NEW BERN BLESSED us with two beautiful Indian summer days. The foliage around McCarthy court was lush. Inside, the pale green walls were soothing. Diane, the director, suggested we sit in the dining room. She led Mom, Barbara, and me to a table that would seat six. From there, we could look out a huge bank of windows into the main hallway. I watched a few gray heads wander by and peek in to see what was going on. Diane asked one of the servers setting tables to bring us some iced tea.
“Could I have coffee, instead?” Mom asked.
“Sure, honey,” said the server, “I’m Christine. You want anything else, you let me know. Okay?”
I was checking things off my mental list: friendly staff, clean tablecloths, comfortable chairs, not too formal.
Diane explained that none of the apartments were vacant, but two of the residents had invited us to see us their places. She showed us drawings of the floor plans.
“What else would you like to see?” she asked. We all looked at Mom.
“What else is there?” Mom asked.
Diane suggested we visit the bar first, then see the recreation areas after our tour of the apartments. Mom nodded.
The “bar” turned out to be a six-by-eight-foot room with two tables where residents could have a cocktail before dinner. Diane gestured toward the cupboards, and explained that people kept their own liquor bottles there and the staff would mix drinks for them. On Fridays, everyone was invited to have a glass of wine during happy hour, but no liquor was allowed in the dining room. Mom said she would probably have some Chardonnay in her room before dinner with some crackers and cheese. I loved how it seemed like she could see herself living there.
We took the elevator to the second floor and met Mrs. James, who showed us around her two-bedroom apartment. She had furnished it tastefully with Danish-style contemporary furniture. It felt stylish, if dated, and comfortable—much like Mom’s condo.
“In Florida, I have a teak dining table from Scandinavian Design,” Mom said, “but it would be too big to bring with me here.”
The bathroom layout was ingeniously designed to accommodate two people sharing the apartment, though Mrs. James lived alone. There were two rooms, each with a toilet and sink. Doors from each of these rooms led to a central space containing a walk-in shower. Mrs. James said she had moved in two years ago, a few months after her husband had died. Her children lived about an hour away.
“Best decision I evah made,” she said in her gentle Southern accent.
I gave Mom a squeeze.
Then we met Sophie. She had come to New Bern from New York years earlier, to be closer to her son. She told us she had trouble with her circulation.
“When my legs got bad,” she said, “I moved to McCarthy.”
Her apartment had only one bedroom, and was smaller than Mrs. James’ place, but Sophie had packed it with at least twice as much furniture, including a small organ. It turned out she still worked as a church organist, and played piano for events at McCarthy, as well.
“Most of my things are still at my house. I can’t bring myself to sell it.” Sophie gestured for us to sit on the couch. “But I prefer living here. I like to be around people.”
She used a walker, the kind with a seat and a basket. As we left her apartment, Barbara and I laughed, wondering how in the world she maneuvered her walker around all that stuff.
We took a quick tour of the recreation room, and looked at the calendar of monthly activities. There was something every day: bridge, morning coffee and donuts, a trip to the new museum with lunch at the café, van trips to the local supermarket on Mondays and Thursdays, a concert in the dining room, and more.
The three of us joined Diane in her small office. Barbara asked about the waiting list. Diane said they required a $500 deposit, but if you decided to take your name off the list, it would be refunded. It didn’t sound like much of a commitment to me. I stayed quiet.
“How long is the list?” Mom asked. Diane said it might take about three to four months before there would be a vacancy.
“What if Mom’s name comes up, and she’s not ready to move?” I asked. Diane said Mom could just move down a slot and wait for the next opening.
No pressure at all, I thought.
We left and headed for a sandwich shop. Once we had our water and iced tea, I asked Mom what she thought.
“What’s not to like?” she said. “The apartments are lovely. And I feel like I could be friends with both those people, though Sophie might be a lot to take.”
Barbara and I laughed.
“Are you ready to sign up?” Barbara asked. “I guess so,” said Mom, “but I want to think about it for a day or two.”
