My mother hates her new home but she’s making an effort to hide it…sort of. “No one made me move out of the house,” she declares proudly. “I made that decision all by myself.” We all know that there was only one decision that could have been made, but my brother and I nod enthusiastically because it’s obviously important to her to feel she had agency.
We are sitting together in the brightly-lit common lounge. My mother, a tiny bird, is settled into a fat leather armchair that looks like it’s trying to swallow her. My brother and I share an uncomfortably rigid sofa. This is the room that was featured on the front of the brochure (Luxury Living for Independent Seniors!) and apparently the staff here keep it photo-shoot ready at all times. Bowls of mints, tasteful flower arrangements, and artistically fanned magazines adorn every table. A number of other tenants are seated around the room. Someone is snoring. Someone is coughing. Someone is rapping a walking stick rhythmically against the floor. My mother likes to call her fellow residents “inmates” and she is casting an eye of asperity over them now. “They’re not the sharpest skates on the ice, this bunch,” she remarks loudly. “Actually, some of them are pretty far gone, mentally.” My brother winces and tries to shush her, but gossip is my mother’s greatest pleasure. She juts her chin towards a man fast asleep in a chair near a window overlooking the parking lot. “That’s the guy I was telling you about while we were having tea earlier,” she says. “Can’t remember his own name most of the time. Completely out of his mind. Eats like a horse, though. Nothing wrong with him physically.”
My brother attempts to change the subject. “The food here is good, right Mom?”
“Oh, yes.” Mom shrugs. “Not as good as a home-cooked meal, but it’s edible. I won’t starve. You know, food doesn’t have to be delicious. It’s only meant to keep you alive. That’s the reason why I’ve always had a figure. I don’t eat for pleasure. Not like Mrs. Wray over there by the piano. As you can see, she is very, very fat.”
It’s too much to hope that Mrs. Wray is deaf. My face is burning.
“Of course,” my mother continues, ” if you two brought me as much chocolate as that woman’s kids do, I would probably be very fat too. Her kids have no imagination, just chocolate and candy every time. I do love it when you bring me books and magazines. No one in this place reads except me.”
“Are you getting outside for a little exercise now and then?” I ask, leaning in close in the hopes that mom will lower her voice.
“I certainly am!” Mom has always been proud of her physical strength. “I walk down to the park at least twice a week. It would be lovely to have some company, but most of the inmates here are basically crippled. I’m practically tripping over all the walking sticks and wheelchairs.” She sighs gustily.
My brother’s face is beet red and he has had enough. He gets to his feet and starts pulling on his jacket, muttering something about getting back home before rush hour hits. It’s Sunday. I get up too, and lean over to kiss my mother’s paper dry cheek. She smiles up at me beatifically. “It was so nice to see you both,” she says. “I’m very lucky.”