Habit (31 page)

ESD's closing statement:

—
Uh . . .

The judge signed off to do some thinking. Three weeks later, a notice came in the mail:

ESD was responsible for Ma's room, board, and therapy until the exact date her therapists at Cloverfield officially declared her “independent.” ESD must pay for an extra twenty-seven days.

Heh-heh-heh
.

Ma's birthday falls the day before Thanksgiving this year. We'll have turkey together tomorrow at our house. So today, in the interest of variety, I'm taking her to Center City for birthday lunch at the Four Seasons Hotel. The kids want to come!

I've turned in the minivan from my old days as a chauffeur, and leased a new toy in deference to Daddy and the oil crisis: a nice little VW Passat sedan. Sam's had one driving lesson in it, but I'm possessive. This is our first chance to see if we really can fit five people in, three of whom are giants and will have to sit in the back.

We have parcels: bottles of organic honey Ma wants to dole out to friends for Christmas gifts, some of her special yogurt, and a variety of cheeses for entertaining. Tiny plastic stands to prop up the smaller icons on her bookshelf. She's been hinting about a black cashmere cardigan I have and how
it's exactly the kind that would be perfect
for her. Knowing I'd never be able to find this exact one, I got mine dry-cleaned on impulse and wrapped it for her as a gift. I finally found the Liberty fabric she likes (
it's the only thing that doesn't scratch!
) and made her some pillowcases by hand to match the fancy terra-cotta sponge paint she'd just commissioned on the wall behind her bed.

The paint took a little adjusting after she moved in. Ma decided on colors while she was still in Carlisle, using paint chips I sent her. I expressed some concern about her choice for the bathroom.

—This yellow is pretty sharp, Ma.

—That's fine; I want it to have some bite.

You don't argue with an artist about colors. I sent Felix pictures before she arrived:

—Wow, that's pretty sharp, Suse . . .

Ma seemed happy enough when she got there though, and we hung her original blue and green towels. In August, she had her cataracts done, and true to Georgia Brady's word, I didn't have to lift a finger or even make one phone call except to ask Ma how it went. Everything, I mean
everything
was done for us.

But as soon as the first eye was done and Ma went into her bathroom:

—Heavens, this yellow is TOO SHARP!

So the bathroom needed a layer of white glaze. Mark, our wonderful painter, enjoyed the artistic stimulation of working with Ma, after he got over the horror himself.

—That
was
a pretty sharp yellow in that bathroom, Susan.

And for her birthday, Ma has a new set of towels in sophisticated Golden Wheat, and some jolly pink cyclamen, because she says the air will be dry in winter with the heat on and the windows closed. There's a book about British rooks and crows from Colette (
We all have to read this right now, Susie, it's very important!
). Funds have been pooled for a luxurious full-length cashmere blanket (
Essential!
). From Felix: a brick doorstop she's wanted with a needlepoint frog on the cover, to replace the old cast-iron rooster she's too weak to lift herself (
Look! I can just kick it across the floor!
).

The worries about the future are a past life nightmare. We get to spoil Ma now, and this feels really, really good.

So the kids and I have made a special effort to dress, and I carefully bring up Table Manners in advance. This is new. Having been obsessively scolded all my life about elbows on the table and such by Ma, I have issues. In the first place, she's a hypocrite. We were not supposed to call from room to room, but Ma hollered like a banshee when she wanted to, and I'm sorry to say she sometimes chews with her mouth open and picks things off serving plates with her fingers. The irony is not lost on me: Ma got a degree to teach Montessori. She was one of the founders of Philadelphia's Please Touch Museum in the 1970s, a wonderful place that paved the way for a much-needed new philosophy that made it possible for kids to actually
want
to visit museums. But she was like a harpy with my siblings and me about manners.

