Settlement

Settlement

I’m fast-walking into the dining room, and blinded momentarily by the fluorescent lights I nearly collide with a Beachside aide. The aide, wheeling a client with white hair pulled back by a beautiful, expensive gold barrette, says, “Hey Kate! How are you?” We exchange greetings, then on alert for other obstacles, the aide pushes her person toward the elevator, one of the four wheels beneath squeaking out cheerful hellos.

I sit down at a family-sized table. Shaking my head, I say to my siblings, “My sincere apologies. I was upstairs with Mom, and I did not notice the time. It’s so nice to be in Florida! Especially because right now there’s a giant snowstorm in Syracuse.” I smile, recalling the sun’s welcoming seventy-plus warmth on my shoulders as I strolled over to Mom’s facility.

“You’re late,” Lynn says. “This is serious business here, Kate.” Quietly she adds, “We need to discuss Mom’s drug habit. Then her assets. She might need to be moved.”

I look down at the table, chagrined, then back up. My sister, two brothers, and I live in different parts of the country, and we don’t see each other often. Yet I did expect a more genial greeting.

“You must understand, Kate,” Lynn says, her intense, crescent-shaped eyes locking onto mine, “that Mom is an addict.” The overhead lights shine down on her coiffed helmet of auburn hair. The red fingernails of one hand drum slowly on the table. Tommy and Charlie, tall thin men, sit ramrod straight on either side of her like sentinels, expressionless, waiting for further instruction.

“Mom will use every means possible to get drugs,” Lynn says. “She says it’s pain, but she lies in her freaking bed all day despite every nurse at Beachside telling her to get up. Like a lump of dough. If she had done the physical therapy months ago, she wouldn’t be in pain.”

“She won’t do one damn thing for herself,” Charlie, the youngest sib, says. “She’d be happy to spend the rest of her life curled up in bed in front of the idiot box.” The look in his eyes say, Let’s get this shitshow over with. The vein running up the center of his head pulses, and his cell, sitting on the table next to a folded newspaper, lights up and pulses back. He must be the busiest person on the planet. At one time, he boasted (with some humility) that he made 100 dollars-a-minute. Or maybe it was an hour. He generously lent me several thousand dollars for my divorce, then forgave the loan. I was desperate, and extremely grateful for the help.

“She’s a spoiled baby,” Tommy says, just so everyone knows where he stands. He glances at me then turns away, sheepishly, as if to dismiss the comment. I recognize the short-sleeved blue plaid shirt he’s wearing. He doesn’t have a lot of clothes, but it’s not for lack of money.

“It’s because of you!” Charlie says, pointing his long thin finger at me.

I’m not sure where this is coming from. So I listen. I prepared myself ahead of time to just listen.

“You’re sooooo gullible,” Lynn says. Her mouth becomes rigid, as if her lips are made of steel.

Lynn elaborates on Mom’s other limitations and defects while our brothers nod in agreement. She seems especially aggrieved that Beachside delivers breakfast, lunch, and dinner to Mom whenever she requests food. Ten dollars per delivery.

“Ten dollars,” I say. “That adds up.” Raising my eyebrows, lips slightly pursed, I straighten my back and set my folded hands on the table. I told myself beforehand that whatever separated us in the past is in the past. I am here, in part, to understand my siblings.

They squint back at me as if I am an outer-space, irresponsible liberal-land hippy who believes love runs the world. No doubt we each have our assumptions, and follow often thoughtlessly, those damaging family patterns established so long ago it seems to have been in another lifetime. But that doesn’t necessarily preclude consensus on important issues.

In the end, we are all family.

I left the fold in my twenties, quitting a lucrative job, settling for less in some ways but more in others. Our parents, products of The Great Depression, drummed the money mantra into us. They endured the sausages split six ways, and kept the heat below sixty in winter.

Before flying south, Seth, my partner, said, Why are you doing this? He would be here had his daughter not broken her leg ice-skating and needed help with her two kids. Just visit with your mom. You know what they’re going to do. I told Seth: I need to give them one more chance. We’re family! We all love one another!

“Mom’s always been a poor money manager,” Tommy says. “Obtuse to any consequences.” Tommy looks at me, as if I am responsible for how Mom has invested her money. Noted. But I am not ready to talk about this yet. At one time, Tommy was my ally. The other two castigated him for his insane frugality which included never attending weddings that were more than sixty miles from his house, never taking a vacation with his wife, and never planting any shrub or perennial around their sorry-ass house. His shirts verge on threadbare. I regard his extraordinary frugality as a behavior that hides something deeper, and when we were on better terms, I suggested a therapist. Tommy was aghast. Do you know how much a therapist costs?

“Oh my God,” Charlie says, center vein pulsing again. I want to reach out and grab his hand and tell him to relax. “A hundred thousand? Remember Dad’s settlement? Or was it two hundred? Mom lost it all in the damn stock market! Betting like a gambler on those over-valued high-tech startups. Mom could run out of money. Beachside is not cheap.”

