A Bittersweet Goodnight

by Linda C Wright

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54398-900-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54398-901-4

  This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

  For June

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  If life is sweet, say thank you and celebrate.

  If life is bitter, say thank you and grow.

  Chapter One

  I don’t even know June’s favorite color or what kind of books she liked to read or how she spent her time during the long empty days of retirement. June changed the diversity of her tastes like a chameleon, liking whatever food sat in front of her at the moment, or movie we selected to see, or blouse I wore. Whether we went to Outback or Applebee’s, or sat on my back patio enjoying the fresh air, every meal we ate together turned out to be her most favorite. The colorful bouquet of lilies and roses I agonized over choosing for her birthday were always the most beautiful she’d ever seen and a Christmas gift of new stationery and postage stamps turned out to be exactly what she’d wished for.

  But when life didn’t agree with how June wanted it to be, she acted more like a mule, stubborn, impossible to reason with. Like the summer three of my father’s grandchildren were being married, and no amount of convincing could get her to agree to attend even one of the weddings. My stepmother refused to go without my father, who by this time had been dead for ten years.

  Or the time she didn’t speak to my husband, Richard for several months after he commented on the price she paid to have some old, ugly wallpaper removed from the kitchen in her condo that had been on the walls when she moved in. He worked as an interior designer, knew the fair price of the job and probably could have called in a favor to have it taken down for free. When Richard told her she overpaid, she dug in her heels.

  June always knew she was right and no one was going to tell her differently. She would never ask Richard or me for help of any kind, not with her finances, home repairs or ride to a good friend’s funeral. She made her own arrangements. We gladly offered our assistance no matter what the problem because to us, June was family. To her we were something different. I’m not sure what separated us but I found through the many years I knew her that our relationship was like the brass ring on the carousel, coming closer, and floating farther away and always just slightly out of reach.

  I don’t even know the real color of her hair. After a certain age, all women keep that a secret but I knew June since I was eleven years old and I’m now sixty. Surely we spent time together before coloring the gray started. I began to color my own hair at forty, and when June moved across the street from us, she made her appointment for the same hairdresser I used, on the same day and time as me, every six weeks on a Saturday. I picked her up and together we went to the hairdresser. Our joke was we were getting all dolled up in order to pick up some cute guys at the grocery store where we headed for our weekly shopping trip right after our hair had been colored, cut and teased into perfection.

  “June, I found an old picture of you. Your hair was blonde.” I said. I didn’t add ‘while cleaning out your apartment’ to the end of the sentence fearing it would trigger a temper tantrum. June wasn’t happy since I turned her world upside down by moving her out of her familiar home to an unfamiliar assisted living unit.

  She cocked her head to the left side trying to process my words.

  “I never remember you as a blonde,” I repeated.

  “Oh, I think there was a blonde period at some point,” she answered.

  “You wore a beige knit suit. Who made those suits you sold like crazy back in the sixties?” I asked. “Butte Knits?”

  June dreamed big for a woman of her day. As the first in her family to go off to college, she earned a teaching degree from Penn State and returned home to do what she was trained to do, teach. Small town life quickly lost its luster and somehow she managed to land a job at Kaufmann’s, a department store in Pittsburgh. She moved to the big city to live with her aunt and uncle because a young woman of the times had only two choices. Live with family or rent a room at the YMCA. June started her career in ladies ready-to-wear and immediately found her calling.

  “Kimberly Knits,” she said.

  “Ah. And you were holding Mia. I remember Mia in Seattle,” I said.

  Mia, June’s miniature poodle, about fifteen pounds and black as night, came along when June married Dad.

  “Molly,” she corrected me.

  Molly, a toy poodle, came after Mia. Again June chose a black dog, but Molly was much smaller than Mia. Molly weighed less than ten pounds but carried enough personality for a hundred. Her sister, Maggie, a gray version of Molly, who never turned away food of any kind and would snatch it from Molly’s dish if given the opportunity, also came in a package deal. Maggie waddled like a duck while Molly ran circles around her.

  Both dogs were kissers, licking my brother, Steve, and me during our summer visits to see Dad and June until we were covered with sticky dog slobber. The dogs made us giggle so we didn’t really mind. It was more affection than we were shown by anyone else in our lives, none of who were great kissers or huggers, not even by dog standards.

  “No, Mia. Don’t you remember Mia?” I asked.

  “No. Shana?”

  A June who didn’t remember her precious dogs was still hard for me to grasp. Her fading memory placed both of us on a rocky road searching for a new home where she could be watched over and cared for. It turned out to be a place neither of us wanted to be.

