Habit

by Susan Morse

  I make sure to take Henry Avenue, not because it’s faster but because it’s prettier while still being smooth. Pretty is very important to Ma, but not quite as much as smooth. This way, we go past the special public school with the farm—that’s a really pretty part and Ma tells us the history and points out the cows, and children having a riding lesson in the ring.

  We go along the Schuylkill past the boathouses, with Ma reminding us how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful place. I horrify everyone by pointing out the route I’ll take in June when I swim in a wet suit down the river as part of a triathlon team in honor of my fiftieth birthday, and show them where David will meet me on the other side to continue the race on his bike. Ben and Sam have a team, too. Ma’s so impressed she wants to be there. That would take some doing, but you never know.

  At Rocky’s steps by the front of the art museum, everything stops. There’s a roadblock up ahead, and traffic is dead as a doornail waiting to funnel into a tiny one-lane detour. Well, sorry, this is just not going to spoil our fun. The boys sing songs and I do PG-rated cursing, which makes Ma hoot. The boys are getting hot. I start to fuss about Ma when they open the windows but she says I’m fine, we can put on my seat warmer, this is such a wonderful car. Eliza calls for the number of the Four Seasons to warn them, and is connected to some dry-cleaning establishment instead, but who cares? Just try, try again.

  We valet park, of course. The little ramp cut into the curb in front of the hotel is like Mount Everest. I glue myself to Ma’s back as she walkers up. When we get through the front door, I send Ma with the kids on the handicap route and sprint up the steps to tell the restaurant we’re almost there.

  —Yes, Mother Brigid’s eighty-seventh birthday! We have her special flowers on the table and the cake is ready, everything’s fine, no rush.

  Five million years later, Ma comes inching one careful step at a time around the corner flanked by the kids, with a small bottleneck of guests behind who don’t dare try to pass. Excited to be out somewhere new and different with eyes that can see, she’s moving slowly so she gets to really milk each second for what it’s worth. She’s asking about everything as she creeps along: Children, look at that chandelier! Where did they get this marble? Who made that jacket in the glass case? What kind of flowers are those? Are they real?

  There’s an odd piece of art on display, a giant-size lady’s old-fashioned green velvet boot with buttons, which has to be examined and clucked over for several hours. People everywhere are smiling at this ancient little bent-over old lady in black with her long wispy white hair, her Old World accent and charming curiosity, her intriguingly commanding presence, and I think if you only knew, but yes, it’s BLISS.

  We arrive at the restaurant. Every worker in the place seems to drop everything to leap to her side and Ma graciously doles out tasks—pillows for the chair if you please, the purse can go here and the walker there, yes, thank you.

  Eliza has decided to major in art. This doesn’t surprise Ma, who reminds us she identified the talent years ago at a middle school art show when the only thing of note was a print she spotted across a crowded room. She made a point of moving in to identify the artist’s name: Eliza Morse. She had it framed, and it’s one of the few things besides icons and family photographs Ma asked David to hang in her tiny new place.

  The first course arrives. Ma has only ordered a main dish, crab cakes. When she sees my butternut squash soup, I have to order her some, minus the confit of duck.

  I look around and notice a small miracle: Nobody’s elbows are anywhere near the table.

  When the main course arrives, Ma eyes my tuna sashimi salad and wants to know where it was on the menu. But she eats her crab, every last bit. This was a big component of our years of struggle, I realize. I’m sure it’s common, when a mother wants what her daughter has, and who wouldn’t wish for a cashmere sweater and three funny children, a happy marriage, squash soup? I’m not sure I really know how we’ve been blessed with this new peace between us. It could be Ma’s many months in Carlisle with little to do but pray, talk to priests, and try to get strong. For me, it’s partly the Abbey giving me space by taking some of the hard stuff over, of course. That support has given me a chance to stand back and admire this process of aging, and mellowing, and surrender, and grace.

  —You can do this too someday, children, says Ma, when I sign the slip.

  —What? asks Ben

  —Take your mother to the Four Seasons on her eighty-seventh birthday.

