Yesterday is Forever

Delia Lewis opened the front door and found the milk waiting for her in glass bottles. No butter this time, the milk man must have forgotten. She picked the bottles up and took them into her small cottage before she went back into her bedroom, sat down at her vanity and took out her hair curlers. She sighed, as she looked into the mirror, it was really time for another color, grey seemed to appear on her head overnight.

As she finished putting on her blue day dress, she heard a knock at the front door. “Who could that be?” she whispered. Opening the door, she was greeted by an unfamiliar face, “Good morning, Mrs. Lewis!” the woman said. Delia was taken aback. The woman was young with an easy, smile, but Delia did not recognize her. “Hello,” Delia said smiling back. She didn’t want to be rude, but how did this person know her?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologized and went on to introduce herself. “My name is Jean. I met you at Mildred’s dinner party a couple of weeks ago. My husband, Ted and I just moved down the street.”

“Of course!” said Delia. Mildred, her best friend, was always having dinner parties. She poured over Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal magazines looking for menus with multiple courses. Just yesterday, Mildred had called and asked Delia’s opinion about a deviled ham and gelatin appetizer. Delia had told her she thought it sounded horrifying and then they both laughed. It was great having a friend that close, that you could tell the truth to and laugh with.

Jean stepped up to the door. “I was just wondering…well…this is a bit awkward…but Ted and I, we want to have a baby next year and I’m trying to save a bit of extra money. When I spoke to you at Mildred’s party you said you could use a bit of help around your house this month, just some light cleaning…”

Delia instantly felt sorry for the woman, having to show up like this, ask a stranger to clean for a bit of a fee. Of course, prices were only going up. Mike Senior had just told her the other day that a gallon of gas was up to thirty-one cents, literal highway robbery he called it.

Delia decided to spare Jean any more embarrassment. “Come in” she said, “I always have something around here that needs…” Delia’s speech trailed off. She looked around the cottage. Suddenly, it seemed as if she didn’t recognize it. Something was wrong with the furniture. She and Mike Senior had financed the living room suite at Broward’s Furnishings. He had wanted blue; she had wanted pale gold. In the end, she won and they went home with the gold. She smiled remembering how he kissed her and told her they would get whatever made her happy.

The couch in the living room now was a cream color, but it was gold last night. How could a couch change color? Delia wondered.

“Mrs. Lewis?” Delia was startled. For a moment she had forgotten that Jean was there with her.

“Yes, dear,” Delia tried to sound pleasant again.

“Can I start with the sheets?” Jean asked, but she was already heading toward the bedroom.

Delia became agitated. Who was this person to come into her house and start stripping the sheets on her bed? And then there was the money, had they even agreed on pay?

She noticed a stack of mail on the kitchen counter and saw a postcard from Mildred. She and her husband Ritchie had gone on a tour of the Middle East. Delia had thought of that part of the world as being very primitive, almost ancient. The postcard had two pictures: a picture of the Shah of Iran (who Delia had to admit was a very handsome man) and picture of the American embassy. “Greetings from Tehran” was printed in script along the bottom of the postcard. Delia flipped it over to see Mildred’s message.

                We finally made it to beautiful Tehran. I know you thought it was just a big desert, but it is actually quite modern. There are lots of shops and vendors. Will bring you back a great souvenir!

                                                               See you soon, Mildred

According to the postmark—Mildred had mailed the postcard on April 7, 1966. Delia looked for the small calendar that she always taped to the refrigerator door, but the old white Frigidaire had no calendar, just her magnets; bright yellow and green, shaped like ears of corn.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. The postcard had probably taken awhile to arrive. Mildred’s trip was planned for two weeks, so she would be home soon. No doubt, regaling everyone at her next dinner party with funny stories of faraway lands.

Delia moved into the short hallway until she was just outside the bedroom door. Jean had already stripped all of the bedding off of the mattress and was slipping the pillow cases off of the pillows.

“Thank you very much for your help, dear,” Delia said, although an edge had crept into her voice. Suddenly, she realized what she needed to do. She headed back through the living room and into the small kitchen to the telephone on the small table next to the refrigerator. She would call Mike Senior. Just to let him know that this girl, Jean and her husband Ted, they needed money. Delia certainly didn’t need any help with housekeeping, but this was really a favor, to a young couple starting out. Just as she and Mike Senior once were.

Delia picked up the receiver, but there was no dial tone. She pushed up and down on the switch and still heard nothing. She put her finger in the plastic rotary and turned the first number of Mike Senior’s office. Nothing, not even a click.

Delia froze. Something was very wrong. First the woman at the door, then the couch and now this. She realized she was clutching the receiver with a death grip. As she returned it to the cradle, her hand shook.

