Habit

by Susan Morse

  And this I know: When I stumble cursing to answer the phone much too early in the morning, and I don’t see Ma’s phone number on caller ID after all, a fist will clamp around my heart. When I find myself keening mawkishly in the condiments aisle at the supermarket, clutching a bottle of plain olive oil to my breast, I will be profoundly grateful. Because all I’ve ever really wanted is to feel this way about my mother.

  When I studied French, we read The Myth of Sisyphus by the philosopher Albert Camus. Camus had his own take on the situation. He likened Sisyphus to a drone in an office or factory, working a pointless job. He imagined what Sisyphus was thinking each time he had to trudge back down the mountain after his runaway rock and start over. The hopelessness. But Camus also decided that once Sisyphus could actually own up to how ridiculous his activity was, he would find peace. If he could acknowledge this truth, he could learn to live with it.

  So here I am, acknowledging my truth.

  Okay, I don’t really remember all that from my college French classes—I reviewed it on Wikipedia this morning. But the point is there is nothing wrong with me for having this urge to push rocks up hills. Even if it’s true that where the rocks end up doesn’t always make much difference in life, what’s the harm in trying, if I feel inclined?

  Shoot me. I’m a rock roller.

  And honestly, a simian attitude just happens to come with this territory; it’s even fun to hang by your tail on occasion. The key is self-awareness. As long as my conscience can cop to what I’m really doing, I’ll have acceptance and peace whenever I need it.

  Fine: I’m a monkey rock roller. A monkey coyote rock roller. On rye, easy on the mustard, pickle on the side.

  Sam got his Latin grade up to a C for the year. Don’t ask me how.

  Just get Ma to the Abbey. If that happens, I promise: I’ll keep my tail in my pants.

  And I will never meddle in my children’s schooling again.

  I promise.

  22.

  The Four Seasons

  I KEEP THINKING about something that happened to David and me once, in Santa Monica.

  It was about fifteen years ago. We were there for an event with just enough time for a quick walk on the beach. The Santa Monica beach is freaky any day of the week. It’s like a sideshow: boom boxes and baby strollers, musclemen with tattoos, lots of fake breasts and addicts asleep under cardboard boxes. It’s all so weird that nothing really surprises you.

  But we were both struck by a group of men walking toward us: three young guys with perfect GQ haircuts, very tall and fit, identical black T-shirts carefully tucked into tailored, belted black dress pants. Even their matching dark sunglasses seemed out of place. Was this a fashion shoot? They were all wearing shoes. There was something just off about them.

  Then suddenly: those eyes. Vivid blue and alert. Creased smile lines crisscrossing old, well-tended skin. Wallabee shoes, khaki pants. A Mister Rogers-style beige cashmere cardigan sweater buttoned all the way. A baseball cap slightly askew.

  He looked right at us, and his face lit up as if we were friends, but he didn’t stop moving. The GQ guys swept him along—one on either side of him and one a little behind. He turned from side to side to wave with delight at everyone they passed.

  Nobody else stopped their kite flying or sunscreen applying or overdosing to look, which was extraordinary.

  Ronald Reagan in retirement. Out for a walk with the Secret Service.

  I wasn’t particularly political in the 1980s. We lived in L.A. then and volunteered regularly at a food giveaway program at our church. We saw the lines grow longer during each year of Reagan’s presidency. We had friends dying of AIDS, a disease nobody in power seemed to take seriously—it was just a gay man’s predicament, and not worth the trouble. We listened to poetry readings—firsthand stories of murders in El Salvador, committed by the rebels our government openly encouraged. David followed the news more than I, and was particularly disgusted by the Iran-Contra scandal. Reagan emerged so unscathed.

  Many disagree about what kind of president he was. It’s a matter of perspective. This was our perspective.

  Until we had children and the economy began to fall apart in the early 1990s, I didn’t think about policy. Selfishly, it didn’t concern me until I sensed my own little world was affected. But the entertainment industry began to suffer, it got hard for many actors to find work, and that’s when I roused. I took an uncharacteristically intense satisfaction voting Democrat in 1992. I blamed Reagan and his malfunctioning trickle-down economic theories, and wished I could give him a piece of my mind for endangering all of us, especially my children. I’m known to hold a grudge.