When we had children, I vowed not to repeat her mistakes. It has been an interesting experiment with mixed results—the kids have had to pretty much figure manners out for themselves. I've always done my best to shield them from her disapproval, but she chafed under my vigilance and was quick to make up for lost time on the handful of occasions she managed to get them to herself. There was a traumatic Grandparents' Day at the boys' school that still festers, when Ben cried in the car on the way home. The other boys had doting grandparents admiring all their industrious work, and Ben spent the day being barked at by Ma about fetching proper chairs and putting away coats.

But today is Ma's birthday and this year I want things perfect for her, so in the car on the way over, I break my self-imposed gag order and gently ask them to keep their elbows off the table at lunch.

—
What did she say about our elbows?

—It doesn't matter, you know I don't care about your elbows, but Granny does. There are some situations where elbows are important, and you're going to have to suck it up because this is one of them. It's her birthday; let your elbows be your present. I don't want you guys to feel bad about Granny today, so please get over it—she's a lot of fun to be with now, she really is nice. . . .

They get that. They've noticed how nice Ma is, I don't really have to tell them, but I want so much for this to be happy for everyone. Mending is tricky, but everyone's game and we're all in pretty good spirits. I send them up ahead with the packages while I park.

The kids are a surprise—Ma thought it would be just the two of us. She loves having everyone together, so she is thrilled, showing off her new digs and getting them to put everything away where it belongs and take the iron rooster out to the balcony (
you have a rooster??
) and find her hearing aid, which has fallen under the bedside table where she can't reach.

So we go downstairs and everyone gets to see how Granny works her scooter—she has to face the back of the elevator and back out carefully—and she barely crashes into anything. We leave the scooter at the curb, and Ma slowly slowly slowly walkers to the car and
eeeeeases
herself into the front seat without falling in a heap and breaking every bone in her body before we can celebrate her birthday.
Thank God that's done
. I'm impressed at the difference between the ways she handles herself at home and abroad. Ma can ricochet around her studio like a marble in a life-size 3-D Christian-themed pinball game, because it's set up so well and she knows where everything is. But when she goes out, she's savvy enough to think before she moves.

I stow the walker in the trunk. The children stuff themselves in the back, grumbling about seatbelts and knees. Ma laughs, offering to move her seat forward and they say
no thanks
. I am in HEAVEN.

Ma remembers to put her seat belt on. This was a little passive-aggressive game we played for most of my years as Ma's driver. She would start talking the minute we got in the car,
forgetting
to buckle up. I would refuse to start the car until she did buckle. Sometimes we'd sit there for a full fifteen minutes till she paused for a breath. Then when I'd ask her to buckle, Ma would reach for it and I'd start the car. But as soon as we were rolling, she'd have all this
trouble
figuring out how to work the thing (
this is
very
poorly designed—so unnecessary!
), and I'd have to pull over again so I could reach all the way over to fix it. Ma always remembers her seat belt now.

I make sure to take Henry Avenue, not because it's faster but because it's prettier while still being smooth.
Pretty
is very important to Ma, but not quite as much as
smooth
. This way, we go past the special public school with the farm—that's a really
pretty
part and Ma tells us the history and points out the cows, and children having a riding lesson in the ring.

We go along the Schuylkill past the boathouses, with Ma reminding us how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful place. I horrify everyone by pointing out the route I'll take in June when I swim in a wet suit down the river as part of a triathlon team in honor of my fiftieth birthday, and show them where David will meet me on the other side to continue the race on his bike. Ben and Sam have a team, too. Ma's so impressed she wants to be there. That would take some doing, but you never know.

At Rocky's steps by the front of the art museum, everything stops. There's a roadblock up ahead, and traffic is dead as a doornail waiting to funnel into a tiny one-lane detour. Well, sorry, this is just not going to spoil our fun. The boys sing songs and I do PG-rated cursing, which makes Ma hoot. The boys are getting hot. I start to fuss about Ma when they open the windows but she says
I'm fine, we can put on my seat warmer, this is such a wonderful car.
Eliza calls for the number of the Four Seasons to warn them, and is connected to some dry-cleaning establishment instead, but who cares? Just try, try again.

