“Round One” is an excerpt from the upcoming book “Uncle Scotchy & The Time Thief” which is also being adapted to a theatrical experience with the stories inspired by The Blues Opera.
Now that I was back in Miami, explaining my return to people I knew would take a bit of finesse. My father made it clear that my mother’s Alzheimer’s was something that only immediate family would be privy to.
It broke my heart to leave San Diego. Whenever anyone would ask why I came back after those eight years, I had a hard time putting together the sentence, “I just missed Miami and wanted to come back home.” I’ve never been a good liar, and this was a whopper.
I understood that my parents were secretive by nature. My mother was a proud and strong woman, and my father understood that completely about her. They didn’t want the diagnosis-sympathy or for anyone to treat us any differently. But I’m not so sure that if it were any other disease we would have handled it that way.
I came to learn that Alzheimer’s is commonly regarded as a dirty little secret amongst the families of the afflicted. Most folks seem more comfortable announcing a graphic diagnosis of colon cancer than “the ‘A’ word.” Particularly in Latin cultures. They just don’t talk about dementia in general.
The more I experienced the disease, the more I understood things I had not recognized before. I would recall family visits on Noche Buena when one of my Cuban aunts or uncles that I looked forward to seeing just stopped talking to everyone. If I asked for them, my relatives would tell me they were just tired. I’d catch glimpses of them sometimes — alone in a room, staring blankly at a TV for hours. If I tried to call their names, they might turn their heads for a moment with a hint of confusion, then settle back into whatever novela rerun they were watching for the hundredth time. The dementia-related tells are easy when you know the look.
I didn’t know the look yet back then.
The thing at first with my mother was that most of the time she seemed just fine. She was still pretty functional. There wasn’t a problem with her that one might recognize unless you put in some hours with her. Over time, little things would reveal themselves. She might become confused or repeat a question, but she always played it off really well. Almost gracefully.
We had to close her art gallery down. That was the first step. It was clearly overwhelming her. At first, we set up a small gallery in our converted garage so my mother could deal art out of the house. But that didn’t last long.
The big decision my father and I had to make was her car — when to take it away for my mother’s safety, as well as everyone else’s. Cars were a big part of our family. My father was a car salesman. That’s what started it all.
In 1966, my father was selling cars at a Ford dealership. This cute little Jewish girl and her father were locked in negotiations with my smooth-talking Cuban father — jet black hair and a cartoonishly large mustache. It could not have been an easy sell with my mother. It took all the charm and patience that Victor Garcia could muster. Those were two key traits of a good salesman, and he wore them like his left and right arms. Patience was his left, and charm was definitely his right. That was clearly his first test with my mother, and he passed. He sold her a brand new, powder blue Mustang fastback.
Whenever my pop told the story of their meeting, he would always laugh and add, “It’s a good thing I gave her a great deal too. I wound up picking up the payments!” Indeed he did.
However, it wasn’t so much the sale itself that led to their first date. My mom left her little green umbrella in my pop’s office. This is where the tale diverged when I was growing up, depending on which parent was telling it. My father’s theory was that she left the umbrella on purpose so she would have to come back to the dealership without her strict Jewish father by her side and give my pop the opportunity to ask her out. Which he did, of course. My mother, however, went to her grave insisting that she simply left the umbrella by accident and had no such ulterior motives in mind.
But everyone knows — a lady never tells.
Nevertheless, it’s safe to say that a green umbrella is responsible for my existence. Life’s funny, huh?
Both my mother and I owned quite a variety of vehicles over the years. Just about every few months, my car salesman pop would find an opportunity for a trade or upgrade with something coming through at work, and we’d have to drop everything and run to the dealership to swap cars. Usually, it was when he’d take something in trade with slightly fewer miles, a little newer, and a little more value. The make and model made no difference for my next vehicle. Sometimes I’d wind up with a beige Chevy Nova, or a hot pink Corolla. I’d get what I got, and that was it. That was the deal. The cars stopped mattering to me very early on — I usually wouldn’t drive anything for more than two or three months anyway. It came to the point where I always kept a Phillips head screwdriver in my glove compartment for when my dad would call me with the secret code words: “Eric. Clean out your car and get the fuck down here.”
My mother’s situation was a little different. When she had her eye on something, Victor found a way to get it for her. Sande’s final car would be a burgundy PT Cruiser. Turbo, too. That woman liked to go fast. She always had things to do.
I was teaching tennis to a group of kids one hot summer afternoon when my phone rang. It was my mother.
“Honey, I’m lost.”
“What do you mean you’re lost, Ma? Where are you?”
The phone was wedged between my shoulder and my ear as I kept feeding balls out of the basket to the sweaty little brats.
“I don’t know, honey. I’m lost.”
I put my racket down and told the kids to start picking up balls as I walked to the side of the court. “Can you describe anything around you? A building or something?” She mentioned an oddly shaped church, and I knew just the one. It was on 104th Street. Not far away.
I yelled over to the pro teaching the same after-school clinic on the next court to watch my kids and run a game or something. He was confused but nodded as I ran to the parking lot.
When I got to the church, there she was. Pobrecita. My mother was sitting in her little PT Cruiser on the side of the road. Windows up. Hands on the wheel.
I pulled up behind her and walked over, motioning for her to put her window down. She did… Halfway… She was embarrassed.