“Mom, it’s never going to get easier to make this move,” I said. “At some point, you just have to do it.”
“I will, but not today.”
The trip back to Florida was uneventful, but I could see that Mom was exhausted. I suggested staying with her another day or so.
“You should get home,” she said. “You have work.”
A few days after our trip, Mom called to say she had changed her mind.
“Maybe I’ll move someday,” she said, “but for now, I want to stay here.”
I paced around my office.
“Mom, I really don’t think that’s practical.”
“Mel, it’s just too hard to think about moving.”
I called Barbara.
“We have to take charge,” I said. “I’ll send you a check for half the deposit.”
Barbara said, “She won’t like it.”
“I don’t like it,” I said. “Put her name on the list.”
When I was young, doctor’s and dentist’s appointments were major triggers for my anxiety. Mom would never write the appointments on the Girl Scout calendar we kept on the desk in the kitchen, even though it was her primary scheduling tool. She knew I would start worrying weeks ahead of time. Instead, she’d wait until the day of the appointment, and tell me about it that morning. I’d still throw up, but at least I only had one day of anxiety.
In keeping the secret about putting her on the waiting list for McCarthy Court, I told myself I was returning the favor. Why worry her before the place became a real possibility? But it felt like a lie, and after a couple of months, I told her that Barbara was going to keep checking to see if anything was available at McCarthy Court.
“Okay, but I still haven’t decided for sure about moving,” Mom said.
“I know,” I said, then changed the subject.
In January of 2007, Mom turned ninety-one. In March, Barbara got the call. Diane from McCarthy Court said there would be a two-bedroom apartment available in May.
Barbara and I tried to think of all the questions Mom would have, and what her objections might be. Barbara made sure to get all the basic information on the price and the lease. I checked with Keith, the financial advisor, and he confirmed that Mom had plenty of money for the move. If Mom was resistant, we would be firm.
I used three-way calling to get us all on the phone together.
“Yes.”
“Barb?”
“I’m here, too.”
Barbara told Mom about the apartment.
“Yours would be like Mrs. James’s place—the one with the pretty teak furniture,” I said.
“Did she move?” Mom asked.
“No, she’s still there. You wouldn’t have her place, but yours would be the same floor plan,” I explained.
“That place was pretty big. Do I need two bedrooms?” asked Mom.
“It’s smaller than your place now, but you’d still be able to keep a lot of your furniture,” Barbara said.
“Can I afford it?”
“Yes,” I said. “If you’re worried, talk to Keith at Smith-Barney.”
“How would I get there?”
“Barbara and I will take care of all the arrangements,” I said. I had been thinking that Barbara could fly down to Florida and take Mom back to her house for a week. I would stay behind and work with the movers.
“Melly and I really think you should take the apartment,” Barbara said.
I was pacing back and forth in the Florida room. I swung the arm that wasn’t holding the phone up and down, trying to shake off some of my anxiety. Barbara and I had to be what Mom had been for us—the ones who knew best. I hated it.
“Well, could I look at it again?” Mom said.
The idea of another trip made me feel sick, but she’d cracked the door a bit, and I pushed it open.
“Sure, we can go up next week.” I said.
“That soon?” Mom asked.
“We have to decide right away,” I said. “Other people are waiting.”
What I wanted that day, that moment, was to jump on a plane and go to her. Instead, I called Lenore and let her know what was happening. She said she would call Mom a little later and see how she was doing. My shoulders came down about half an inch.
For the trip, I ordered a wheelchair for both the Tampa and Charlotte airports. Mom protested that she didn’t need it. I told her it was a ruse to get through security faster, and to move to the front of the line for boarding the plane. I didn’t tell her how worried I was about making our connection. I packed a lunch and snacks. I checked the bags in with the airline, something I never did on a business trip, and hoped they wouldn’t get lost..
