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LADIES WHO LUNCH |
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Cody Mitchell got out of his 1991 Honda Civic, and caressed its dented silver flank with loving hands. After two years of flipping burgers, mowing lawns and stuffing popcorn into flimsy paper bags at the Megaplex, coupled with a judicious combination of bargaining and pleading with his folks, the car was now his. He could take it anywhere. He could do anything with it. He grinned. He would take Monica Lindstrom to prom in it, and who knew what else. Then, of course, he would get serious, use it to drive himself to work and classes up at the University. He knew just how many cases of Coors would fit in the trunk. Today, Cody was exercising his new independence and adult status by driving himself to Azalea Courte, the assisted living place his grandma lived in. He and his mom were going to have lunch with Grandma, and Cody knew that lunch with Grandma was anybody’s game. Last week, she had mistaken his sister for her own mother, gone now these fifty years and embarrassed her enormously by reminiscing with her in German. Heck, Grandma didn’t even know German, Cody thought. Grandma was old school, though, Mom said, and as far as Cody could see, the school was getting older by the minute. Mom wasn’t there yet. He dialed her cell phone, and was relieved when she picked up. "Cody? Hi darling. I’m running late, and I won’t be there for another twenty minutes. Be a dear, will you, and go on and have lunch with Grandma. She’ll appreciate it so." Cody felt himself growing pale then red with embarrassment. Lunch alone with Grandma? Sheesh! "But Mom… I have to meet Monica at…." "You’re such a good kid, Cody. I don’t tell you that enough. I really thank you for doing this. I’ll try to be there as soon as I can. Bye!" Cody pocketed his phone, thinking that his mom had out-maneuvered him this time, and faced the gingerbread façade of the home. All beige and white, with delicate archways over the sidewalks and columns that supported nothing but air, Azalea Courte was designed to appeal to the picket fence fantasies of the greatest generation. To Cody, it looked like Disneyland for the demented. He took a breath and went in. Damask sofas lined the reception area, and watercolors of pretty girls with flowerpots decorated the walls. It still had that smell, though. Pee and Lysol and old people. To reach Grandma’s wing, the one for people who had completely lost it, he had to go through a special door, one that had a code to get out. That was creepy. Walking up to the nurses’ station, he introduced himself. "Oh yes," said the aide who worked the desk. "The Duchess is in the dining room right now. She’ll be glad to see you." This aide, Carlotta, was from the Philippines, and had appointed herself the guardian of the Mitchell family any time they came to visit. She liked his grandmother, Duchess, as they called her, and liked his mom and dad as well. She reported to them all the things that Grandma did when they weren’t around to see it themselves. "The Duchess had a fine time singing last night. I didn’t know she had such a pretty voice," Carlotta was saying now as they made their way down the hallway, tastefully appointed in mauve and sage green. "Mom says she used to sing on the radio in Chicago,’ Cody mumbled, as always intensely uncomfortable whenever he was forced to spend time at the home. There were always old people lining the walls in wheelchairs. The doors to the rooms were left open so aides could see in to make sure folks were ok, but Cody felt like he was walking the corridors of a zoo. He didn’t want to see in. He didn’t want to see the drooping figures in bathrobes sitting motionless in their chairs, or to catch glimpses of tiny huddled figures in blankets on the beds. Once, he’d passed a room and an old man lay on one of the beds, sobbing. It made his chest feel tight, like he was getting asthma, or something. "Here we are!" sang Carlotta in that ‘aren’t we special’ voice they all used when speaking in the presence of Altzheimer patients. Grandma was sitting at a pink plastic table with three old ladies. They all perched like miniature buzzards in pink plastic chairs. Everything was plastic. It must have made clean up so much easier. "Hi Grandma. It’s me, Cody". His grandmother’s face lit with joy at the sight of him, but Cody always made sure to tell her who he was. She often confused him with her son, his Uncle Grant. How she did that, he didn’t know, since Uncle Grant weighed about 300 pounds, was always drunk as a skunk and was sixty, if he was a day. But Grandma adored Grant, and she adored Cody too. Mom said seeing Cody now reminded her of Grant as a young man; back when he had been full of promise. It was easier for her to remember Grant as he used to be, than deal with who he was now. What Mom didn’t say was that she was chagrinned by the fact that Grandma never recognized her, or his sister Melissa. Mom had never been the favorite child, and Melissa didn’t remind Grandma of any old times, happy or not. They just weren’t in the fading Rolodex in her brain. Everyone called Grandma Duchess. Mom said that was because Grandma had a way about her. Wherever she was, people fawned over her and waited on her. Men especially seemed to think she was special, and it wasn’t that she was particularly sexy (although Cody had seen her wedding pictures and secretly thought Grandpa hadn’t married her for her brains), but that she seemed to command whatever space she was in, and held herself as if she were a rare gift to a plebian world. Now however, she was faded, shrunken and a little bit sloppy. She wore stretchy green pants and house slippers. She had a pink sweatshirt on with a hearts and hands