The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  Mitch and Aunt Helen sat on one side of the table. Mrs. Sherman was on the other.

  “I’ll take notes of what is said, but nothing is being recorded. You are expected to tell the truth although I don’t administer an oath,” Mr. Williams said, looking at Aunt Helen. “Shall we begin, Ms. Plonsker? This seems like a simple matter. The County claims that you are a DC resident and therefore not entitled to coverage by the County for a portion of the fees charged by the Greater Bethesda Hebrew Home for the Elderly,” he said in quick, clipped phrases. “The District of Columbia claims that you are a transient and not a DC resident. Do you want to state your position, or will your nephew speak for you?” He waited for Mitch or Aunt Helen to respond.

  Before Mitch could say anything, Aunt Helen blurted out, “I’ve always disliked old people. Now that I’m old, I hate them even more. That’s my position, what’s yours?”

  “Mr. Hearing Officer, let me speak for my aunt,” Mitch said quickly.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Farber. And call me Mr. Williams. It’s an informal hearing.”

  “Wait, Mitchell.” He stopped, afraid to hear what Aunt Helen would say now.

  “Are you related to Charles Williams? His wife, Virginia was one of my best customers in New London. She always bought at least three hats at Easter time.” Aunt Helen paused, as if trying to pull more details from her memory. “She was a size 6 and 7/8. She had a small head and looked her best in light pastels because it flattered her complexion. Her hair was reddish brown, you see, which went very well with a soft rose color,” Helen said, as if Virginia Williams was in the room trying on hats. “Charles was an officer on the Nautilus, I think for the first two cruises, or maybe it was three,” she said, cocking her head, trying to remember. “He was a polite young man, very bright and intelligent. Very certain of himself. I’m sure you know what I mean. He went on to command his own submarine and then,” she stopped, looking confused, “I just can’t remember what happened to him. But,” she said pointing her finger at Mr. Williams, “if you’re a relative of his, I’m sure you’re intelligent also.”

  Mr. Williams shook his head. “Thank you, Ms. Plonsker but I’m not related.” He had a bemused expression on his face. “I will try to decide this case intelligently, though.” He nodded to Mitch. “Mr. Farber, please proceed.”

  Mitch quickly explained the circumstances which had led up to his moving his aunt from New London, the condition of her apartment, the absence of the promised opening at the nursing home and the brief stay at their house. He recounted her falling and embellished a bit, to emphasize her need for constant care. “If we had the financial resources to provide proper round the clock nursing care at home, we’d have my aunt live with us. But we don’t. We can’t afford it.”

  Aunt Helen’s head had dropped down on her chest and she seemed to have nodded off during Mitch’s presentation. Suddenly, she jerked her head up. “I don’t understand what this is all about,” she said angrily. “I’m an old lady and I sleep too much, I don’t like people and I don’t like myself. Our family is educated. We stand up for each other. No one should hurt my nephew. None of you.” She pointed a long bony finger at Mr. Williams and Mrs. Sherman.

  “No one is going to hurt Mr. Farber,” Mr. Williams assured her. “Mrs. Sherman, anything for the County?”

  “We’ve submitted our written statement. We’ll rely on that.”

  Mr. Williams rearranged the papers in front of him. “The question is what the regulations require,” he said, directing his comments to Mitch and Mrs. Sherman. “Their purpose is to prevent a drain upon the County’s resources by an influx of DC residents. The District denies that Ms. Plonsker is a resident and has classified her as a transient. Mr. Farber has told us about moving his aunt down from another State to become a resident of a nursing home in Montgomery County. A practice I note, which is not prohibited by the regulations. She lived, but did not reside, for a brief period, just a matter of days really, within the District, staying at her nephew’s house. Obviously, from Ms. Plonsker’s comments here today, she considers herself to have been a resident of New London, Connecticut. The County will not be exposed to paying for DC residents by requiring it to provide coverage for this woman. I conclude that she satisfies the Regulations currently in force as a resident from another State moving into a nursing home located in Montgomery County. The portion of the Bethesda Hebrew Home for the Elderly fees allowed to be paid for by the County shall be paid in her case, effective as of this date. The appeal is sustained.” He stood up, shook hands with Mitch and Mrs. Sherman. He walked around the table to where Aunt Helen was sitting and extended his hand. She took it in both of hers.

