Amy remained in the hall. “Dad, like, she just saw me at dinner. Did she forget or something?”
“She’s disoriented, Amy. From having been asleep and falling. She probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow. Go ahead get ready for bed.” He kissed his daughter on her forehead and looked in on their son. Josh had fallen asleep with his reading light on and slept through the commotion. Mitch turned his son’s lamp off and reattached the gate to the hallway wall to keep his aunt from wandering to the top of the staircase.
Downstairs, he slipped the leash over Oliver’s head and closed the front door quietly. Outside, the sky was clear with just a hint of fall in the night air. Oliver sniffed at the base of the maple tree Mitch had planted with his young son almost five years ago. They had a tradition of planting trees when someone in the family died. The autumn gold maple was for Ell’s father. It was a sturdy, protective shade tree, green and soothing in the summer and gloriously colored in the fall. Its leaves already had a tinge of orange, yellow and red.
What kind of tree would they plant for Aunt Helen? The thought intrigued him as he ambled up the street. Mitch envisioned a lonely, scraggly pine on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, gnarled and bent, it’s straight upward growth thwarted by the constant strong winds, but tenaciously surviving nevertheless on a rocky outcropping, with the ocean’s waves crashing below. That image fit Aunt Helen but not their quiet urban street of large single-family homes, small lots surrounded by fences or hedges, and the constant sound of city buses one street over. Maybe a scruffy little evergreen would have to do, he thought. Oliver stopped at the corner of two hedges, sniffing to smell who had been by. He lifted a leg to add his own scent to the neighborhood canine communication network.
Mitch was troubled by his next thought that Aunt Helen wouldn’t survive in the nursing home. She was too independent, strong willed and had lived alone for too long. No, she would survive and endure it, but she would be miserable. The worst thought pushed it’s way forward so strongly, he almost said it out loud. Maybe he was putting his tiny, frail, old, beloved aunt in the nursing home because it was easier for him, not best for her. He had Eleanor and the kids to think about, he reasoned. He and Ell had to work. They couldn’t afford home care. Aunt Helen had no money to pay for anything. He completed the usual route around the block. The practical and perfectly rational answers to his troubling thought of selfishness did not make him feel any better.
“Look what I found,” Eleanor said when he came back. She was sitting on the sofa, going through the cardboard box. She held up a thin, brown book, the title on the cover in gold letters.
“Religious Duties of the Daughters of Israel,” Mitch read out loud, squinting at the words, too lazy to get his reading glasses.
Eleanor opened the inside cover. “It’s inscribed by the author, a Rabbi of course, to Helen’s mother. Why is it that men make up such burdensome rules for women to follow? I like the section on duties for parents in training children.” She thumbed through the yellowed pages looking for a particular passage. “This is a gem. After our children are nine, you, as the father, are to take them to synagogue and I, as the mother, sort of fade into the background and keep the house clean, light candles for the Sabbath, bake challah and go to ritual baths after my period.”
“It’s from another era, Ell. Aunt Helen kept it because it was a book that belonged to her mother.”
“I know. But it’s not that different in philosophy from people today who believe that a woman can’t be President or head of a corporation. Or God forbid, be in combat in the military. I’m going to show this to Amy. I want her to grow up strong and independent with no self-imposed limits because she’s female.”
“Ell, how could she think otherwise? You’re her mother.”
His wife smiled and inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment. “And you’re her father and that helps her too.”
He stayed home on Thursday. Ell was chairing a morning meeting of her team at work and promised to be home as early as possible in the afternoon. He and Aunt Helen sat in the kitchen, drinking hot tea. Oliver wandered in and put his square muzzle on Aunt Helen’s lap, waiting to be stroked. She patted his broad head gingerly.
Mitch leaned forward to move him. “Oliver. No,” he said sharply, grabbing the dog by his collar.
“It’s alright. Really it is.”
“Aunt Helen, I know you’re afraid of dogs. So it’s not all right. I want you to be comfortable in our house.” He started to pull Oliver away. The dog sat down obstinately, his dark brown eyes appealing to Aunt Helen for help.
