“It would be an honor. To be honest, I would dearly like to meet your mother. After all this time of reading her words, day and night, I feel I know her like an old friend and miss her already.”
Ruth warned him: “She won’t be the same woman who wrote those pages.”
“Perhaps… but somehow I think she will be.”
“Would you like to come for dinner tonight?”
Ruth joked with her mother that an admirer was coming to see her and she should put on her pretty clothes.
“No! No one coming.”
Ruth nodded and smiled.
“Who?”
Ruth answered vaguely. “An old friend of an old friend of yours in China.”
LuLing pondered hard. “Ah, yes. I remember now.”
Ruth helped her bathe and dress. She tied a scarf around her neck, combed her hair, added a touch of lipstick. “You’re beautiful,” Ruth said, and it was true.
LuLing looked at herself in the mirror. “Buddha-full. Too bad GaoLing not pretty like me.” Ruth laughed. Her mother had never expressed vanity about her looks, but with the dementia, the modesty censors must not have been working. Dementia was like a truth serum.
At seven exactly, Mr. Tang arrived with LuLing’s pages and his translation. He was a slender man with white hair, deep smile lines, a very kind face. He brought LuLing a bag of oranges.
“No need to be so polite,” she said automatically as she inspected the fruit for soft spots. She scolded Ruth in Chinese: “Take his coat. Ask him to sit down. Give him something to drink.”
“No need to trouble yourself,” Mr. Tang said.
“Oh, your Chinese is the Beijing dialect, very elegant,” LuLing said. She became girlish and shy, which amused Ruth. And Mr. Tang in turn poured on the charm, pulling out LuLing’s chair to seat her, serving her tea first, filling her cup when it was half empty. She and Mr. Tang continued to speak in Chinese, and to Ruth’s ear, her mother began to sound more logical, less confused.
“Where in China are you from?” LuLing asked.
“Tianjin. Later I went to school at Yenching University.”
“Oh, my first husband went there, a very smart boy. Pan Kai Jing. Did you know him?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Ruth heard Mr. Tang answer. “He studied geology, didn’t he?”
“That’s right! He worked on many important things. Have you ever heard of Peking Man?”
“Of course, Peking Man is world-famous.”
LuLing looked wistful. “He died watching over those old bones.”
“He was a great hero. Others admired his bravery, but you must have suffered.”
Ruth listened with fascination. It was as if Mr. Tang had known her mother years before. He easily guided her to the old memories, to those that were still safeguarded from destruction. And then she heard her mother say, “My daughter Luyi also worked with us. She was at the same school where I lived after Precious Auntie died.”
Ruth turned, startled then touched that her mother included her in the past.
“Yes, I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was a great lady. Very smart.”
LuLing tilted her head and seemed to be struggling with sadness. “She was the daughter of a bonesetter.”
Mr. Tang nodded. “A very famous doctor.”
At the end of the evening, Mr. Tang thanked LuLing elaborately for some delightful hours of remembering the old times. “May I have the honor of visiting you again soon?”
LuLing tittered. She raised her eyebrows and looked at Ruth.
“You’re welcome to come anytime,” Ruth said.
“Tomorrow!” LuLing blurted. “Come tomorrow.”
Ruth stayed up all night to read the pages Mr. Tang had translated. “Truth,” the account began. She started to enumerate all the true things she was learning, but soon lost count, as each fact led to more questions. Her mother was really five years older than Ruth had always thought. So that meant she had told Dr. Huey the truth about her age! And the part about not being GaoLing’s sister, that was true as well. Yet her mother and GaoLing were sisters, more so than Ruth had ever thought. They had had more reason than most sisters to disavow their relationship, yet they had been fiercely loyal, had remained irrevocably bound to each other by grudges, debt, and love. She was elated to know this.
