Habit (32 page)

I decide we'll skip the mess at the art museum and take the nonscenic expressway home on the other side of the river, but we find ourselves in another inexplicable jam. It's three forty-five on a Wednesday, for heaven's sake. Somewhere across from Boathouse Row, stranded in a sea of cars, Eliza starts to speculate about the location of the nearest bathroom. Too much coffee after lunch.

This is an interesting problem, because really there isn't a decent place between here and the Abbey, and if we go out of our way, the extra time including all the traffic will probably mean that Ma will need the bathroom, too, before we get her home. There is definitely not a suitable place for Ma between here and there, even if we do take a longer route.

—Oh dear, says Eliza.

—Can you make it?

—I sure hope I can. . . .

—This is so great, I say. We are having so much fun!

—What? says Ma.

Everyone laughs uneasily. Quite a while later, we have gotten pretty much nowhere and Eliza has begun to squirm. Ma mentions quietly that she has a thing or two to take care of when she gets home involving some very personal supplies she didn't think she would need until at least late in the afternoon, well after four, and she sort of needs them right now actually. It's that cursed
bag.

We are completely hemmed in. We start to speculate about Ben requisitioning someone's motorcycle. How about we tie Ma's walker to it, strap Ma to the seat, and dodge all the cars to get her home a little quicker? Eliza looks sweaty. I begin to wonder if there's a smell coming from Ma.

This continues till we get off the expressway and into another jam on Henry Avenue. Nobody's upset, we're still having fun, sort of, and I'm kind of tactfully muttering at the people in the other cars that I know it's not their fault but they are all still pretty much a bunch of idiots. Sam points out a knee-high bush with no leaves that might make an okay screen if Eliza hopped out onto the median strip. Eliza's asking us not to make her laugh, which is good, but the conversation has shifted to the medical implications of her situation.

We crawl past the school with the farm and there definitely is a faint smell, but it might be the horses. I keep saying we're almost there and Ben says
Eliza just get out of the car and run for it, it's right over there at the next traffic light
. She's actually thinking about it, but it's really about to get better and we finally finally screech to a halt in the driveway outside the Abbey's main entrance—
Eliza, the ladies' room's right through there, behind the stairs, quick, get out and RUN!

Ma's another story. I say to Ben
wait right here and don't move
.

—
What?
says Ma.

—I can drive,
says Ben.

—Oh no, you don't,
I say
. You don't know how to work my new car yet. Don't move,
and I take the keys with me, which seem to be a little messed up because the tiny valet glove compartment key thingy is popping out like I haven't clicked it in quite right or something, but there's no time to think. I launch Ma on her way across the lobby and run ahead to make sure this bathroom is the one with handicap bars and things. Yes it is, and there's Eliza coming out of a stall looking restored.

I get to take a minute and tell Eliza
this is the fancy bathroom where Aunt Colette and I went after they made the wonderful offer and we were alone for a second and jumped up and down and silently squealed and hugged each other and bawled, isn't it gorgeous?
I send her off and tell her to wait in Ma's place for the boys. Just when we open the beautiful door, there's Ma—like a cuckoo clock.

I watch her maneuver into the stall, and say
wait right here and don't move, I'll be right back with your supplies
. She tells me where the stuff is in her bathroom. I go back out and Eliza is still in the lobby, rolling her eyes. The boys seem to be locked in the car. It's honking rhythmically with lights flashing because the alarm has been going off the whole time we were all in the restroom.

So I go out to rescue Sam and Ben, who are full of pent-up boy energy from the car ride and all that time with their elbows off the table. I think
oh, what the heck
and give Ben a crash course on how to work the freaky newfangled parking brake and get the weird key out. I ask him to park, unload the cake, and take the flowers and stuff to Ma's apartment where we'll all meet up in a few minutes, because I've decided to run over, collect Ma's equipment, and bring it back in the scooter so she can ride to her apartment without having to stagger along with the walker (she must be exhausted by now) or get in and out of the car.

Ben's got a gleam in his eye as he slides behind the wheel. When Sam takes the passenger seat beside him, they exchange a secret twins' smile. I think
this will not end well
. But fingers crossed, off I go at a sprint. Dashing to Ma's place, grabbing everything that looks colostomy-related (sanitary wipes, a weird sort of pouch that looks like a flesh-colored ziplock Baggie with a large hole cut in the side, some kind of plastic disk that might be an attachment for the Dirt Devil vacuum but it could be vital, and, if all else fails, several pairs of disposable briefs). I try to shoehorn her paraphernalia into my huge purse, no need to broadcast to everyone at the Abbey. Then I rush downstairs, leap on Ma's scooter, and make for the lobby like a bat out of hell.

