Squished: For Mom, With Love and —

When I was in college, in some small, intimate and embarrassing creative writing seminar, we had to read our work out loud. One student read a story that’s always haunted me. There was no plot, and only one character.

It was a young mother holding her newborn son, sitting in the sun, and feeling the sun on her skin as she held her son. 

The story was hypnotic, tracing an infinity loop — from the heat of the sun to the warmth of her son in her arms. 

My son. My sun.

My son. 

I don’t think she had a child herself, the student who wrote the story, but who knows. She knew something, though, about motherhood, about loving a child — maybe because she was loved, because her mother loved her like that.

***

My brother and I drove up to our mother’s place yesterday. We took her out to lunch at the cafe we all like. But the real reason for the trip was to start sorting out her affairs. 

In my dad’s last years he had very little, so my brother and I could manage everything in a 15-minute conversation. But we don’t know if our mother has enough to live on, or for how long. And if she runs out — then what?

Mom used to be an accountant, not a CPA, but worked in that department at a college. She’s great with numbers, or she always was — but she’s 85 now, and it’s super upsetting to see her lose that ability. What used to come naturally to her isn’t there now — and it makes her (even more) crazy, trying to keep a grip on everything that’s slipping away.

Money, math — it was her go-to, her super power. She literally saved our family when my brother and I were kids, thanks to the fact that she figured out how to do bookkeeping for my father’s failing business. Mom couldn’t save the business, but she was able to get a job that put food in the refrigerator.

It was startling, when she got those regular paychecks and went to the grocery story. There was stuff in our fridge we had never seen. I mean, we were fine. No one was starving. It was just a sudden upgrade, seeing the shelves stuffed like that. 

***

Now, my brother and I sat in Mom’s living room, which has become a small cave stacked with papers and boxes, held together with cigarette ash and smoke. She pulled out some folders from a stack, and slowly turned the pages of her statements, holding a thick magnifying glass over each sheet.

When I held out my hand (OK, a little impatiently), and said, “Mom, maybe I could…?” She glared at me. My brother waved a quick hand to get me to stand down. She and I can flare up like a California wildfire, and that was the last thing we needed.

Luckily, Mom did remember a few things. Like passwords, thank god. But it became clear after an hour or so that something was wrong. The money coming in should have covered the bills going out. We tried to prompt her, gently: Ma, could it be this? What are you spending on that? 

I sat there sweating internally. I wanted to scream. I thought of every useless financial bromide I’d ever spouted about how to handle family financial issues — like this — and I vowed never to inflict that shite on anyone ever again.

“Whatever you do, avoid acting like a parent to your elderly mom and dad.”

“Don’t try to get your way; instead, try to build rapport.”

Oh sure, “build rapport” with your defensive older parent who semi-suspects you might steal her last $5 and throw her in a nursing home, and won’t even let you get a glimpse of her papers. 

Right. Good job, MP. Anyone ever told you, you might have a career in ice cream?

***

On the drive back home, my brother and I tried to parse out what was going on. We tried to make a plan, to make ourselves feel better, not because making a plan was actually possible. 

If you have an elderly parent, you know: You plan. They call your bluff and refuse to do any of it.

My brother had the car radio on one of the streaming services, and it was playing a bunch of ‘70s and ‘80s songs. A lot from Billy Joel’s “Glass Houses”, for some reason. We laughed ourselves silly singing along to “Doing It All for Lena” — or whatever the real title is. 

That led us to the important question of BJ’s marriage to Christie Brinkley. Also, how is it possible your brain can remember ALL the words to ALL these songs you haven’t heard in 30 years? Also: Wasn’t she just on the cover of People? My brother said she married two or three times after BJ. Huh!

We took another stab at the plan. One big issue that’s going to hit us like a meteor at some point is the state of mom’s apartment. We debated: Was it worth trying to convince mom to make a few repairs now, which would make her life (and our visits) more normal, and possibly might help with the eventual sale of the condo?

The last time we’d run this train up and down the rails, we gave up. Decided it wasn’t worth doing any renovations. Too hard on mom, who would resent spending the money. Plus, it would eat up weeks of our lives. 

***

Brian Ferry came on. Aimee Mann. Somehow Gordon Lightfoot came up. It wasn’t a song. Maybe a song that reminded us of a song. To say we loved Gordon Lightfoot as kids

— you can’t imagine. My brother told me he’d seen a clip on YouTube, where Joni Mitchell was playing a version of something at Gordon Lightfoot’s house! In Canada! 

You know, there are more great Canadians than you might think. 

I reminded my brother that in “Severance,” one of the characters was whistling “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” as he pushed a tray of dental implements down the endless white hall — an eerie whistle that set your stomach on edge.

My brother had forgotten that scene — Which character? — You know, that weird doctor — Oh, that guy, wait, who was that actor? — Robbie Benson! — Robbie Benson, omg! — ABC After School Specials — Right! I knew I recognized him — 

We laughed as we drove up the hill to my apartment, around the little circular cul-de-sac in front of the park, where the late afternoon sun was dancing in the trees, blown by the wind.