Parts of her mother’s story saddened her. Why did she feel she could never tell Ruth that Precious Auntie was her mother? Did she fear that her own daughter would be ashamed that LuLing was illegitimate? Ruth would have assured her that there was no shame, that it was practically fashionable these days to be born a love child. But then Ruth remembered that as a girl she had been terrified of Precious Auntie. She had resented her presence in their lives, had blamed her for her mother’s quirkiness, her feelings of doom. How misunderstood Precious Auntie had been—by both her daughter and her granddaughter. Yet there were moments when Ruth sensed that Precious Auntie had been watching her, that she knew when Ruth was suffering.
Ruth mused over this, lying in her childhood bed. She understood more clearly why her mother had always wanted to find Precious Auntie’s bones and bury them in the proper place. She wanted to walk through the End of the World and make amends. She wanted to tell her mother, “I’m sorry and I forgive you, too.”
The next day, Ruth telephoned Art to tell him what she had read. “It feels like I’ve found the magic thread to mend a torn-up quilt. It’s wonderful and sad at the same time.”
“I’d like to read it. Would you let me?”
“I want you to.” Ruth sighed. “She should have told me these things years ago. It would have made such a difference—”
Art interrupted: “There are things I should have said years ago too.”
Ruth fell silent, waiting.
“I’ve been thinking about your mother, and I’ve also been thinking about us.”
Ruth’s heart started to race.
“Remember what you said when we first met, about not wanting to have assumptions about love?”
“I didn’t say that, you did.”
“I did?”
“Absolutely. I remember.”
“Funny, I thought you did.”
“Ah, you assumed!”
He laughed. “Your mother isn’t the only one with memory problems. Well, if I said it, then I was wrong, because I do think it’s important to have certain assumptions—for one thing, that the person who’s with you is there for the long haul, that he’ll take care of you and what comes with you, the whole package, mother and everything. For whatever reason—my having said that about assumptions, and your going along with it—well, I guess I thought it was great at the time, that I had love on a free ride. I didn’t know what I was going to lose until you moved out.”
Art paused. Ruth knew he was waiting for her to respond. In part, she wanted to shout with gratitude that he had said what she had been feeling and could not express. Yet she was scared that he was saying this too late. She felt no joy in hearing his admission. She felt sad.
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally admitted.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know… . The other thing is, I really am worried about your taking care of your mother over the long term. I know you want to do this, that it’s important, and she needs someone around. But you and I know she’s going to get worse. She’ll require more and more care, and she can’t do it alone, and neither can you. You have your work and a life too, and your mother would be the last person to see you give that up for her sake.”
“I can’t keep hiring new housekeepers.”
“I know… . That’s why I’ve been reading up on Alzheimer’s, stages of the disease, medical needs, support groups. And I’ve thought of an idea, a possible solution… an assisted-living residence.”
“That’s not a solution.” Ruth felt as she had when her mother showed her the ten-million-dollar check from the magazine sweepstakes.
“Why not?”
> “Because my mother would never go for it. I wouldn’t go for it. She’d think I was sending her to the dog pound. She’d threaten to kill herself every single day—”
“I’m not talking about a nursing home and bedpans. This is assisted living. They’re the latest concept, the wave of the baby-boomer future, like senior Club Meds—meals, maid service, laundry, transportation, organized outings, exercise, even dancing. And it’s supervised, twenty-four hours. It’s upscale, not depressing at all. I’ve already looked at a bunch of residences, and I’ve found a great one, not far from where your mother lives now—”
“Forget it. Upscale or not, she would never live in a place like that.”
“All she has to do is try it.”
“I’m telling you, forget it. She won’t do it.”
“Whoa, whoa. Before you dismiss the idea outright, tell me the specific objections. Let’s see if we can move forward from there.”
“There’s nothing to move forward. But if you must know, for one thing, she’d never leave her own home. And second, there’s the cost. I assume these places aren’t free, which is what it would have to be for her to even consider it. And if it were free, she’d think it was welfare, so she’d refuse on those grounds.”
“All right. I can deal with those factors. What else?”
Ruth took a deep breath. “She’d have to love it. She would have to want to live there as her choice, not yours or mine.”
