Role Play
Marion Aymie
Frannie was holding on tightly to the strap above the front passenger seat, partly to distract her from her desperate need to pee and partly to control her equally desperate need to cry. She would not cry. Peter, the van driver, had found her a few streets over from her doctor’s office. She had taken a walk following her appointment and somehow lost her way, but by now Peter knew where to look for her. After an awkward and somewhat cool greeting, they were heading “home” in the van. As soon as she heard that they had had to call her daughter, Ruthie, she slumped down in the seat, anticipating a difficult meeting when they got back to Sunny Gardens.
“I’m sorry, Frannie, but I got nervous tonight. You weren’t at the doctors, you weren’t at Sal’s…I looked everywhere but couldn’t find you, and I’m responsible.”
She could feel him trying to bridge the distance and watched him looking at her, pleading with his eyes as he tried to dodge traffic in the early evening darkness. Unwilling to talk just yet, she turned to look out the window and was surprised by her own reflection. She looked strong and capable: short hair, still more pepper than salt; good bone structure, not too much sag; although her age could not be completely denied. Inside, she didn’t feel very strong. She had been lost for several hours and was only now feeling more like herself.
“If I didn’t report this and something happened, I’d be out of a job.”
“It’s all right, Peter, it’s just as well.” She pulled her jacket around her slim frame, slipped her hands into the opposite sleeves, and scrunched down into it for solace as much as for warmth. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I turned right instead of staying straight. And then I got confused. It didn’t look the same. Anyway, what’s the worst that can happen?”
Well, what was the worst that could happen—that they would send her to bed without her dinner? It was probably fish night anyway. She hated the cardboard feel in her mouth of those sticks of processed fish. With any luck, the impending lecture from Ruthie would be brief, and then she could forage for some biscotti that she hoped were still stashed away in one of her kitchen cabinets.
She had three cabinets in her ridiculous excuse for a kitchen, almost never used, one of which was locked so that she couldn’t screw up her medications again. The pharmacy delivered a package each week with little envelopes for morning, midday, evening, and bedtime medications for every day of the week. There had been times when Frannie forgot that she had already taken her pills and then took double the amount. It wasn’t easy to remember which day it was, even if she made an “x” on the days of the calendar to keep on schedule. Sometimes she forgot if she had made the “x” that day or yesterday or two days ago. One time, when she had taken double her medications, she became disoriented and fell down. Her next memory was of being in an ambulance on the way to the emergency room. That was when they put a lock on one of the cabinets, and now only the aides could open it. She didn’t need that cabinet anyway. All of her meals were served in the dining room downstairs; three times a day, there was a beehive of swarming aluminum walkers queuing up to get the best seat and the fastest service. She didn’t cook anymore or even make coffee in her suite.
“Suite” was a fancy name for a bedroom with a bathroom and a small galley kitchen that included a few cabinets, a small refrigerator, microwave, and two electric burners. The only things she kept there were some cookies for an occasional late night binge. And, in the linen closet, she buried her bourbon and vermouth under the towels.
It wasn’t that residents couldn’t keep liquor in their rooms; it was that her daughter, Ruthie, didn’t think it was appropriate for a woman close to eighty to have access to a nightly Manhattan, or two. Ruthie had always had strange ideas. Frannie frequently checked in with God about why, if she were to have only one child, He had to send her a boring child like Ruthie.
Ruthie had always followed the rules. She could never think for herself, take any chances, or have any fun. She had always been what Frannie called “solid”: even as a child, she had never jumped, skipped, climbed trees, or danced. She remained ladylike and reserved in every situation, seeming almost afraid of falling—or failing. She had always appeared to resent the earthy part of Frannie’s life and seemed embarrassed by Frannie’s occasional abandon and joy and the fact that she drank Manhattans instead of sipping sherry.
Frannie often wondered if it would have been different had Ned lived. He had died young and hastily, leaving her alone with an infant daughter and enough money to take care of both of them. Whenever Ruthie and Frannie disagreed, which was almost all of the time, Ruthie would withdraw. Bemused by her absentee daughter, Frannie lived her life without her, only occasionally dragging her along to various social affairs when she couldn’t get a sitter. Without a third party to help create bridges, the two learned how to avoid any emotional investment, and neither sought help or comfort from the other. For Frannie, any warmth, love, joy, or fun had to come from outside her family.