“Mitchell. Leave Oliver alone,” she said emphatically. “I’m afraid of dogs because the Poles turned their dogs loose on Jewish children. But I’m not afraid of Oliver. He’s your dog so he’s a Jewish dog,” she said, with unassailable logic. “I like him.” She put her teacup down and awkwardly rubbed him behind one ear with both her hands. Oliver rumbled appreciatively.
“Do dogs have last names? Is he Oliver Farber?”
“No, Aunt Helen. He’s just plain Oliver.”
His cell phone rang before he could explain further. It was the Nursing Home Admissions Office. Aunt Helen’s room was ready. He realized guiltily, his first reaction was of joyous relief.
“That was someone from your new home,” he explained. “We’re going there later this morning.” He reached out and touched her hands. They were warm from her holding the teacup. “Do you want to help me pack your things?”
“What things?” She looked confused. “I’ll stay here with Oliver Farber.” You get ready darling,” she said, as if he were the one moving out. She turned her attention to stroking the dog’s massive head on her lap.
It didn’t take Mitch very long to put his Aunt’s clothing in her suitcase. He decided to leave her personal items in the guest room. They could bring them when they visited, this weekend. Another guilty feeling seeped from his subconscious. This evening and Friday, with Aunt Helen moved out, his home would return to normal.
The Bethesda Hebrew Home for the Elderly was located just off Rockville Pike in the type of neighborhood where the zoning permitted non-residential use. It was mostly lower middle class single family, bungalow houses on small lots. In contrast, the Home was set back on expansive grounds with a well maintained lawn, dotted with new, redwood stained picnic tables and weathered, white gazebos. Its four, connected, red brick buildings, three stories each, formed a gentle converse arc, with the long, curving driveway intersecting the complex just off center. The entrance area was like the approach to check in at a hotel, but wider to accommodate ambulances. It was covered by a broad flat roof to protect visitors and residents from the elements. Two heavy glass automatic sliding doors opened into a modern lobby and reception desk. The buildings’ dark brown, mansard style roofs were obscured from the street by tall evergreens, which in turn shaded azaleas, rhododendrons, mountain laurel, and perennial flower beds of crocuses, daffodils, tulips and irises. The landscaped grounds and reassuring elegant solidity of the red brick buildings proclaimed to relatives that this was a place where their loved ones would be well taken care of.
Mitch parked the Taurus in the visitor’s parking lot close to the lobby. He walked slowly with Aunt Helen, carrying her scuffed suitcase in one hand and supporting her under her arm with his other. Now that they were actually here, he felt more guilty about thinking of his aunt as a burden. He told the receptionist they had an appointment with Ms. Gould in Admissions. Aunt Helen sank into a large deep armchair, her feet not quite touching the floor. Standing in the lobby, he was aware of some smell, masked by the much stronger odor of anti-septic. It was a sour decaying scent, not quite like urine and feces. There was that too. It was more bitter and slightly musky, like aging, dying skin, and clogged pores leaking bad body odors that no amount of soap would wash away.
“I already have Social Security,” Aunt Helen said.
“I know that, Aunt Helen,” Mitch replied, annoyed at himself for n
ot distracting her with small talk.
“Then, why are we here?” she asked.
“I told you before,” he said a bit impatiently. “It’s a nursing home, Aunt Helen. A Jewish place. They can take care of you here. Much better than Ell and I can at home.”
Helen looked around the lobby at the ƒåux French landscape paintings in heavy ornate, gold colored frames. “It doesn’t look Jewish to me,” she said loudly. He went back to reception and brought her the Home’s brochure. He thumbed through the pages of photographs of happy, smiling elderly people, engaged in various activities. He skipped the part on assisted living. Based on the evaluation from New London Social Services, the Home had already told him his aunt was incapable of living in such an unsupervised environment. He found the pages listing the Rabbis who tended to the residents’ needs, the scheduled services for the High Holidays and the certification of the kosher kitchen. He showed her the booklet. She brought a page close to her face.
“I don’t like kosher food,” she said emphatically. “I want ham sandwiches.”
