June had a hammertoe. The long second toe on her right foot curled across her big toe. I can only assume for the majority of her working years, she had crammed her feet into ill fitting high heels all while walking mile after mile every working day as she combed the department store floors or pounded the New York City pavement on a buying trip.
No matter how much nudging I did over the years, she refused to have the toe corrected. Mom declined to take prescribed medicine for high blood pressure and that choice cost her dearly cutting her life short. I’m sure the toe caused a lot of unnecessary pain over the years. The lesson learned from the two most prominent women in my life for my own later years is to never skip a doctor’s appointment and if it’s broken get it fixed. There is no need to suffer thanks to today’s modern medicine.
Our family was first introduced to the toe on a trip to Disney World. For some unknown reason, we had come together in an attempt to act like a family and gathered at Disney World for a week’s vacation. The year was 1988. Susan, Greg and their son Luke came from Ohio along with Steve and Karen. Martha and Tom came with a combination of children, some his, some hers and one who didn’t belong to either of them. Dad and June and Richard and I drove to Orlando in separate cars. We decided we might need Dad’s roomy Cadillac to pack a few more people into in case we decided to drive somewhere and not rely on the hotel bus.
I bought Dad a Donald Duck hat at the Disney store in the mall and gave it to him for his birthday a few weeks before we were scheduled to leave. He wore it all day every day we were on vacation, to the pool, on a trek around one of the theme parks, at dinner and with cocktails. He stood out in the crowd with Donald’s big yellow duckbill sticking out and his oversized eyes topped by his bright blue sailor hat on Dad’s large frame. His favorite pink, white and blue plaid polyester sans a belt trousers completed the outlandish outfit he loved but embarrassed the rest of us.
Dad wanted to make us laugh. He wanted to impress Mickey that he too could let his hair down and have a good time in the happiest place on Earth. I often thought he was trying to make up for lost time having never taken us away on a vacation. As kids we went to visit him wherever he lived at the time. Sure we were leaving home for a time but he wasn’t. We were his guests subject to his rules. Here in Disney World, Mickey and Minnie set the rules.
On the last night we all went to the luau at the Polynesian Hotel, he and June lagged far behind the rest of us when we were making our way back to the bus stop. We only had one more day left of our family time together and everyone was tired, even the kids, who in the eyes of the rest of us had boundless energy. All that hula dancing made my eyes heavy and my feet feel as if I was wearing a pair of concrete boots. When I arrived at the bus stop and the Donald Duck hat wasn’t visible in the crowd, I had a feeling something was amiss.
I slowly labored down the long and winding pathway retracing my steps and found Dad and June sitting on a bench taking a rest.
“Are you guys all right?” I asked.
“June’s toe is bothering her,” Dad said.
Her toe?
“Do you have a blister? I’ve got band aids back at the hotel,” I said. A prepared traveler, a portion of my suitcase was always set aside for aspirin, Pepto Bismol, Neosporin and a variety of other pharmaceuticals just in case. I loved to travel and never wanted a blister or a bout of diarrhea to interrupt my adventure. I carried enough for everyone with me.
June took off her right shoe and rubbed her foot.
“I don’t think it’s a blister,” she said squinting while trying to focus in the pale lamplight.
That’s when I saw it. Her second toe crossed over on top of her big toe. My first thought was “Why don’t you get that fixed?” but I knew such a comment would not be well received. She hiked all over Disney World in shoes that didn’t fit since appearances always trumped comfort and with only the benefit of nine toes to steady her, no wonder she was in pain.
Dad held June’s hand and I stayed close by on the slow walk to catch up with the others.
“What’s the matter?” my sister asked as we came into view.
“June’s toe is bothering her,” Dad answered.
“Her toe?” Susan said, not really asking a question but making a comment.
I stood behind them waving my hand and shaking my head to signal not to ask anymore questions. The sight of “the toe” traumatized me and I feared having nightmares of it chasing me through my usually pleasant dreams.
After that incident and for as long as I could remember she only ever wore these funny little sandals with a cork wedge heel and a black leather strap with a silver buckle across the top. June swore these were the most comfortable shoes ever and wore nothing else. At least twenty-five identical pairs of black Worishofer slip ons littered her closet floor. Where she found them, I’ll never know but they are probably the only footwear on earth that left enough room for the pesky twisted toe.
Somehow she convinced the old lady shoe store in downtown Delray Beach to get the sandals for her. June bought a lot of them because the salesman would happily make a house call bringing the order directly to her apartment. Once she went to Susan’s in Dayton, Ohio for Christmas. It was 20 degrees outside with a foot of snow atop a layer of ice. June wore only a pair of her favorite sandals and knee-high nylon hose, insisting for the entire trip her feet weren’t cold.
June had only been in her new room at Hawthorne for a few days when the phone calls about the shoes started.
“She’s going to fall in those shoes. They don’t give her any support.” The nurse spoke to me like I must be an idiot to let on old woman walk around in a pair of ill-fitting cork sandals.
“What do you suggest she wear?” I asked.
“She needs something that will support her ankle, like a sneaker. Something with a rubber sole,” the nurse said.