  Sam snorts.

  —When she gets that old, this hotel will definitely be a Walmart—

  —What? Oh, poppydop, says Ma, and everyone smiles. Poppydop?

  They pack up the rest of the cake and perch the boxed vase of flowers on the seat of Ma’s walker, with some special Belgian chocolates for everyone on the house. We make the long voyage back to valet parking with a pit stop at the ladies’ room. When we reach the door, we stop again to check whether anything has changed in the big flower display since our arrival.

  I take one more mental snap shot of Ma: flanked by her three tall grandchildren, bravely soldiering along through the crowd in the lobby. I think of the blue-eyed man-child with his agents in black on that beach in Santa Monica.

  There’s a mishmash of holiday families waiting outside the hotel for their cars, a baby sleeping in its stroller. We ease the walker down the front sidewalk’s flume ramp again. I’m so busy trying to make myself into a human shield around Ma that I can’t reach the vase when it tumbles, box and all, off her walker during the steep descent. Crash, everything lands on the cobblestones, and the vase Doesn’t Break. A miracle, but also the first sign of Trouble Ahead.

  The kids jam themselves into the back again. My Passat has a fancy new trick for valet parking: a little key you can pop out to lock the glove compartment. We discuss all the other features, the knob for the sunroof, and the special compartment in the backseat that accesses the trunk, which somehow I haven’t figured out yet.

  I decide we’ll skip the mess at the art museum and take the nonscenic expressway home on the other side of the river, but we find ourselves in another inexplicable jam. It’s three forty-five on a Wednesday, for heaven’s sake. Somewhere across from Boathouse Row, stranded in a sea of cars, Eliza starts to speculate about the location of the nearest bathroom. Too much coffee after lunch.

  This is an interesting problem, because really there isn’t a decent place between here and the Abbey, and if we go out of our way, the extra time including all the traffic will probably mean that Ma will need the bathroom, too, before we get her home. There is definitely not a suitable place for Ma between here and there, even if we do take a longer route.

  —Oh dear, says Eliza.

  —Can you make it?

  —I sure hope I can. . . .

  —This is so great, I say. We are having so much fun!

  —What? says Ma.

  Everyone laughs uneasily. Quite a while later, we have gotten pretty much nowhere and Eliza has begun to squirm. Ma mentions quietly that she has a thing or two to take care of when she gets home involving some very personal supplies she didn’t think she would need until at least late in the afternoon, well after four, and she sort of needs them right now actually. It’s that cursed bag.

  We are completely hemmed in. We start to speculate about Ben requisitioning someone’s motorcycle. How about we tie Ma’s walker to it, strap Ma to the seat, and dodge all the cars to get her home a little quicker? Eliza looks sweaty. I begin to wonder if there’s a smell coming from Ma.

  This continues till we get off the expressway and into another jam on Henry Avenue. Nobody’s upset, we’re still having fun, sort of, and I’m kind of tactfully muttering at the people in the other cars that I know it’s not their fault but they are all still pretty much a bunch of idiots. Sam points out a knee-high bush with no leaves that might make an okay screen if Eliza hopped out onto the median strip. Eliza’s asking us not to make her laugh, which is goo
d, but the conversation has shifted to the medical implications of her situation.

  We crawl past the school with the farm and there definitely is a faint smell, but it might be the horses. I keep saying we’re almost there and Ben says Eliza just get out of the car and run for it, it’s right over there at the next traffic light. She’s actually thinking about it, but it’s really about to get better and we finally finally screech to a halt in the driveway outside the Abbey’s main entrance—Eliza, the ladies’ room’s right through there, behind the stairs, quick, get out and RUN!

  Ma’s another story. I say to Ben wait right here and don’t move.

  —What? says Ma.

  —I can drive, says Ben.

