Keeping Mum: A Triptych

The Birthday

My brother came up from D.C. this weekend for our mother's birthday. She reluctantly shares the date with Dr. King, a man whom she still regards as a rabble-rouser and a troublemaker. She has declined quickly following my father's death, regressing first to assisted living and then to the Queen Anne Nursing Home.

Our Saturday visit went well. We'd brought fresh flowers and stained glass window decorations, and during the visit she received telephone calls from our aunt in California and our sister, vacationing in Florida. These would have gone unanswered had we not been there.
The nursing home staff came in with a birthday proclamation. The highlight, though, came when my brother produced a pastry box from Montilio's bakery. "I hope that's rum cake!" she enthused. It was.

Yesterday's visit was markedly different. When I came in from putting sunflower seeds in her bird feeder, I could see my brother was perplexed. Our mother had invented two more children who shared our names but were still in their teens. They were "in the living room, watching television," she told us. "I don't know why I gave them the same names as the two of you."

"What do they look like?" I asked.

"Well, sort of like the two of you," she answered, "only younger."

An attendant came in to check on her, a woman who we later learned, in an apologetic conversation, was Cape Verdean. "Hello, Africa," my mother greeted her. The attendant was totally unfazed--the crassness brought on by dementia is part of her daily experience.

Easter

To a reluctant agnostic, Easter is more of social than a spiritual occasion. In my case, most holidays mean a family gathering at my sister's. She and her husband are always generous and gracious when it comes to holiday entertaining, and the dinners that they host are invariably notable for their festive nature and ample repast. My contribution was, as usual, bottles of excellent wine--in this case, shiraz.

A less rewarding part of the day involved stopping at the Queen Anne Nursing Home to visit my mother, better known as the Grammy. She has gotten quite childlike, and as usual, greeted Erin Kate and me by asking, "Did you bring me any candy?" Well, of course I had, a colorful Easter basket full of sugarless jelly beans and chocolates (the Grammy has developed type II diabetes). It would be hard to imagine a four-year-old being more pleased by a visit from the Easter bunny.

She was so thrilled with her confectionery haul that I thought, for once, I might escape without one of her usual parting shots. But no, the Grammy is nothing if not consistant. As I reached for my jacket, she asked, "Are you going to Nancy's for Easter dinner?"

"Yes," I replied, waiting now.

"Well, then," my mother added, "you've become quite a freeloader, haven't you?"

Mother's Day

It’s a bleak, bitter day on Boston’s South Shore. The east wind gusts to near gale force this close to the coast; the precipitation varies in intensity from mist to a driving downpour that seeks out any aperture in your raingear. It’s a day to stay inside and watch the Red Sox slog through a double-header with the rain-savvy Mariners. Tourists would call this a “nor’easter,” but the real storm was yesterday, and would locally be called a “noth-eastah.”

I pull into the Nursing Home parking lot, armed with a card, a pot of miniature yellow mums, and a box of sugar-free Russell Stover chocolates. I sign in and walk the long corridors, running the gauntlet of old women in their wheelchairs who see in me their visitor, their gifts, their son. They start and reach and grasp, and are baffled when I continue without stopping.

My mother, The Grammy, is sitting up when I enter the room. She is watching the Red Sox, so I know immediately my sister has preceded me and put on the game. We do not exchange any physical signs of affection because that has never been part of our relationship. She admires the mums, which I place on the windowsill beside a large bouquet of cut flowers and a container of pansies. The baseball game gives us an easy topic to discuss. She comments on Johnny Damon’s homeliness, and when I tell her he has become a gallery god she is incredulous. I help her open the card, unsentimental and cartoonish, and she sees a drawing of a cat.

“There’s Spunky,” she says. She looks at me earnestly. “Last night I called him and called him, but he wouldn’t come in.”

“I’m sure he found a place to keep dry,” I answer. “You know how cats are.” Spunky has been dead for more than ten years.

“I don’t know how the Red Sox are doing,” she says. "No one brings me the paper in the morning. Did you bring it in? It’s on the front steps. How is Carl Yastrzemski doing?”

I don’t know how to avoid this one. “Mum, Carl Yastrzemski is older than I am.”

“And he’s still playing?” she asks. “That’s amazing.”

We watch the final three innings of the game. The Red Sox win. There is a chickadee at the feeder. There are three buttercream (her favorite) chocolates in the box. Life is good. She has lost interest in my visit, telling me it’s time for her nap.

As I leave, lonely, confused women in wheelchairs reach for me, grasping for the manchild who will not be coming today.