“I think that will rub on the crazy toe she has. How can I get around it?” I had the shoe conversation with June many times to no avail. Now she was in new and strange surroundings, going through nicotine withdrawal and as mad as hornet at me for doing all this to her. Now would be a good a time as any to fit her into a new pair of footwear.
The nurse offered this advice. “Get a wide width and half size bigger. Velcro is better than laces.” The nurse again displayed no compassionate bedside manner but she spoke knowledgeably of old people and their shoes.
At Wal-Mart shoes are hung on a peg-board display. No boxes neatly stacked in rows like in the kind of store June would prefer to frequent. Pairs of sneakers were held together with a plastic tag and a hook. I stood before them trying to pick out a style June might like, while waiting for my sister to stop laughing.
“And who’s going to put these shoes on her feet?” Susan asked.
“I guess I’ve been elected. Unless you want to get on a plane and come down for the fun.” Who the hell did she think was going to do it?
“Woo. That’s a good one.” Susan continued to giggle. “I’ll say she’s about the same as me, a seven and a half or an eight.”
“OK. And I have to get it bigger to accommodate the toe.” Over the years the toe had become a living, breathing entity all on its own.
Scanning the wall, I searched for the eights. “What color do you think I should get? White or white?”
The only choice I had was some big, clunky orthopedic white sneakers with Velcro straps. In comparison to her beloved sandals, no matter how I delivered these shoes, it was going to be a very hard sell.
“White sounds good,” Susan chuckled.
“Any tips on how I should get these monstrosities on her feet?” I asked wanting more pity than advice.
“Wait until it’s about time for dinner. When the aide comes to take her downstairs she won’t be able to keep arguing with you. You know those old people, their day revolves around the next meal,” she answered. ‘’At 4:30 s
he’ll be hungry. They have feeding at those places down to a science.”
“I hope you’re right. Wish me luck.” To be on the safe side, I grabbed a size eight and an eight and a half from the wall and gathered myself together to be ready for an ensuing battle.
I pulled into the parking lot of the now familiar Hawthorne Residence. Gathering up all my bags of goodies, I headed inside. Yvette, the receptionist, or concierge as she called herself, stopped me.
“Did you order the newspaper for Mom?” she asked.
June always enjoyed having a daily newspaper. She read it slowly, making it last all day until it was time to turn on the television. She prided herself in not turning on the TV until it was time for the evening newscast. I never understood what was wrong with watching a little Dr. Phil, Maury, or The Price is Right during the day. She might have gotten a laugh or two out of it. But no. The newspaper kept her busy in between her precisely planned cigarette breaks.
“I did. Is it not being delivered?” I asked.
“It’s not that. She’s not interested in it, can’t concentrate on it. It’s going to waste. You can cancel it if you’d like,” Yvette said.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I wanted June to feel at home but I should have suspected this when I found the pile of newspapers strewn across the floor of her living room. She probably hadn’t been reading it for a long time but wanted to continue the impression she did. She tricked me once again. I held the power to upset the precarious routine she so carefully constructed in order to stay home. June’s plan miserably failed.
I found June’s door propped open. On tiptoes, I tried not to wake her but her eyes burst open with the rustling of my bags. I brought bottled water, cheese and crackers, a box of tissues, a wall calendar and some pencils she liked for doing crossword puzzles. If she wasn’t reading the newspaper, she most likely wasn’t doing her puzzles either. She might be nice to me today if I showed her these items and they triggered in her mind that her charade continued.
Oh, and of course, I almost forgot, the shoes. The stylish and attractive shoes, June was going to love without a doubt slipped out of the plastic bag and onto the floor. I couldn’t keep them a secret any longer.
June lay in bed looking at me with indifference as I showed off my purchases.
“Look cheese and crackers!” I exclaimed. “You can have a snack. The cheese is all sliced, ready for whenever you want some.” June used to love nibbling on cheese and crackers with her cocktail every evening but since she no longer had access to vodka she might not want it.
June rolled in her weathered lips and glared in my direction.
“I’ll put it in the fridge with a few bottles of water,” I said.
The glaring continued.
I took a deep breath, steeling my body and mind for what was about to happen. Now was the time for the shoes.
“June, the nurse says you must have new shoes.” I diverted the blame to someone else so I might have a chance of getting through the next few minutes unscathed.
“I don’t want new shoes,” she yelled while pounding her fists into the bed.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have a choice.” I opened the dresser drawer looking for the socks Susan bought for her. “Let’s put some socks on first.”
“No! I don’t want any,” she cried.
I sat on the edge of the bed, rolled up a sock and tried to slip it gently on the squirming foot. I had made a conscious decision not to have children of my own, and now my decision I made all those years ago was confirmed. All this fiddling around arguing left me weary. I found it hard enough to keep my own life in order and now I had to do it for June too. In my brain she was an adult, a friend, a stubborn but kind woman. Here and now lay a child in a worn and wrinkled body. All the wisdom of age trapped inside only to be seen in rare and fleeting moments when all the channels clicked back into place, sometimes for a minute and sometimes for ten, just long enough to fool even the smartest of onlookers.
