Who Are You To Me? Chapter I

 

Who Are You To Me?

 

“We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do—we do it all the time.”

                  Alice Munro

 

  CHARLOTTE’S NINTH LIFE

 

Charlotte is waiting for us. She is wearing the cherry-red jersey tunic I bought for her several visits back.  That and a black velvet skirt I purchased for her on eBay. I rap playfully on her door, and her posy face lights up when she sees us. “Are we going downtown?” she asks with a slight stammer. For Charlotte, downtown is the first floor at Spinoza Geriatric Center. We escort her to the coffee shop each time we visit. Every few weeks there are vendors in the main lobby selling somewhat gaudy and predictable garments at supposedly discount prices. This is where I take Charlotte shopping for scarves, sox,  gloves  and such. Each time I purchase an item for her, I email her daughter, who has the same given name as I do:  Gloria. I want Gloria, the “Other Gloria,” to step up even though I am largely sympathetic to her chronic ambivalence toward her mother.

 This time, however, we’re not going downtown. We’re doing better than that; we’re busting out!  We’ve booked an appointment for Charlotte at Encore & Toujours Jolie, an establishment I noticed during one of my treks along NDG’s proletariat Somerled Avenue.  We have taken Charlotte there once before—bundled her up and brushed her hair, signed her out and positioned her securely into Lydia’s silver Honda. She has forgotten how to negotiate complex motions, and she is like a marionette, whose limbs must be adjusted . The Vietnamese sisters treated her well, and one of them, May, painted her fingernails a perfect rosy pink.

 May was very curious: who were we to Charlotte and to each other? She noted that Charlotte had pretty skin but asked why she wasn’t wearing teeth. I explained that her dentures were uncomfortable and that she couldn’t get used to them.

 “Ah, that is the word for those kind of teeth? Dentures?”

 “Yes, although often they’re just called false teeth.”

 “Dentures. Thank you. Today I learn this new word.”

 Today’s outing proves to be less of a success. Lydia wants to nail a hat trick and leaves us at Encore & Toujours Jolie, promising, “I’ll be back in no time. I have to run a couple of errands.”

This time, Charlotte selects a deep plum bottle and I settle her  into a chair for her manicure.

The procedure is much faster than the one prior; I suppose because much of the shaping, pruning and buffing is still in good repair. I don’t appreciate dark nail polish, but Charlotte seems very satisfied with her shiny purple nails. She admires her hands and looks at me expectantly.

I oblige her by saying, “Lovely. Now your nails look like jewels.”

 I bundle her into her cranberry wool jacket, and pay the bill, leaving my signature tip: much too big. My motivation isn’t generosity. It’s something akin to a desperation to be invisibly accepted and unquestioned. Fat tips are shibboleths, reserved for honourary club members. Overweight tips offer immunity to snide comments and disdain. At least I hope they do, but I can’t be sure. What if, after I leave, May laughs at me with her sister. “Why that woman leave such a big tip? What’s wrong with her?  She must be as crazy as that other one.”  

 Dressed to go, we wait for Lydia near the storefront. Charlotte is stuffed into a slender reception chair, and my nose is almost pressed against the glass.  I am becoming upset. In addition to paying for the manicure, will I have to pay taxi fare? I can’t imagine Charlotte boarding a bus.  Movement has become so awkward for her. She has even forgotten how to properly get into bed.  Her vocabulary, on the other hand, remains almost unscathed.

 I am one of those freakish creatures who does not own a cell phone.  I ask the sisters to call a taxi for me, but they don’t know how to do that, so I find the number of Legionnaire’s Taxi

Service in the Yellow Pages. The younger, plumper sister whose name I have forgotten asks, “While you wait, you want some some tea?” Charlotte says, “Yes, please,” but I thwart her and state flatly, “No, thank you. Charlotte, we’ll have ice cream at Spinoza. We’ll be there really soon.” I can’t gracefully accept strangers doing any kind of favour, no matter how modest, for me.  Their motivation simply doesn’t make sense. I don’t really know Charlotte all that well, but I suspect she has lived her entire life automatically accepting acts of generosity from anyone who would be so inclined. She looks at me as though I were an annoying stranger,  one who has been neither invited nor welcomed to this outing.