“Done. And she can come stay with you and me anytime she wants.”
Ruth noted that he said “you and me.” She let down her guard. Art was trying. He was telling her he loved her in the best way he knew possible.
Two days later, LuLing showed Ruth an official-looking notice from the California Department of Public Safety, on letterhead generated from Art’s computer.
“Radon leak!” LuLing exclaimed. “What this mean, radon leak?”
“Let me see,” Ruth said, and scanned the letter. Art had been very clever. Ruth played along. “Mm. It’s a heavy gas, it says, radioactive, dangerous to your lungs. The gas company detected it when they did a routine inspection for earthquake dangers. The leakage isn’t from a pipe. It comes from the soil and rocks under the house, and they need to have you move out for three months while they do an environmental assessment and hazard removal via intensive ventilation.”
“Ai-ya! How much cost?”
“Hm. Nothing, it says. The city does it for free. Look, they even pay for the place where you stay while they do the ventilation. Three months’ free rent… including food. The Mira Mar Manor—’located near your current residence,’ it says, ‘with amenities typical of a five-star hotel.’ That’s the highest rating, five stars. They’re asking you to go there as soon as possible.”
“Free five-star? For two people?”
Ruth pretended to search the fine print. “No. Looks like it’s just for one person. I can’t go.” She sighed, sounding disappointed.
“Hunh! I don’t mean you!” her mother exclaimed. “What about that girl downstair?”
“Oh, right.” Ruth had forgotten about the tenant. So had Art, evidently. But her mother, brain disease and all, hadn’t let that slip by.
“I’m sure she got a similar notice. They wouldn’t let anyone remain in the building, not if it can give them lung disease.”
LuLing frowned. “Then she live my same hotel?”
“Oh! . . . No, it’s probably different, a place that isn’t as nice, I’m sure, since you’re the owner and she’s only the renter.”
“But she still pay me rent?”
Ruth looked at the letter again. “Of course. That’s the law.”
LuLing nodded with satisfaction. “Okay, then.”
By phone, Ruth told Art that his plan seemed to have worked. She was glad that he didn’t sound smug.
“It’s kind of scary how easily fooled she was,” he said. “That’s how a lot of old people get swindled out of their homes and savings.”
“I feel like a spy right now,” Ruth added. “Like we succeeded at a covert mission.”
“I guess she and a lot of other people will buy into any idea that involves getting something for nothing.”
“Speaking of which, how much will this Mira Mar place cost?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
“I’ll take care of it. If she likes it and stays, we’ll figure it out later. If she hates it, the three months are on me. She can move back into her old place, and we’ll think of something else.”
Ruth liked that he was thinking “we” again. “Well, we ‘11 share the cost of the three months, then.”
“Just let me do this, okay?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it feels like the most important thing I’ve done in a long time. Call it a Boy Scout good deed for the day. Mitzvah-gathering, mensch remedial training. Temporary insanity. It makes me feel good, like a human being. It makes me happy.”
Happy. If only her mother could be happy as well, living in a place like the Mira Mar. Ruth wondered what made people happy. Could you find happiness in a place? In another person? What about happiness for herself? Did you simply have to know what you wanted and reach for it through the fog?
As they parked in front of the three-story shingled building, Ruth was relieved to see that it did not look like an asylum. LuLing was at her sister’s for the weekend, and it was Art’s idea that they visit Mira Mar Manor without her, so that they could anticipate what objections she might raise. Mira Mar Manor was flanked by windswept cypress trees and looked out on the ocean. The wrought-iron fence held a plaque declaring that this was a San Francisco landmark, erected as an orphanage after the Great Earthquake.
Ruth and Art were ushered into an oak-paneled office and told that the director of care services would be with them soon. They sat stiffly on a leather sofa, facing a massive desk. Framed diplomas and health certifications hung on the wall, as well as old photographs of the building in its original incarnation, with beaming girls posed in white frocks.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she heard someone say in a British accent. Ruth turned and was surprised to see a polished-looking young Indian man in suit and tie. “Edward Patel,” he said, smiling warmly. He shook hands and handed them each a business card. He must be in his early thirties, Ruth thought. He looked like a stockbroker, not someone who concerned himself with laxatives and arthritis medication.