  “It was so nice to meet you,” she said. “I hope to see you again soon.”

  As they left the room, Mitch stopped Mrs. Sherman in the hall. “You didn’t put up much of an argument.”

  “As I said, we submitted a written statement of position. Besides, it has cost you four months’ payments. Mr. Williams didn’t make his decision retroactive.”

  “Thank you for your consideration,” Aunt Helen said to Mrs. Sherman. “It was nice of you to come. I hope to see you again soon.”

  Mrs. Sherman smiled. “You’ve a fine nephew, Ms. Plonsker. It’s nice to a see a family stick together. Goodbye and good luck to you.”

  It was only after he was buckled in that he noticed the pink card under the windshield wiper. It was $50 for illegally parking in a handicapped space.

  “Damn,” he said, putting the ticket in his jacket pocket and getting back in the car.

  “What is it darling? Aunt Helen asked.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Well, how did we do? she asked on the way back to the Hebrew Home.

  “We did all right, Aunt Helen. It turned out fine.”

  “Good. I didn’t want to lose my social security.” She smiled at him.” You’re a good person Mitchell. We are all good people. Mother told me that last night.”

  “That’s nice, Aunt Helen. I’m glad.”

  They made it back to the Home just before lunch. Aunt Helen moved slowly down the cafeteria line, pushing her walker, looking at the wrapped sandwiches, fruit salads and choices of hot plates. She seemed overwhelmed by too many choices and frozen in place by indecision. Mitch impatiently tried to hurry her along, his arm around her back, pressuring her to move forward. She put a sandwich on her tray and shuffled slowly down the counter. Then, she changed her mind. Slowly and laboriously she reversed her walker, bumping into people, and trundling against the flow, she went back and placed her wrapped sandwich among slices of pie. She saw something else, broke into the line, provoking a squawk of surprise from another resident, chose another dish and bewildered, looked around for her nephew.

  Exasperated, Mitch gave up trying to hurry her along. He decided to stay with Aunt Helen and go home afterwards. No sense fighting his way downtown in traffic, only to spend a few hours in the office. Finally, she picked out a hot meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and cooked carrots. He got her settled at a small table by the window looking out on an inner garden. He went back and selected a salad, a cup of split pea soup with a roll and a Coke. She ate almost everything on her plate, slowly chewing her food while looking around the dining room. Mitch noticed that, outside of the few hired special nurses feeding patients this Friday afternoon, he was the only non-residents in the room.

  “Mitchell, could you get me a cup of hot coffee, and if they have an orange, that would be nice.” He went back on line, explained to the cashier the coffee and orange were for his aunt, so there was no charge. On impulse he bought a chocolate brownie for himself. Ell would disapprove, pointing out that the salad did not justify the brownie.

  He returned to find Aunt Helen engaged in an animated conversation with a young woman, her round face framed by a stylish, tangle of brown reddish curls, the kind in Hair Cuttery ads on Metro buses. She wore dangling silver earrings with a deep purple stone to match the color o
f her fingernails. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Molly Bernstein, your aunt’s social worker.” She didn’t get up but shook his hand firmly, welcoming him with a broad smile. Her freckled cheeks were full, almost Inuit looking, which gave her eyes a more elongated, cheerful appearance.

  “Surely not her personal one?” he asked, letting his voice rise at the end of the sentence to indicate he was not taking her literally.

  “No,” she said laughing. “For your aunt’s floor. She’s a pistol. What my grandfather used to call the cat’s meow.” She turned back and continued chatting with Aunt Helen as if they were old friends. Aunt Helen was telling Molly about Admiral Rickover and the hat shop. He listened without interrupting. To him, his aunt seemed more involved in the give and take of normal conversation. Molly invited Helen to come to services at 7:00 pm.

  “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise you,” Helen replied. “I may have visitors.”

