Car Wars

This morning we fixed Jean's passcodes for her. Although it may not

last long, she is able to access her money again. This, of course, is

something that scares the bejesus out of me, since I know she's nary

equipped to make logical calculations. Nevertheless, while she's got

a shred of independence (and I have the money to support her in case

she gives it all away), I'm going to let her have her way. At the end

of the day, it's her money. It gives her a sense of some control, and

I can't take that away right now. She's already lost a lot.

 

Last night was a horrible night. Jean called, that blood-curdling

voice I grew up with at the other end of the line, letting me know I

was in for it. Yes, after 39 years, she can still paralyze me.

 

"Give. Me. Back. My. Goddamn. Car."

 

"Jean, you offered it to me, first of all. Second of all, it's in the

repair shop. Should be done Monday. If you need a car, Dan will drive

his over."

 

"You TOOK it," she said.

 

"You don't remember that I got in a car accident? And by the way, mom,

I'm fine."

 

"You never told me that. You TOOK it to give to your friends."

 

"You don't believe I got in a car accident?"

 

(Screaming) "Give me my car!!!! GIve me my car!!!! Give me my car!!!!"

 

"Mother. You are not allowed to scream at me."

 

"I can do any goddamn thing I want."

 

"Actually, you cannot. And one thing you cannot do is speak to me like

that."

 

I hung up. Certainly, arguing with her wasn't going to work, and

practically speaking, I couldn't get the car to her at that moment

anyway (the computer chip thingy that died would not be ready for the

car until this morning -- it's in the shop as I type). So, I hung up.

 

In reflection, I'm not sure I've ever hung up on anyone I knew

personally. That is, there are probably a couple of customer service

agents with my name on a hitlist, but to drop-phone on a person I

love? Unthinkable. I've had way too many 50-minute hours to do that.

Still, there it was.

 

20 minutes later, the phone rang.

 

"I'd like my car back, please." Her voice was angry, but not high.

"Since you took the car Thursday, I have not been able to get out at

all."

 

"Jean, your car was undriveable, we took you out, and your friends who

drive have their own cars. Still, it's your car. You want it, it's

yours. You just cannot have it back until it's fixed. Is that what

you want?"

 

"I don't know what I want."

 

What she wanted was to go to the bank, because she had locked herself

out (again) of her accounts. It did no good to tell her that the in-

person banking people would not help her. All they would do is give

her a comfy chair and dial the online number for her. They know she's

impaired at this point, which in a strange way is good. So they treat

her nicely, offer her some water, and sit her on a phone.

 

"I can take care of that for you, Mom. It's too late tonight, but

first thing Monday, after I stop by the repair shop at 7am, I will get

your back online."

 

"Tsan?"

 

"Yep."

 

"Thank you. And . . . I'm sorry."

 

"Don't worry about it. It's what daughter's do."

 

"But this is not what mothers do." Then, more tears. I could hear

her choking them back as I hung up.

 

This morning when I called to tell her that her accounts were once

again online, she was groggy, clearly having stayed up for another

late night bout with CNN. She sounded sleepy, but also depressed. I

wonder how long she has to suffer.

Done