Habit

by Susan Morse

  17.

  Driving Lesson

  Saturday

  BEN HAS TO GO to the dentist.

  It’s the day after Jack Wasserman rode in to the rescue. The monkey still hasn’t eaten much. It’s gasping limply in a corner of the cage, waiting for the next anvil to drop.

  Ben wants to drive himself to the appointment. He needs a parent to sign a form testifying he has logged fifty hours behind the wheel in order to take his driving test, and it has been slow-going. Whenever Ben drives, we make him meticulously count his time down to the exact second; we seem to be the only parents on earth who don’t fudge the driving log. Ben is highly motivated for the license—he has a girlfriend. But the unlucky boy turned sixteen and got his permit right after David’s New York play started, and his father is the only really capable driving teacher.

  I once tried going along in the backseat on one of David’s scary night driving lessons with Eliza, but they kicked me out of the car because I was about to lose the contents of my stomach. So it does not come as a huge surprise to Ben that I won’t let him drive today, claiming stress, and he’s nice about it. I leave him at the dentist and head to the market for a few minutes.

  This next part is a bit of a blur. Something about going up and down the aisles of the market (hiking up pants that have begun to fall off my shrunken fanny) and feeling a little—different. My hands are sweating and it’s getting hard to breathe; my heart has sort of turned into a cement block in my chest.

  At the checkout line, people begin to stare. I sit on a windowsill across the aisle from the register and put my head between my knees. The cashier offers to come over and take my money. When they ask their routine question about carryout service to the car, for the first time in my life I say Gosh yes.

  Ben’s dentist is a three-minute drive from the grocery store. I think I can make it if I rest a little.

  I take it slow. The cement block sensation can’t be good. I won’t let David quit the play. What’s going to happen to Ma? I pull over outside the dentist and call Ben on his cell phone, tell him sorry I can’t walk inside and, he’s going to have to come to the car, and, oh, by the way, you’re going to have to drive. I’m way too stressed.

  We have an interesting drive home in which I alternately remind him to put on his blinkers and watch out for traffic lights while sort of panting and squirming around in the seat trying to figure out how not to pass out, and groaning that if anything serious happens to me he has to tell Papa to sue ESD; it’s all their fault. ESD, don’t forget. Ben seems unusually quiet. Poor boy’s finally got what he wants, and it’s ruined because probably all he can think of is whether or not to pull over and try out some cockeyed South Park version of CPR on his freaked-out mother.

  At home, I leave a message with Doctor Maxwell’s weekend service and stretch out on the sofa to wait. I catch David on his cell.

  —Hello?

  —Hi, it’s me. Where are you?

  —Susan! On the way to the matinee. Hi!

  —I just thought you should know—

  —I don’t know, there are a lot of them.

  —What?

  —I’m sorry; I’m talking to my wife.

  (David has a Bluetooth. If I call him when he’s walking through Times Square, all the people hoping to spot an actor see no reason to give him his space because it’s hard to figure out that he’s on the phone. David is tediously conscientious, torn between not wanting to ruin anyone’s big moment of celebrity-spotting excitement and his awareness that I am trying unsuccessfully not to fume on the other end of the line.)

  —Are you there, David?

  —Uh, maybe The Green Mile?

  (They usually have to ask him what his name is and the name of a few of his movies—it’s a handy reminder that he may be recognizable, but he’s not THAT famous, so don’t get a swelled head or anything.)

  —I may be having a heart attack, but I think I’ll be okay.

  (Clank clank. The Bluetooth on New York streets makes him sound like he’s rummaging around in a Dumpster full of empty paint cans. There’s a siren, and a woman is squealing in delight.)

  —What?! I’m sorry I’m talking to my wife. What, Susan?!

  —I’m all sweaty and Ben had to drive me home and the left side of my chest hurts, but I think it’s probably anxiety. Maxwell’s about to call back.

  —My wife is on the phone, excuse me. Susan—how about I tell them to get the understudy, and come home?

