I SCANNED THE MEDICATIONS on the cart: pills sorted into tiny cups made of pleated paper, sitting atop smudgy laminated cards, each marked with a name and apartment number. The cards took me back to my hospital days, reminding me of surgical drapes framing the place to cut. A few medicines were set apart in smooth plastic containers the color of swimming pools: Oxycontin, Vicodin, Hydrocodone, Tramadol. Powerful. Dangerous. Able to suppress respiration. Like morphine. Named after Morpheus, the god of dreams.
In Greek mythology, Morpheus lived by the river of forgetfulness.
There is a common assumption that the only thing old people do is forget. Or, conversely, that all we do is sit around and remember, dwelling in the past. These things are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they represent the twin requirements of old age: recalling who we are and what we care about, while forgetting—or at least pretending to forget—how much we have lost.
Remembering and disremembering: getting this balance right has become my main struggle. There are some things I can’t let fade. I press on the bruise, keeping the memories alive and active. They are part of me. Besides, injustice—or rather, indignation in the face of it—is as good a reason as any for a person to get up in the morning. Somebody, somehow, has got to hold the world accountable. Maybe by the sheer act of insisting on it, justice might happen.
I looked down the empty hallway.
There is a lot of freedom in a place like this. One could get away with a lot, since no one expects anything of us. Allowed to remember or required to forget: either way, no one expects an old woman to do anything. Well, I reject that. My age offers me a measure of protection.
But Iris, though. Iris. The thought of my daughter holds me back. The memory of her pain and the fact that she seems to finally be able to make room for new memories, new life, makes me pause.
I sometimes wonder where to drop the pin on the time line marking the sequence of events that led me to the Ridgewood Assisted Living Retirement complex—and all the things that have descended from that. Did it begin when I fell and hurt my knee? Or further back, maybe the day Cal died? Or maybe the path that led me here began when Bethany was killed?
“Ruthie, my darling cousin,” I wrote, “one thing is for sure. However I conceptualize the past, I certainly would not have foreseen what the last two months have led me to.”
It was not a nursing home, as my son and my daughter kept reminding me when we went to take a look at Ridgewood Senior Apartments. “Mom, the people who live here are residents, not patients. They have their own apartments and as much independence as they want. It’s perfect for you.”
Mr. Alfred, director of Ridgewood, was explaining the various support services and conveniences as we stood in the lobby ready to embark on the tour. “Now Frannie, I’d like to show you—”
I interrupted. “Call me Mrs. Greene.”
Iris, bless her, barely bothered to suppress a smile. Her dimples gave her away, and she aimed a quick wink at me. Charlie cleared his throat, and Mr. Alfred blushed. “My apologies.” He hurriedly passed brochures to us, explaining that Ridgewood, an “innovative senior residence,” featured numerous amenities. “Tenants can utilize our support offerings on an as-needed basis. The library, the craft room, the van that takes people shopping, and the organized outings are all yours to enjoy.” He looked at me over his eyeglasses before continuing. “The majority of our residents take advantage of packages that provide varying levels of support. Most include meals in the dining room, but we also offer distribution of medications, cleaning—even help with bathing as people get older and might want more assistance.” I turned away at that last bit. I could wash my own bottom, thank you very much. I was only seventy-two, and despite the recent falls that had quite literally landed me here, I was in good health and sound mind. I didn’t need reminding that this might be my home for a long time.
Mr. Alfred droned on at my son and daughter—I could tell he had decided they were his main audience. I slipped down a hallway off the lobby to a small chapel, “open at all hours to residents in need.” Near the entrance was a discreet notice about the monthly memorial “for those who have passed on from the Ridgewood community.” Mr. Alfred didn’t call quite as much attention to that.
I returned to where he stood with my children. Mr. Alfred was easily six and a half feet tall and blockish as a wrestler. His voice, as one would expect from such an oversized throat, was a booming baritone. It took only a minute to realize that his size was in inverse proportion to his charisma. He was as devoid of charm as boxed vanilla pudding or, perhaps, the box itself.
“You’re very fortunate,” he was saying, “Our units aren’t available very often.” Iris turned to me and lifted her eyebrow in that way she had, and I fought the sarcastic urge to say, “Yes, very fortunate indeed.” I bit my tongue to keep from asking what happened to the last resident, because I didn’t want to irritate Charlie. Besides, it wasn’t too tough to guess. I suppose whoever it was could have moved to Florida, but I had a feeling the answer was more depressing. Though, judging from the visit I had made to an old friend a few years back, there might not be anything more depressing than retiring to Florida.