When Ruthie had first found the Jack Daniel’s and vermouth on the lowest shelf in the cabinet, she pursed her lips and made little “hmm” sounds before she placed the bottles in her canvas carryall to take home with her. She might have made some pointed statement by pouring the liquor down the sink, but that would have been a wasteful extravagance and Ruthie was never wasteful. Frannie might have made some pointed statement by reminding her that the bourbon did not belong to her, but she wouldn’t take the risk of having to concede a battle over a bottle of liquor.
The liquor had been a gift from Andrew, her youngest grandchild and Ruthie’s third son. Thank God one of those children had some sense. The genetic instructions from Frannie’s DNA had streaked through Ruthie’s body without pause and barely hesitated in the first two sons before reaching full expression of intelligence, grace, and Latin handsomeness in Andrew. When Frannie had first examined him through a wall of nursery glass, she looked and saw herself and whispered, “Oh thank you, God, thank you.”
The older two boys, an accountant and a systems engineer, were wonderful and kind, but colorless, very much like their mother. Frannie loved each of them, and they loved her back, but their love was very different than the love she shared with Andrew. Frannie believed that Ruthie and the two older boys loved her in spite of her faults, but she was totally convinced that Andrew loved her because of them.
Andrew, with his dark beauty and greedy mind, was in the second year of a Ph.D. program in neurobiology, applying his charm, intelligence, and hard work toward what would probably be a decade-long education. Frannie prayed nightly to live long enough to be there when he won the Nobel Prize.
Every birthday and every Christmas, Ruthie and the boys came to visit with professionally wrapped boxes of expensive bath products, including gels, bubble bath, oils, beads, scented candles, and loofah scrubs. She could always tell by the scent what was in those boxes, long before she had carefully stripped off the curled ribbons and glossy paper wrappings. Jasmine, camellia, lilac, lily of the valley, rose, plumeria, and any number of other flowers, had been more recently supplemented by tangerine, strawberry vanilla, and citrus collections.
Frannie stored each of these boxed floral and fruit collections under her bed unopened. Last year, one early winter morning, she lay suspended, not quite sure where she was, not quite sure if she was awake or dreaming, unable to open her eyes or move her arms, unable to hear a thing. The only sense that worked was smell, and with all those cloying flower scents dragging down the air around her she was terrified that she was at her own wake. It took an excruciating minute or two of complete panic before she was assured, by the loud and clanging beating of her frantic heart, that she was, indeed, still alive. That same morning, she dragged every package of bath products from under her bed, dusted them off, and gave them away to the aides, to the dietary help, to the custodians, to anyone at Sunny Gardens she knew even slightly.
Four packages, twice a year for four years—thirty-two expensive and useless tokens. Did not one of them ever realize that she didn’t have a bathtub? These places did not have bathtubs—residents could get hurt trying to climb in and out. There were only showers—large enough to hold a seat for when you were unsteady and for an aide to almost climb in with you and help you shampoo your hair twice a week.
Each gift-giving occasion had been a potential scene for a one-act play. The repetitive and unimaginative gifts produced a farce in which Frannie was the only actor. “What clever choices you all have made,” she would gush. “I don’t think I have these fragrances for my collection yet.”
Finally, on her last birthday, Andrew had stumbled across this awkward family lapse. He had used her bathroom on that visit and was somewhat red-faced when he came out. Either he had noticed the absence of a tub and suffered remorse on behalf of the whole family for being insensitive and perfunctory in their gift giving, or he had glimpsed the stack of adult diapers (for overnight use only) on the floor in the corner. From that time on, when he visited, he came alone bearing gifts of bourbon and vermouth, remembering his grandmother’s tastes when she lived in her own home and how she had introduced him to that magical drink—the Manhattan—long before he reached his twenty-first birthday. During his visits, Andrew made the ritual visit to the linen closet and made two very satisfying drinks over which he and his grandmother would catch up on gossip and reminisce about outrageous and joyous times in the past.