Everyone is silent.

“What if I – I mean we – had that money,” Tommy says, easing back in his chair, speculating what the two hundred grand (or whatever), invested twenty-five years ago, would be worth today. I would say: A lot.

“I wouldn’t mind an outdoor jacuzzi, surrounded by maroon pavers that match my patio,” Lynn says. “The jacuzzi for my knee. Hurts all the time now.” Lynn recounts the car accident (backing out of a bar, onto a highway) in her wild and crazy twenties, how she almost lost her leg but found religion, then created a brood she selflessly homeschooled and launched into this messy world. “The kids would like it too – when they visit. They’re all on their own.” She bows her head as if to recapture the good old days when she was the commander-in-chief of nine. Not something I could have done.

“I would donate some to my church,” she says.

We all nod. Lynn has always been admired for her solid, perhaps stern, convictions.

“Joey is going to college,” Charlie says. “Small, private college. It’s like buying a goddamn house. Then the other two.” He shakes his head, glances at his cell, describing how the brick-and-mortar empire that he single-handedly built and devoted his life to is not what it used to be. Our mother always regarded the ability to make money as a virtue, but that can come at a cost to one personal life, especially if all you do is work. My stomach warms with the good-feel endorphins: I came prepared to pay back Charlie’s divorce loan.

Tommy just smiles. I know him well enough to understand the excitement of a big chunk of money, even if it only sits in his bank. He has never embraced change. To each their own. And this talk of money is the perfect segue. “I think—”

“No,” Lynn says to me. Red fingernails drumming. She hunches across the table. The intense stare is back. “We called this meeting.”

“You’d think she could get on that damn walker and hobble over to the elevator and ride down to the cafeteria,” Tommy says. “She’s always been about herself. Just like with the money.”

Charlie’s cell beeps and he says, “Tommy, do we need to feed the meter?”

Tommy’s grin flushes with pure joy. When he smiles, everyone feels special. Maybe because he smiles so rarely. “After hours. I parked in the construction zone. Saved on the meter.”

“That’s not a good idea,” I say, shaking my head, noticing with pain, Tommy’s special smile disintegrating. I overheard a nurse mentioning she got ticketed there, but my sibs are deep into a discussion of Mom’s weird knickknacks and thingamajigs that clutter her small room. What to do with all the junk. I’m not even sure the other two heard me. Oh well. I’m happy to listen. I can wait for the right moment to make my announcement.

“It’s because she was spoiled as a kid,” Charlie says. “She always got everything she wanted.”

“She was Grampa’s favorite,” Tommy says.

“You’ve been duped, Kate,” Lynn says to me, as if talking to one of her kids. “You’re the one she picked to smuggle in drugs.”

“I am not a drug smuggler,” I say, careful not to roll my eyes. Folded hands off the table, I ease back into the cushiony chair. “I agree that Mom has never been the easiest person in the world. She’s stubborn. She has no filter. The word reflect never meant anything to her. She controlled. But now? Things are different. She’s in pain.” Glancing at their faces, I hope to see a softening of resolve. A shift of perspective.

“She’s an addict!” Charlie says, pounding the table with his fist so that his cell phone jumps.

“Did you hear anything we said?” Lynn addresses me.

“The doctor said Mom doesn’t have much time,” I say.

“You have no right to talk to her doctor,” Lynn says. “She removed you from her health care proxy because you are an irresponsible person. We live in the real world. You fail to understand that Mom gave us power of attorney. We make all decisions.”

Eight years ago I called the Brevard County Services asking for a wellness check because I could not get Mom on the phone. She’d been diagnosed with diabetes. I suspected she hadn’t been taking her medication properly. (Suspicion true.) Not sure how it happened, but the incident snowballed into me allegedly requesting the State to put Mom away. Forever. I tried to explain back then it was only a wellness check. To no avail.

Lynn brings her folded hands up to her chin, her perfect nails glimmering with the hope that we can resolve these thorny, bothersome issues that most families have, that keep some of us awake at night. Charlie downs a full cup of coffee and scans the cafeteria holding up his cup, but the two student waiters in black and white are busy removing plates and wiping tables. His cell hums more. Tommy exhales and a button on his plaid shirt pops revealing a threadbare undershirt. I feel all of us gearing up, like a prop plane getting ready for flight. A complimentary warmness in my gut signals a hope for understanding because we are all in this together, always have been, and it’s good to get everything out in the open, once and for all.

Leaning forward on the table so her face is inches from mine, Lynn says, “If you don’t acknowledge Mom’s addiction, you become complicit in her shenanigans.”

“What don’t you get?” Charlie says to me.

Looking down at the laminated table, I breathe deeply and recall Seth’s advice: If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything, Kate. But if you absolutely must say something? Short and sweet.