“Well, well, is this our new resident? I’m Sarah Gould. Is this your mother, Mr. Farber? ” Mitch stood up and shook her hand. She was shorter than him, he guessed probably in her low 40s, thin, with a narrow chin, a little too much lipstick and rouge, her brown hair pulled back in a bun with a Japanese looking kind of pin at the back, and a colorful scarf around her neck. She wore a stylish and pristine pressed dark blue pantsuit.
He had never thought he looked like Aunt Helen. “No, no,” he said too quickly. “This is my aunt, Helen Plonsker.”
Aunt Helen was struggling to push herself from the plush depths of the armchair. Mitch reached down and helped her to her feet.
Aunt Helen smiled graciously. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” She held on to Sarah’s hand. “That’s a very nice perfume you have on.”
“It’s Shalimar, by Guerlain,” she said, “It’s so sweet of you to notice. Let’s go down to my office and start getting you settled into your new home.”
They followed her down a sunlit corridor, with handrails on both sides. Sarah kept up a cheerful patter, about the inner courtyard garden where some residents in wheel chairs sat in the late September sun, and the concerts, art programs, dances, games and holiday celebrations held in the now empty activities room. Aunt Helen ignored her, tugged for Mitch to bend down, and in an audible whisper said, “She has on too much perfume,” emphasizing each word. Sarah continued down the hall ahead of them, the back of her ears reddening.
Once in her office, Sarah took out a folder, extracted a sheaf of papers and handed them to Aunt Helen. “Well, this won’t take too long and after we can meet some of the residents on your floor. You have a private room in this building, which I think is one of the nicest. It’s so convenient to the activities center. I’m sure you’ll like it. We’ll put your name outside on the door and you can bring some of your things, paintings, photos, even one or two small pieces of furniture if you want to.”
Aunt Helen looked at the papers in front of her, overwhelmed by Ms. Gould’s chatter. “I told you,” she said, turning to her nephew, “I already have Social Security.”
“Does she need help in filling out the forms?” Sarah asked Mitch. “Oh dear, yes she does, doesn’t she,” Sarah said, immediately answering her own question. “Well, let’s fill them out together and see what we have.”
He went through Part One of the first form, quickly writing down her last known home address, marital status, age and talking with his aunt to keep her involved.
“What’s your birthday, Aunt Helen?” although he remembered as a child, celebrating it every Columbus Day. It was a ritual repeated every year. Aunt Helen would open her gifts from the family and shout, “You shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have done it.” She would kiss his mom and dad, hug Mitch and give him a present because it was her birthday and she wanted to. He could still hear his mother’s gentle reproach, “You’re spoiling him, Helen.”
“September 15, 1919.”
“Come on Aunt Helen. It’s October 12th. It’s easy to remember.”
“It is September 15, 1919,” she repeated with vehemence. Mother had told her, when they arrived at Ellis Island, the registration clerk had not understood her answer when he asked for Helen’s date of birth. Fine, the Italian clerk had said, I’ll give you Columbus Day for your birthday. It’s a good American holiday. He had made the entry and processed them through. The FBI was already after her for giving the wrong date on her naturalization papers. No, she was not going to lie again to the federal government. This woman with too much perfume would report her.
Mitch put down the pen, exasperated. “If it’s the 15th, Aunt Helen, we’ve already missed it and you won’t get any presents.”
She glared back at him. “Mitchell. Don’t say stupid things,” she reprimanded him.
“What do I put down,” he asked, looking to Sarah for guidance.
“Doesn’t she have a birth certificate?”
“It wasn’t in the papers I brought down with me from New London.”
“Well, let’s put down September 15th and we will check it with Social Security later.”
“I told you. I already have Social Security,” Aunt Helen repeated vehemently.
“That’s ok, Aunt Helen,” Mitch said quickly moving on. “What should we put down for occupation? Remember your hat store in New London?”
“That’s nice, Ms. Plonsker,” Sarah said, without giving her a chance to answer. “We make costumes for all our holiday parties, and especially Purim. Why don’t we put down worked in a hat shop, Mr. Farber. That will be descriptive and help our social workers place her properly into the Home’s activities.”