Her favorite stories were repeated each time he visited, sometimes gaining in the retelling. Together they would laugh out loud remembering weddings or social affairs when Andrew, as a very young boy, would become entranced by her dancing, with men or alone, on the dance floor, but never with another woman. He would shout to everyone within hearing distance, “That’s my Nana!” Smiling and gesturing wildly, he begged with his arms for her to pick him up and whirl him around the dance floor. Frannie relished those memories. She also relished her occasional Manhattans.
She did not abuse alcohol; she just enjoyed it. There was a powerful feeling each night after she was washed up, night-gowned, medicated, and tucked in, when she got out of bed, locked her door, took back some control of her life, and poured a few good fingers of bourbon with a spit of vermouth. Nice. After the time that Ruthie first found and removed the bourbon and vermouth bottles from the kitchen cabinet, Frannie automatically cradled them between the towels in the linen closet.
“Oh, Ruthie, is there nothing of me in you?” she had lamented.
Ruthie was now her official guardian. She had power-of-attorney, a health proxy, and the bank books. While Sunny Gardens was one of the newer and better assisted living facilities, it was still a cage, not a home. Frannie might get confused occasionally, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew she had enough money to have continued independent living in her own home with a live-in caretaker. Her daughter had insisted that living at Sunny Gardens was necessary to protect her from the consequences of her “wandering,” and from predators who might convince her to sign away everything she owned. Moving her to Sunny Gardens was done out of “love,” according to Ruthie. Frannie believed that the threat of losing everything she owned was the real reason Ruthie had taken control.
It was shortly after Frannie had recovered from triple bypass surgery that she had decided to have her home remodeled. She had lived in the charming but tired Victorian from the time she was first married, over fifty years ago. What was the point in saving her money? She was then in her early seventies, with one married daughter who had a supportive family and spouse and enough money not to have to worry. Why shouldn’t Frannie have a new kitchen and a first-floor bedroom and bathroom? It was her money. Ruthie had stopped breathing when she saw the contract that Frannie had signed. That was the beginning of the last acknowledged battle between the two. Ultimately, Ruthie won, and Frannie’s newly remodeled and beautiful Victorian was sold. She moved, unwillingly and somewhat bewildered by the haste, to a “deluxe efficiency suite” at Sunny Gardens.
She did not submit humbly, however; she went on to win some significant victories in guerrilla warfare with her daughter. While Ruthie went about the daily tasks of her structured and sterile life, believing her mother was “settled,” Frannie was learning how to take back some parts of her life that were still worth living.
Andrew’s thoughtful gifts of bourbon did not last between the times of his visits, and once she had exhausted her initial “nest egg” of money brought with her, she had to come up with a plan. Ruthie did not give her any money of her own to spend other than the $2.00 per week for bingo, a pastime that Frannie disdained.
“Those aides will steal the money from you,” Ruthie had responded when Frannie first asked her for some. “I’ll pay for whatever you want. Just charge it to Sunny Gardens and they’ll send me a monthly bill, or make a list of what you need and I’ll pick it up for you.” But not bourbon, Frannie thought.
The solution to her resource problems hadn’t occurred to her right away. It took several months of mental chess before she figured it out. It was the Tart who would help her to do this. At Sunny Gardens, there was a beauty salon for the residents to get their hair done and their nails manicured. Frannie had no use for that: she preferred her own natural looks and would suffer no blue white curls to be artfully arranged around the strong planes of her Mediterranean face. Ruthie had encouraged her to “join the other ladies” who lined up weekly for these services. Occasionally, Frannie would relent and get her nails manicured—no polish, just filing and cleaning up. The charges would be included in the monthly bill that was sent to Ruthie.
The beautician was a bored and discreetly sullen woman (when she thought no one was looking) who seemed to believe she deserved a better place and a better clientele. Frannie had begun to think of her as the Tart because of the way she moved across the room, constantly checking her appearance in the walls of mirrors, tugging down the too-tight skirt of her uniform. She wore her bleached and frizzy bouffant as a testimonial to some age she wished she were.
