sign?”
“What papers?”
Not replying, Mother went into the dining room, and I followed in confusion; she pulled out a chair at the table, gesturing for me to do the same.
“This is a Power of Attorney over my finances, giving you full control,” Mother said, tapping a legal document with a forefinger.
So she did figure it had come time for her to be institutionalized; and she wasn’t fighting it.
“Is signing this really necessary? I’ve always been able to handle things before….”
She sighed and her eyes rose upward as if heaven were calling. “I’m afraid I might be away for some time, dear.”
This was the most candid Mother had ever been with me regarding her “condition”—as she referred to it—and also the most foresight she’d ever shown. On some level, it seemed to me, this was progress. She was not only willing to go away for treatment, she was preparing for her absencein a well-organized, logical fashion. This was not just a good sign, but the end of an era, and the dawning of a new age of acceptance of her mental problems.
So I dutifully signed the papers.
“That’s
a good girl,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
I’d come home famished, but the collective smells of the lasagna, chili, pot roast, and mystery casserole wafting from the kitchen made my stomach lurch.
“Actually, I’m really beat,” I said. “I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down for a while.”
“Good idea, dear. You can always have something to eat later.”
She had a point. I made my way upstairs (no trundling!) and conked out for a good three hours, dreaming wild nonsense, which upon awaking only left me more exhausted than before.
Downstairs in the living room, I found notes taped everywhere: the thermostat (“keep at 72 degrees; change filter in October”); the TV (“call cable and drop the movie channels—unless you want them”); the walnut Queen Anne armchair (“use only Kramer’s oil”). All in her familiar flowery scrawl. Similar instructions were peppered throughout the rest of the house.
Mother appeared from the kitchen, sans apron.
“Ah … I see you’ve noticed my missives,” she said cheerfully.
“They’re pretty hard to miss.” Then I said gently, “Can we talk?”
Mother raised her eyebrows. “Why certainly, my child—where should we go?”
I motioned to the antique needlepoint couch that faced the picture window onto the world.
We sat.
“Mother,” I began. “I don’t want you to worry about anything while you’re gone.”
“Oh, I won’t, dear.”
“The time will pass very quickly.”
“They say it does.”
“Just know that I love you, and that—”
I was going to say that I’d visit her every day, but the words caught in my throat.
As I began to try again, I could see out the picture window a police car roll up to the curb.
And the chief himself got out.
“Mother!” I grabbed her hand.
“Don’t be worried, dear,” she said soothingly. “He’s only come to tell you that you’re not a suspect.”
In another moment Tony was knocking, and Mother called,
“Enter stage left!”
and then the chief was coming toward us as we both rose from the couch.
Tony positioned himself before me and took my hands, looking down into my eyes. “Brandy, I’m sorry to have to do this.”
Oh, dear Lord … I am going to have the baby in prison!
But then his eyes traveled to Mother.
“Vivian, I’m arresting you for the murder of Connie Grimes. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to—”
“I fully understand my rights, Chief Cassato,” Mother interrupted. “And I freely admit to killing that horrible woman.”
I stared at her, agape.
She turned to me and beamed. “You see, dear, I
told
you everything would be all right!”
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Sometimes, a disreputable dealer will disassemble an authentic antique and create several copies by mingling real with fake parts, and pass them off as 100% originals. Mother
“What papers?”
Not replying, Mother went into the dining room, and I followed in confusion; she pulled out a chair at the table, gesturing for me to do the same.
“This is a Power of Attorney over my finances, giving you full control,” Mother said, tapping a legal document with a forefinger.
So she did figure it had come time for her to be institutionalized; and she wasn’t fighting it.
“Is signing this really necessary? I’ve always been able to handle things before….”
She sighed and her eyes rose upward as if heaven were calling. “I’m afraid I might be away for some time, dear.”
This was the most candid Mother had ever been with me regarding her “condition”—as she referred to it—and also the most foresight she’d ever shown. On some level, it seemed to me, this was progress. She was not only willing to go away for treatment, she was preparing for her absencein a well-organized, logical fashion. This was not just a good sign, but the end of an era, and the dawning of a new age of acceptance of her mental problems.
So I dutifully signed the papers.
“That’s
a good girl,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
I’d come home famished, but the collective smells of the lasagna, chili, pot roast, and mystery casserole wafting from the kitchen made my stomach lurch.
“Actually, I’m really beat,” I said. “I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down for a while.”
“Good idea, dear. You can always have something to eat later.”
She had a point. I made my way upstairs (no trundling!) and conked out for a good three hours, dreaming wild nonsense, which upon awaking only left me more exhausted than before.
Downstairs in the living room, I found notes taped everywhere: the thermostat (“keep at 72 degrees; change filter in October”); the TV (“call cable and drop the movie channels—unless you want them”); the walnut Queen Anne armchair (“use only Kramer’s oil”). All in her familiar flowery scrawl. Similar instructions were peppered throughout the rest of the house.
Mother appeared from the kitchen, sans apron.
“Ah … I see you’ve noticed my missives,” she said cheerfully.
“They’re pretty hard to miss.” Then I said gently, “Can we talk?”
Mother raised her eyebrows. “Why certainly, my child—where should we go?”
I motioned to the antique needlepoint couch that faced the picture window onto the world.
We sat.
“Mother,” I began. “I don’t want you to worry about anything while you’re gone.”
“Oh, I won’t, dear.”
“The time will pass very quickly.”
“They say it does.”
“Just know that I love you, and that—”
I was going to say that I’d visit her every day, but the words caught in my throat.
As I began to try again, I could see out the picture window a police car roll up to the curb.
And the chief himself got out.
“Mother!” I grabbed her hand.
“Don’t be worried, dear,” she said soothingly. “He’s only come to tell you that you’re not a suspect.”
In another moment Tony was knocking, and Mother called,
“Enter stage left!”
and then the chief was coming toward us as we both rose from the couch.
Tony positioned himself before me and took my hands, looking down into my eyes. “Brandy, I’m sorry to have to do this.”
Oh, dear Lord … I am going to have the baby in prison!
But then his eyes traveled to Mother.
“Vivian, I’m arresting you for the murder of Connie Grimes. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to—”
“I fully understand my rights, Chief Cassato,” Mother interrupted. “And I freely admit to killing that horrible woman.”
I stared at her, agape.
She turned to me and beamed. “You see, dear, I
told
you everything would be all right!”
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Sometimes, a disreputable dealer will disassemble an authentic antique and create several copies by mingling real with fake parts, and pass them off as 100% originals. Mother
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