On the driveway (December  2, 2001)

It was a Sunday morning. I was smoking a cigarette on the front patio
of my parents’ home, simultaneously losing and catching my breath. Losing it
because my body, at 52, had now teamed up with my mind to let me know
what a bad idea smoking was. Catching it because I had been through hell these
past three months and I needed one.

Mom was in the local hospital, awaiting a transfer to a nursing
home/retirement village (take your pick) that would occur the following day. Dad was in
the cemetery, not that mom remembered that always. Mom didn’t remember a lot of
things, including my betrayal.

Two weeks before, I had finally convinced her doctor to approve her
being evaluated for dementia. I was ready to head back to Atlanta. I even had
the truck packed up. That night, mom said that although dad was dead, he
kept annoying her. I asked her if she realized that both of these things
could not be true at the same time. When she could not, I called the doctor.
He had denied the need for testing several times before. This time, I told
him that I would leave if the testing proved that her condition was in my
imagination, or I would stay up here if she did have dementia. Either
way, I could not keep living with her.

In my time on the Internet learning about Alzheimer’s, one phrase I had
encountered was “loving deceptions.” Briefly put, it means that little
white lies are acceptable in a situation where the truth will just set
someone off. When mom would ask where dad was, the easier answer was to say
that he was out getting food shopping. If I said that he was dead, I would be
risking her getting angry at my lie or my cruelty.

I had used a loving deception two weeks ago, when I took her to the
hairdresser for her weekly appointment. When I picked her up, I told
her the doctor was concerned about a recent test of hers, and wanted her to go
to the hospital right away. If I had told her that she was being evaluated for
Alzheimer’s, she would have refused to go. As it was, she went. The
evaluation went the way I thought it would, and I found a vacancy in a
retirement village nearby. Mom never came back home.

My parents were non-smokers. During those two weeks, I had allowed
myself the liberty of smoking in the basement, but not in the house itself. I
figured that if mom came home and could smell the odor, I’d catch all
sorts of grief for it. Heck, she was annoyed that I set up the WebTV in the
living room. I didn’t think she’d be back, but I wasn’t taking any chances, so
I smoked on the patio that morning.

The house is on a main street, at the top of a driveway extending
perhaps 40 feet from the street. Anyone could see the patio while driving past.
There are only two houses, only two driveways on the block. No one has to
turn into the driveway unless it is their destination.

As I lit another cigarette, a car turned into the driveway from the
other side of the street. The woman, who I didn’t recognize, pulled about two
thirds of the way up the driveway and stopped. I walked to her car.

She introduced herself. She was from the old neighborhood, about five
miles down the road. Everybody was from the old neighborhood. The old
neighborhood was entirely populated by new people these days, but that’s not what
this book is about.

She used to live about six houses up the block from the grocery store
that my parents lived above and owned. She had a daughter named Lucille,
about two years older than myself. That’s as close as I can come to a name
for her, even now. Kids used that form as a salutation back then--Philip’s
mom, can Philip come out and play? It was easier than Mrs. Ruggiero.

Lucille’s mom was in her seventies. She didn’t recognize me, but
assumed I must be Phil Jr. She had read dad’s obituary in the paper, and knew
this was their home. She told me about Lucille, and where they had moved and
that she was sorry to hear of dad’s passing. I told her about my life and mom’s
diagnosis. She said she was sorry to hear about mom.

We had covered about forty years in five minutes and the conversation
was coming to its conclusion. She said “I remember how happy your parents
were when they got you.”

(Most people might have shrugged it off as bad grammar. Perhaps I
should have. Then again, most people weren’t raised an only child by parents
married eight years before they came along. Most people didn’t spend an
inordinate amount of time second-guessing their origins, in spite of
being told they were silly to do so. Most people felt comfortable in their
own skin.

I could have shrugged it off. After all, dad had taken any answers to
his grave; mom had taken any answers to her mind, which had now become like
a roulette wheel with one slot for each year of her life. Some days she’d
be six, some days she’d be sixteen. A few months ago, I had assumed this
was a question I would now never get a certain answer to, even if it was
true.

I could’ve shrugged it off.

No, I couldn’t have.)

She said, “I remember how happy your parents were when they got you.”

(Last chance to turn around, Philip.)

I said, “Why did you say got?”

She said, “Why do you think I said got?” A cagey lady, cautious to not
give up any information that she didn’t have to. She would make me say the
word.

I said, “Got, as in adopted?”

She said yes.

(I think I was touching her car at the time. You know the commercials
for that one Japanese make of automobile? The ones where the person touches
the car and suddenly feels like they’re driving in the most exciting road
race of all time? The hairpin turns, the climbs, the sudden drops like every
roller coaster you’ve ever been on at once? Imagine all of that, plus
spinning, plus falling down a hole that had suddenly opened up in the
driveway. Imagine everything you’ve heard about psychedelic drugs, both
positive and negative. Imagine the uh-oh feeling Adam had when he bit
into that apple.

I took my hand off the car.

Nothing changed back.)

She said, “I thought you knew,” recovering.

I said, “I always suspected,” pretending to recover.

I don’t remember too much of the conversation after that, except that I
was trying to assure her that this was more a confirmation than a
revelation. We said our goodbyes, and she backed down the driveway. It was the last
time I saw her.

I went back into the house, lit another cigarette, not caring about the
smell anymore and called my godfather. I had been in touch with him
since dad (Dad? Mom?) died, thinking that he might be the only person who
could reason with mom in her current state of mind. He couldn’t, but that
didn’t matter now. I told him about the visit I had just had, and that this
lady had no reason to lie to me. When I finished talking, there was a
silence of about ten seconds or so. Then he said, “Philip (I was Philip, dad was
Phil), I always told them to tell you, but I guess they had their reasons. But
you know they loved you very much.”

I listened to him, but I could not hear.

The hole in the driveway had closed. A new one had opened somewhere else.

I didn’t visit mom that day.

Time itself had split.

-Phil Ruggiero, Jr.