I’ve been living with my mother in her new house since my divorce from Lindy has been ongoing and its finally nearing an end. Living with Bitsy has certainly made my life a little easier —- I could move along with my personal life without worrying about the details of maintaining a residence.
But now, I’m getting to the point where I think I can successfully extricate myself from being under my mother’s influence — “control” may be a better word. My mother Bitsy is great, don’t get me wrong, and she has always meant well for me, and for most others, but I think that both of us might do better if we have a little distance between us. We can still talk, on a daily basis if necessary, but I think it’s time to step away a bit.
I need to be careful not to offend Mother by moving out suddenly. I should be able to handle it, but she is my mom. It’s kind of like handling a small child.
So here I am, in Mother’s foyer, counting boxes – large and small, open and unopened.
I am snapped from my daydream by an influx of air through the front door, followed by, of course, the influx of Bitsy. “Hello dear,” she says, swinging the usual extra-large handbag on her right arm. In her left hand is a clipboard.
“Is this the extent of it?” Bitsy asks. I lean over and peck her on the cheek. “This is it” I tell her.
“Nineteen. How is that even possible?” she asks.
“I took 10 boxes off Lindy’s boat, and he shipped two more to me here once he got home. We didn’t have much onboard – there just wasn’t room – so I didn’t have much there. It would have been “unseemly,” said his family.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want to take a set of furniture, or at least one of the couches in the study?” she asks. “I really don’t mind … and it might be good to thin a few things out around here.”
“No, Mother, it’s furnished. No need. And, besides, it’s just down the street,” I tell her. “I know where you live. If I need something, I’ll ask.”
Bitsy nods. “Very well, dear.”
“What’s with the clipboard?” I ask, not sure if I want to know or not.
With her usual dramatic flair, Bitsy tosses her bag and the clipboard onto the living room couch, then moves past it toward the beverage cart where she helps herself to two ice cubes, and a generous portion of straight vodka in a short glass.
“Well, before lunch this morning, I stopped in on our new mayor to pick up a few things and ended up walking out with a to-do list the length of my arm,” she says, sinking into the couch. “Then, of course, I ate lunch at the Riverside where I came up with another to-do list the length of my other arm. No rest for the weary, you know. Your old mother is in too deep yet again!”
She loves this, I thought. I can’t help but chuckle.
“What is so funny, dear girl? Why are you laughing at your mother?”
I walk toward the beverage cart.
“I was just thinking about the house, when it burned down. You were out of commission for so long.” I pour myself a gin and tonic, a tall glass, with lots of ice and I raise it in her direction. “Nice to see you back, that’s all.”
“Ahh, yes! Cheers!” Bitsy says, raising hers in return. “Now, tell me about the apartment. Did Shirley help you? Did she say anything about the election?”
I nod. “Yes, she helped me, but no, no mention of Wanda or the election. I think she’s over it.”
Bitsy rolls her eyes. “Oh I don’t believe that for a second, but whatever … continue.”
“Please … that’s enough. I mean it.” I plant myself next to her on the sofa. “Move on already. Anyway, she took me to three places, and I decided on the carriage apartment at the end of River Road. You know, where Marjorie lives? It’s in that building. About 1,000 square feet.”
“Oh, that Marjorie, yes, how could I forget?” Bitsy says sarcastically, sipping her vodka. “Or ‘Miss Comportment’ or whatever her name is in the papers. Good, so you’ll be able to keep an eye on her then.”
“I’m not doing your bidding or your spying, Mother. That’s Miller’s job.” I drain my glass as I stand. “In the meantime, I’m heading down to the Riverside. Do you want to join me, or do you have a card game?”
“I have a card game … but, wait, you’re going to the Riverside? So you’ll see Cassie?”
“Since she’s behind the bar, I’m guessing that will happen, yes.”
I can read Bitsy like a book. She begins to fidget, and when she fidgets, she has something to say. She just doesn’t know how to say it. She stands, sets her drink in a coaster, and walks in my direction.
“Well, I just think you should know … Cassie’s sister is coming to town from New York City. She called while we were together for lunch there. … Bad divorce, you know the routine, has to get out, blah blah blah. She called Cassie and asked if there might be a job for her at the Riverside. Of course, we had just finished saying that we needed to hire someone to help her with things because they’re getting crazy and Cecil, wonderful as he is, needs more support, so Cassie told her sister, yes, she could come … and …”
I had to laugh. “… and she’s moving in here.”
Bitsy nods. “Well, yes.”
I laugh out loud again and reach out to give my mother a hug. “You need to hang out a shingle. ‘Bitsy’s Home for the Divorced and Wayward.’ It’ll be bigger than the Book Club.”
“Now, dear, don’t be smart. She’s in need. And I really must get myself together. Miller is expecting me.”
I step outside into the night and realize that I have inherited at least one thing from Mother — how to make a graceful exit.
I show up unannounced at the Riverside and sit at the end of the bar, near Cassie. Light crowd, not too crazy it seems.
“What’s up?” Cassie says, wiping the bar in front of me.
I had meant to ask her to brainstorm ideas with me on how to be sure Mother wasn’t lonely once I left, but that seems to have taken care of itself with Jill moving in. Then I thought we would discuss which apartment I should take, but I’ve already decided. In the end, I kept it simple.
“Gin and tonic, if you don’t mind. A toast to visitors and new living arrangements.”
Gunnar Olafsson