Iris sent me a warning glance before smiling at Mr. Alfred. “Yes, we’re so glad something is available.”
Much as I hated to admit it, she was right. Ridgewood was a nice place, and if I couldn’t return to my condo, there weren’t a lot of choices. When Cal and I had first moved to Willow Park, it was practically in the country, and the forty miles to Chicago made the big city seem like a distant shore, a destination for special outings. But now Willow Park was just another suburb. Rush-hour commuters clogged the road heading to the next town over to catch the Metra train, and ugly beige townhomes were springing up along the highway. Other than Ridgewood, the retirement apartments in the area were either expensive golfing communities, which held zero appeal for me, or repurposed sections of nursing homes, with nasty carpet and bad smells. Iris kept telling me how lucky we were that Ridgewood just happened to have something. I understood what she meant, but I didn’t feel all that lucky.
Ever since Cal’s death six years ago, Charlie had fretted and nagged at me about living alone in the condo. I tried not to be distrustful and assume he wanted to be rid of me, which is what the devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear when I felt sorry for myself. At one memorable “discussion” in which Charlie tried to convince me to move, I said as much. He looked like I’d slapped him. He had reddish brown, amber-colored eyes, like those of a golden retriever, and equally as expressive. “How can you say that, Mom?” He draped his arms around me and spoke into the top of my head. “I just want you to be around as long as possible. We’ve had enough bad things happen.”
Once again the cloud of our family tragedy blocked out the sun. The wounds were deep, and the scars had formed in welted, jagged lines. Charlie was right. I was a terrible mother for thinking so ungenerously. But I didn’t want to move, and Iris was sympathetic about that. She’s tenderhearted, my daughter. Even more so since Bethany’s accident.
But Iris changed her mind after my last fall. It was embarrassing. I went sprawling and injured my meniscus, and worst of all, I had a concussion. I had to lie in the dark for a week, no reading, no TV. Nothing to do but think. And when my head was finally healed, I had to spend three weeks in a rehab center for my knee. But it was after my knee was better that the hardest blow of all came. My children began insisting that I shouldn’t go back to my condo. Which was rich, because the condo was where we moved so we wouldn’t have to keep up our old house.
When Cal and I bought the place, its unusual size—three bedrooms and a family room—had been a selling point: we may have been leaving our big old house, but we still wanted plenty of room to have the kids over and entertain. But now, its size, and the fact that there were steps from the living room to the kitchen—where I’d tripped and fallen—meant that the social worker at the rehab center and my doctor and my kids all had decided I couldn’t live there anymore.
So here I was, touring Ridgewood retirement apartments, trying to be taken seriously as an individual, somehow, against the backdrop of the industrial aging complex.
Mr. Alfred waved his enormous hand to gesture us down a hall, and we dutifully followed. Bland paintings dotted the pink-beige walls. Benches were discreetly placed in little nooks. Mr. Alfred talked about the exercise rooms, the library, the computer center. I wondered whether these were actually used or if the tennis court and game room really functioned as placeholders for people’s former lives, reminders of what we once had done or been able to do. Maybe they helped the residents think that their days of gardening or painting, or playing tennis or video games, would continue. These offerings were big selling points, to judge by how they were emphasized.
As we passed apartment doors individually decorated with kitschy decorative plaques or “leave a message” chalkboards, I noticed several were flanked by ceramic sculptures of dogs or cats. Mr. Alfred saw me noticing them and smiled. “We don’t allow pets, so the neighbors on this hallway got together and declared whether they had been dog or cat people before coming here, and to make a ‘hallway menagerie.’”
Cute.
We arrived at a sort of knuckle at the end of the hall, with two apartments to either side. Mr. Alfred fitted a key into one of the doors. “This is one of our sunniest units.” He swept us in, and I had to fight the urge to be impressed.
The place was washed with light. To the right was a small but serviceable kitchen, with a curved half wall forming a counter and separating it from the entry. The spacious living room was straight ahead. To the left there was a large closet and a hall leading to the bath and bedroom.
Iris turned into the kitchen, where I heard Mr. Alfred continuing his spiel. “The appliances are top of the line …” and Iris responding, “Yes, very nice. Mom? Mom? Come take a look.”
But I ignored them and headed into the living room, drawn by the view. The grounds of Ridgewood border a nature preserve, and this particular apartment was situated where the building angled toward the wood. Huge windows framed a lawn sloping down to thickly shadowed trees, and birds darted by a pond blinking in the sunlight. Despite my best efforts to resist, I could see myself drinking morning coffee as I watched the swallows dip and scatter.