Her real age was clearly dated by her choice of a beautician’s white uniform rather than the recent practice in the more stylish salons of wearing one’s own, often designer, clothes. The Tart would frequently toss her head in a gesture that might have been sensual if she had long and youthful hair or even just healthy hair. She would put on a new coat of lipstick between every client, but for what purpose Frannie didn’t know, unless it was a reminder to herself that she certainly didn’t belong in this elderly funny farm. One thing was known to anyone who listened to her mutterings: “You couldn’t make enough money in this cheap place.” Of course, everyone knew that senior citizens didn’t tip.
The first time Frannie suggested that she add on an extra tip over and above the twenty percent that she normally added, the Tart was coy and somewhat resistant. With very little effort, she was convinced that she actually deserved what would amount to a forty percent tip. This was the early bait.
Frannie’s husband had tried, in their first exploratory dates, to teach her to fish, and the most important lesson, he intoned, was that she couldn’t just throw out the baited line and yank it in when she got a bite. She had to let the fish really get comfortable and feel safe. She had to slowly, slowly reel it in. Too fast and “blam-shizaam that fish is gone.” Frannie learned that lesson well.
It was time to reel in this fish. Frannie approached her at the end of one day as she finished her final customer and was packing up to leave. The Tart had always treated Frannie differently. She didn’t make those cooing noises with her or tell her how beautiful she looked. Whatever exchanges they might have had, each knew the truth about the other. “I have a proposition for you,” Frannie said, leaning on the beauty table with both hands placed firmly, displaying not a need for support but a statement of strength. It was clear to any observer that Frannie didn’t need support: she used neither cane nor walker and carried herself with perfect and confident posture.
The proposition was simple. Each month, the Tart would send a bill to Ruthie for an ever-changing combination of weekly wash and blow-dry ($30 each) and manicure ($10 each) plus tip, occasionally a “color rinse” ($40) a haircut ($50) and sometimes a few beauty products. Once in a while, she would even do a haircut for real so Ruthie wouldn’t get suspicious, although Ruthie’s visits had dwindled somewhat, and when she did visit, she was rushed and unobservant. On average, Ruthie would pay between $80 and $100 every month to be split between Frannie and the Tart. The Tart also had to do the shopping for Frannie’s bourbon and other essentials; that was part of the deal.
After Frannie had explained everything and convinced her that she would take all the responsibility, the Tart, a woman both avaricious and needy, with worn and chipped edges, began to laugh more honestly than anything else she had done at Sunny Gardens.
The joint venture hadn’t started out with such a large scope—it began with a modest once-a-month service. The Tart initially balked at anything larger than a petty $30 scam. Once the Tart had swallowed the early and inconsequential bait, however, she was hooked into this strange partnership, and Frannie upped the ante every few months. Frannie was clearly the senior partner. The end result was that the Tart got more money to compensate for missing tips and Frannie got bourbon and some spending money.
The money meant freedom in other areas also. Although Frannie could no longer drive—her car having been appropriated by Ruthie (for safety reasons) and given to Jamie, the middle child —she still dreamed of being free. On the daily exercise walks, in which she religiously participated to “keep herself fit,” she widened the circles around Sunny Gardens a little more each lap. She wondered if anyone else on this exercise walk thought about ever-widening circles leading to the outside world.
Her freedom was part of a different game. Twice a week, the Sunny Gardens van drove residents to doctors’ visits. On normal days, they would drop people off at the official time and pick them up for the return trip about an hour later. Occasionally, the appointments were so heavy that the van didn’t get back to pick someone up for two or more hours.
“Just wait here for me,” Peter would say. “I have a lot of residents with appointments today, so I’ll be a little late. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can. Don’t move—hear me?”
“Oh, yes, I hear you,” Frannie thought.
The first time she was part of a busy day, she dutifully waited for Peter to return for her for a very long and very boring two- and one-half hours. The second time, she went for a walk instead of sitting there waiting. Two hours is a lot of time to walk around and see the world. A short block away from her doctor’s medical building was a wonderful pub with a clean bar, easy to mount barstools, a wide screen TV, and a pool table.
“I’ll have a Perfect Manhattan,” she said with a neon smile, an echo of a younger Frannie. The bartender—youngish forties, slightly thinning hair, and a bored and boring face—unintentionally smiled back, mirroring Frannie’s unexpected joy at being free.
