It starts on February 6th. That is the day the office at your mobile home park, where you have lived for twelve years, calls your daughter to express their concern. It seems you forgot to pay the rent for the space your home sits in, and in twelve years this had never happened before. You are in the habit of visiting the clubhouse each day, making a pot of coffee, and chatting with the manager there, but on this day you seem to have trouble with the coffee pot, and when the manager asks you about the late rent, you don’t know what she’s talking about.
Of course, the staff at the park like you, so when you promise to go back and write a new check and bring it in the next day, they’re fine with that.
But you don’t write a new check. The next day you are just as confused as the day before, and you can not remember the previous day’s conversation. The manager gently reminds you that, no, you have not yet paid the rent, and yes, it is now overdue. She gives you another day.
The next day, which transpires exactly like the prior few days, the manager calls your daughter. It’s not an angry call; the staff at the park are not like that. Yes, they need their rent, but mostly they are very concerned about your state of mind, about your health.
Your daughter, J, lives not too far away, and so of your four children, she is the one you see the most. You have favorites — every parent does — but you’re fairly sure you’ve managed to keep that to yourself. You’re wrong, of course, but your children have long since forgiven you, because they understand. They all have children of their own. By all rights, J should be your favorite: she’s the youngest, and she has arguably done more for you over the past few decades than any of the others. She will now be doing more for you than ever before, but we aren’t there yet. She is convinced that she is not the favorite.
J rushes down after work, almost an hour’s drive in traffic, even though it’s not that far. As always, you’re happy to see her, though you don’t understand why she’s there. She helps you with the rent check, though you don’t believe there’s a problem. She asks about your cellphone, but you don’t remember owning a cellphone.
Your cellphone is in your pocket.
By now it’s getting a bit dark, so you plug in a lamp, but the darned thing just doesn’t work. You get a bit frustrated with the stupid thing, until finally J takes the cord from your hand and removes the plug from the bulb socket that you had inserted it into. J seems a bit worried, and really, what is there to worry about? Finally she leaves you alone and you get a good night’s sleep.
The next afternoon J calls. How wonderful to hear from her! She says you should pack an overnight bag, as she is going to come and get you and bring you back to her place. You wonder how long it’s been since you last saw her. Anyway, no bother, you tell her, I can drive myself. Where are you living now?
An hour later J arrives, with your other daughter D in tow. D is insisting that she can step in to help with the emergency, although she doesn’t yet know she is about to have her own big emergency; she has a hint, that’s all. Regardless, you’re happy to see them both, though a little puzzled as to why they are here. They explain that they’re here to bring you back to J’s house, that you’re going to stay with her for a while, just until things are sorted out.
You’re even more puzzled when they insist that you not drive yourself. They mention an accident from the month before.
You’re quite sure there was no accident last month. You would remember something like that.
Suddenly you feel quite confused, and even a little frightened. What is happening? People are telling you scary things, and you have no idea what they’re talking about. My gosh, I feel dumb, you say, because you’ve forgotten all about the accident. D looks like she’s about to break down in tears when you say that, but she doesn’t. She tells you, No, Mother, you’re very strong. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Sounds like a load of hogwash to you, but that’s D, always getting emotional.
By now, though, you are a bit concerned that something’s not right, so you don’t interfere as J and D pack away your important papers, some clothes, and a few odds and ends to put into J’s car. You almost stop them when they pick up your hanging file folders. My files! All your financial statements are in there! They’re just kids; they have no need to know about any of that. You’re an intensely private person, and you always have been. You’ve always been self-reliant; you’ve had to be, after two divorces that left you with nothing but kids to feed and no marketable skills in a country not really your own.
You really have come a long way, but you never quite feel completely safe. You own your house and a new car free and clear, you have retirement savings and investments, yet you’re still a child of the depression, living frugally and squirreling everything away for an eventual rainy day. You’re 85, and there won’t be any more rainy days, but you don’t know this yet.
For now, you quash your misgivings, allow your daughters to load your belongings, and you get in the car with them.
You won’t be returning here.
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