Habit (25 page)

We also have another CCRC Reach in the afternoon, called the Crescent. This is where Ma's friend Kate lives. It's not church-affiliated, so I'm not really sure why we're going, but you never know. Ma would love to be near Kate.

And tonight, we have a treat:
John Adams
is having its first world screening at the Philadelphia Constitution Center. David McCullough, who wrote the book, will be there with Tom Hanks, who produced, the director Tom Hooper, and Paul Giamatti, the star. David can't come because of the play, but his mother and the kids and I are going, and Colette, too. I wonder what kind of shape we'll be in by then.

Georgia Brady is the admissions person at the Abbey, and our appointment is at ten. We pull into the long sweeping driveway past well-groomed landscaping. It's rather grand.

Colette snorts.

—Settle down, Coco.

There's something we siblings still grapple with individually: We really grew up sort of schizophrenic, with parents who were polar opposites in many ways. Daddy's childhood was privileged. His family went on holidays abroad and put him through Yale and the University of Pennsylvania's prestigious law school without much bother, but he had no problem turning his back on all of it. It's hard to say how much of his attitude stemmed from alcoholism or his passionate conversion to the Democratic Party in the 1950s. As a soldier boy Daddy reveled in the army's Spartan lifestyle, so much simpler than what he had enjoyed as a child. He did still play a lot of golf at an exclusive club for a long time after he quit law (we recently learned he had been quietly gambling there, and possibly losing a great deal of money for years). So it was complicated, but we all know that if he'd had his way, we'd have lived in low-income housing and all gone to public schools and state-run colleges.

This would not have been the end of the world, but Ma wouldn't hear of it. Even though she had been required to do without for most of her own early years, she'd had
proper schooling
and so would we. We somehow managed to live in
Social Register
neighborhoods and go to private schools, for the most part, with tennis and things. The tension was always there, though, because we were barely able to afford our way of life. And with that tension came the inevitable feeling of not really belonging. A sense of lesser-ness that made it easy for us children to slip defensively into a form of reverse snobbery, especially when we sensed any kind of entitlement or pretension by the more comfortable establishment people around us.

There's something about the name—the Abbey—combined with this exclusive-looking entrance that seems to set Colette off. The driveway's graceful curves get her the way the brick wall outside the window at Barnard got me. Both our impulses (Colette's to grin and bear it at Barnard and mine to wish and hope for the Abbey) probably stem from the same general source: the push and pull of parental indoctrination. Old childhood war wounds.

—Susie, we'll never be able to manage this; it'll cost a fortune!

—I know, but let's just see what they say. Ma wants us to give it a shot. You never know.

—You sound like Ma:
God will provide.
What if the market collapses and we suddenly can't pay for it? Remember: Prior Planning and Preparation—

—Coco, the market's not going to collapse
that
much. We've got Democrats in Congress, a lame duck president, and we'll get a new one to fix his mess before you know it. What can possibly go wrong that hasn't already? This place is not as expensive as the one we're seeing after lunch, at least. And Babbie and Olivia like it here.

So we park and walk into the lobby, renovated since the last time I toured. It's even nicer than I remember: lots of floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the natural light; marble and bronze sculptures here and there; antique sideboards; attractive, comfortable sitting areas sprinkled around a beautiful bleached wood spiral staircase that sweeps up to the dining area above. It's like a really classy ski lodge or a high-end spa.

—You're right, Coco. This is not going to happen.

We bump into Olivia at the concierge desk. Olivia's still pretty fit. She's wearing tennis whites and looks thrilled to see us. It's nice to see her too but I think
rats, later we're going to have to explain to her why Ma isn't coming
. I can't exactly picture Mother Brigid in tennis whites over her colostomy bag and her hip replacement—she probably couldn't pass the physical here even if we did get the financial bit figured out.