“I did not make hats. I owned Helen’s Hat Shop on 96 Main Street in New London,” Aunt Helen snapped. “I am a businesswoman and millinery sales person.” Then she leaned over to Mitch, and whispered in too loud a voice, “When we leave, I want to tell you something about you know who,” using her head to gesture obviously toward Sarah.
Mitch nodded and plowed on filling in the rest of the forms on finances, health history, dietary preferences or limitations, and capability to perform daily tasks. It went much the same way. Lack of information, misinformation and confusion from Aunt Helen, helpful, cheery assistance from Sarah, followed by audible whispered criticism of her by his aunt.
“Do you want to sign, Aunt Helen?”
She looked at him bewildered. “Sign what?”
“The forms we just filled out. It’s to admit you to the Home where they’ll take care of you.”
She stared at him. Mitch thought he saw in her eyes, first fear and then understanding. “I would be much happier living with you,” she said softly.
“I know, I know. It’s just not possible, Aunt Helen.” He stroked her hands with the prominent blue veins running back from her knuckles toward her wrists. They were so cold he enveloped them in his and held on. When he looked into her eyes again, the clarity of understanding was gone.
“Well now, Mr. Farber. Why don’t you sign for her and sign your name also. Then, while your aunt is being made comfortable, we can deal with the financial arrangements.” She pressed a button on the desk phone. “I need someone to escort a new admission,” Sarah said, rearranging the papers they had spent almost an hour completing. She placed the financial form to the side.
A large, heavy African American woman in a starched white uniform opened the door.
“Agnes. This is Ms. Plonsker. Please take her upstairs to Room 318A. Mr. Farber, I’ll show you how to get there after we’re done.”
Mitch walked with his aunt to the door and stood watching as she and Agnes walked slowly down the hall, Aunt Helen’s frail, bent figure with her white hair, dwarfed by Agnes, who easily carried the suitcase simultaneously as she guided Helen. Aunt Helen disappeared into the elevator. Agnes turned around and smiled at him before the door closed.
He turned and saw that Sarah was star
ing at him. She smiled sympathetically. “It’s natural to feel that way, Mr. Farber. Many relatives do when they first see our staff, which is predominantly black. But we give our personnel sensitivity training so they will understand that our residents are people of an older generation. Some, like your aunt, were even born in Europe. They have a different attitude toward African Americans than you and I do. They may say something.” Sarah paused searching for the right way to express her thought. “Inappropriate.
Which you or I would never say.”
“What?” Mitch asked, not following Sarah.
“Liberal people like us feel uneasy about leaving their parents in the care of black staff. They’re afraid their parents may say something insulting. Our residents often do but we know, and so does our staff, that they don’t mean it. It happens all the time.”
“My aunt doesn’t think that way,” Mitch replied. “She never has. I was thinking how alone and terrified she must feel.” He wanted to say how guilty he felt leaving her, but he didn’t want to confess to Ms. Gould.
Sarah flushed but plunged ahead with what sounded to him like the prepared speech he assumed she made to all relatives of new residents. “Most of the nurses assistants are either African or from the Caribbean. Their English is more accented or at least different in pattern than the residents are familiar with. To make it worse, many of the residents have hearing problems. This frequently leads to misunderstandings about what was said, or expressions of frustration when a resident feels she has not been understood. Sometimes, they call the staff ‘stupid’ or worse, but as I said, our staff has been trained to understand.”
“I’m glad you educated your staff. Maybe people should take the time to explain things to their relatives,” Mitchell said smiling politely.
“Oh,” Sarah said, fussing with the folder on her desk and retreating to a safer topic. “On the finances, as I explained, we will need one month in advance while you arrange with Montgomery County to pay for nursing home care. The County’s payment together with your aunt’s Social Security will cover the monthly charge of $2,950 and Medicaid will pay for most of the medicines she’ll need. The beauty shop is an extra and we can bill you for that monthly. Also, we have a small canteen and residents usually have $25 or so for cookies, snacks, and soft drinks or to buy raffle tickets. We can set that up now if you like.”
The Orange Tree Page 4
