No matter how I try to position Tiger Place as a fun-filled new lifestyle, as a relaxing relief from burdens, Betty will not participate in these fictions. She will not speak or comment as we are shown the studio, one-bedroom, and two-bedroom units that, empty for display, are okay but not especially inviting. “These rooms are empty,” she tells Jackie, who says that of course she would bring her furniture from home. “I would never bring my furniture here,” Betty exclaims. She doesn’t want to break up the house. Maybe because there is no place for most of her things to go.
Our basement is piled with stuff. Late at night, I inspect everything as I listen for Betty to call out. I see what is ahead, picture the furniture lined up in the yard, all for sale—the antiques, chests with marble tops and tables, the candleholders, cups and saucers, the cloisonné, the brass tea set, the row of Japanese ladies from the top of the piano.
“Remember,” Betty always says, “those are hand-painted.”
I see the silver butter basket, the love seat my father refinished, the pie safe, Granny’s kneeling Buddha, the shiny cranes that Sade gave Granny, the kitchen things: the canisters and plates, the silverware, crocks and pots, cookie jars. Everything is for sale. Off to others. Someday soon. All the old things that witnessed everything, all the days and nights of our lives. I don’t have a place for them; this is a regret I have. The life that I’ve carved out is not equipped with extra rooms or empty cabinets. If Betty moves to Tiger Place, we may have to sell the house for financial reasons, depending on how long she lives.
. . .
I glance at Cinda, who has been the major reason for my maintaining a hint of sanity in the last few months. She looks at Betty and then at me as if to say, “What were you expecting?”
I don’t know. The Golden Girls?
“Is she a craftsperson?” Jackie asks, but Betty, who rolls her eyes at this, does not knit or embroider. She does not tat or sew and is not the type to linger over the creation of a lap robe. She cannot see well enough, nor does she have the patience. She is irritable, and now sometimes a challenge. Though she tries her best, she cannot always remember names. How can she make friends if she cannot call their names out? Who will come and sit by her? She has no hobbies; she once had friends instead. But now the country club in Moberly, where the couples of her generation once gathered for dinners, is gone, torn down. Moberly is no longer a place where many people can afford a country club. My mother grieved for months.
I try to smile at Betty, but she looks away. I try to walk with her, but she won’t let me be The Son. “Please let me do for you,” I want to say. “Please let me help you. Maybe I can surprise you, make this all a little easier.” But she has to do everything on her own or it is cheating, breaking a rule.
She suddenly looks tired and whispers to me that she just wants to go home, but Cinda and I guide her toward the exercise area. She looks dispirited and a fraction of her former height. Unwrapping a tiny Snickers square, I hold it out as Betty eyes an exercise bicycle as if it were a guillotine. Staring at me, perturbed, she shakes her head. Nor does the prospect of yoga in a chair arouse her enthusiasm. “What kind of thing is that to do?” she asks.
“I want to go home,” she whispers to Cinda. “I want to go home.” So do I, but we can’t. We have to forge ahead. I have to lead; it’s my responsibility.
She stumbles on a stair. She is wearing the terrible sandals, a concession I have allowed today. Braving her resistance to public endearment, I kiss her head, but she pulls it away. “You won’t let him leave me here, will you?” she asks Cinda. I realize that she believes I have brought her here to abandon her. This is actually what she thinks. She believes I want to run away and leave her. Clearly I am, in her mind, the Joan Crawford of elder care.
“Tonight,” I tell her, “we’ll buy peaches; we’ll go to the Junction for prime rib. We’ll do whatever you want.” But she will not listen. Perhaps because she feels I hold power over her, I am the enemy. When I turn to face her, she still refuses to look at me at all. She smiles at Cinda, her new ally, the one she considers persuadable, as I resist the urge to fold into the yoga chair and begin a round of chanting.
“Are you aware of the concept of being mindful?” Jackie asks my mother. Spotting a nearby men’s room, I wonder if can work in a quick autoasphyxiation.
We see the library, a movie theater where popcorn is served, a beauty parlor. The main room for gatherings is dominated by a huge flat-screen television tuned to a game show. “I hate Wheel of Fortune,” Betty says to Jackie. “Is that Wheel of Fortune? Every time I turn my back, someone puts on Wheel of Fortune.”