We give our names to the receptionist and sit down to wait for their head of admissions: Georgia Brady, a tall, striking woman dressed all in shades of fawn and cream—beautifully cut wool trousers and a graceful silk button-down shirt. She has strong features and a confident style; Georgia is a ringer for Allison Janney, the press secretary C.J. on
The West Wing.
With her is a smaller, dimply Kristin Chenoweth-type sidekick named Lily: blonde, young and all smiles.

They take us around the corner to some soft armchairs for a chat. Georgia has a laserlike focus and directness that's immediately reassuring. She wants to know first why Ma isn't with us. (Translate:
Does your mother want to move into a retirement community or are you just browsing?
) I decide to let it all hang out.

I start to explain Colette's here from England for the week to help me and blah blah our mother's convalescing from surgery out of town and can't come with us, and trying to decide blah. Georgia breaks in:

—What's she recuperating from?

I tell them about the visit to church and the candle-lighting incident—I don't know why I just keep babbling on, oversharing about Ma and our ridiculously convoluted story, how her insurance cut her off and we switched it, she's about to go on Medicaid, she's using a walker so she may need assisted living for a while but she's supposed to become independent but who knows—

Georgia narrows her eyes.

—Why assisted living?

I look at her.

—Well, that's what I'm wondering, too, I say. Frankly I'm a little uneasy about assisted living.

—It's not all it's cracked up to be, she says.

I blink. Does this person really work here?

—You're telling me, I say. I wish I'd understood that a long time ago. Assisted living totally sucked for us during radiation last year.

I kind of like Georgia. Too bad I didn't meet her a long time ago. Even if we can't afford the Abbey, her input could have saved us all that trouble at Happy Hide-Away.

—Well anyway, I tell her, our mother may decide to stay in Carlisle because her church is there and she's a nun. There are two retirement places we're interested in up there, but we thought we'd look around Philadelphia, too. We came to you because Olivia and Babbie are here, and we're going to the Crescent this afternoon because she has another friend there. But a big part of our decision depends on the finances. She's got a tiny fixed income and a limited amount of help from us, so I guess we're just kind of going through the motions with you here, for her sake.

—Your mother's a nun?

—Yes. An Orthodox Christian nun.

And I blather on a bit more, about how Ma came to it late in life but she's really serious about it, and the church means a lot to her, so it's not very likely she'll want to move home. Georgia puts her hand up and turns to Lily.

—She's a candidate.

Lily nods.

—Right, I say.

I back up to the part of the spiel I skipped, because they need to know her condition: the cancer, the treatment, the clean bill of health after surgery. I'm mostly just talking to hear the sound of my own voice, waiting for one of them to tell me to stuff it and order us to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense Colette looking back and forth from Georgia to Lily—they seem to be having a silent tennis match with their eyes.

—Hold on a minute, says Georgia, rather sharply. Just stop.

I stop. I look at Georgia. She breaks into this kind of Cheshire Cat smile, long and luxurious and full of lingering meaning and mystery. Very Allison Janney.

—There's a foundation for the clergy.

I look at her blankly.

—The clergy?

—Right. For priests. For nuns.

—Oh, that's nice, I say. But sorry, I know there are Episcopalian nuns, not as many as Catholic. Our mother's not either of those. She's Orthodox. It's a totally different church not a lot of people have heard of, I know I didn't—

—The foundation is also for rabbis, says Georgia. And devoted church secretaries. It's nondenominational assistance for people who have gone above and beyond with their religious what-have-yous.

I look at her, baffled.

—What-have-yous, I repeat stupidly.

—You can stop looking for a place for your mother now, Georgia says. You've found us.

Colette takes my hand. She doesn't let go.

Georgia and Lily look at our hands. They smile.

I'm really tired all of a sudden.
Maybe I do need one of those pills. It sounded like she just said we
—

—I'm pretty sure they can accommodate a studio apartment, says Georgia. Don't worry about the shape she's in—she just needs to not have dementia. Your mother will pay what we all agree she can afford, once we've looked at her income and her health care premiums. It's good she's not with ESD because we won't put up with HMOs. You should take her off Medicaid now. You children can just help her with the little extras: trips to visit her church and so forth. We'll need her religious résumé and some bank statements to get the process rolling. Forget about the Crescent, they'll never help you. Now, we'd like to treat you to lunch here with your mother's friends. I'll go call Olivia and Babbie. Lily will take you for the tour.