  —Oh no, you don’t, I say. You don’t know how to work my new car yet. Don’t move, and I take the keys with me, which seem to be a little messed up because the tiny valet glove compartment key thingy is popping out like I haven’t clicked it in quite right or something, but there’s no time to think. I launch Ma on her way across the lobby and run ahead to make sure this bathroom is the one with handicap bars and things. Yes it is, and there’s Eliza coming out of a stall looking restored.

  I get to take a minute and tell Eliza this is the fancy bathroom where Aunt Colette and I went after they made the wonderful offer and we were alone for a second and jumped up and down and silently squealed and hugged each other and bawled, isn’t it gorgeous? I send her off and tell her to wait in Ma’s place for the boys. Just when we open the beautiful door, there’s Ma—like a cuckoo clock.

  I watch her maneuver into the stall, and say wait right here and don’t move, I’ll be right back with your supplies. She tells me where the stuff is in her bathroom. I go back out and Eliza is still in the lobby, rolling her eyes. The boys seem to be locked in the car. It’s honking rhythmically with lights flashing because the alarm has been going off the whole time we were all in the restroom.

  So I go out to rescue Sam and Ben, who are full of pent-up boy energy from the car ride and all that time with their elbows off the table. I think oh, what the heck and give Ben a crash course on how to work the freaky newfangled parking brake and get the weird key out. I ask him to park, unload the cake, and take the flowers and stuff to Ma’s apartment where we’ll all meet up in a few minutes, because I’ve decided to run over, collect Ma’s equipment, and bring it back in the scooter so she can ride to her apartment without having to stagger along with the walker (she must be exhausted by now) or get in and out of the car.

  Ben’s got a gleam in his eye as he slides behind the wheel. When Sam takes the passenger seat beside him, they exchange a secret twins’ smile. I think this will not end well. But fingers crossed, off I go at a sprint. Dashing to Ma’s place, grabbing everything that looks colostomy-related (sanitary wipes, a weird sort of pouch that looks like a flesh-colored ziplock Baggie with a large hole cut in the side, some kind of plastic disk that might be an attachment for the Dirt Devil vacuum but it could be vital, and, if all else fails, several pairs of disposable briefs). I try to shoehorn her paraphernalia into my huge purse, no need to broadcast to everyone at the Abbey. Then I rush downstairs, leap on Ma’s scooter, and make for the lobby like a bat out of hell.

  I’m not as good as Ma with the scooter. There are a few elderly eyebrows raised along the way, but I manage to park it somewhere sort of appropriate, near the mailboxes. I race-walk past a small herd of fragile old souls doddering unsteadily through the lobby and then at last I lurch into the bathroom and lean, panting, against the beautiful door.

  —Is everything okay, Ma?

  Yes, it is! And thank God, I brought all the right stuff. We live a charmed life these days.

  The truth is a little messy public spectacle wouldn’t have mattered. Everyone at this extraordinarily lovely place is winding up the journey, making the best of it. There is comradeship, and absolute tolerance. Safety in numbers. I pray we’re all lucky enough to end up like this.

  When we get back to the studio, Eliza is there, enjoying the huge flower arrangement that has arrived from an admiring out-of-town cousin. She’s still laughing about a sideshow in the parking lot below Ma’s balcony window: My white Passat appears to have given birth to Ben, who was experimenting with that secret passageway in the backseat and has emerged magically out of the trunk headfirst. He is now chasing Sam around all the trees to get his jacket back.

  —What? says Ma.

  Ring. Ring. It’s David at home, wondering what on earth happened to everybody.

  Ben, Ma, Eliza, and Sam, November 2008

  Postscript

  Ma approves of Michelle Obama. She thinks the new vegetable garden at the White House is going to finally wean us all off processed foods.

  She broke her other hip about nine months after she got to the Abbey. Ma’s not complaining. She also has new hearing aids. The guy who fitted her for them said she was long overdue for an upgrade, and he could not believe she’d been able to function at all with her old pair.

  Of course, I had to read Ma this book from start to finish. She likes it, but there’s something Ma thinks everyone needs to know:

  —It’s very important.

  —Go ahead, Ma. You can tell them yourself.

  —How?