  Now, here was the man who did not help our dying friends, the man who said homeless people were homeless by choice as he cut programs and their numbers ballooned out of control. Ketchup became a vegetable. This was our moment, a chance to tell off a supposed villain. Instead, David and I watched him melt into the beach crowd. Then we looked at each other, eyes brimming.

  David thinks what got him so moved was mostly the unexpected jolt of that poignant proof of mortality—this man who had once seemed so powerful and destructive, was all of a sudden just a little boy out for a walk on the beach.

  As for me, I just think it will be so lovely if we all end up on the beach.

  The Abbey has turned out to be more than good; it’s excellent.

  There was a robin’s nest in full production right outside Ma’s front door when she arrived late last spring. Her cozy studio now has all the icons hung, by David, the master picture hanger. She’s on the second floor with a balcony that looks out on trees and a children’s playground. After being wrenched from the lovely gardens she created in Philadelphia and Florida, followed by over a decade on the tenth floor at the Mills House with windows that only opened a crack, then finally enduring that six-month incarceration upstate, Ma’s enjoying the open air.

  She passed her scooter test and has a shiny blue one with a basket and MOTHER BRIGID tacked to the bumper. Now she can zip around the grounds, a sporty version of Whistler’s Mother, always in black with her long white hair flying behind like a banner: down to the library to check out the Wall Street Journal, over to the dining room for lunch with old and new friends. There’s the greenhouse and gardens and sunning herself on the patio by the pool on bright summer days. Movie nights. A spacious art studio with plenty of natural light and easy-to-reach cubbies for all Ma’s supplies. Father Basil came for a visit, and Ma went to Carlisle for an overnight in the fall, with everything carefully planned down to the last detail. She keeps talking about how grateful and happy she is.

  Sam is learning to drive. He lucked into a great crop of teachers this year, and he’s getting all As and Bs. He aced his PSATs. Ben is squiring his girl around in a little blue Camry. Eliza has a job taking pictures for the college paper, and David is at home. Our house is a hive of writers: homework and history papers. David’s novel. We confer daily to exchange thoughts, and Colette is just a click away.

  I’ve been reading my chapters to Ma as soon as the printer spits them out. She alternately shouts with laughter, marvels at how much I remember, and blusters in almost-mock indignation at my tendency to dwell on disgusting and personal details. (Really, Susie. It needs polish; your edges are dreadfully rough!)

  The helpers at the Abbey are called “companions.” Long-Term Care still covers them. They come as needed to give a hand with anything you require, so Ma is treated like a queen by people of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. She appreciates every one of them and it’s clear the admiration is mutual. I hear things like “your mother is a lovely lady. . . .” Some of the former aides who used to come around before the Carlisle escapade have even tracked her down to make sure everything’s all right. Ma is flattered.

  And now, Barack Obama is in like Flynn.

  That part didn’t sit too well with Ma. For a minute or two during the financial crash, it looked like she was leaning his way. But I hooked up he
r TV just in time for the Republican Convention, unfortunately. She must have gotten mixed up about that suspicious middle name they kept repeating. She seemed a little agitated for a few days after the election, but we’ll cut her some slack. He’s in, he’s in, he’s in.

  Oh, and ESD. Heh-heh-heh.

  I stuck it out through all the levels of appeal by phone and by mail, and refused to give up when the final one was denied on the same basis. (Ms. von Mopfister was not progressing. She needed to be put out of her misery posthaste. Please let us know if you need any further assistance with this matter. Warmest regards, ESD.)

  When we got an appointment for a September phone hearing, I sent all the papers in with weeks to spare. Everything was copied as directed to everyone involved, including ESD: letters of support from the surgeon and the therapists at Cloverfield, letters of lack of support from ESD, the works. By Certified Mail. Signature Required on Delivery. Return Receipt Requested.

  The judge’s office reminded us repeatedly that Ma could use a lawyer for the hearing, but I kept my fingers crossed and braved it alone. The Friday before the big day, Cloverfield called to warn me that ESD had just piped up with a request for medical records, but their fax machine didn’t seem to be working.

