The Lexington apartment was at best a placeholder, just something to get her up

from the palm trees to the pines, as well as all her belongings, an abundant enough

amassment to fill a palace or two. I knew it was difficult in those early days for my

mother to mask her misery, having first lost her husband and then her beloved Florida

and spacious villa. But I also knew how difficult it was for us to bear the brunt of her

unhappiness, and this very noxious and corrosive mix would on occasion wreak havoc

like a methamphetamine lab explosion.

“Get out of my apartment!” she screamed at my husband one evening, after we

tried- and failed- to set up her huge antique doll collection to her liking. It was also after

we tried- and failed- to find space for the furniture that fit well in a villa that was twice the size

of her current apartment. She complained it looked more like a storage unit than an

apartment, and she had been barking orders like a Full Metal Jacket or Officer and a

Gentleman drill sergeant with an air of entitlement that made Veruca Salt look like Joan

of Arc. The final straw that made my husband say something was when she criticized

how our daughter, Emily, was displaying her individually wrapped nesting dolls. Both he

and Emily left, and I started to follow.

“Don’t go,” she said, gesturing for me to come back inside. “Come back, let’s talk.”

I hesitantly complied and sat down in a chair across from her. “I don’t want to be here,” she said.

“I miss Florida.”

“But you can’t live in Florida, mom. We talked about this I don’t know how many times.”

“I don’t care,” she said. I stood and started to walk out the door again.

“Don’t go,” she said, gesturing again. “Please come back.” I turned around and sat back down.

“I really don’t want to be here,” she said. “Mom, do you realize how that makes me feel when you say that?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I miss Florida.” “You miss Florida from like 15 years ago. Before dad got sick. Before

you moved from Pine Ridge to Cypress Lakes and lost touch with most of your friends.” She was quiet.

“You have us up here. You wouldn’t have us in Florida.” “I don’t want to be here,” she said.

“I feel like a prisoner.”

I stood up. “So go back down to Florida, ma. We’ll make the arrangements.” I began walking toward the door.

“Don’t go,” she said, waving her hand for me to sit. “Please let’s talk.”

“I don’t know what there is to talk about, mom. It makes me feel unloved when

you say what you’re saying. We worked very hard to get you up here.”

The pushing and pulling went on for another few minutes, with my mother

lamenting, tormenting and relenting and my blood pressure soaring. While things

quieted down enough for me to finally leave her apartment in peace and join my family

outside, this same dynamic continued for the next few years, during which time I tried to exert dominion

over emotions that ranged from unconditional love to unmitigated rancor.

My mother chalked it up to us just getting used to each other. I agreed that this may

have been part of it, but I also remembered a fair amount barroom brawl-style

upheavals between my father and her over the years. While I didn’t exactly have the

patience of an angel or solidity of a stoic, I knew my mother’s demanding and difficult

nature would make for a rocky ride. The fantasy I had of her using a personal pushcart and doing her own

food shopping quickly evaporated when it became clear that she didn’t know where the food

store was, despite it being so close that we could literally pucker our lips and send a

flying spitball that could land on the back of it. I tried surprising her one day with a bag

of groceries, which I thought she would be grateful for. Instead, I was greeted with some foaming at the

mouth and “Oh, Ellen… This isn’t what I want. I like coffee ice cream, not

vanilla.” Her lips took on the shape lips do when the person is really pissed off. “And I

don’t like this brand of chips. Next time don’t do this, OK? Wait until I make a list and

then go to the store!” Of course, I walked out in a huff, as what I thought was a good

deed had indeed not gone unpunished.

The Lexington apartment came not only with WIFI but also- according to my

mother- an “inconsiderate asshole who stomped around in what must have been army

boots at all hours of the night and when the hell did the schmuck ever sleep?” My

mother complained about this person, whom we learned was a physician, every time I

spoke with her on the phone or visited. We left little notes- at her insistence- on the

upstairs neighbor’s door and even talked with him in person about her complaints. He

was very nice and accommodating and promised us that he would try to walk more

gently around his apartment, especially late at night. However, my mother’s complaints

continued, and her neighbor’s patience gradually wore thin and to the point of him telling

us that he was trying his best to be quiet and politely suggesting that perhaps it was my

mother that had the problem. All this weighed into our decision to find her another place

to live, one that was considerably closer as we were growing weary of driving an hour to

and from her apartment multiple times a week to retrieve misplaced glasses or to find

the television remote or fix her television as it wasn’t turning on because she hit

something that she shouldn’t have. We also held out hope that another place might be

less lonely for her, as all Lexington offered was one elderly woman whose husband was

in a nursing home and whom my mother swore was a “weirdo” as well as a raging

antisemite.

(stay tuned for part 3 of “Foxtrot: My Mother’s Last Dance”)