  —They’re reading this. Just say what you want them to hear.

  —Oh. Well. It’s about the opening sentence.

  —Nobody dies at the end of this book?

  —Of course they don’t.

  —No, Ma, I mean that’s the opening sentence.

  —But they don’t.

  —Well, actually, Ma, someone did.

  —No, they didn’t.

  —Yes, Ma. Marbles did. Last summer.

  —That’s a cat. That’s different. They don’t even know about Marbles.

  —Yes they do. Chapter Two: Marbles the cat “has been with us since the earthquake and is now hanging on by a thread.”

  —Well, that doesn’t matter.

  —Excuse me, but tell that to Eliza. Marbles was her cat.

  —Can I tell them what’s important or not?

  —Go ahead.

  —Nobody dies.

  —Except Marbles.

  —Susie!

  —Sorry. Go ahead.

  —You spent all that time trying to keep me alive, and your efforts are much appreciated, but I think they should know about Grandsir and me.

  —They do: Chapter Six. You saw his soul go up through the ceiling.

  —Right. That’s what they all need to know. And you, too. Nobody dies.

  Thanks. I think we got it, Ma.

  Philadelphia, 2009

  Acknowledgments

  First thanks go to Colette, fellow fair-hair, muse. You asked for this book, gave me the best ideas, and your hand is on every page.

  To bus companion, amateur EMT, and godfather Michael Bamberger: for giving me courage, a title, and a publisher.

  To Brendan Cahill and everyone at Open Road for believing in this book, and for giving me dream editors: Andrea Colvin, blessed with a valuable combination of discipline, perception, and wit, and Marjorie Braman, who somehow managed to get right inside my head. I suspect she has magical powers.

  To David Sedaris, for setting the standard: you don’t know me, but when you come to Philadelphia my friend Ellen and I are the ones screaming like Elvis fans. You signed Ellen’s book, and now she believes you are her boyfriend. You are not. You are mine.

  To Amy Banse, Barbara Ziv, Ellen Hass, Liz Tyson, and all the whip-smart members of Academentia, past and present: you have taught me to recognize good writing. And, to so many other equally challenging, sensitive readers who kindly took time to give valuable feedback, especially Becky Sinkler, Court van Rooten, David Stern, Perri Kipperman, Marion Rosenberg, Joe Dworetzky, Joan Cooke, Chris Van Melzen, Kate Schwarz, Priscilla Baker, Pebble Brooks, Courtney Kapp, Ruthie Ferraro, Anne Price (who has never let me forget that marinated salmon), Diane Fleming (we will always have Paris), Betsy Down, Mr. Badger (I belie
ve I owe you several thousand ink cartridges), and Felix von Moschzisker.

  To our supporters during the crisis: friends, family, clergy, doctors, nurses, therapists, health care administrators, and to those overworked, undercompensated aides and caregivers who show gentle consideration to elderly people in need.

  To Michael von Moschzisker, greatly missed, who taught us to believe in the Golden Rule and the federal government, and had a disarming way with words.

  To the rest of the family tree—those we know now, and those who came before—particularly Ma’s cherished brother, Sidney, and her four captivating sisters, Virginia, Rebecca, Priscilla, and Barbara, all sadly no longer with us, each of them every bit as exceptional as our mother.

  To Ma: you are loved. You are Special.

  To Eliza, Ben, and Sam: Thank you for keeping me laughing, and for not freaking out. If any one of you ever writes a book about me, fine. Don’t forget there’s plenty of embarrassing stuff I could have included in mine and did not.

  To my husband, David: For your steadfast patience, faith, generosity, and insight. For insisting I find each chapter’s heart, and for always cooking dinner. (I was just kidding about David Sedaris; Ellen can have him. I’m pretty sure you are a better cook than he is anyway.)

  PHOTO AND ART CREDITS

  Williamstown, 1980 Robert Baker-White

  California, 1984 Scott Clarke

  Sarasota, 1995 Colette Barrere

  Philadelphia, 2009 Colette Barrere