Arrival at Rose Hall went smoothly. After Bruce and I helped her unpack and arrange things where she wanted them, Dana, Jay and Mark joined us for a family dinner in a separate dining room at the assisted living facility, with my mother sitting happily at the head of the table. The whole day had gone much better than I had dared to hope for – until it was time for us to leave.
“Where are you going?” she demanded as we stood and began to put our coats on. “You can’t leave me here alone! I thought we were all staying here.” Her duplicitous family had tricked her and now they were sneaking out the door leaving her here with total strangers. She was still yelling at us as an aide gently guided her toward the elevator and we all guiltily made our way toward the door.
The next day, I left work early and stopped over at Rose Hall to see how she was doing. She was in the dining room sitting with another new resident at a table for four, gamely trying to carry on a conversation. The staff invited me to join her, so after a quick call to Bruce, I sat down for dinner and did my best to encourage this burgeoning friendship. Sometimes, I would take a break during the day and spontaneously check on her, hoping this would make her feel less abandoned and also let the staff know she was being watched out for by family. Too often, I found her sitting by herself in the dining room while the other residents chatted over meals, and I never saw her playing Bingo or cards with the other people.
When she was younger, she didn’t warm quickly to new people. In addition to being shy, my mother had certain standards of dress and behavior that she expected people to follow, carried over from a more old-fashioned time when men wore jackets and ties and women wore dresses every day, not just for weddings and funerals. Poor grammar or vulgar language were not tolerated when my brother and I were children, and by the time I turned twelve, I was no longer allowed to wear shorts because they weren’t ladylike. My mother always wore dresses and stockings, even when cleaning the house or doing something messy like painting the basement stairs. As an elderly woman, she dressed well, but not fashionably by contemporary standards.
So when I found her sitting by herself most of the time, instead of socializing with the other women, I thought she was looking down on them all for wearing slacks and, heaven forbid, sneakers. But then I noticed the same groups of people sitting together day after day in little cliques – the ones who still could remember how to play bridge or mahjong. The Bingo players and the arts and crafters all had their little circle of friends. It occurred to me that a new image might be swimming in her consciousness, something like a scene from Jane Austin where the ladies from the old, established gentry were sitting around the parlor playing whist and whispering about the obvious misfit who dared to think her presence would be tolerated among them. And my mother, dressed in her best blue dress and coordinating accessories, would instantly feel their disdain – why they could tell just by looking at her that she couldn’t play their games – and she would retreat back upstairs to her strange hotel room and curse her wretched family for abandoning her like this.
Time and again, when I came to visit, I’d find her alone in her apartment and she’d lash out in anger at me for putting her in “this hell hole.” That was a favorite expression now that she used repeatedly.
I tried very hard to be patient knowing she was going through a difficult adjustment, but one evening after work, I was tired and I lost my temper. “Do you know what a hell hole is,” I asked with barely controlled rage. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth settled into a stern look of disapproval at my impertinence. “A hell hole is a room in a rat-infested slum with drug dealers and prostitutes doing business just outside your door so you’d be constantly afraid to ever leave your apartment. I’m tired of being yelled at for trying to do what’s best for you. I know it hasn’t been easy, but it’s necessary!” And I left, letting the door slam behind me.
The next day when I came to see her, she was pleasant and I never heard her talk about her new home being a hellhole again. That surprised me because on so many other occasions, her memory seemed to be wiped clean of any recent events causing me to fear that our hellhole conversation was destined to be repeated over and over for the next several months. She and I had crossed over into a new dynamic.