“Twenty-five years ago,” Lynn says, “right after Dad died, and Mom had harassed him all his life, she overdosed on her medication. Because she wanted attention. Then when Charlie visited, he had to take her to the ER because she overdosed again. Attention. Then my daughter visited. ER. See the pattern?”

I know about patterns. Society’s and family patterns – like scapegoating – but before I can open my mouth, Lynn says, “A month ago she phoned her pre-Beachside doctor, pretending she was still a patient.”

“Wait, I—”

“Asking for double-strength gabapentin!” Lynn says. “I told the doctor all about Mom’s drug abuse. Textbook example of an addict, the doctor said. When I called Mom and said, You are an addict, she hung up on me!”

“She has learned nothing in her ninety years on this planet,” Tommy says, sitting back and buttoning his shirt.

“I called the doctor to report her leg pain,” I say. “I didn’t know she had a Beachside doctor. No one told me. I asked about the gabapentin. Mom hung up because you berated her.” Short and sweet. My heart beats rapidly but I still need to talk about the money.

“You make me sick,” Charlie says to me. His cell phone lights up. Then it keeps vibrating.

“How dare you talk to Mom’s doctor!” Tommy says, but with less conviction than the others. The button on his plaid shirt pops open again.

“Congratulations, Kate, for another ego-driven trainwreck leaving us to pick up the pieces,” Charlie says. “Do you know how many phone calls we had to make to clear up this mess? We canceled the gabapentin. Now your name is on a list.” He tosses his folded newspaper at me, its headline, Doctor Shopping in Florida, front and center. “See this? You ever interfere with Mom’s healthcare again, I’ll put you in jail.” He jabs his index finger at me and the black eyebrows over his eyes harden.

“Get a hold of yourself, Kate,” Lynn says, “before you do something that will kill Mom.”

“You have a mental illness,” Tommy says out of nowhere. The other two shake their heads in agreement. “Deal with it.”

“There’s something I’d like to talk about.” I expected this, yet my heart still hammers away. I sit up straight and look at each of them, one at a time. No smiles from me, just a calm, organized expression.

“You’ve said more than enough,” Charlie says.

“We don’t want to hear anything from you,” Lynn says.

“You don’t?” My heart continues to beat wildly, and I feel tears building up, but I won’t cry in front of them. I feel an obligation to tell them what I know.

“Are you deaf?”

I lean an inch forward over the table and say: “You’re absolutely sure you don’t want to hear from me?”

Then the three of them start with the name calling, know-it-all, hypocrite. Despicable, disgusting. Narcissist. Socialist. Bitch. Bitch coming from my own sister is just too much.

All around us, chair legs scrape the linoleum floor. Walkers are ascended as the last of the diners hobble off to dreamland. I rise too. I hoist up my backpack and join exodus.

“Where are you going?”

“You don’t get off that easily, Kate.”

“We are not done!”

I take the elevator up one floor, and I open Mom’s door, and here I am, totally in Mom’s universe. The TV hums. Lights are soft. I remove a book from my backpack and sit beside her bed. I kiss her warm forehead, and then I take her hand, and I squeeze it. She squeezes back, just barely.

“That was not easy.”

Her eyelids flutter once. One flutter is yes, two no.

“Is your pain level okay?”

One flutter again. She has a morphine drip that the nurses periodically adjust.

“I came to see you, Mom, but I also needed to resolve that money matter.”

Her eyelids flutter again.

“Mom, you remember the money from Dad’s settlement that you gave me to invest? Twenty-five years ago?”

Eyelids flutter. Slight purse of the lips. That’s a smile.

“The 300,000? Well, I bought gold. Some stocks. I still have it all. I tried to tell them.”

Eyelids flutter.

“They didn’t want to hear anything from me. Not one single word.”

Mom goes back to snoring.

Could I have done anything differently? Better? I’m getting comfortable, eager to read my book, The In-Between: Unforgettable Encounters During Life’s Final Moments, when I glance out the window. I see my sibs walking toward a nice shiny Audi. Charlie’s making a face, Lynn’s laughing, and Tommy’s shaking his head as if to say, I knew it would end up like this.

They climb into the Audi, which as Tommy mentioned, he parked in Beachside’s construction zone. No doubt they’re going out to dinner. Oh well. Of course I feel sad, almost to the point of hurt that they did not invite me to this event where they will reminisce about growing up, and the foot-loose, unattended, dangerous life we led in the country. We had been as close as any four siblings could be. That’s a loss to me. But I also feel an overpowering relief that something profound and ambiguous has been clarified.

They start up the car, and it moves a few inches until an orange boot locks it. Apparently this boot has a spike, because the car’s right front side quickly settles to the ground. They exit the Audi and look at the flat as if they have no idea how this happened. I can just about make out the contortions of Lynn’s mouth, and Charlie, one hand squeezed into a fist. Tommy’s shoulders drop. He stares down at the ground.

I pat Mom’s hand, which is still warm, and I glance out the window one last time. Then I sit back, and relax, and I read.