 “But I want tea,” she tells me with an edge of bite in her voice.

 “No, Charlotte.  The taxi should arrive any minute. There’s no time for tea,” I answer sternly.

 Then I catch sight of Lydia approaching.  Her step has a bounce and she is smirking. She has changed into sportswear, all pink and black.  No sooner has she stepped inside the salon, do I sputter, “We’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes. I was worried. We called a taxi.”

 Charlotte is perhaps cognitively a five-year-old with a charming vocabulary.  She now eschews teeth and bras. Toothless, breasts fallen, hair no longer dyed a golden chestnut, she is, notwithstanding, a comely older woman with creamy skin, and fetching hazel eyes. I don’t know what she makes of all of this, but she is surely vexed. She hates to be kept waiting, particularly if distraction is not provided.  She has lost all aptitude for patience. In her world, everyone is a servant:  either good, bad or unimportant.

 Lydia explains that inasmuch as Charlotte’s first manicure took an hour, she calculated she had that time-frame to go home, change, text her daughters and do whatever else. My back is up. I am always waiting for the axe to fall: to be betrayed or at very least disappointed.  I am a true dragon, astrologically and temperamentally. My devotion to Charlotte stems from a source I don’t fully understand.  Alzheimer’s is a shameless robber. I yearn to be its vigilante, and take it on. Bring it on. It  is only after several months into my visits that Charlotte’s long-distance son, Evan, informs me that his mother is not suffering from Alzheimer’s but from something far worse. What could be worse than Alzheimer’s? I ask him in an email. He answers, “Frontotemporal Lobe Dementia.”  I disagree with the diagnosis, but he is merely repeating what he has been told. Whatever has afflicted her, I find it atypical.

 We are back at Spinoza, first floor. I purchase two coffees, one chocolate pudding, one strawberry pudding and one caramel ice-cream cup from the coffee shop. The sweet food is all for Charlotte. She will devour it fiercely, far too quickly, licking the undersides of the lids until they are colourless.  Charlotte and Lydia are waiting at a small table beside an immaculate window.

 Lydia will be attending a book launch and a Plateau Ballet this very evening. I will take the 138 or 104 bus back to Somerled to do my banking and food shopping.  At 5 o’clock, Charlotte will gum her scoops of potatoes-meat product-vegetables at the eating alcove on the third floor. By now, I recognize  the participants: the paid and the caged.

 Lydia announces that she’ll be back in a moment; she has to use the washroom.  That reminds Charlotte, “I have to go too.” She rises  and follows Lydia. I lurch after her with three coats and two purses while guiding Charlotte to the washroom. Once I install her and assume the role of cubicle-guard, she shrieks, “Too late! Too late!” 

 “Don’t worry about it, darling. You’ll get changed upstairs,” Lydia soothes her as she exits a cubicle and relieves me of her handbag and coat. Then we all walk to the elevators. Lydia and Charlotte hug goodbye and I am on my own. The elevator passengers are, for the most part,  despondently familiar.

 Charlotte is never certain that the third floor is her de facto home. I always remind her.  I hold her elbow and wrist as we disembark. Just as we are turning a corner, I catch sight of  one of the kinder and seemingly sincere nursing assistants or orderlies or auxiliary nurses.  I’m not sure what his job description is, but he has a gentle Latino face. I tell him that Charlotte’s diaper needs changing, and he promises to assist her in just a few minutes. I believe him.  I know him to be a man of his word. He’ll show up before too long . That’s the kind of person he is.

 Charlotte finds walking difficult. She doesn’t quite get the hang of it. The motion is familiar, but the know-how is growing dim.  As soon as we reach her room —329— another employee enters, scolding me gently. “Are you a family member?”“No, I’m a friend, a close friend.” Not exactly true, but I feel I have to bolster my credentials even though Evan has authorized Lydia and me to escort Charlotte on outings.