  Dad and June bought Shana after Maggie and Molly got to old to live a comfortable life, from a person they referred to as a prominent standard poodle breeder after they moved to Tampa. Not that any of us cared where the dog came from as long as it gave us the hugs and slobbers we craved. June made sure her family and friends understood Shana came from a good pedigree.

  It was June’s way of letting the world know that she didn’t let just anyone or anything into her home, only the best. That same mindset applied to her furniture, paintings on the walls and of course her clothing, showing off every chance she got. I learned over the years, i
n her mind she never made a mistake, even if I thought she had.

  She picked out another black puppy from the litter and chose her name, however, Shana belonged to Dad. He drove her to the grocery store, allowing her to sit on the white leather seat of his Cadillac, took her for long walks and taught his dog with the fancy French haircut every stupid dog trick imaginable.

  It’s that vision of her beloved Paul with their very last pet that’s the only image she’s able to conjure up. The lineage of her favorite dogs is now tucked deep into the recesses of her mind. The thought of the two of them together is the only memory she can bring forward in this stage of her life.

  “You were young in the picture. You had blonde hair. Remember?”

  “No.”

  Dementia also acts as a chameleon, changing and adapting to the current situation. Answers to seemingly complex questions roll off June’s tongue as if she was young and vibrant and knew everything that happened in the world today. If I asked who was the President, she’d most likely answer Obama, which was correct but if I asked her what she had for breakfast she could only tell me about her hot cup of coffee and nothing else, because she loved coffee and never started her day without it. I fell into the trap believing we were having an ordinary conversation as we’d done for years. Then she forgot her first and most precious dog.

  June adored those dogs with every ounce of love in her heart. They were her children. She spoiled them rotten and cried for days when they became old and sick and had to be put to sleep. In my mind, it’s a toss up whether the dogs or my father came first in her life.

  When it was a dog’s time to go, she made sure they no longer suffered. She gave them a peaceful ending to a rich and full life, a finale June longed to have for herself. I, too, wished for peace as June walked down the path to the end of her life, but I would struggle to help her find it.

  “Goodnight June.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I love you,” she answered.

  “Love you too.”

  “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” - Thornton Wilder

  Chapter Two

  My fingers fished for the envelope in the bottom of my overstuffed purse containing all the necessities of traveling. Hand sanitizer, antacids and cough drops were in the way of the one thing I needed at the moment. The key to June’s apartment.

  The yellowed, once white envelope with June’s distinctive handwriting scribble of “Linda” in faded blue ink on the outside, which had been tucked away in my file cabinet for the past seven years, eluded my grasp this morning. Yesterday the key slid easily into the lock when I first arrived at June’s condo. Today, the elusive piece of metal knew what awaited it and so did I. I dreaded the task of sorting, packing and cleaning all that lay ahead of me. Not being able to find the key only made my nerves bristle and my knees weak. After emptying half of the contents of my handbag onto the walkway floor, I finally unearthed the crinkled paper and pulled it out of the jumbled pile.

  The deadbolt tightly gripped its place in the doorframe the way June had wanted it to for her protection from a threatening outside world. My shaking hands struggled to open the lock. Turning the key required Herculean strength and my attempts left deep, red creases on my thumb and fingers. I switched to my left hand, and it too lacked the muscle necessary to turn the key even a millimeter. With two-handed pressure, the lock finally released itself and I nudged the front door open with my shoulder. I’d look for some WD40 once I got inside.

  The stench rushed up my nose knocking me back out onto the building’s catwalk. A disgusting taste of stale smoke coated my mouth and a deep, restless cough rose in my throat and refused to stop. Here I stood, trying to believe June only smoked on the patio. She told me that story so many times I can still hear her voice in my head saying it. It’s the first of many cover-ups I would discover over the next few weeks.

  “I keep track of how many cigarettes I smoke each day.” She pointed at a slip of paper she kept next to her seat on the sofa with dates followed by tick marks, the same number each day.

  “Why do you keep track?” I asked.

  “So I don’t smoke too many and run out before I can get to the store.” The logic made perfect sense for a woman in her nineties who never learned to drive a car and relied on other people to take her where she needed to go.

  I retrieved a cough drop from my purse but it did little to douse the tickle in my throat. The stale odor of cigarettes locked up inside for two weeks during the Florida summer made itself at home inside of my sinus cavity and started my already aching temples pounding. The brief airing I attempted the day before had done little. The walls and draperies refused to relinquish all that belonged to June. They didn’t want her to leave either. Someone new would paint the brown smoke tinged walls white again, throw the faded drapes in the trash and replace the carpet with stylish wood floors. Just like June, the old and worn furnishings would be forced into leaving their comfortable home.