  —NO! Let’s just wait and see. I’ll probably be okay.

  —Are you sure? God. Hi. I’m in The Seafarer. It was 16 Blocks. With Bruce Willis. Sorry, Susan.

  (I know what he’s doing: He’s freaking out trying to find somewhere to converse in private. Ducking into doorways on Seventh Avenue and Forty-fifth Street with people peeking around the corner at him and waving their camera phones.)

  —Tell her it’s not really a good time because your wife is about to die and this is your last chance to talk to her, so could she please just take a picture and move the heck on.

  —Uh . . .

  —David, I love you. I’ll call you when I figure it out. Sorry I had to do this to you before the show.

  —That’s okay. I’ll call you after the matinee. I’m David Morse.

  (David MORSE! IT’S DAVID MORSE! Omygod you were in that SHOW, what was it CALLED? OH MY GOD!)

  —Bye. Call Ben’s cell if I don’t answer.

  —I love you, Susan. Not ER.

  —No, I hope not but I will go in if I have to. I’ll see what Maxwell says—

  —It was St. Elsewhere, not ER. Thank you very much.

  Something about just resting here a few minutes seems to have a good effect. I haven’t spent much time lying down lately. I’m even a little bit hungry, which is a novelty. I quickly find some cheese and crackers.

  A few hours go by during which I enjoy myself immensely on the phone, scaring the crap out of everyone I can think of and getting them all dancing around wringing their hands. (Felix and I locked horns recently in an email exchange, and we had planned a phone date today to air our differences. I am not too disoriented to relish taking the wind out of his sails by being at death’s door.) The food, the rest, and the transfer of anxiety to the family acts like a shot in the arm, and I’m beginning to feel more like myself when Maxwell finally calls.

  —Hello?

  —Susan.

  —Doctor Maxwell!

  —Describe your symptoms, Susan.

  —I feel a lot better now, but I was sweating and Ben drove me home and blah blah my chest, but now I’m eating again and I think it’s okay, right?

  —Susan Susan Susan. I want you to get your son to drive you to Abington’s Emergency Room because women your age have heart attacks.

  —But that’s such a hassle, it’ll take hours and I’m finally lying down now and eating and I feel so much better.

  —Listen to me, Susan. You know that if I told you to drive one of your children or David or his mother or yours to the ER you would not pause.

  —Yeah . . .

  —Get your son and have him take you to the emergency room right away.

  David’s mother lives nearby. She’ll come over to get dinner for Sam and stay in case I’m gone all night. Now Ben gets to have another relaxing driving lesson. Walking out to the car, I find I have to lean on him, so it’s probably just as well we’re going.

  Ben’s driving is heroic if understandably white-knuckled. He needs some practice parking—we take up several spaces and toss the keys to the valet (ER valets are a welcome perk of suburb living). They put me in a cubicle hooked up to a bunch of things. As Ben sits beside me and the beeping monitor, I realize I’m right back where everything started about a year ago. The casting has been subtly adjusted: Now I’m the incapacitated mother in the bed who may be facing a major health crisis, and Ben is the dutiful offspring wondering what the heck he’s in for.

  They ask Ben if I’ve seemed okay lately. This interests
me. Have I seemed okay lately?

  (Are they going to send social services to protect my kids from me, what if I’m cracking up and Ben has to become the caretaker like I did, what’s going to happen about the play. Oh God.)

  Yes, apparently I have seemed okay although pretty stressed. I have an x-ray and an EKG and some more sympathy. We go home with a prescription for something and strict instructions to breathe deeply and eat more.

  It was an anxiety attack. My heart is okay. The show will go on.

  How embarrassing. Do I have to tell Felix?

  Apparently anxiety due to an “extreme but temporary period of stress” means you are not supposed to have to worry about becoming dependent on the highly addictive substance they give me. Famous last words, I think, and lock it up, to be used only if the symptoms come back (they haven’t).