  The day of the hearing I was on the edge of my seat.

  —Ring. Ring.

  —Hello?

  —This is Judge Bobby Jameson’s office calling. Is this Susan Morse?

  —Yes, indeed, it is!

  The judge gave me a chance to help him pull out the most crucial page of evidence from the pile of stuff I had sent. Then we conferenced in with a medical director from ESD, who tried to spring their favorite trick on us, claiming they had only received the records that morning. I managed to keep my voice level:

  —Would you like me to fax you the signed receipt showing that the information was sent to ESD over a month ago, Judge?

  —I think we can go ahead for now, Ms. Morse.

  Score one for Mother Brigid.

  ESD’s medical director got plenty of opportunities to give their version. The man did his characteristically ESD-ish best to make their side of the case crystal clear, with brilliant, irrefutable arguments, like:

  —Uh . . .

  My closing statement was cathartic. I got to say that despite ESD insisting a full-scale rehabilitation would be futile, indeed Ms. von Moschzisker had recovered quite adequately and was currently living independently—no thanks at all to her travesty of a so-called Health Management Organization. Not only that, but also ESD had abandoned my mother much too soon, when her doctors and therapists were adamant she could only recover with their support and treatment. All her bills for the last, crucial few weeks of rehabilitation in skilled nursing had been paid by other means. This was not about money. This was about the principles of respect, and human decency. So there.

  ESD’s closing statement:

  —Uh . . .

  The judge signed off to do some thinking. Three weeks later, a notice came in the mail:

  ESD was responsible for Ma’s room, board, and therapy until the exact date her therapists at Cloverfield officially declared her “independent.” ESD must pay for an extra twenty-seven days.

  Heh-heh-heh.

  November 26, 2008

  Ma’s birthday falls the day before Thanksgiving this year. We’ll have turkey together tomorrow at our house. So today, in the interest of variety, I’m taking her to Center City for birthday lunch at the Four Seasons Hotel. The kids want to come!

  I’ve turned in the minivan from my old days as a chauffeur, and leased a new toy in deference to Daddy and the oil crisis: a nice little VW Passat sedan. Sam’s had one driving lesson in it, but I’m possessive. This is our first chance to see if we really can fit five people in, three of whom are giants and will have to sit in the back.

  We have parcels: bottles of organic honey Ma wants to dole out to friends for Christmas gifts, some of her special yogurt, and a variety of cheeses for entertaining. Tiny plastic stands to prop up the smaller icons on her bookshelf. She’s been hinting about a black cashmere cardigan I have and how it’s exactly the kind that would be perfect for her. Knowing I’d never be able to find this exact one, I got mine dry-cleaned on impulse and wrapped it for her as a gift. I finally found the Liberty fabric she likes (it’s the only thing that doesn’t scratch!) and made her some pillowcases by hand to match the fancy terra-cotta sponge paint she’d just commissioned on the wall behind her bed.

  The paint took a little adjusting after she moved in. Ma decided on colors while she was still in Carlisle, using paint chips I sent her. I expressed some concern about her choice for the bathroom.

  —This yellow is pretty sharp, Ma.

  —That’s fine; I want it to have some bite.

  You don’t argue with an artist about colors. I sent Felix pictures before she arrived:

  —Wow, that’s pretty sharp, Suse . . .

  Ma seemed happy enough when she got there though, and we hung her original blue and green towels. In August, she had her cataracts done, and true to Georgia Brady’s word, I didn’t have to lift a finger or even make one phone call except to ask Ma how it went. Everything, I mean everything was done for us.

  But as soon as the first eye was done and Ma went into her bathroom:

  —Heavens, this yellow is TOO SHARP!

  So the bathroom needed a layer of white glaze. Mark, our wonderful painter, enjoyed the artistic stimulation of working with Ma, after he got over the horror himself.

  —That was a pretty sharp yellow in that bathroom, Susan.