She left a large tip so he would know how much she appreciated his conversation and service, and left after one drink. No sense in pushing her luck. She arrived back at her doctor’s office in plenty of time for Peter’s arrival and the trip back to Sunny Gardens.
During lunch the following day, as Frannie scanned the dining room hoping to see an interesting lunch partner, she noticed Peter signaling to her. He walked over and handed her a paper bag holding her favorite beaded purse, which contained her identification and over a hundred dollars in small bills. She had forgotten it at the pub.
Peter explained that he been sent to pick it up after the bartender checked inside the purse and called Sunny Gardens. “The bartender’s name is Sal,” Peter said, “in case you want to thank him. You gotta be more careful, Frannie. Not everyone is that honest.”
It got to the point where Frannie would surreptitiously check the reservation book to see when Peter would have another busy day. When the list got so long that she could be assured of a two-hour wait, she would phone her doctor and complain of chest tightness and a little shortness of breath. Nothing more than chest tightness was such a guarantee of a same-day doctor’s appointment for an elderly patient who had had a triple bypass. She had to be careful with what she said: she couldn’t call it “pain” because then she’d be in an ambulance on the way to the emergency room, accompanied by screaming sirens and flashing lights. She knew just how much she could complain—just enough to get a doctor’s visit, but not enough for an ambulance.
On those days that Frannie was successful in getting an appointment and a two-hour wait, she would walk to the pub after seeing her doctor and order another Perfect Manhattan. And chat with Sal. And laugh. And flirt with forty- and fifty-year-old daytime drinkers who thought she was a hoot. Oh, what fun!
Of course, it had to end sooner or later. Although Peter had figured out that she visited the pub on those busy days and occasionally saw her walking back just as he pulled up, he treated it nonchalantly—residents were not prisoners, nor were they patients.
Somehow, today she had taken a wrong turn, forgotten exactly where her doctor’s office was, and did truly wander for almost two hours trying to get back. It had happened before, but she had always found her way back in time, and it had never really worried her until now.
Peter seemed edgy and upset; his fingers were drumming on the steering wheel as he kept apologizing about having to call Ruthie. Frannie stared out the window and began to think about how to hold on to this little bit of freedom.
Ruthie was waiting for her in the foyer and she was not alone. Andrew was standing beside her with a worried smile and a look of relief. He walked to Frannie and hugged her, rubbing her back in a message of love.
“Mother,” Ruthie attacked, “you’ve given us such a fright. Whatever possessed you to wander away to pubs all over the city?”
“Mom,” Andrew snapped, “give it a rest. Not now.”
“I wasn’t wandering. I knew exactly where I wanted to go,” Frannie cut in, with just a touch of starch in her voice. “It’s not as though we are prisoners here, Ruthie. Residents are allowed to come and go as long as we sign out. Peter knew where to find me. It wasn’t the first time I visited Sal’s.”
“Sal’s? Is that a man or a bar? Good God, Mother, I was so upset to hear that you were out drinking with strangers.”
“Oh, Ruthie, stop. What would you know about having a drink with someone who is amusing, who can laugh? What would you know about fun? Or about living?”
Surrounding them in the brightly lit lobby were several residents who watched and listened as though they were at the weekly movie, apparently thrilled to be witnesses to a real-life drama. Those in wheelchairs carefully and slowly wheeled closer to the action; those in walkers fell into line behind them.
“Let’s get this over with—but upstairs—not here in front of everyone,” Frannie proclaimed as she hastily led the parade to the elevator.
Upstairs, Ruthie began to explain that they were all concerned and worried about Frannie’s trips. After all, she said, “You have everything you need right here at Sunny Gardens.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“You’ve been my mother for over fifty years. I have lived with you, listened to you, watched you. Do you think I don’t know what you need?”
“Let me tell you what I don’t need, Ruthie. I don’t need bath products for a ‘suite’ that doesn’t have a bathtub. If you want to know what I need or want, ask me.”
“I do check in with you—you never react to my suggestions. You never ask for anything. You ….”