I willed the image away. No doubt Ridgewood was beyond my budget. Cal and I had worked hard to be able to put aside something just for our kids, and I was insistent that we not dip into those investments. So all week Charlie had been going over my finances and talking with my insurance company.
Charlie bent in front of me and said softly. “Mom? What do you think?”
“Well, it’s a pretty view. But I keep telling you, I refuse to spend your and Iris’s inheritance on something like this.”
He looked terribly pleased with himself. “What if I told you we could afford it with just your pension and the insurance? The long-term care policy you and Dad paid into for all those years will cover most of this.”
“What?” I frowned and moved my head sharply. Too sharply, judging by his reaction.
He looked hurt, and the creases he’d begun to develop around his forehead deepened. “But this place has everything you said you wanted.” His shoulders sank. “I thought you’d be glad that we could swing it.”
I blinked as sudden tears pressed behind my eyes. I turned away. What was my aim? To stay in my condo at all costs? It was a nice enough place, but when I thought of home, I pictured my real house, the clapboard Victorian where we raised our kids, and where Charlie and Pam and my grandsons live now. Was I just trying to prove I was strong and independent? To whom? To the people who had been visiting me in the rehab center every day, seeing me struggle to climb stairs? The truth was, I had agreed to this, but I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to move in with a bunch of old people. So I punted.
“Uh … um,” I stuttered. “It’s very nice. It’s just that everyone I ever got in a dispute with at the library or school will be living here sooner or later.”
Charlie was silent for a minute. Then he said softly, “Mom, we know you’re strong. We know you’re still sharp. Whatever bad thing you think it means to be in an assisted living apartment—it doesn’t mean that for you. We just want you to be safe.”
Iris had come up next to me. She was almost as tall as Charlie, and now she curled an arm around my shoulder. “Mom?” Her dark eyes were luminous. She let her long hair curtain her face as she bent close and whispered, as if no one else was around, “I just couldn’t bear it if something happened to you too.”
In the aftermath of her daughter’s death, we had come apart, Iris and I. After Bethany was killed, I’d been unable to help Iris, and she’d been unwilling to let me in. She pushed everyone away: her husband, Jimmy; her friends; Charlie; me. Maybe especially me. Displaced sorrow made us angry with each other. But my increased vulnerability had freed her. She had someone who needed her again, and she could focus her worry and energy on me instead of on the injustice of what had happened to her daughter.
How could I say no to the depth of love in her eyes?
She squeezed my shoulder, and we leaned into one another. Charlie encircled both of us in a hug, and spoke over my head to Mr. Alfred, “I think we’ll take it.”
But as they separated to talk to Alfred about the arrangements I couldn’t quite share their smiles. I turned my eyes to the window and the woods.
The morning of the move, I was up at dawn. Most of the furniture was already gone. I sat at a folding table in the kitchen, waiting for my kids, and shocked myself when I glanced down at my hands curled in my lap. Years ago I had picked up a staph infection in my right thumb. The thumbnail blackened and fell off, but it grew back thicker and stronger. That morning it looked yellow and clawlike, my skin dingy and somehow fake. Like my hand was made of wax.
But all that is analysis, explanation. When I saw my fingers clasped in my lap that morning, my immediate thought was: They look like the hands of a corpse posed in a casket.
I remember reading somewhere that old age is like visiting another country and that you enjoy it more if you prepare. But how can you prepare for this? Okay—financially, sure. Legally, architecturally—sure. Updated wills and wider doors and shower bars. But emotionally? Spiritually? Intellectually? I have no idea how to do that, and I crossed the border into this country a while ago. Nothing can prepare one for this. It is simply perseverance. Or maybe stubbornness. Finding motivation to get up every morning despite the fact that no one really cares what I do once I’m up. So long as I don’t die or otherwise cause trouble.
And this country, I was traveling through it quite alone. That day, for the first time in my adult life, I was moving without my husband, leaving behind the last home we made together, going alone into the future. At least Cal had had me.
But had he?
I pushed myself up and paced, leaning on my cane, overcome. He’d died six years ago, and still I wondered. Had I been present enough? Had we had the sort of heartfelt discussions we should have had? It always seemed one or the other of us wasn’t ready. On the few occasions he seemed like he was wading into deep emotional waters, I would change the subject or busy myself with some pragmatic concern. He’d do the same when I was the one who initiated. I remember years ago, when I was getting ready to go in for surgery—removal of a benign lump after a breast cancer scare. He held me by the shoulders and searched my face with such profound tenderness in his gray eyes. But when I put a hand to his cheek and asked what he was thinking, he moved his head just a little, and said, “Nothing, sweetie. Nothing at all. Just wondering where I should take you for dinner on Friday.” Then he took my hand from his cheek and gently kissed the inside of my wrist.