  Amazing what happened to Ben’s driving log today. It’s this cool “unusually challenging conditions” loophole we spotted. When you have to drive your crazed hyperventilating and possibly dying mother around, you get to double your time.

  18.

  PPPPPPP!

  QUICK, EVERYONE: Act like you know what you’re doing. Colette’s coming!!!

  There’s an old military saying (British in origin, or so she tells me):

  PPPPPPP!

  or:

  Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance!

  This was Colette’s motto as head of marketing for a world-famous garden plant nursery in East Anglia. International clients, high stress. It means get all your ducks lined up or you’ll be spinning your wheels, everything will go to hell in a handbasket, the sh— will hit the fan, and you will be your own worst enemy.

  I think I am about to be whipped into shape. Actually, I can’t wait. I’ve been bustling around putting papers into orderly piles and repotting my African violets (they seem to have thrived on my recent neglect and are conveniently bursting with blossoms). This will make me look really competent; I just know it.

  Ma has announced that she’s definitely decided to give up her apartment, so Colette has emailed me a strict agenda for Operation Ma over the next twelve days:

  Tour retirement places, both in the Philadelphia area and Carlisle.

  Interview moving and storage companies.

  Figure out what Ma can sell—bring in appraisers and auctioneers.

  Meet with the geriatric psychologist about all ramifications.

  Visit Ma to discuss.

  So the calls have been made and we have appointments up the wazoo. I also know Colette’s secret agenda (I’m no dummy):

  Figure out if Susie’s about to totally crack up.

  If she is, come up with a way to handle it. Options: Stay indefinitely. (I wish. Not going to happen.)

  Try to make Susie laugh a lot.

  If that doesn’t work, at least get Susie to take that medication they gave her. (She wishes. Not going to happen.)

  Friday

  One-legged Hopper delivers Colette from the airport. Squeals and hugs, with Ben and Sam trying to decide whether to hang around or dive for cover. Colette looks great as always, but different somehow. We are the only two blondes in our generation. She’s five years older than I, but in my late teens I grew taller. For years, people used to assume Colette was my little sister. She says I’m prettier, which is flattering, and that I dress more stylishly because she’s really a country girl and I’ve had the L.A./New York exposure. But at the moment, I’m not so sure. I’m pretty slovenly these days, and Colette’s got this groovy understated-rock-star look going. It’s subtle, but there’s something about the skinny black jeans, the flat brown jodhpur-type half boots and the way her loose black cashmere sweater drapes sort of effortlessly that inspires admiration, and, I must admit, a twinge of sister envy. This dissipates when she makes just the right amount of fuss over the African violets and oohs gratifyingly at all my piles of papers.

  Saturday

  Colette recovers from jet lag. Susan, Ben and Sam leave for New York. (Oops—months ago, when life was simpler, I bought theatre tickets for Macbeth. The boys are studying this play and a mother/sons field trip seemed like a good idea at the time. So Saturday is a bit of a wash.)

  Sunday

  We spend the day at Ma’s apartment to get the lay of the land. An antiques dealer comes to make an offer on some furniture. Opening drawers and cupboards, we become increasingly dismayed by the layers of stuff everywhere—some useless, some possibly vital and precious. The walk-in hall closet is particularly disturbing, so we make an executive decision to keep that door shut. What will Ma want me to do with all the art supplies?

  Eliza is home from college on break, working on her first résumé. She’s got a chance for a great summer internship. I have no clue how to make a résumé, never had to do one other than for acting, so it’s a challenge but we find a sample online and try to figure out a way to make a freshman who comes to work, cost-free for the summer, look like a catch.

  Colette calls Ma, who is feeling neglected. It’s been hard to describe what’s going on around here, why Colette can’t make the long drive up to see her until Wednesday and why I haven’t been there for a couple of weeks. Even though there’s nothing we can do about it, it’s hard to revel in this rare gift of one-on-one sister time, knowing Ma is waiting.