  “You just try, Helen,” Molly said as she got up to leave. “Can you drop in and see me, Mr.Farber? Before you go? My office is on the main floor, Room 112.”

  “Sure,” he said, wondering if he should be concerned about something his aunt had done.

  He spent some time with Aunt Helen in her room, showing her that her clothing and shoes were back where they belonged, and helping her to find her denture cleaner, which inexplicably was lying in a shoe in her closet. Ell called him on his cell and he briefly told her they won the appeal, and held the phone up to his aunt’s ear. He could hear his wife congratulating Aunt Helen who replied in monosyllables, unsure which part to speak into, looking for the mouthpiece on the telephones she was used to. She was tired when he left her slumped in the chair near the window, the sun shining on her white hair. He stopped at the nurses assistants’ station to make sure they knew she was back in her room and went downstairs to find Molly’s office.

  “Ms. Bernstein,” he said announcing himself, as entered. She was sitting with her back to the window, typing on her computer.

  “Come in. Call me Molly. Please. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yeah, black with sugar. And you can call me Mitch.” He added please as an afterthought, but she didn’t seem to notice. She poured coffee from a large thermos into an NPR WAMU mug, freshened her cup and pushed a ceramic sugar pot with a wooden spoon across her desk.

  “Let me tell you Mitch, I think your aunt is terrific. Sour and sarcastic, bitter, funny, and very candid, when she’s lucid. And when she is not all with us,” she paused and ticked her head from side to side, the long earrings swinging like pendulums, “she’s got more of a bite, angrier, more confused of course, and sometimes, a little out of control.” She paused, appraising him over the rim of her oversized mug. “Is this your first experience with an elderly relative in a home?”

  “Yes,” Mitch responded and briefly related the family history of his mother dying of cancer when he was in his twenties, his father dying of a stroke within a week after he had collapsed, and his father-in-law dying instantly from his massive heart attack. “So, when it comes to taking care of my aunt, we’re novices. We’ll need all the advice you can give us.”

  “Mmm,” Molly said, sipping her coffee. “I love your aunt’s independence and spirit. It’s almost fierce. That painting in her room of the lone wolf in winter? Is that hers?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “It epitomizes her character,” Molly continued. “I noticed you on the cafeteria line with your aunt. You weren’t hiding your impatience very well.” Mitch started to get defensive but she cut him off.

  “It’s not your fault. You need to understand why your aunt acts the way she does. One problem with elderly people, particularly lone wolves like your aunt, is that they’ve lost their independence. Everything is structured for them. When to get up and get dressed, where and when to eat, where to go or where they’re not allowed to go. Some of them withdraw and give up, sooner rather than later. You can see some of them sitting around staring off into space, living inside their heads in another world. Others are fighters trying to keep control. One of the few choices your aunt has left is choosing what to eat. She is exercising her right to choose, to remain independent. It’s better than some of the other residents who refuse to eat at all.”

  “But she doesn’t have choices when she comes to dinner at our house.”

  “Aha. But there Mitch, she’s out of our controlled environment and in a real home. She probably thinks of this place as a prison.”

  The word prison triggered a massive overwhelming sense of guilt. He stared at his coffee, took a sip, debating whether to tell Molly how he felt responsible for his aunt’s misery.

  “So what do you recommend we do?” he asked, a little too loudly.

  “Go with the flow,” Molly replied smiling at him. “When you visit, let her take all the time she wants to make her decisions here, and get her out of here as much as you can. We also need to socialize your aunt, make her less of a lone wolf and more a member of the pack, so to speak.”

  “She’s lived alone most of her life, so I’m not surprised that she has been keeping to herself.” He smiled back at her. “Better be careful what you wish for. She might want to become the pack leader.”