“I’d like to start here,” Patel said, taking them back to the foyer, “because this is what our seniors first see when they arrive.” He began what sounded like an oft recited spiel: “Here at Mira Mar Manor, we believe home is more than a bed. It’s a whole concept.”
Concept? Ruth looked at Art. This would never work.
“What does the ‘P and F’ in P and F HealthCare stand for?” Art asked, looking at the business card.
“Patel and Finkelstein. One of my uncles was a founding partner. He’s been in the hospitality business a long time, hotels. Morris Finkelstein is a doctor. His own mother is a resident here.”
Ruth marveled that a Jewish mother would allow her son to put her in a place like this. Now that was an endorsement.
They stepped through French doors into a garden surrounded by hedges. On each side was a shady arbor with a latticed covering of jasmine. Underneath were cushioned chairs and opaque glass-topped tables. Several women glanced up from their conversations.
“Hello, Edward!” three of them sang out in turn.
“Morning, Betty, Dorothy, Rose. Wow, Betty, that’s a spectacular color on you!”
“You watch it, young lady,” the old woman said sternly to Ruth. “He’ll sell the pants off you, if he can.” Patel laughed easily, and Ruth wondered whether the woman was only joking. Well, at least he knew their names.
Down the middle of the garden was a reddish pathway lined with benches, some shaded by awnings. Patel pointed out amenities that might have gone unnoticed to
an untrained eye. His voice was resonant, familiar, and knowledgeable, like that of an English teacher Ruth had once had. The strolling path, he explained, had the same covering used for indoor running tracks, no loose bricks or stones to catch a feeble walker off guard, no hard concrete. Of course, if a senior fell, she could still break a hip, he said, but it was less likely to shatter into a million pieces. “And studies show that’s what is so deadly to this population. One fall, boom!” Patel snapped his fingers. “Happens a lot when the elderly live alone and in the old family home that hasn’t been adapted to their needs. No ramp-ways, no handrails.”
Patel gestured to the flowers in the garden. “All thorn-free and non-toxic, no deadly oleander or foxglove that a confused person might nibble on.” Each plant was identified by staked marker at eye level—no bending down necessary. “Our seniors really love naming the herbs. On Mondays, the afternoon activity is herb collecting. There’s rosemary, parsley, oregano, lemon thyme, basil, sage. The word ‘echinacea’ gives them a hard time, though. One lady calls it ‘the China Sea.’ Now we all call it that.”
The herbs from the garden, Patel added, were used in the meals. “The ladies still pride themselves on their cooking abilities. They love to remind us to add only a pinch of oregano, or to rub the sage on the inside not the outside of the chicken, that sort of thing.” Ruth could picture dozens of old ladies complaining about the food, and her mother yelling above the rest that everything was too salty.
They continued walking along the path toward a greenhouse at the back of the garden. “We call this the Love Nursery,” Patel said, as they stepped into a blast of color—shocking pink and monk-robe saffron. The air was moist and cool.
“Each resident has an orchid plant. The flower pots are painted with the names they’ve given their orchids. As you may have already noticed, about ninety percent of our residents are women. And no matter how old they are, many still have a strong maternal instinct. They adore watering their orchids every day. We use a dendrobium orchid known as cuthbertsonii. Blooms nearly year-round, nonstop, and unlike most orchids, it can take daily watering. Many of our residents have named their orchids after their husbands or children or other family members who’ve already passed. They often talk to their plants, touch and kiss the petals, fuss and worry over them. We give them tiny eyedroppers and a bucket of water we call ‘Love Potion.’ ‘Mother’s coming, Mother’s coming,’ you’ll hear them say. It’s quite touching to watch them feeding their orchids.”