  My brief stop yesterday at the condo had been just that, brief. I didn’t allow myself enough to time to be fully enveloped in the enormous task in front of me. I gave myself a week to get the apartment ready for sale. The added pressure I put on myself to raise the money for her care didn’t allow me to be leisurely. Besides, I wanted to be at home, writing a funny story, taking a bike ride around the neighborhood or reading a captivating new book for the next meeting of my book club. The cavalry wasn’t about to appear over the ridge. I was alone.

  I poked around in the closet, choosing a few more items of clothing for June to wear. My sister, Susan, came from Ohio two weeks ago to pack June’s suitcase for the move while I navigated June’s doctor appointments, phone installation and furniture delivery from afar. I had my own busy agenda at home already arranged so Susan and I made a swap. She had the unpleasant task of extracting June from her apartment and depositing her at the Hawthorne Assisted Living before quickly returning to Ohio. I took the clean up duty.

  Susan, however, left behind June’s favorite white cardigan sweater. Yesterday she carried on how she needed it to throw over her shoulders to ward off the constant chill. I pulled it off the hanger along with a pair of black pants with pockets to stuff with the tissues June always carried with her, and an elastic waist to hold them up on her shrinking waistline. Susan packed every color of these once stylish old lady garments except the black. The color black was June’s wardrobe staple and she didn’t understand why they weren’t hanging in her new closet.

  I walked down the hallway into the living room and expected to see June sitting in her corner of the sofa, the place she always sat, the cushion now faded and showing an impression of June’s skinny backside after many years of constant use. The other cushions were plump and full, a reflection into a solitary life.

  I dumped my bag on the dining room table, something that never would be allowed if June still lived here. She kept it set with napkins and silverware, ready to serve a meal at any time. The table would become my workspace until my job here ended. The sooner I started the sooner I could get back home, kiss my husband, play with Ginger, my precious little sweet pea of a dog, and sleep in my own bed. Dreaming of those three simple things would make the 150 mile drive back home bearable, even bordering on pleasant no matter how much traffic I encountered on the road. At first glance those cozy comforts appeared to be a long way off.

  Mostly however, I wished for the buzzing of the world around me to stop, for people who thought they knew better to abstain from forcing their views on how to care for an elderly woman on me. I prayed every hour on the hour, day and night, for all of this heartache to go away.

  I looked around at June’s life left behind. All her little knick knacks sat as they had for years, sprinkled across the coffee table, on the dining room buffet, and in full view on the antique candlestick table in the corne
r. A ten inch tall wooden carved French poodle, a dainty crystal slipper too small to even be Cinderella’s and a long stemmed porcelain Cybis tulip the color of a ripe nectarine, all things I admired and came to love over the years, greeted me the same way they had for more than fifty years.

  “Hi, Shana,” I reached down to stroke the stationary poodle on its topknot.

  A pack of pink Virginia Slims with a matchbook tucked under the cellophane wrapper remained on the end table next to her favorite spot on the sofa. Even her handwritten tally sheet and miniature yellow bridge pencil used to track her daily cigarette usage remained exactly as she left it, neatly aligned with the edge of the table.

  I’m the chosen one to clean out the apartment and sell it to free up money for June’s care. Susan, and her husband, Greg, and took on the task of getting a highly agitated and stubborn old woman out of here and into a new, fresh, clean apartment at the assisted living home. I can only imagine what that week was like for them. With my emotions on a dizzying rollercoaster ride, I’m exhausted just standing here and I wish I had a shoulder, anyone’s shoulder to lean on. I’m not sure which one of us pulled the short straw in this lottery of life.

  My other sister, Martha declined to help me at all with June. When asked, she announced she would support any decision I made, but would not be able to assist.

  “You should just leave her alone,” Martha told me. “Let her be.”

  Speechless, I couldn’t find any words. Obviously Martha wasn’t the step child getting phone calls at all hours of the day and night from people who were afraid she’d burn the condo down with her cigarettes and matches, who didn’t want to be responsible if something happened to her, or who insisted she owed them money.

  When given a choice, it’s human nature to choose the path of least resistance, the easy way out. It takes courage to jump head first into the unknown. Courage is sadly lacking among my siblings it seems. I’m not putting myself on any pedestal, however, I wasn’t given any choice. June assigned her power of attorney to me years ago, I was joint owner on her bank accounts, and the neighbors had my phone number. Therefore the easy way out was not an option for me.