Our connecting flight out of Charlotte was delayed almost an hour. We had plenty of time for a bathroom break and a stop for a fresh bottle of water. Once we were organized in seats at the departure gate, I cracked open the water, took a sip, and passed it to Mom. She sat without moving, like someone in pain, and barely turned her head toward me.
“I don’t know how you do all the traveling you do, Mel. It’s so hard.”
“We’ll be there soon,” I said.
I tucked the water bottle into my tote, slipped my arm through hers, and leaned my head on her shoulder.
Barbara and Phil met us with hugs at the tiny New Bern airport. “Mom, I’m making meatloaf for dinner, and some fresh broccoli,” Barbara said.
“Sounds good,” Mom said, and then she was quiet again.
We all went to bed early. I read for a while from All Creatures Great and Small. I’d read it at least ten times, and the familiarity and gentleness of the stories about a veterinarian in rural England always soothed me. I also took a Tylenol PM.
The next morning, we had coffee and toast at the table on Barbara’s screened porch. The day was bright, and warmer than I had expected. I pointed out the robins and chickadees at the two feeders hanging outside.
“I hate the trip,” Mom said, “but I like it once I get here.”
“Do we have time for a walk before we go?” I asked Barbara. I needed to work off some of my nervousness.
Mom said, “I’ll take a shower.”
Barbara and I headed out. We walked by the big houses along the river. Once or twice, Barbara pointed out one of her favorite trees or plants—but mostly, we were quiet, absorbed in our own thoughts.
Diane was out front rearranging baskets of pink and red tulips when we arrived at McCarthy. She waved as we drove into the parking lot, then came over and helped Mom out of the car.
This time, Diane had an empty two-bedroom apartment to show us. It wasn’t the exact one Mom would take, but it had the same layout.
“Your couch would look great over there,” I said to Mom. “Do you think the credenza with the TV on it would fit on that wall?” Mom asked.
“We can get measurements and lay everything out on graph paper,” Barbara said.
I pointed out how well the kitchen would work for her to get her own breakfast and lunch.
“I don’t cook much anymore,” Mom said, mostly to Diane. Diane said she wouldn’t need to, since she would have dinner in the dining room.
Mom studied the bedroom and the big walk-in closet. She asked about additional storage space. Diane showed her the closet in the second bedroom and another one outside on the balcony, where she said people usually stored their deck chairs over the winter.
Mom walked across the living room and leaned against the kitchen counter jutting into the dining area.
“I could set the phone and my calendar on this counter,” she said. “Yes, I think this could work.”
“I just want her to say ‘Sign me up,’” I whispered to Barbara.
As we headed back to the office, Diane stopped several times in the hallway to talk with residents. She also told us that her dad had moved in this year.
“Your father lives here at McCarthy?” I asked, making sure Mom heard.
I gave Barbara the thumbs up sign.
“We’ll see,” she mouthed.
The halls had been quiet when we arrived, but now people were heading toward the elevators to go downstairs.
“There’s a trip to the museum today,” Diane explained.
When we got back to the first floor, ten or fifteen residents were sitting on the benches outside the dining room or leaning on their walkers, apparently waiting for the bus. It looked like a granny convention—mostly women, lots of gray hair and warm smiles. I spotted Sophie sitting on her walker/chair and said hello, reminding her that we had met a few months earlier. She got up and pushed her walker toward Mom.
“I’m glad to see you back,” she said, “Are you going to move in?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Mom said.
“Do it—you won’t be sorry.” Sophie smoothed her bossy tone with a big smile.
Mom laughed.
I wanted to hug them both.
We went to Diane’s office and reviewed the apartment layout for what would be Mom’s place: Apartment #306. It was the mirror image of the one we had just seen. Her small balcony looked out onto a field across the street. Mom didn’t think she would use the balcony much.
“When do we have to decide?” I asked.
Diane said we had three weeks, until April 10th, to make a deposit, or they would go to the next name on the waiting list. The place would be available May 15th.