  Monday

  Over breakfast, I whip out my collection of brochures for retirement places. During the last few weeks, Ma and I have narrowed it down to four in Philadelphia and two in Carlisle, with varying degrees of affordability. Ma’s been torn about which area to settle in—lately, it’s been Carlisle because of the spiritual nourishment. Her geriatric shrink says the rule of thumb is keep the older parent near the family, but in this case we have extenuating nun-circumstances. The place she’s staying at now in Carlisle is working financially for the moment, but living with a roommate wears on her. Plus if she stays, there’d be less contact with me because of the two-hour commute. We’re going to have to keep our options open.

  It’s like a college search—you look at what you’ve got and figure out your Likelies, your Targets, and your Reaches. Likelies are state schools or community colleges: definite fallbacks barring a fluky disaster. Targets are within range but require a little more effort and fingers crossed. Reaches are Oxford or Harvard or MIT—dream institutions that you try for fun if you have the nerve. It helps if you look at it like a game: Keep your cards close to your chest and see what kind of deal comes your way.

  We’re covering the Philadelphia places first, and this morning is Barnard, a Likely. It’s a standard pay-by-the-week place with an assisted-living section and a nursing wing—you can move back and forth between the two, depending on your needs. Ma’s not interested because she doesn’t have any friends there, but it’s the one we have the best shot at paying for, so we’ve got to consider it.

  Barnard was founded by Lutherans. This is part of our criteria: I’ve figured out that nonprofit religious-based places may be willing to take more of a gamble financially. Most important, you can trust their hearts are in the right place; they generally care. Also, they often have an endowment of some kind, which means they won’t kick you out if you beat the odds and outlive your savings account. (Ma doesn’t have a savings account, but she has her children. This makes the process even more stressful because if we let her go through our money as well as her own, we won’t have Barnard to watch our backs and our own retirement pots will be empty. It’s something to consider.) Ma’s Long-Term Care policy will count as an asset, but aside from her meager income, that’s it. So we’re hoping we can manage whatever else Barnard might want to count on for payment in the long run.

  Knowing this need would come eventually, Colette and I tried to scout a few places when she came over last year. We do want to know more about Barnard, but there’s one we won’t bother to see again this time around: the Retreat, a sort of pasture for elderly Roman Catholic nuns. It’s spoken of with reverence around here. We’d
heard they sometimes take needy but connected lay people, which Ma was at the time. (This was in the pre-Mother Brigid period. Ma still has lots of friends from her Catholic phase.) The Retreat gave us the heebie-jeebies when we stopped there last year: a sterile high-rise building, very 1984, plopped in the middle of a flat, barren field. You needed advance permission just to get past the front desk, we were told by the stern, bureaucratic woman who guarded it that day.

  There are red flags you should watch for when you’re checking out nursery schools for your kids, and the same rules apply for retirement places. If you can’t drop in unexpectedly, who knows what might be going on in the cloistered back rooms of the Retreat? Mean nuns with giant rulers rapping helpless old ladies across the knuckles and making them write Jesus only loves me when I don’t wet the bed a hundred times on a blackboard?

  So the Retreat is out, but we did like Barnard when we slipped in last spring. The residents all live along a series of new-looking hallways that branch out from the original building, an old Victorian mansion now housing offices. We refer to Barnard as the show-offs place because when we first buzzed through, rounding a corner at a good clip, a voice hollered:

  —Show-offs!

  We stopped and turned. There was a feisty little dame with a gleam in her eye, all in purple, perched in a wheelchair in the hallway.

  —Excuse me? I said.

  —Show-offs, that’s what you are. Look at you, all young and walking and everything.

  On our return visit to Barnard today, Rose, their friendly head of admissions, settles us in her office for a chat, and we tell her the story.

  —That’s Gladys. She’s the best. Ninety-seven now and still scrappy.

  Barnard seems cheerful and welcoming, and Rose clearly cares about the residents. Colette sits back to let me tell our story. Then Rose looks over Ma’s financial details and says she thinks there’s a good chance they can figure something out. She takes us to see the dining room (very nice) and a room that might suit Ma.