“You know what I would love? There are days I would love to wear a broad-brimmed, floppy hat with pretty ribbons, or a pair of sexy red shoes.”
“You have plenty of shoes—look in your closet.” Ruthie’s voice got sharp as she yanked open the bifold doors, slamming them into their frames. “I always make sure you have shoes long before you even know you need them.”
“Oh yes, I have plenty of shoes—black, brown, navy, or gray. Those are the only colors you ever think of. What about lime green or purple? I don’t like black, brown, navy or gray. I want red. I need red. Why can’t I have what I want rather than what you think is right? Why don’t you take me to the shoe store to pick out my own? Why not take me out to a restaurant and let me order from the menu?”
“Mother, I can’t believe this…” Ruthie began, looking more and more bewildered as her shoulders folded inward.
“How about a gift certificate for a massage? Don’t be shocked, Ruthie—or you either, Andrew. I like to be touched. I need to be touched. How about a massage?”
“Mother, what…”
“Hands on a leg or an arm or a shoulder or neck…My fingers are so stiff…I need someone to pull, push, stretch, and resurrect them. I need to feel alive!”
Frannie’s voice had risen steadily and picked up speed. Andrew cleared his throat as though he were preparing to speak. Ruthie’s eyes looked damp.
“Mother, please, let’s have this discussion another day when we’re all better able to think about these things.”
“I’m perfectly able to think about these things. I want more control over my money. I want my own checkbook. I want you to bring me bourbon and vermouth on a regular basis. I don’t want any more bath products. I don’t want you to decide what I wear or who my friends are or where I go. Give me my money, and I’ll take a taxi when I want to go somewhere.” She recited her list of demands, all in one breath.
“Stop, please stop. Can we stop this?” Andrew started to speak again and faltered. Frannie stopped. Everything stopped.
This grandson was her heart. His face was wearing pain that could only have come from this conflict with Ruthie. Frannie sagged as she privately acknowledged that, of course, he loved both of them and, once again, he was placed squarely between them. She faltered in her speech and in her thoughts and almost reached out for him.
Ruthie drew in her breath and began her own litany. “Mother, I don’t understand. I have tried so hard to take care of things for you so you wouldn’t have to worry. I do all your shopping. I pay all your bills. I make sure you have a lovely place to live independently. You’ve never talked like this or argued about anything before. How could I have known these things? What’s happened? Why are you saying these things now?” Ruthie raced through her questions as though she would never find the courage to do this again if she paused.
Frannie stood motionless through this outburst, head bowed, just listening. She then leaned forward, putting both hands on the back of the sofa and breathed heavily before answering.
“Because I’m tired now, I’m suddenly so tired…because the game isn’t fun anymore.”
“I know you’re tired,” Ruthie echoed as all the tension deflated from her body. She tentatively put her arm around Frannie’s shoulders. “You walked for a long time today. I was worried. Let’s talk tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to rest. We can talk about everything then. We will.”
“No, I want to talk now, tonight. It’s been too long. We never really talked at all.”
“Well, we can start tonight, but there are an awful lot of years to cover. I have some things to say, too, that I should have said before. But we can make a start tonight.”
“Ruthie, I got lost today—did they tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“I was a little afraid.”
“I know.”
“But just a little.”
“I know. Sometimes I get afraid, too. Come on, I’ll help you get changed for bed, and then we can talk a little. Andrew can come back for me later.”
As they moved into the bathroom to get her ready for bed, Frannie leaned into Ruthie and said, “You’re a good daughter.” Ruthie responded with a gentle squeeze and seemed to grow taller as she walked.
Frannie paused as Andrew reached around to hug her goodbye, and rested her hand against the bathroom doorway. She turned slightly and said as though an afterthought, “Andrew, dear, before you leave, would you make me a nightcap – but just a small one. Maybe your mother would like one, too. The bourbon is in the linen closet.”
“Linen closet?” Ruthie asked, bewildered, as though there was a joke she just didn’t get. “Why the linen closet?”
“Oh, you’ve been right all along, Ruthie: those aides will steal anything if you don’t watch them. Once, I had a whole bottle of Jack Daniel’s stolen. Now I hide my liquor and my money. You just can’t be too careful!”
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