We valet park, of course. The little ramp cut into the curb in front of the hotel is like Mount Everest. I glue myself to Ma's back as she walkers up. When we get through the front door, I send Ma with the kids on the handicap route and sprint up the steps to tell the restaurant we're almost there.

—Yes, Mother Brigid's eighty-seventh birthday! We have her special flowers on the table and the cake is ready, everything's fine, no rush.

Five million years later, Ma comes inching one careful step at a time around the corner flanked by the kids, with a small bottleneck of guests behind who don't dare try to pass. Excited to be out somewhere new and different with eyes that can see, she's moving slowly so she gets to really milk each second for what it's worth. She's asking about everything as she creeps along:
Children, look at that chandelier! Where did they get this marble? Who made that jacket in the glass case? What kind of flowers are those? Are they real?

There's an odd piece of art on display, a giant-size lady's old-fashioned green velvet boot with buttons, which has to be examined and clucked over for several hours. People everywhere are smiling at this ancient little bent-over old lady in black with her long wispy white hair, her Old World accent and charming curiosity, her intriguingly commanding presence, and I think
if you only knew
, but yes, it's BLISS.

We arrive at the restaurant. Every worker in the place seems to drop everything to leap to her side and Ma graciously doles out tasks—
pillows for the chair if you please, the purse can go here and the walker there, yes, thank you.

Eliza has decided to major in art. This doesn't surprise Ma, who reminds us she identified the talent years ago at a middle school art show when the only thing of note was a print she spotted across a crowded room. She made a point of moving in to identify the artist's name: Eliza Morse. She had it framed, and it's one of the few things besides icons and family photographs Ma asked David to hang in her tiny new place.

The first course arrives. Ma has only ordered a main dish, crab cakes. When she sees my butternut squash soup, I have to order her some, minus the confit of duck.

I look around and notice a small miracle: Nobody's elbows are anywhere near the table.

When the main course arrives, Ma eyes my tuna sashimi salad and wants to know where it was on the menu. But she eats her crab, every last bit. This was a big component of our years of struggle, I realize. I'm sure it's common, when a mother wants what her daughter has, and who wouldn't wish for a cashmere sweater and three funny children, a happy marriage, squash soup? I'm not sure I really know how we've been blessed with this new peace between us. It could be Ma's many months in Carlisle with little to do but pray, talk to priests, and try to get strong. For me, it's partly the Abbey giving me space by taking some of the hard stuff over, of course. That support has given me a chance to stand back and admire this process of aging, and mellowing, and surrender, and grace.

—You can do this too someday, children, says Ma, when I sign the slip.

—What? asks Ben

—Take your mother to the Four Seasons on her eighty-seventh birthday.

Sam snorts.

—When she gets that old, this hotel will definitely be a Walmart—

—What? Oh, poppydop, says Ma, and everyone smiles. Poppy
dop
?

They pack up the rest of the cake and perch the boxed vase of flowers on the seat of Ma's walker, with some special Belgian chocolates for everyone on the house. We make the long voyage back to valet parking with a pit stop at the ladies' room. When we reach the door, we stop again to check whether anything has changed in the big flower display since our arrival.

I take one more mental snap shot of Ma: flanked by her three tall grandchildren, bravely soldiering along through the crowd in the lobby. I think of the blue-eyed man-child with his agents in black on that beach in Santa Monica.

There's a mishmash of holiday families waiting outside the hotel for their cars, a baby sleeping in its stroller. We ease the walker down the front sidewalk's flume ramp again. I'm so busy trying to make myself into a human shield around Ma that I can't reach the vase when it tumbles, box and all, off her walker during the steep descent.
Crash,
everything lands on the cobblestones, and the vase Doesn't Break. A miracle, but also the first sign of Trouble Ahead.

The kids jam themselves into the back again. My Passat has a fancy new trick for valet parking: a little key you can pop out to lock the glove compartment. We discuss all the other features, the knob for the sunroof, and the special compartment in the backseat that accesses the trunk, which somehow I haven't figured out yet.