Socks firmly in place, it was time for the shoes. I ripped open the Velcro straps and stretched the shoes apart forcing the right shoe to open as wide as I could make it.
“I want my sandals. Those are ugly. I won’t wear them,” she said.
“Wait until you walk in them. You are going to love them, June.” I did my best to sound encouraging.
Gently I held her foot and gave it a little massage to relax it. I slid the sneaker over the crooked toe. I wiggled her heel into place.
“ Owwww!” June squeaked. “Oww!”
I quickly got it off. Too small. Thank goodness I bought two different sizes. For once in this whole process I thought ahead. Smart me. The larger size slid on easily and there was no yelping with pain.
“There you go. Don’t you look stylish?” I said.
“I look like an idiot. Take them off. Take them off now, Linda.” I’m not sure how to describe the look on her face. Pale, desperate, frightened, all of the above and more. All I wanted for her was to be able to rip off these horrid things, give her back the shoes she loved, wave a magic wand and put everything back to the way it once was.
“C’mon. Let’s go for a walk,” I urged with a quiver in my voice while I pushed back tears I hoped June couldn’t detect.
“Get me my walker,” June answered.
Right then, I stopped. Her walker? Several years ago the doctor recommended June would benefit from the use of a walker. It would help her be less afraid and more stable on her feet. She complied, had Ted, her driver, take her to the medical supply store, purchased the walker and then parked it in the corner of the dining room to collect dust. Only old people use walkers she told me.
“Miss June. It’s time for dinner.” A cheerful voice chimed from the doorway.
I glanced at my watch. It said 4:15. The early bird special was alive and well at the Hawthorne Assisted Living Residence.
June’s walker never moved an inch the entire time it resided in her condo. Now it was making up for lost time. I moved it in front of her, held on to it while she used it for support and stood up. Off we went. New shoes and a walker and she was ready to run marathon.
I breathed a sigh of relief before chasing her down the hall and into the elevator.
“These shoes are comfortable. I like them.” June looked at me with a smile peeking out between the wrinkles.
“You like them?” I asked in disbelief.
“It’s easy to walk in them. I love them,” she smiled.
My mouth fell open. Right then and there I wondered why I gave up drinking after moving away. June always had a cocktail in hand, ready to raise it in a toast for any little reason. Without her encouragement to refill my glass on pace with hers, I have since come to the realization I didn’t need alcohol to make me more interesting or appealing. But if June accepted these new shoes back then, we would have celebrated with one helluva party.
“Behold the turtle. He makes progress only when he sticks his neck out.”
- James Conant
Chapter Twelve
Roger, his wife and daughter waited in the parking lot when I arrived the next morning. I helped them carry some packing boxes and we chatted easily on the way to the fifth floor. Sarah, Roger’s wife, who was tall and lean with graying hair wrapped up in a bun at the nape of her neck, complained about the Florida heat. Their daughter, Tina walked with a slight limp. She chose her words carefully when she spoke and displayed a curiosity about who I was and to whom all the furniture belonged. Tina appeared to be in her thirties but had a vocabulary of a ten year old.
As promised, Roger brought the contract and we both signed it. He handed me a copy and gave the remaining pages to Sarah, who filed them in a manila folder marked with my name.
“There are some knickknacks I’m not going to sell. They’ve been promised to other family members. Where should I put them so they’re out of your
way,” I asked Sarah who already wrapped three of the crystal goblets in newspaper.
“I wanna see!” Tina squealed. “There is so much neat stuff here, I wanna see what you’re keeping. I wanna see!”
Sarah looked around. “How about on the dresser? We’re not taking the bedroom set and we’ll know not to touch anything there.”
She gently took my hand and led me into the bathroom, out of earshot of Tina.
“My daughter was in a car accident and has some brain damage. She doesn’t mean any harm. But she talks a lot,” she told me.
“Not to worry. I can use some conversation to get my mind off what’s going on.” I squeezed her hand to let Sarah know I welcomed their company.
She smiled and went back to work. While we’d been talking, Roger had loaded up four chairs and the dinette table on a wheeled dolly and pushed them toward the elevator. While each empty space created lightened the weight I felt on my chest a tiny little bit, it was soon replaced with much sorrow. There would be no more laughter around the dining room table while blowing out birthday candles on pretty store bought cakes, no more ice cubes from trays because the ice maker didn’t work and no more rides in the elevator to June’s fifth floor apartment. The rituals binding our friendship together no longer existed.
I lined up post office ‘if it fits it ships’ boxes in the bedroom, one for each of the recipients on June’s list. As I came across the named items, I set them in the appropriate box and checked it off. I meant to sort through the linen closet and today seemed like a good day for that. As usual I got sidetracked into another room, which needed just as much of my attention as the rest of the home.
In the corner of the guest bedroom, was a small dresser with a four-shelf bookcase on top. The piece had originally been in my bedroom in Cleveland as a teenager. Somewhere along the line, Mom sent it to me and when Richard and I didn’t have room for it any longer in our home, I gave it to Dad and June. The shelves were filled with old books.
A Bittersweet Goodnight Page 7