She sat down at the kitchen table and thought about the day. She got up, she got the milk, got dressed and then there was this woman. The phone doesn’t work, so she cannot talk to Mike Senior. Wait! The kids! Mike Junior and Freddy! Where were they? She looked at the clock. “Oh no,” Delia thought “it was ten in the morning! They should have been off to school hours ago!”

She jumped from the table and hurried down the hall to their room to wake them. Only, when she got to the door of the children’s room, she found no door at all. Rather, there was a door drawn on the wall—or painted. It looked real, but it wasn’t. Delia kept trying to touch the doorknob, but instead her fingers just skimmed the flat surface of the paneling under the paint.

“Can I help you Mrs. Lewis?” Jean startled her again.

Delia jumped a bit this time. Panic seemed to be coursing through her bloodstream, but she had to retain her composure.

Whoever, this person was, Jean, she couldn’t let her know what was wrong. How do you tell someone that the room your children are sleeping in has somehow disappeared? How do you say that your furniture has somehow changed color? Why was a home that she had lived in for ten years not making sense anymore?

Delia thought for a moment before she spoke. “I just…well, I need to get in touch with my husband, he…he handles the checking account and…well… I don’t remember if we discussed your pay for helping me with some of these chores.” Delia was flustered, but at least she got the sentence out.

Jean smiled, “You already paid me this morning, remember?” Delia didn’t. “No, that cannot be right, I think I would know if I had paid you,” she replied.

Jean went on. “You gave me three dollars, here it is.” She turned and grabbed a small purse that was sitting on the kitchen counter and opened it, pulling out three green bills. “See?” Jean held them up as she spoke.

Delia nodded, “Okay, I suppose,” she said meekly.

Jean looked at Delia for a moment. “Mrs. Lewis, would you like to watch some television? I believe you said you liked watching one of the soap operas, As the World Turns. Would you like for me to turn it on?”

Delia looked at the pictures of her children on the wall. Where were they? Jean took her hand and tried to lead her into the living room, but Delia jerked away. This woman was some kind of phony, Delia knew that now.

“Mrs. Lewis, I am only trying to help,” Jean said.

Delia pushed past Jean and down the hallway to the painted door.

She tried again to grab the non-existent door knob, then resorted to beating on the wall. “Can you hear me? Mike junior? Freddy? It’s mommy!”

“Mrs. Lewis, please calm down, it’s just a wall.” Jean kept her voice even.

“This should be a door! My children’s room is here.” Delia began crying.

Jean looked at the floor and then up again at Delia. “There is no room there, your children are fine.”

“Where are they?” Delia demanded as she stepped toward Jean.

Jean put her hands up, palms toward Delia. “Mrs. Lewis, I know you are upset, but everything is fine, your children are fine and they love you.”

Delia moved toward Jean again. “NOTHING is fine! I don’t know you and you’re in my house, I don’t remember you from any party, my kids should be here and they aren’t and their room isn’t and my furniture isn’t right and I want to talk to my husband and I can’t and I don’t know if this is my house, but I want you out, out OUT!” She lunged at Jean.

Two hours later, Michael Lewis Junior sat in the waiting room of the administrative offices, studying the logo.

Past Present Eldercare: where Yesterday is Forever!

“What a joke,” Michael Junior whispered to himself. Fifty thousand dollars a month he was paying for his mother to live here and now she was under sedation in a hospital bed. That was the one thing he didn’t want to happen to his mother when he put her in assisted living. His father had been dead for over twenty years, his little brother was career military. He was the only one his mother had, he thought sadly, and he had let her down.

A few minutes later, he sat in the office of the chief administrator, Cash Luong, listening.

“Mr. Lewis, I want to assure you that what happened this morning in your mother’s cottage was very unusual.” Mr. Luong stated.

Michael Junior sighed, “Well, this was worth a try, I guess I could try another caregiver at home.”

“I don’t think that is the answer, Mr. Lewis,” Mr. Luong continued.

“Well, I certainly don’t want her fighting orderlies and nurses, being shot up full of sedatives and reduced to a vegetable.” Michael Junior insisted, wondering what the next move was.

Mr. Luong continued, “It has been a privilege having your mother here for the last few years. But it is time to recognize that her dementia is beginning to progress. As it does, your mother regresses. Her illness is moving her back in time and it is accelerating.”

“What does that mean for her care?” Michael Junior asked.

“It means temporarily moving her to a larger cottage, one with a child’s bedroom.” Mr. Luong answered.

Michael Junior adjusted his position in the stiff plastic chair, “How would that help?”

Mr. Luong went on to explain.