 “You didn’t sign out,” she admonishes. Her features are coarse; her complexion is greasy, yet she speaks kindly. For that, I am grateful.

 I smack my forehead. “Crap! Sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I absolutely forgot. I’m really, really sorry.”

 “That’s okay.” Her intention is not to torture me, but to get my signatures both  OUT and IN. Keep the staff off the hook.  I castigate myself several times, but  Ms. Broad-Face ushers Charlotte into her institutional ensuite. The woman calls out to me, “Can you find something for her to wear? She’s soaked through.” I rummage frantically through Charlotte’s closet, and the employee ( I am a piece of work; I cannot remember her name) mutters , “ A skirt, a skirt, a skirt is better than trousers.” I tug at an old frayed pink Indian skirt worn over and over again, and interestingly, it is now my task to dress Charlotte in this. Charlotte waddles out of the bathroom in a spanking  fresh pull-on diaper and the employee leaves us  wordlessly.   I instruct her to sit on her bed and I roll the cotton fabric up, politely asking her to lift her bottom, and she is dressed.

I study her still lovely face. Her wide hazel eyes are sometimes found, sometimes lost. I have no idea what she still manages to understand, but I suspect that it’s plenty.

This visit has not been smooth. Lydia made two major getaways, the first at the salon and the second in the lobby coffee shop. She’s one of those people who cannot easily spend time at home. As a result, she crams her days with busy-ness and always appears to be in a kind of solid rush.  I know that when I finish sulking over being deposited in the nail salon and left to fend for Charlotte on my own, I will unwelcome Lydia from my little life. I will cut her loose and she will either float or swim vigorously to new shores. Women like her never sink despite their bulk. They always latch on to some unsuspecting hitching post.

 Now comes the most difficult moment of the visit. Charlotte’s scoops of lump-dinner will be served soon and I cannot stay to watch her gum the mash potatoes, peas and beef.  There is no time for a story.

When things go right, Lydia or I read a story to Charlotte from a cushiony- covered edition of The Tales of Hans Christian Anderson. Story time with Charlotte is a sweet event. I am proud to have thought of the idea and then purchased a beautifully illustrated book. When I read to her, I love restraining my voice, throwing it, tweaking it, hushing it, lilting  it. I love how she follows the words, phrases, clauses, sentences, paragraphs. I love this graceful collaboration.

 This time, however, I must make an abrupt retreat.  I can tell by the way she swallows  that my haste distresses her. She senses that something is wrong, and so it is. So it is. Lydia’s behaviour has upset me fiercely, and I have to be alone to sort it out. I have to go home.

Charlotte watches me collect my belongings and pleads, “Don’t go! I don’t know what to do now!” She stamps a foot and then yanks her hair. Her voice rises; she caterwauls and I have to embrace her firmly to calm her down.

“It’s  okay; it’s okay,” I try to subdue her, but she wrenches herself free.

 “It’s not okay. It’s not. They’re fuckers here. They always forget me,” Charlotte rants, but her hissy fit has already worn her out and she sits down on her bed and begins to whimper. I tell myself that I will bring her an exit-bribe the next time I visit. I suspect that she would be far less agitated if she had some soft, sweet treats to pop into her mouth.

 “Good-bye. I love you. See you next week.” The words, even to my own ears, sound like cheap parting shots. Charlotte doesn’t turn to watch me leave. She doesn’t respond.

 When I arrive home, I feel brittle and rattled. Each time I think about Lydia’s disappearing act, my heart snarls, “What a cheap fraud.”  Busy people don’t impress me, especially if they perform tasks without paying attention to detail.  Truth be told, I have  grown tired of always being the one to pay for the small gifts, sweets, manicures, eBay trinkets, story  books.  Our system is fatally flawed. Even though I am the passenger (I don’t drive), Lydia is along for the ride. I despise myself for this mean-spirited, small-mindedness. Nevertheless, this imbalance cannot go on.  Lydia reminds me of the valiant little tailor, jumping up on the hoisted tree while pretending to toil virtuously.  I smile at the image. I have been reading too many fairy tales.