  And for her birthday, Ma has a new set of towels in sophisticated Golden Wheat, and some jolly pink cyclamen, because she says the air will be dry in winter with the heat on and the windows closed. There’s a book about British rooks and crows from Colette (We all have to read this right now, Susie, it’s very important!). Funds have been pooled for a luxurious full-length cashmere blanket (Essential!). From Felix: a brick doorstop she’s wanted with a needlepoint frog on the cover, to replace the old cast-iron rooster she’s too weak to lift herself (Look! I can just kick it across the floor!).

  The worries about the future are a past life nightmare. We get to spoil Ma now, and this feels really, really good.

  So the kids and I have made a special effort to dress, and I carefully bring up Table Manners in advance. This is new. Having been obsessively scolded all my life about elbows on the table and such by Ma, I have issues. In the first place, she’s a hypocrite. We were not supposed to call from room to room, but Ma hollered like a banshee when she wanted to, and I’m sorry to say she sometimes chews with her mouth open and picks things off serving plates with her fingers. The irony is not lost on me: Ma got a degree to teach Montessori. She was one of the founders of Philadelphia’s Please Touch Museum in the 1970s, a wonderful place that paved the way for a much-needed new philosophy that made it possible for kids to actually want to visit museums. But she was like a harpy with my siblings and me about manners.

  When we had children, I vowed not to repeat her mistakes. It has been an interesting experiment with mixed results—the kids have had to pretty much figure manners out for themselves. I’ve always done my best to shield them from her disapproval, but she chafed under my vigilance and was quick to make up for lost time on the handful of occasions she managed to get them to herself. There was a traumatic Grandparents’ Day at the boys’ school that still festers, when Ben cried in the car on the way home. The other boys had doting grandparents admiring all their industrious work, and Ben spent the day being barked at by Ma about fetching proper chairs and putting away coats.

  But today is Ma’s birthday and this year I want things perfect for her, so in the car on the way over, I break my self-imposed gag order and gently ask them to keep their elbows off the table at lunch.

  —What did she say about our elbows?

  —It doesn’t matter, you know I don’t care about your elbows, but Granny does. There are some situations
where elbows are important, and you’re going to have to suck it up because this is one of them. It’s her birthday; let your elbows be your present. I don’t want you guys to feel bad about Granny today, so please get over it—she’s a lot of fun to be with now, she really is nice. . . .

  They get that. They’ve noticed how nice Ma is, I don’t really have to tell them, but I want so much for this to be happy for everyone. Mending is tricky, but everyone’s game and we’re all in pretty good spirits. I send them up ahead with the packages while I park.

  The kids are a surprise—Ma thought it would be just the two of us. She loves having everyone together, so she is thrilled, showing off her new digs and getting them to put everything away where it belongs and take the iron rooster out to the balcony (you have a rooster??) and find her hearing aid, which has fallen under the bedside table where she can’t reach.

  So we go downstairs and everyone gets to see how Granny works her scooter—she has to face the back of the elevator and back out carefully—and she barely crashes into anything. We leave the scooter at the curb, and Ma slowly slowly slowly walkers to the car and eeeeeases herself into the front seat without falling in a heap and breaking every bone in her body before we can celebrate her birthday. Thank God that’s done. I’m impressed at the difference between the ways she handles herself at home and abroad. Ma can ricochet around her studio like a marble in a life-size 3-D Christian-themed pinball game, because it’s set up so well and she knows where everything is. But when she goes out, she’s savvy enough to think before she moves.

  I stow the walker in the trunk. The children stuff themselves in the back, grumbling about seatbelts and knees. Ma laughs, offering to move her seat forward and they say no thanks. I am in HEAVEN.

  Ma remembers to put her seat belt on. This was a little passive-aggressive game we played for most of my years as Ma’s driver. She would start talking the minute we got in the car, forgetting to buckle up. I would refuse to start the car until she did buckle. Sometimes we’d sit there for a full fifteen minutes till she paused for a breath. Then when I’d ask her to buckle, Ma would reach for it and I’d start the car. But as soon as we were rolling, she’d have all this trouble figuring out how to work the thing (this is very poorly designed—so unnecessary!), and I’d have to pull over again so I could reach all the way over to fix it. Ma always remembers her seat belt now.