I'm not as good as Ma with the scooter. There are a few elderly eyebrows raised along the way, but I manage to park it somewhere sort of appropriate, near the mailboxes. I race-walk past a small herd of fragile old souls doddering unsteadily through the lobby and then at last I lurch into the bathroom and lean, panting, against the beautiful door.

—
Is everything okay, Ma?

Yes, it is! And thank God, I brought all the right stuff. We live a charmed life these days.

The truth is a little messy public spectacle wouldn't have mattered. Everyone at this extraordinarily lovely place is winding up the journey, making the best of it. There is comradeship, and absolute tolerance. Safety in numbers. I pray we're all lucky enough to end up like this.

When we get back to the studio, Eliza is there, enjoying the huge flower arrangement that has arrived from an admiring out-of-town cousin. She's still laughing about a sideshow in the parking lot below Ma's balcony window: My white Passat appears to have given birth to Ben, who was experimenting with that secret passageway in the backseat and has emerged magically out of the trunk headfirst. He is now chasing Sam around all the trees to get his jacket back.

—What?
says Ma.

Ring. Ring. It's David at home, wondering what on earth happened to everybody.

Ben, Ma, Eliza, and Sam, November 2008

Ma approves of Michelle Obama. She thinks the new vegetable garden at the White House is going to finally wean us all off processed foods.

She broke her other hip about nine months after she got to the Abbey. Ma's not complaining. She also has new hearing aids. The guy who fitted her for them said she was long overdue for an upgrade, and he could not believe she'd been able to function at all with her old pair.

Of course, I had to read Ma this book from start to finish. She likes it, but there's something Ma thinks everyone needs to know:

—
It's very important.

—Go ahead, Ma. You can tell them yourself.

—How?

—They're reading this. Just say what you want them to hear.

—Oh. Well. It's about the opening sentence.

—Nobody dies at the end of this book?

—Of course they don't.

—No, Ma, I mean that's the opening sentence.

—But they don't.

—Well, actually, Ma, someone did.

—No, they didn't.

—Yes, Ma. Marbles did. Last summer.

—That's a cat. That's different. They don't even know about Marbles.

—Yes they do. Chapter Two: Marbles the cat “has been with us since the earthquake and is now hanging on by a thread.”

—Well, that doesn't matter.

—Excuse me, but tell that to Eliza. Marbles was
her cat.

—Can I tell them what's important or not?

—Go ahead.

—Nobody dies.

—Except Marbles.

—Susie!

—Sorry. Go ahead.

—You spent all that time trying to keep me alive, and your efforts are much appreciated, but I think they should know about Grandsir and me.

—They do: Chapter Six. You saw his soul go up through the ceiling.

—Right. That's what they all need to know. And you, too. Nobody dies.

Thanks. I think we got it, Ma.

Philadelphia, 2009

First thanks go to Colette, fellow fair-hair, muse. You asked for this book, gave me the best ideas, and your hand is on every page.

To bus companion, amateur EMT, and godfather Michael Bamberger: for giving me courage, a title, and a publisher.

To Brendan Cahill and everyone at Open Road for believing in this book, and for giving me dream editors: Andrea Colvin, blessed with a valuable combination of discipline, perception, and wit, and Marjorie Braman, who somehow managed to get right inside my head. I suspect she has magical powers.

To David Sedaris, for setting the standard: you don't know me, but when you come to Philadelphia my friend Ellen and I are the ones screaming like Elvis fans. You signed Ellen's book, and now she believes you are her boyfriend. You are not. You are mine.

To Amy Banse, Barbara Ziv, Ellen Hass, Liz Tyson, and all the whip-smart members of Academentia, past and present: you have taught me to recognize good writing. And, to so many other equally challenging, sensitive readers who kindly took time to give valuable feedback, especially Becky Sinkler, Court van Rooten, David Stern, Perri Kipperman, Marion Rosenberg, Joe Dworetzky, Joan Cooke, Chris Van Melzen, Kate Schwarz, Priscilla Baker, Pebble Brooks, Courtney Kapp, Ruthie Ferraro, Anne Price (who has never let me forget that marinated salmon), Diane Fleming (we will always have Paris), Betsy Down, Mr. Badger (I believe I owe you several thousand ink cartridges), and Felix von Moschzisker.