Lisa Scottoline - Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog - The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman

I warned you. Don’t come crying to me.

So you would think that she would understand my concern that she’s home alone, with no cell phone in case of emergency.

But no.

Mother Mary resists getting a cell phone, on reflex. She fought a battle over the second hearing aid, and this is World War III. Her arguments are many: She doesn’t need one. She won’t fall. If she falls, she wouldn’t want to get up right away, anyway. She could just lie there for a few days. It’s cool on the floor. Bottom line, it’s none of my business.

I rant, rave, and beg, but none of it works. I try scaring her. I tell her that if she didn’t have a cell phone and she fell, she could die.

I actually said, “Ma, you will DIE!”

That’s right, I threatened my own 84-year-old mother with the prospect of her own demise.

She said, “I’m not afraid of death. Death is afraid of me.” Finally I used my ultimate weapon. Guilt.

I told her, “You’re worrying me, when I have to do my job on the road. I can’t do my job because of you.”

So now she has a cell phone. Or more accurately, a Jitterbug, which is like a cell phone for mothers. Of course, we fought over it for so long that brother Frank is now home, but never mind. She has it and that’s good, though she doesn’t agree. She describes it as “very pretty” but she has already decided not to use it, ever again. The buttons are big so she can see them, and she’s supposed to wear it on a neck chain, but she won’t. She admits it’s easier than dialing the regular phone, but she hates it.

Let me tell you why.

Frank programmed it, then taught her how to answer and make a call. While he talked, she took notes in Gregg shorthand.

There is an irony to this, of course.

My mother was a secretary and always writes in shorthand, by habit. Most people don’t even know what shorthand is, nowadays. I tell them it’s like Swahili, without Africa.

Frank programmed five people on the Jitterbug’s speed dial-himself, daughter Francesca, cousins Jimmy and Nana, and me. There’s a big button for 911 and another for Operator, though I wonder how effective that can be. I tell my mother to forget the Operator button. I’m sure her call is important to them, but they will leave her to DIE.

Also let’s not worry about the fact that the phone has a Philly area code and she lives in Miami. I don’t want to think that the closest ambulance it calls is five days away.

Back to the story.

For their trial run, brother Frank told her to use the phone to call me and watched while she did it, with one gnarled finger placed purposefully on the button. But she seemed confused when the call connected. She said the phone wasn’t working and tried to hand it back to Frank, but he insisted she use it. She kept trying to hand it back. It almost came to fisticuffs.

“Just talk into it!” he said.

“I don’t know what to say,” said she.

“Tell her we finally got the Jitterbug!”

So she did, telling about the new phone and its features. Then she hung up and handed the phone back to Frank, disgusted. “Throw this away.”

“Why?”

“It didn’t call Lisa. It called somebody else.”

Frank checked the phone. He had programmed my number in wrong, off by a digit. So Mother Mary had called a complete stranger and told her all about the new phone. He informed her as much.

“Told you,” she said. “It sucks. It called some lady.”

“So why did you talk to her?”

“You made me.”

So for now, the phone remains in the wastebasket.

I think I’m a woman “of a certain age,” though when I tried to find a definition of the term, I couldn’t. I checked online at dictionary.com, but it wasn’t there, so I gave up.

Which is so like a woman of a certain age.

We have perspective.

In other words, I think I know the definition and I’m going with it. It isn’t worth the time to look it up, especially when I could die at any minute.

Now, to begin.

I think a “woman of a certain age” means a woman in her fifties, though I’ve never heard the term applied to men in their fifties, which is odd. In any event, let’s say that today I’m writing for men and women of a certain age.

We’ll call it Life in the Middle Ages.

It’s a weird time in lots of ways, but here’s the way it’s weird today. I’m thinking lately about Mother Mary, living in Miami with brother Frank. By way of background, until fifteen years ago, she lived in the house I grew up in, about five minutes from my house. She babysat for daughter Francesca while I worked part-time for the federal courts, before I was a writer. Then, after I finally got published (after five years of rejection, but that’s another story), I stayed home, and my mother decided to move in with Frank.

We did talk about her living with me, but she thought my life was “too boring.” She said, “all you do is read and write,” which is true, except for the chicken part. Now, I feed chickens. I read, write, and feed chickens. I know it sounds boring, but it’s my life’s dream. And it’s my blessing, or maybe my curse, to never be bored.

By anything.

Anyway, my mother lives down in Miami and she’s happy as a clam. Brother Frank has tons of friends, all of whom are very attentive to mommies, and my mother goes out to dinner and has fun. I can barely get her to visit me for a long stretch because she misses her life, house, and dogs. So our time together is over the telephone, and if I don’t call her for a few days, she’ll say when she answers:

“Hi, stranger.”

Or, “Who’s this?”

Then we’ll start talking about the weather or her eyes or who’s sick in the family and stuff like that. Again, it’s not boring, at least to me.

It’s our only connection. I hear her voice, and she’s hears mine. We laugh at things that only we think are funny, and every time we sign off, she says what she used to say before I went to bed-“pleasant dreams.” I like the phrase so much that I stole it and say it to Francesca. Now, at the end of the phone call, my mother says it to me because she knows I like to hear it. Even at two o’clock in the afternoon.

And even though I’m a woman of a certain age.

But recently, I found myself thinking that, some day, my phone will ring, and it won’t be Mother Mary. She has survived a world war and throat cancer, but one day, it will be Frank, calling me. And then he’ll tell me what he has to say.

That will be how I find out.

As unimaginable as it is, I find myself imagining it more and more, with dread. Mostly these thoughts come to me at night, and then I can’t sleep.

Pleasant dreams.

I don’t know how to prepare for that phone call, and I wouldn’t try even if I did. I’m just grateful for the time we have. After I finish this column, I’m going to call Mother Mary and hear her say:

Hi, stranger.

Now, consider that daughter Francesca has graduated from college and is living at home, temporarily. She’s deciding what to do and where to do it, and sooner or later, she’s going to fly the coop for good. I won’t be able to say “pleasant dreams” to her anymore. I don’t know how to prepare for that, and wouldn’t try if I did. I’m just grateful for the time we have together.