a huge semitruck whizzed past us at a high rate of speed, headed in the opposite direction.
Following the GPS instructions, Vance took an exit that led us through a town with a population of 544, and that
had a teeny-tiny cemetery where it seemed as though the families were trying to outdo one another with their extravagant flower arrangements and headstones.
Most of the homes were ranch in style, and some of the yards were even decorated with wooden wagon wheels and cheesing, black-faced lawn jockeys. I had never seen anything quite like it, and to be honest, it felt like we had somehow wandered onto the set of The Andy Griffith Show.
It had been many years since I had last seen a soda machine outside, but this one was outside of an auto parts store that was right next door to a two-stall carwash that only cost fifty cents. The town had a one-truck firehouse with a hand-painted sign seeking volunteers, and when we passed it for a second time, that’s when I knew we were lost.
“So much for GPS devices,” Vance spoke up, before I had the chance to point out the obvious. “I had heard these things weren’t all that reliable out in rural areas, but this is ridiculous!”
Nightfall had come upon us quickly. The weather may have been springlike that day, but Vance had failed to take into account that it was winter and that the sun set around five in the evening. Now, I am sure it can be done, but I certainly wasn’t up for fishing in the dark.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” I asked as we drove down what had to be the bumpiest back road in Illinois.
“Not a clue.... I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Umm . . . in case you haven’t noticed this isn’t exactly my hood,” I said with low-key sarcasm. “And it’s really too bad we never even made it out to Chain of Lakes.”
“Yeah, I can tell you’re all torn up about it.” He laughed, which caused me to join in.
“I am, actually,” I said, “but at least we got a chance to take a nice ride and enjoy the countryside.”
Just as I said that, a possum or some such creature darted across the road in front of us.
Vance said, “Now there’s something you don’t see every day in New York.”
I resisted the urge to scream, because after all, I had stared king rat eyeball-to-eyeball up in Harlem and lived to tell about it. Country roadkill wasn’t nearly as menacing as the big-city variety.
