There was one year when my dad was committed to a dementia ward while my mother stayed alone in their house. The plan was to move her into an assisted living apartment in the same complex as my dad, as living alone in the house was increasingly beyond her capability. So a cousin had a friend, Michelle, who was a little down on her luck, recovering from some stuff, without a car or job and no way to support herself. It was decided they could kill two birds if she moved in with my mother. I met her once, got a super friendly greeting (and unprompted hug) both of which always heighten my freak antennas. She brought a Key Lime Pie, then talked on about her secret recipe to the point that you felt uncomfortable if you didn’t ask for the recipe. No matter her insistence, I declined to request it. As the night wound down, I was heading back to the city when Michelle said:
I’ll get your email from MOM and send you that recipe. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.
Let’s bullet point a few things:
An assumption I wanted the recipe regardless of not asking, like I looked pathetic enough to not hit a bakery.
Slipping in the word MOM. She just met her that day. Was it a daughter at first sight obsession? I didn’t even call her MOM.
Her poo poo-ing smoking as disgusting, then catching her three times devouring one in the backyard. Didn’t even pick up the butts.
Finally, she’s gonna take good care of MOM? Good luck. The woman had more medical issues than Congress.
Moving right along. A week later I get a call from a Volkswagen dealership asking me to verify that a woman named Michelle was okay to sign a three year lease for a new car for MOM, yet financed by SON.
So my SISTER informed me that MOM needed a car to get to her medical appointments, hair dresser and of course to see DAD. WTF?
The next few months, I’d get calls from my new SISTER who had a flair for medical expertise.
I really think MOM should see a pain management specialist. She’s in such terrible pain every single day.
What she didn’t know was MOM was a major hypochondriac which a penchant for opioids, so yes the pain was everywhere everyday.
One weekend, I did a surprise visit on a Friday night. First off, Michelle answered the door wearing my mother’s silk kaftan and turban, her Sunset Boulevard look. Big hoop earrings and bejeweled slippers. Her eyeballs bulged at the site of me, and she actually locked the door screaming that they were being robbed. Idiot. As if I didn’t know how to get into my parent’s house. Lo and behold, a police officer showed up prompted by her call and I (not her) had to prove my identity.
Things were getting freaky. This impostor was morphing into my mother which made me worry what shape she was in.
MOM. Not SISTER. Her instability was ringing loud and clear.
I checked out the lease car I was paying for. The odometer already clocked off almost eight thousand miles in three months. Seems Michelle had a daughter living in Rhode Island that also had need of a car. I was footing the bill for two strangers and their transportation. I found out that the daughter often stayed at MOM’s house too for lengthy periods of time. She’d even drive up to Rhode Island to retrieve her boyfriend and bring him back to MOM/GRANDMA for weekends. Bumping their junk on my childhood bed. Eating, drinking, sleeping and driving for free – oh I found out later that they were saving their money to fund a wedding for the daughter and dude bumpers.
It was time to rain on this parade. And no one does that better than my brother (yes MY brother not HER brother). Things got interesting.
To Be Continued
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