“It’s okay, Ma. It’s a little weird in this neighborhood. I get lost here sometimes too. Just follow me home, okay?”
She just looked at me and put her window up. No words. Then she followed me home.
We both knew. Things were changing. There was nothing to say.
It was that evening that my father and I came to the verdict that we had to take her car away. It was a big deal, and it tore him up. My mom was a very independent woman, and he was scared about how she might handle it. Everything was always a battle with her. But when we told her, she didn’t really say anything, and that was kind of scary. She just went to her dark room and lay down for a while — just like she would so many times over the years to come.
Now my mother would need to be driven everywhere she needed to go. My pop worked six days a week, so that became my new job. On top of that, the doctor told us she must never be left alone anymore. I had to start taking a lot of time off work. That would take some explaining to my boss and co-workers.
My father and I finally agreed that the Alzheimer’s would go public. We put the word out in our circles. Everyone was sympathetic. It was a difficult time.
The most frustrating part of it all was how good my mother was at hiding her condition. She became an excellent actress. My pop and I took her everywhere with us and she was a fucking angel. She smiled and said hello to everyone. She laughed when everyone laughed. Never spoke unless spoken to. This was not my mother — so docile and agreeable. But people loved her, and she was so good at faking her way through conversations.
I could tell when she was lost and didn’t really know what was going on. I was her son. But no one else really could. It was eerie seeing her fake her way through social situations at restaurants and family gatherings — grinning, arm in arm with my father. It was almost like she was pretending to be human.
What was so frustrating about all that was the conversation I would have with people when she wasn’t around. It was always the same; “Your mom seems good,” they would always say. I’d say, “Yeah, I know,” almost as if everything were fine. Just about each time, they’d follow with something like, “I couldn’t even tell she’s got it.” They were low-key insinuating that what my mother had wasn’t so bad and maybe my father and I were overreacting. What the fuck was I supposed to say? She was different at home. Erratic mood swings were becoming more frequent. She would repeat questions ad nauseam. I couldn’t just tell them that. I had to eat it. The Time Thief had to love that shit.
It wasn’t until we had a big lunch with the family that people started to notice something wasn’t right with her. It was at a Cuban restaurant called Casa Larios. I forget the occasion, but everyone was there.
One by one, our large table ordered their food. There were a few pan con bistecs appearing. An order or two of ropa vieja flying around too. I got picadillo — even though they didn’t make it with raisins like my Abuelita used to make it. (There is a secret war among picadillo lovers about that which I won’t get into.) A couple of people just had croquetas and café con leche. Then Sande ordered something that made a few people pause.
My mom ordered a batido de trigo… and that’s it.
That’s a traditional Cuban milkshake made with whole milk, vanilla ice cream, tons of sugar, and puffed wheat cereal. It’s fucking amazing, really. I used to make them all the time as a kid. But for lunch, it was a bit odd. An odd order for an adult. Especially since my mother was a vegan.
Nobody mentioned it. The food came as the family talked and carried on. But my mom just sat there with the batido straw in her mouth, taking long sips from the frosty dessert glass. In between sips she’d murmur, “Ohhh. That’s good. This is really good, Victor.” My pop was right next to her and pretended he didn’t hear each time.
The waiter came by, and my mother ordered another batido de trigo. He went and got it while she sat in silence. When the second one arrived, she was both surprised and happy. My mother inhaled it faster than the first — again with the “Oh, Jesus…this is really good.” People started to notice. The whispering started.
Then she asked for a third. The waiter paused and glanced at my father and me, wanting to make sure he’d heard her right. My father nodded, and the waiter went to fetch it. This one took a bit more time to go down, but she narrated her pleasure in between sips just the same.
Everyone finished their lunch. It was time for the bill. My mom asked the waiter for another batido de trigo. This time the waiter stopped and stared at my father and me as if to ask what he should do. The whole table fell silent.
“You heard her, dude!” I snapped, breaking the awkward moment. He stared back at me with that same confused look. “Get her the fucking shake! Make it to go!”
I’m usually very nice to servers, but this guy was killing me and making the situation extra weird by treating my mother like a child in front of the family. Only me and my dad are allowed to do that.
The bill was paid. My mom got her milkshake to go, so she was happy. We said our goodbyes to the family and nobody mentioned anything to us about what they were all probably about to discuss on their respective rides home. I didn’t care. I was just happy it was over and my mother got what she wanted.
In the car, Sande enjoyed the hell out of that to-go Styrofoam cup of dairy and sugar goodness — just like it was the first one she’d had all day. She sat shotgun, as usual. I sat in the back, in the middle with no seat belt. That way I could keep eye contact with my pop in the rearview mirror so he could let me know what he needed or what he was thinking without words. I could also scootch up between them if there was an argument I needed to interject on.
“Well, Pop,” I said. “I don’t think anyone has housed four batidos de trigo at Casa Larios before. Especially anyone that small. I bet she set a record.”
We started cracking up. Even my mom was in on it. “Maybe they should put her picture on the wall,” I added. We laughed all the way home. We had to. As he turned onto the main road, my pop giggled, “Did you see that fucking waiter’s face? He didn’t know what to do!”
It was nice seeing my mom crack up again with tears coming out of her eyes and a milkshake in her hand. I’m pretty sure she didn’t even know what we were laughing at, but it didn’t matter at all.
The Time Thief had won round one easily. I’m sure he was laughing too. I just don’t know if he was laughing with us or at us.