When Delia had first come to live at the facility due to her dementia, she was mentally stuck in the 1980s. Therefore, they had moved her into a cottage decorated as if it were that time period. The television was preloaded with 1980s shows. Magazine issues from the 1980s were spread on the tables. Michael Junior had provided pictures of his parents’ home over the years and the facility had copied as much as they could from the 1980s photographs.

They also hired actors to represent important people in Delia’s life. Her husband Mike had still been alive in the 1980s. So they hired an actor who could visit the cottage, have dinner with Delia, sometimes mow the lawn to promote the illusion that she was still living in the 1980s. However, the 1980s cottage had no use for a child’s bedroom, because by then, Michael Junior and his brother were already moved out.

Recently, the staff had noticed that she was regressing back to the 1960s. They had redecorated the cottage accordingly, but since cottage itself had no child's bedroom, they decided to create the illusion of one by painting a door on the wall.

As Delia had moved back in time, mentally and intellectually, she had gotten to a place where she believed her children were young. This morning, she had tried to access the children’s room that she thought was there, but of course it was just a painted door.

“That was a huge mistake on our part,” Mr. Luong admitted, “we just had no idea how quickly her mental state was regressing.”

Michael Junior’s eyes blurred with tears. He held a hand up. “I’m sorry. This is so damn hard. She was such a great mom.”

Mr. Luong switched to his more sympathetic tone. “She is still a good mother Mr. Lewis, she thought you and your brother had disappeared this morning. That is what led to the incident with Jean, the caregiver.”

Michael Junior nodded. “So you think moving her to a cottage with a second bedroom will help?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Lewis. And if you could describe a few details of your childhood bedroom to our decorators that would help as well—we will make sure that when she walks into the room, that she believes it is the bedroom for you and your brother when you were kids.” Mr. Luong assured him.

“What will happen when she sees the room but we are not there?” Michael Junior asked.

Mr. Luong had it all figured out. “There are many options. We can tell her that you and your brother are at school or outside playing. We would make sure that the room looked lived in, sometimes we even mess up beds in childhood bedrooms or throw some laundry in the floor, to give everything that air of authenticity.”

“Of course, for a small additional fee, we could even hire a couple of young actors to “play” you and your brother, or even your late father, Michael Lewis Senior.” Mr. Luong added quietly.

Michael Lewis Junior closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He was the CEO of one of the most successful and powerful companies in the world. He regularly had dinner with senators, presidents and even a couple of kings. He was rich, famous and when he spoke everyone listened. His own mother didn’t recognize him half the time.

In this situation, he was helpless. Little by little, his mother’s mind was regressing back in time. Eventually, she would become like a child, then like a toddler, then an infant and then.... he didn't want to think about that.

He had picked this place to manifest the delusion that the disease created. They had "villages" full of cottages decorated in the style of different eras. They had actors who played husbands and wives who had died decades before, children that had grown and left home and neighbors that they had lost touch with. They even had era-accurate stores, post offices and restaurants. They programmed televisions and radios to play music and shows from specific decades. They filled the closets with vintage clothing and the cabinets with antique dishes. In between, they had aides and nurses pretend to be housekeepers or visitors instead of caregivers. They had so much, but they couldn’t cure her. No one including himself, could do anything, except make sure she felt normal.

He opened his eyes to see Mr. Luong staring at him. The man looked sympathetic but Michael Junior had the impression that it was a "sympathy" mask that Luong assumed whenever he was having the hard conversations with patients' families.

He decided. “If you think a new cottage would help, let’s try that.” He told Mr. Luong.

Mr. Luong smiled. “I will get the paperwork ready and send it to your office, Mr. Lewis.”

“And hire the actors,” Michael Junior added. “Anything that makes her happy.”

Delia Lewis woke to the smell of bacon cooking. She opened her eyes and smiled. Mike must have gotten up before her this morning. She stepped out of her bedroom pulling on her robe. As she walked down the hall, she checked the boys’ room. The room was empty but the beds were unmade. She quickly got each twin bed straightened, went into the kitchen to find Mike standing over the stove. She leaned in to hug him before she got a cup of coffee from the percolator.

Looking into the living room, she saw five-year old Mikey Junior sitting in the floor looking at a comic book, but she didn’t see three-year old Freddy. “Where is our little one?” she asked, turning back to her husband.

“My mom was keeping him today, remember?” Mike Senior said while the bacon sizzled under the spatula in his hand.

Delia didn’t remember, but wasn’t troubled by that little detail. After all, breakfast was cooking, her wonderful husband was standing in front of her, outside the sun was shining.

She picked up the morning paper and saw the date in the upper right corner of the page: Saturday, May 9, 1959.

Just a normal day, Delia thought.