In Mom’s home, I know where everything is kept. I know how she puts her possessions in their own, particular place. Don’t move them, or, God forbid, who knows what she’ll do! I know how she folds towels, in thirds, which is different than how I fold mine, in fourths. I know where she stores her cream-colored coffee cup as the cup sits upside-down on its saucer, with a red rim faded by age.

Bills, receipts, scams directed to the elderly in the mail, tax returns, bank statements, mortgage paperwork, health and life insurances, doctor’s, dentist’s, ophthalmologist’s appointments, prescriptions, and conversations with all involved, handled by me. I read her brother’s will aloud as Mom listens quietly, hangs on to my every word. The only movements are her dark eyes that fervently dart back and forth from the legal document to my lips.

I research and read about junk I don’t want to know about, to apply for discounts, subsidies, and sales, to help Mom squeeze every penny from a Social Security income. Scrimp and save, scrimp and save, scrimp and save, Dear, Sweet, Jesus!

“Mom, did you know you could save eight bucks a month for telephone service with a senior citizen discount?” I say, happy that I found another savings as I put the discount into place.

“Damn that Cablevision! They don’t give a discount to seniors! Can you believe that? What a rip-off!” I angrily squawk, as Mom insists on paid t.v. service to watch her beloved baseball.

“Why the heck does she have to waste money on that?” I ask myself. Sports are not on my agenda as I find a book better evening entertainment, another difference between Mom and me.

An AARP card is used for other senior citizen rate cuts. We discuss supermarket circulars to find bargains on meat, broccoli rabe, Sclafani tomato, and macaroni. We shop on Wednesdays at Kohl’s to access markdowns. I let Mom think that she helps me as I use her senior discount on blue jeans and football jerseys for my son. She thrills to save a dollar and we joke about it.

“At least I get something for being old, goddamn it,” she says, as we share a laugh over that. “We always have a laugh, Jeanne.”

I laugh, yet, at the same time, feel sick to my stomach.

The city and state applications for senior citizens’ property tax assistance are filled out by me, along with the application for the state’s prescription aid in conjunction with Medicare. The websites are tagged, phone calls made, applications filled, mailed, followed up on, followed through, files followed, followed, followed, by me.

I buy a calendar and write the grandchildren’s birthdays on it and fill an address book with her daughters’ names, addresses, and phone numbers. I shop for her, shop with her, take care of her car and the maintenance of her home. When she loses a part-time baby-sitting job, I help her apply for unemployment, which she insists upon, and make the weekly call to the state’s unemployment automated service to process a $52.00 payment.

I take Mom to the senior center to apply for state assistance with electricity. We learn that twenty grand is too much to have in a savings account to be eligible. Ten grand saved is the limit, not factoring in a monthly Social Security check. She has twenty grand, a gift from her brother, Pippi, before he passed away, as he started to distribute his sisters’ future inheritance of $1.7 million, as stated in his will.

“Jeanne, you should write a book on how to help seniors. How in the world would I figure this out on my own? I’m sure a lot of seniors could use the help.” She thinks this is a great idea and states it quite seriously, fully believing I could do such a thing quite easily.

“I don’t want to write a book about that, Mom,” I say, yet, I wonder what do I want to write about? We look at a display case in the bright, sun-filled hallway of the senior center. It is filled with photos, helmets, flags, and medals from World War II local veterans, which I am quite intrigued with.

“My brother, Pippi, fought in World War II. He was in the D-Day invasion when we fought Hitler, that bastard. Pippi got a Purple Heart medal.” Mom proudly tells me a story I’ve heard time and time again.

“Too bad we can’t get vegetables from his garden anymore. Oh, those were the good, old days, Jeanne,” Mom says, holding back a sigh.

“Yes, I know, Mom. I miss the garden, too. I have to tell you that I’ve been researching Uncle Pippi’s military history. Did you know that he was the only American officer on the 38th Parallel when the Chinese crossed the border in the Korean War? He was in the Korean Military Advisory Group as an advisor to the 12th and 17th ROK Regiment.” As of late, as we’re in the midst of a family court case contesting Uncle Pippi’s will, I’ve taken to searching for all I can find out about him.

Mom’s surprised to hear this, as the story’s never been told to her by anyone in her family.

Mom stores a blue blanket under a couch cushion, and shoves a photo album, phone book, and old bills in a magazine rack. She keeps her wedding album and a copy of Uncle Pippi’s will in the top drawer of the tall, bedroom dresser, that was Daddy’s dresser when they were married long ago. In Mom’s home, I know where everything is kept.

I tell myself that Mom throws things out in the garbage by mistake. She misplaces, loses, misses things. She accuses my sisters and me of taking things. She bitches to me directly and behind my back, because I have a key to enter and visit her home almost daily. Things that have gone astray include an angel ornament, a can opener, a pair of black, leather gloves, the t.v. remote, reading glasses, gold hoop earrings, and a tube of hand cream.

Sometime later, I have to empty out Mom’s home, as she moves to an assisted living facility. Her home is quiet. I don’t play the radio, because, silly as it sounds, I listen for my mother’s voice to call me, tell me to put the coffee on, or demand an order to relinquish dishes from the cabinet to set the table for supper for my kids.

It’s hard to go through an aging mother’s things. It’s even harder when she’s your mother-friend-child-enemy. I go through drawers filled with memories saved…cards from my children, stories they wrote in just-learned script, drawings of our family, and heaps of photos of sunny faces.

Nana, I love you, they write.
Happy Thanksgiving, Nana!
Happy Birthday, Nana!
Merry Christmas, Nana!
I love you, Nana!

Nana, do you want to have a sleep-over, come over for dinner, cook me something to eat, get some ice cream, go for pizza at The Colony Grill, swim in the pool, go to the beach, give me a hug, shop at Wal-Mart or ShopRite, go to my cousins’ house, see my school play, paint my fingernails shocking pink, sew a button on my blue shirt?

I love you, Nana!

I go through old photos, old shoes, old socks, old make-up, old clothes, old linens, old, old, old pots and pans, stacks of dishes enough to feed an army with, furniture, paintings, mirrors, lamps, jewelry, bottles and bottles of suntan lotion, beach towels, pocketbooks, garden tools, paperwork, my kids’ toys, cleaning supplies, canned food, spices, ten cans of Chock Full O’ Nuts coffee, food in the fridge…anyone want a frozen turkey? I search, search, search for an answer, a sign of love, an explanation of the mixed, witches’ potion of meanness and love that my mother has dished out over me.

Three containers of Christmas ornaments sit for weeks in the nearly empty livingroom. I just can’t find the energy to go through them. The containers are covered in hand-written messages, in Mom’s marker scrawl. Paranoia is part of dementia, don’t you know.

“Keep out BITCH. Don’t you know GOD sees you! Keep out of my things. FUCK. BITCH.” These same messages are written on shoeboxes, on a sewing box, on a paper note in the top drawer of the tall dresser. They are orders to me. The words scream at me, belittle me to dust, crush me to garden listlessness, a winter garden of no use.