  “That’s ok within limits either way, keeping to herself or trying to dominate others,” Molly replied. “As long as she doesn’t whack somebody. Right now, she’s still doing what we call ‘nesting.’ She’ll arrange and rearrange her stuff. When we try and get her to participate in our ‘warm, nurturing and uniquely Jewish environment,’ to quote our self-promoting brochure,” Molly said sarcastically, “she refuses. But she’s clever not to refuse outright. ‘As soon as I put my clothing away, she’ll say.’ Or, like today, she’ll use the excuse; ‘I may have visitors.’Or sometimes she’ll say, ‘I have to clean the bathroom because it’s still dirty.’ Do you know she thinks we’re stealing her clothing?”

  “Oh yeah. She’s mentioned that a few times. I found her shoes in the bottom drawer of her dresser, so I figured she’s misplacing things.”

  “Don’t argue with her about it. Don’t try and reason with her. She doesn’t think like us any more.” Molly said. “Just find the clothing for her and tell her you’ll talk to someone to make sure no one steals her things again. If you confront her, it will diminish her self-esteem. If she thinks you don’t believe her, she’ll start doubting herself.”

  “Does she talk to anybody like she was talking with you at lunch?”

  “Not really. Most of the time, she’s on what I call ‘auto-pilot.’ She knows she’s supposed to greet people politely. So she’ll say things like ‘How nice to see you again,’ or ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’” Molly said using a mock high insincere falsetto. “But she doesn’t remember who the people are and there is no real conversation afterwards. She’ll sit in the tv lounge but not interact with anyone. Or wander off down the hall and walk into other residents’ rooms and sit down and glare at them. Recently, she’s been doing that at night. If it continues, we may have to put a hospital bed in her room. She won’t be able to climb over the railings.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “There are a few people she relates to. Me and Rabbi Pilzman. But not the nursing assistants or the other residents, except for Ms. Jackson, one of the CNAs. And these are the people she should be spending more time with. And when she isn’t all with it, then she doesn’t even have the politeness of auto pilot.”

  Molly’s eyes twinkled in anticipation of telling a good joke. “That reminds me of a story I wanted to tell you. Your aunt met Rabbi Pilzman at one of the Friday night services and was polite as could be. A week later, at the break the fast get together in the cafeteria on Yom Kippur, she went up to the Rabbi’s table. He was sitting there with his wife and some of the staff, me included. We had crackers, some cheese, fruit, smoked fish on the table, and she asks him- ‘Where can I get pigs’ knuckles. My nephew told me I could have pigs’ knuckles.’ I almost spit out my wine. The Rabbi was momentarily speechless but recove
red nicely. He’s used to dealing with our residents. But I thought his wife would have a cow. The Rabbi’s taken a shine to your aunt and she seems to like talking with him. You should meet him, maybe come to Friday night services some time.”

  She saw his look of panic and laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean tonight,” she said reassuringly. “Another Friday will be ok.”

  Mitch explained to Molly how his aunt got the idea of pigs’ knuckles. “How could she have remembered I told her that? She can’t remember where she puts her shoes from one day to the next.”

  Molly shrugged. “Their memory can be selective. And in a way, it’s like saying something in front of a child. It can come back to bite you.” “How do you think we can help her fit in better?”

  “Help her make her room more of her home. For a start, get some photos of your three kids, maybe with you and your wife, and put them in her room.”

  “Molly,” Mitch said with mock seriousness. “The last time I checked, which was this morning, we only had two kids.”

  She looked puzzled, turned on her computer and hit a few keys. “I took notes of my interviews with your aunt from the very beginning. I’m usually very accurate,” she said, concerned. “Here it is. She told me that Amy, Josh and Oliver lived at home.”

  “Oliver’s our dog. A golden retriever,” he added.

  Molly threw back her head and laughed. “Now, that’s why I love your aunt. Did she misunderstand what I asked or didn’t hear it clearly. Or was she being mischievous and messing with my mind? With Helen, it’s hard to tell, but I’ll bet she was jerking my chain. Like with the pigs’ knuckles comment. I think she says things deliberately for the shock value. She wants to be alone, but she also wants to be known and recognized as an individual. It’s good that she’s reaching out on her own terms. We have residents who withdraw, get morose and they’re gone within a year. Two at the most. I want your aunt to be happy and be with us a long time,” she said, emphasizing the last two words. “We’re her home now.”