motif that in the past she would have used to clean windows. Her hair was lank and gray. And she held court at that pink plastic table as if the queen had come for tea. Graciously, she waved her hand at her two companions for lunch. Standard issue old ladies, thought Cody. He nodded to them, not aware that he had inherited some of her air of noblesse oblige. He looked at his watch and took a seat. Mom should be here soon. The old ladies set out to impress him. Grandma was being particularly duchess-y today, going on and on about her years of advanced study in psychology at a prestigious eastern university. "I told him," she said, "I told him over and over again that withholding intimacy like that was a clear case of childhood toilet training trauma. He actually consulted with me before submitting…." "I always brown my roast in butter before adding onions," began the second old lady. She clearly had enough of the Duchess’ pretentious ramblings, or maybe she was continuing some conversation known only to herself. Cody gave her his attention, trying hard to be polite in a strange world. Maybe Mom would come soon. Grandma rolled her eyes. She had long held that everyone around her was nuts. She pointed that out now. "Cody, I don’t know how much longer I can be of use here. My therapeutic interventions are of minimal effectiveness and…." Old Lady Number Two rolled her eyes, signaling to Cody that she knew Grandma was as crazy as a loon, and continued her recitation of ingredients. "Onions, of course, and potatoes. And rhubarb. I always add a rhubarb to a pot roast." Grandma intervened with a snort. "Rutabaga. You mean rutabaga." She rolled her eyes significantly to let Cody know that the woman was clearly unstable. Old Lady Two set her fork down with a clatter, mortified. Her eyes teared up, and Old Lady Number Three smiled sweetly at them all. Cody was feeling fond of Number Three. So far, she hadn’t said a word. He looked at his watch again. Where was Mom? Grandma moved on to her next favorite topic. Lowering her voice, she whispered, "Why doesn’t Grant ever come to see me? Is everything all right with him?" Grant rarely visited Grandma. Having her out of his life was like winning the lottery to him. Only his big win was having a barrel of beer upended over his head, and never crawling out. The last time he came, she complained of being locked away and demanded he take her home. Uncle Grant told her she was in jail for running drugs, and she was upset for days. Cody vastly preferred her occasional delusion that she was on a cruise, or as today, that she was the staff psychologist. Old Lady Two moved on to the care and feeding of roses. Grandma cast her a look of acute dislike and acidly, "If some people weren’t so stupid that they don’t know any better than to…" here she got a little lost. Cody suspected that intention was to deliver a stinging insult, but sometimes it seemed she was losing her touch. She went back to the tried and true. "When Dr. Burgess read my report, he agreed with my diagnosis that…" Cody stopped listening. He wanted to tell Grandma about the Honda and Monica, but she never seemed interested in anything he had to say anymore. He twisted his watch around his wrist and wished very much for Mom to turn up. Old Lady Number Two gave up and sulked. Old Lady Number Three smiled benignly on them all. One of the staff members brought the dessert tray to the table. On the heels of dessert came Mom, looking distressed and guilty. She stooped to kiss Grandma’s cheek. "Sorry I’m so late, Cody. The lines at the grocery store were miserable." She smiled at him, gave his hair a friendly swipe and sat at the table. "So, Mom, how’ve you been?" "Good of you to deign to visit me," Grandma sniffed. "I’d begun to think I’d been forgotten, again." She added with emphasis. Mom looked pained, and Old Lady Number Two rolled her eyes. Cody sat back to listen, glad the conversational ball was out of his court. Mom tried hard to make the conversation general and congenial, and Old Lady Number Two was doing her best. But Grandma couldn’t seem to stop going on an on about her distinguished academic career, and making snide comments about some people who weren’t so delusional they couldn’t stop horning in on other people’s families. Old Lady Number Three seemed to be exhibiting some signs of life, so Cody turned toward her, more than ready for a change of subject. She leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. She looked at him, a sparkle in her faded eye. Cody jumped up. "It’s time to go. ‘Bye Grandma. See you later. Come on, Mom." He grabbed his mother’s arm and started walking to the corridor. "Wait. What? Cody, you can’t just jump up and leave like this. It’s very rude." Mom was trotting behind him, trying in vain to make a dignified departure. "Umm, Mother, I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sorry about this." But Grandma had already turned away, her family forgotten until the next time. Cody marched them both to the sealed door, and punched in the code. "What do you think you’re doing, Cody? Do you know how rude you were to your Grandma? And those sweet old ladies? They were in the reception area now, and Cody turned to her. "You know those sweet old ladies, Mom? The one that never says anything?" His mother nodded. "Well, while you and Grandma were talking about whether Boston is in Massachusetts or New York, she whispered in my ear. You know what she said, Mom?’ Mom shook her head. "I can’t imagine." "She said, ‘You’re such a nice boy, would you like to come up and take a nap with me?’" A moment of silence. Then they both collapsed with laughter, surrounded by watercolors of bright-eyed puppies and cottages with picket fences. |
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