Maybe that was our way of talking: that look, my hand on his cheek. We were married more than fifty years.
Besides, I told myself, if I needed assurance of his inner romantic, I could always read his love letters—a few precious souvenirs from when we were courting.
Our letters!
Oh God, our letters! Where were they?
I hobbled to the bedroom. Next to the master bath was a walk-in closet where I was pretty sure they were stashed with other mementos, on a high shelf.
The letters were intimate, private. Erotic. For me, they represented the secret garden, the time when Cal and I had allowed ourselves to be young and lusty and foolish and vulnerable and sentimental. We were both too pragmatic, too much children of hard times, to let those qualities—or at least the romantic words—seep into our day to day. But once upon a time, when we had exchanged our letters …
Now Charlie and Iris were going to be packing everything up, sorting through those boxes. I hadn’t decided whether I’d destroy the letters or leave them to be read by our kids after I was gone, but while I still breathed, there was no way I would allow anyone else to see them. Or even know they existed.
I looked around, considering options. The high shelves that had offered secrecy were a hindrance now. Then I remembered. After a near mishap on a stepladder a couple years ago, I’d purchased one of those can-grabber thingies, basically a wand with a retractable claw on the end, to help reach over my head. The phone rang, but I didn’t have time to attend to it now.
The answering machine clicked, and there was Charlie’s deep voice. “Mom? Everything good? I just picked up Iris, and we’re heading over. Moving day! Are you excited?”
That meant I had only fifteen minutes. I looked behind a stack of plastic bins into which Iris had begun packing sheets and towels. Leaning against the wall was the grabber wand. Okay, great. I’d found the thing I needed to help me reach the thing I really wanted to get. Now, where was the decorated box that held the letters? I scanned the shelves. It was there, somewhere.
The phone rang again, and again Charlie’s voice was on the machine. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Pam made a coffee cake for us. We can have it in your new kitchen! Be there soon.”
I spotted a tiny trail of blue velvet, tied around a box wedged behind a plastic garbage bag stuffed with blankets. Carefully leaning against the wall, I raised the grabber over my head. I managed to hook the bag of blankets and pull it down. It landed with a thump on top of the bins Iris was already filling with bedding. Now I could see the box more clearly. Stretching my arm practically out of its socket, I caught a loop of the blue ribbon, and the box came tumbling. The lid was knocked askew and papers and pictures—and the precious letters—spilled in a slippery avalanche to the floor. I caught a distant whiff of the perfume they’d been dabbed with, Evening in Paris, which I had thought was the height of sophistication when I was twenty-three. I bent to scoop them up.
Below them were photos.
There sat I, holding baby Iris while Charlie played in the sprinkler.
And there was Cal, handsome in his wedding suit, his dark hair shiny with Brylcreem.
There was the farm where I grew up, so long ago now, pale specks of snow flying across the black and white landscape, fading at the edges. I closed my eyes and saw the long empty road, the wind blowing tendrils of new snow sideways across pitted gravel. My woolen scarf stiffened with my breath. My cousin Ruthie and my dad walked next to me. The sky, low and colorless; the field stubble brown, dusted with frost. My dad touched my shoulder. He was pointing. Down the road, a moose emerged out of the ditch. The powerful haunches and the swooping antlers dignified the ridiculous humpy body. The huge bull plodded in our direction. At thirty feet away he lifted his enormous head, saw us, and loped off.
I blinked through tears. My grandkids would never see that place, of course. It seemed impossible that something so solid could be wiped away in a generation—the winter-locked farm, stars frozen in nighttime skies so frigid no moisture could obscure their glow; the summertime shimmer of northern lights, the root cellar, the milk house, the emptiness, the cold. My God, the cold! The calf I raised, and then we sold it. The melty taste of baby potatoes newly dug, cooked within minutes of being in the ground. And the sweet corn!
I realized I hadn’t eaten.
I opened my eyes and took a look around my disheveled bedroom. A small flutter filled my chest. It was my heart, a fist-sized clutch of muscle, registering … what? Trying, despite all ridiculousness, to find a smidgeon of excitement about a new place? Or was the flutter simply what happens, the way the body marks the moment when one has to let go, and grief is replaced with resignation?
I heard the elevator in the hallway. Charlie and Iris would arrive any moment. I bundled the photos and letters into the box and hugged it to my chest, ready to carry them with me to my new home.