None of us thought to ask her why it had become vacant. “Do you have any other questions?” Diane asked. “I’m curious about the food,” Mom said. “Is there a choice for dinner?”
Diane got out the weekly menu and explained how Mom could
choose what she wanted each night from two specials, and that a few standard items were always available.
“Is it good?” Mom asked.
Diane said she could try it out for herself any night. We said we’d think about it, and maybe come for dinner the next day.
As soon as we walked into Barbara’s house, Phil asked, “How did it go?”
“It certainly is a nice place,” Mom said.
“Pretty much perfect,” I said, hoping I wasn’t pushing so hard that I’d get resistance.
Barbara started pulling things out of the refrigerator to make lunch.
“Mom, how about a meatloaf sandwich?” Barbara asked. “Just half a sandwich for me.”
“I’ll take the other half,” I said. “Let’s eat on the porch.”
Over lunch, I asked Mom what she was thinking about the apartment.
“I think I should take it,” she said. “Me, too!” Barbara and I said in unison.
Mom said she was ready to sign up, but she was concerned about selling her place and moving by May.
“It’s too soon,” she said.
Barbara said she had to go to Milwaukee for a trial in early June. “I can’t get out of it. I’m the only paralegal who’s been on the case since it started. The trial could last all month,” she said.
I went to the kitchen to get some water. I pictured the calendar in my mind.
“What if you didn’t plan to move until July?” I asked, walking back to the porch.
Mom agreed that would be better, reminding us that her place wasn’t even on the market. I suggested she could move even before selling her place.
“Can I afford that?” she said.
I asked her if she had talked to Keith at Smith-Barney.
“He told me not to worry,” she said. “His wife, Judy, is a realtor. But how will I do the packing? What about movers?”
“Mom, we’re going to help you with all of this,” Barbara said. “We’re going to take care of everything,” I said. “You won’t have to do any packing or moving yourself.”
“Alright, I guess I’ll do it.” Mom shrugged.
I jumped up and kissed her. “I really think this is the right decision, Mom.”
Barbara got up and headed to the kitchen. “Coffee, anyone?” she called over her shoulder.
The next day was Saturday, and we drove about an hour and a half to Beaufort, North Carolina, a small sailing port with interesting shops. Barbara had made reservations for lunch at a new restaurant there. It was sunny, and the trees were that yellowish shade of green that you only see in early spring. Mom laughed when the waitress called her “young lady.” She ordered one of her favorites, soft-shell crab, and we each had a glass of wine.
I wanted to talk more about the move, to make plans, to be sure that Mom was on board—but the day seemed almost magical, and I didn’t want to break the spell.
“If I move here, I want to come to this restaurant again,” Mom said.
I looked up from my salad and glanced at Barbara, giving her a look that said, “Did she say ‘if?’”
Barbara dropped her head toward her plate and reached for her wine glass.
Mom and I caught a plane the next morning. Barbara made us peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches to take along. Thankfully, the trip was uneventful, but it still took most of the day, and by the time we reached the condo, we were both tired. I suggested we order a pizza for dinner. Mom asked me to get out some hummus and crackers to snack on, and to pour some wine.
We settled into our usual seats in the sunroom and watched the news. During the commercials, Mom muted the TV, and I suggested a plan to keep things moving on McCarthy Court.
“How about I change my plane to the afternoon, and we can fill out the paperwork for McCarthy together and get the check in the mail?” I offered.
“I can do it.”
I swirled the wine in my glass.
“I know,” I said. “I just thought you might like some help.”
“I need to think about it for another day or two.”
I was too weary to push things any further that night. I took a deep breath and went to get the pizza.
When I got back, Mom was dozing in her chair with the TV on. She woke easily when I came into the room, and insisted on making some salad to go with the pizza. I set up the teak TV trays with plastic Vera placemats and matching napkins.
After dinner, we watched 60 Minutes. We both hated Andy Rooney’s grumpy tirade.