The Cult Next Door

March 1996

I visit my mother's apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side for the first time since the breakup. Entering the dimly lit hallway, I sense disembodied spirits of neglect and decay rushing through me, crying plaintively of unfulfilled dreams a wasted life, now almost concluded. The place is beyond dirty; it is filthy. I am appalled by the sight of the kitchen floor, tiled black and white, now soiled completely grey and black. Splotches of some unidentifiable brown substance stain the sides of her freestanding, white metal cabinet a dented off-balance monstrosity which holds her treasured collection of wonton soup containers and marred brown plastic vitamin bottles some dating back thirty years. The face of a dish cupboard displays a large circle of grimy dirt which originates at the knobs and fans outward, covering much of its white painted wooden doors.

A nauseating stench emanates from a hopelessly scorched pot sitting at the back of the stove, filled to the brim with brackish water. My mother admits that the smell is repugnant, but she has "gotten used to it." I suggest gently that she throw it out, and she looks bewildered, as if the idea never occurred to her. The buildup of frost in the freezer leaves little room for her food; most of it is carelessly wrapped in wax paper and rubber bands, severely freezer-burned, much of it more than a few years old. Large balls of dust scatter on the living room floor as my steps disturb them. There are two rolled up, room-sized Persian rugs which once graced the floors of my father's ten-room Park Avenue apartment. They are still in brown paper, wrapped from a visit to the dry cleaners a decade ago. The cocktail party lifestyle that my mother shared with my father designer clothes from the trendiest Fifth Avenue boutiques, gourmet recipes, and carefully applied cosmetics faded long ago.

Today she reigns, the Queen of Polyester, over a kingdom of overstuffed closets. $10 pants and $3 shirts spill out onto the floor, treasures she has purchased at 14th Street discount stores. My childhood bookcases are filled with $5 slippers; I spot six identical pairs varying only in neon color. Her short hair, burnt brittle from too many coloring sessions, is almost orange, with an inch of grey root forming the part at the top of her head. She has a slight cold and a bead of fluid glistens, clinging tenuously to the tip of her nose, but she seems oblivious to its presence. Her red polyester pants don't quite reach her ankles or the green slippers she wears with them, and her thermal underwear peeks out from under a partially buttoned orange shirt. The fabric barely covers her extended belly, extra weight she has gathered from lack of exercise and "eating too much chocolate cake, my favorite." She walks the rooms in a trance-like state, wearing the keys to her apartment on a thick green cord around her neck. They jostle below the undershirt and bounce on her belly button in rhythm with her step. On the street she has sometimes been mistaken for a bag lady despite the fact that at seventy-five years old she still holds a full-time job as research economist for the New York City Department of Housing, to which she dutifully commutes daily by subway.

My mother discontinued the weekly maid soon after I moved out; it has been fifteen years since the house was properly cleaned. Not that she can't afford the cost, it is simply not a priority. I offer to help her at least vacuum a bit, but she cuts me off defensively, "No Liz, you would just take over and boss me around. I don't trust you."

The shower curtain is green from algae growth, and I am afraid to sit on the toilet seat. There is dust on every surface, including the bathroom sink which has been unusable for over two years because it required some minor repair which she never got around to arranging with the building superintendent. This beautiful pre-war co-op apartment is huge for one person: three bedrooms, two baths, eat-in kitchen, parlor; yet, she has collected so many things that it is difficult to move about. Even my childhood toys still rest on a shelf in the third bedroom, her "storage room." There are piles of paper everywhere, fascinating newspaper articles, Ross Perot's United We Stand America propaganda, and devotedly safeguarded, manila folders filled with appetizing tidbits of material that once touched our former life together: "apple picking," "Liz's school report cards," "summer camp," "vitamins and health."

I am struck by the profusion of small slips of paper strewn everywhere; on these, my mother has preserved choice morsels of her personal affirmations. A Post-it stuck to the refrigerator door reads, "Talk to god YOU." On top of the TV, dated two years ago, rests a bold statement: "I DO exist; I must learn to assert this." Next to the telephone lies another: "My daughter is a separate person from me." Under this, I discover the phone number to my former Hackensack, New Jersey apartment disconnected eight years ago. Her bed is entirely covered with piles of additional, unattended folders which she believes she will someday need. To avoid spending the several necessary minutes to move them each night, she has been sleeping on the couch for the past five years.

I realize that surrounding herself with thoughts fills the emptiness, that the senseless logic which springs forth from her mind defines her identity. Sadly, I see an old woman who has thrown away her self-respect, dignity, and her only child for a life of rubbish and denial.

Amidst this disarray, my mother has three havens: her computer, her microwave oven, and her television. I visualize her filling lonely days rotating her attention from one machine to the next, deriving a cherished sense of vitality from her interactions with these inanimate offspring of our modern technology. My heart breaks for the barrenness of her soul. How did this ever happen to her? Always at the head of the class, my mother skipped three grades and graduated college at the age of nineteen. She obtained a master's degree in the early 1940's, a time when many of her peers had left school after the eighth grade. If only I could rent a Dumpster, park it on 98th Street, and throw her papers and dust out of that fourth story apartment's front windows. How did I ever come from a place like this? I wonder. I yearn to rescue her from this decay and sweep her away to a safe place, but I know she will not reach out for my extended hand . . . that although momentarily I can force her with my stronger will, when I let go she will inevitably return, like an over-stretched rubber band which regains its natural shape as soon as the tension is released.