Colette looks at me. I look back at her.

—May I quickly wash my hands first? asks Colette.

—Me, too, I say.

Lily points out the ladies' room, which is fancy with a beautiful door and marble floors, distressed iron fixtures. We shut the beautiful door and grab each other and jump up and down and silently squeal and burst into tears and laugh, and I have to do a quick soft-shoe dance, then we pinch each other and pee and wash our hands and straighten our hair and walk calmly back out to Lily for the tour.

We're like two Little Orphan Annies waltzing around to inspect Daddy Warbucks's mansion on the first day, or twin Eloises (one slightly taller and a little less hip) skibbling all over the Plaza: the glassed-in swimming pool with its cathedral ceiling, the art room with cubbies for supplies. The studio that has a balcony looking out at trees,
trees, not a brick wall, trees
. The library with a bunch of photocopies of the daily
New York Times
crossword puzzle for the puzzle junkies, the huge greenhouse, the College, where you can take classes on stuff like Shakespeare (the residents are retired professors and things and they teach one another). A croquet lawn, a putting green for lord's sake, and a French chef who made the lunch, and there are ten different flavors of ice cream for dessert if you don't want a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie or a slice of cheesecake. Ma will put on weight!

Seems like Mother Brigid pretty much just nailed the local Reach.

Olivia and Babbie are sworn to secrecy till Ma gets a chance to think. (What on earth there is to think about is beside the point. She would be nuts to pass on the Abbey. She's really used to the Carlisle idea, but all of a sudden it's not looking anywhere near as good to me as it once had. However, this is Ma we're talking about, and it's her life. She has a right to make up her own mind.)

The
John Adams
thing goes by like a blur—I think it went well, but I may have overstepped at one point by offering to sleep with David McCullough if he would try to get HBO to cast David as George Washington again when they do his other book
1776.
Mr. McCullough is devastatingly charming, with his lovely, genteel wife of many decades, Rosalee, by his side. He is probably about seventy-five. Since today's theme seems to be you just never know what will happen, there's no harm in tossing ideas out there, that's what I say.

Run Susan run
(with Colette), run out to Carlisle to see Ma and deliver the news.

The two-hour drive is more fun with Colette. I get to show her my favorite donkey farm by the side of the highway, the wonderful silo painted with a faded 1950s Cadillac ad, and all the overpasses with the funny names of their roads: Swamp Bridge, Girl Scout, Wollups Hill, Pinch.

I drop Colette at Cloverfield with Ma, who is flabbergasted that the Abbey has morphed from a Reach to a Likely. I dash over to our Carlisle Target, Glen Eden for a quick tour. Glen Eden and Cloverfield are our only two Carlisle options, and I haven't seen this one yet because I've had such a hard time tearing myself away from Ma when I do get up here. This is my chance to get something done and give Colette and Ma a little time alone. Glen Eden is really nice—set in the farmlands with fields and woods everywhere, beautiful views Ma would love.

But they seem less and less interested the more I emphasize Ma's financial issues. If we try to make a deal here, they'll want our help big-time, which we're open to if that's what Ma really wants. But we already know Ma thinks Cloverfield would be fine, and it's closest to the church. So I don't really get into it too much, just scurry back to Cloverfield in time for lunch—I've asked if we can try the food in the assisted-living wing where Ma may be headed. Ma's had terrible trouble with the food here and we wanted to see for ourselves.

If Ma opts for Cloverfield, she may have to stay in the nursing wing and keep getting help from Medicaid. It's doubtful they have the kind of resources the Abbey has, but they really seem to want Ma. Shirley in Admissions has made a huge effort—we have a cheery little private dining area with a real server at a carefully laid table, and fish is the main course. Ma needs soft food because of her teeth, and she still never touches meat, which has been a problem up here.