Did you have a mother who seemed to be ever-present in your life? Growing up, wherever you went and whatever you did, was she always there, looking over your shoulder?

As an adult, does she still play the same role, or are you now in charge of making your own life decisions? Think about it. But remember to . . .

Call Your Mother

     I had a hard week at work. But today was a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning. So I stashed the remnants of the idiocies of my job into the recesses of my mind. I sat at the kitchen table staring off into space.

     “Hey, Tom. You there?” Maria asked, with a bit of sarcasm in her voice.

     “Huh. Yeah. Good morning, Maria. I couldn’t stay in bed any longer. And you seemed so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you. So I just snuck out of the bedroom and came down here to the kitchen.”

     “Thank you. I was wiped out. Friday was a bear at the office. I needed the rest.”

     Maria and I have been going together for almost six months—the best six months of my recent life. For the previous six were horrific. I smashed up my car coming home from work on a foggy Tuesday evening. Then I got bitten by the neighbor’s dog, when I was mowing the lawn the following Saturday. On Monday of the next week, I was hit in the head by the newspaper being tossed onto the driveway by the “blind” delivery woman. Then, on Wednesday, my credit card number was stolen at the Dollar Store, but they caught the clerk who took it before he had a chance to use it. However, that was the past. Now, with Maria in my life, my world has been moving in a better direction.

     “What do you want to do today?” Maria asked. “The sun’s shining. The news last night said it’s going to be about seventy-five. Maybe we could go on a hike in the park—nice trails to walk, beautiful plants to see.”

     “Oh, my. What time is it?”

     "Five after ten.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Why?”

     “I was supposed to call my mother at ten sharp.”

     “So, five minutes will make a big difference?”

     “To her it will.”

     “Then you better do it. We’ll eat after your call. And then talk about the hike.”

     My mother lives in the Prickly Pine Glen Assisted Living Residential Home. And she rules the roost. “You do it my way, or don’t do it at all” is her motto. I picked up the phone and punched in her number. It rang once and then a voice echoed into my ear.

     “Well it’s about time. I’ve been waiting over thirty-five minutes for your call. Can’t you ever be on time?”

     “But I’m only five minutes late.”

     “Actually, it’s eight, but who’s counting.”

     “All right. Will you forgive me?”

     “I’ll try. But you need to do something for me.”

     “Name it and I’ll do it.”

     “Come visit me next weekend. And bring that woman, Maryann, with you. I want to meet her.”

     “Mom, her name’s Maria.”

     “Whose name is Maria?”

     “The woman you asked me to bring with me when I visit you next weekend.”

     “You’re coming to visit me?”

     “Yes.”

     “That’s wonderful. And bring Margaret with you.”

     “Okay. We’ll be there Saturday at ten. See you then. Bye, Mom.”

     “Bye, Tommy.”

     Whenever I’d complete a call with Mom, I was never sure if she was dropping into the deep abyss of memory loss, or if she was just playing me, as she’d done most of my life. I’d spoken to her doctors after her routine exams, but since she still had control of her affairs and was deemed capable of making her own decisions, all they would tell me was not to worry. So I tried not to.

     “Tom, what are you so engrossed in?” Maria inquired.

     “Mom.”

     “But she’s being taken care of. What are you worried about?”

     “That she’s losing it. You’ll see when we go to see her next week.”

     “You’re finally going to introduce me to her?”

     “Why, yes. I have to.”

     “You have to? Well, that’s real sweet.”

     “No, I didn’t it mean it that way. It’s just that Mom is different. She’s been hard to deal with all my life. And now, . . . who knows how she’ll treat you?”

     So Saturday arrived. The sun was shining, with a brisk wind blowing. My anxiety level was high. I had no idea how Mom would behave toward Maria. We drove to the “home” without saying a word. I pulled into the parking lot and maneuvered into a tight space. And then, I just sat there behind the wheel gazing out the front window.

     “Tom, are we going in?” Maria asked, somewhat frustrated.

     I didn’t answer.

     “Tom, I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear me?”

     “Yeah, we’re going in. I told Mom we’d see her at ten, and we’d better be on time.”

     Maria and I exited the car and trudged through the double-glass doors into the brightly lit lobby of Prickly Pine Glen. Everything and everybody seemed so cheerful—except me. We checked in at the front desk and I asked, “Is Loretta Warren in her room?”

     The desk attendant gave me a funny look and said, “I’m not sure we have a Loretta Warren here.”

     “What? Are you new?”

     “I’ve been here almost a month. I know most of the residents. But I don’t usually work the front desk. Let me look at the room list.”

     “He grabbed a book and begin turning and scanning the pages. Looking up at me, he muttered, “Don’t see a Loretta Warren listed as being in any of our rooms.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Could have missed her name, but I don’t think so.”

     “Look again.”

     “Hey, I already did it. You sure you’re in the right assisted living residence?”

     “Yes, I’m sure. I’m the one who helped her get settled here. Wouldn’t I know where my own mother was?”

     “Does she have the right to make her own decisions?”

     “Yes, she does. But what does that have to do with her whereabouts?”

     “Because she probably moved.”

     “Moved? Without anybody notifying me. That’s absurd. I want to see your manager.”

     “The manager’s not on site today. Big meeting at the corporate office.”

     “Then who can I talk to who knows what the hell is going on?”

     “That’s me, Simon Schuster. He pointed to the temporary name plate at the front of the counter.”

     “But you’ve been no help.”

     “Sure I have. I told you she’s not here. So, goodbye.”

     I was about to scream, when Maria, who’d kept silent until now, grabbed my arm, and whispered, “Let’s go.”

     “Go where? I’m not going until someone tells me what happened to my mother.”

     “Tom, please come with me,” she implored.

     She dragged me through the front door. I turned toward her and yelled, “I’m not leaving without my mother.” I pulled away and headed back toward the door. Maria followed close behind.

     “Tom, stop it!” Maria bellowed. “You’re going to get arrested, if we don’t leave now. He’ll call the cops. He told us to go. And we have to go.”

     “But, my mother . . .”

     “She’s not there, Tom. Let’s go.”

     I ignored Maria’s pleading and stuck my face against the glass door and peered inside. “Maria,” I murmured. “There’s someone else at the front counter. I believe it’s a woman. Maybe that fella’s boss came back from the big meeting. She may be able to tell me about my mother.”

     I grabbed the door handle and entered the lobby, towing Maria behind me. The woman’s head was bent down, so I couldn’t see her face. I said, “Hello, may I ask you a question?”

     She muttered, “Yessssss, how can I help you?”

     “I’m looking for my mother. She’s supposed to be living here, but the guy who I spoke to before had no idea who she was. Her name is Loretta Warren.”

     With her face still obscured, she responded. “I think I’m familiar with this Loretta person you are asking about, my child.”

     Such a response seemed odd to me, but I guess when you get old, all younger people are like children. “Do you know where she is?”

     “With her son.”

     “But I’m her son.”

     “Yes, dear. I know. And by the way, is this your girlfriend, Maria?”

     Once again, Mom was in control.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.