Richard Reiss

I was sitting at my desk at my job during a period in my life when I had a desk and a job. The phone rang on my direct line. It was my mother.

Mom was in her early 80s and lived alone.

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She said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I said, “OK. Tell me.”

She said, “It’s not a big deal, but my bowls are missing.”

I said, “Excuse me? Your bowls are missing?”

She said, “I know that one of your boys took them. Just bring them back the next time you’re at the house.”

I gave some thought to her accusation, knowing that it was not the first time one of my boys had been accused of taking something that didn’t belong to him. But bowls? Seriously? I didn’t think so. I knew for a fact there was zero demand for cracked bowls at the local pawn shop. I said, “OK. I’ll take care of it,” and it never came up again.

A few months later, the same phone, the same desk, the same me, still on the job.

“Don’t be upset,” my mother said, “but the neighbors are dumping their trash in our yard. I need you speak to them.”

“Is it a lot?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “a very big pile of trash.”

Like the bowls, this struck me as odd. I didn’t know the neighbors, but the idea of their leaving trash in our yard seemed highly suspect. Once again, I said, “Not to worry. I’ll take care of it,” which was easy to do since there was nothing to take care of.

By now, however, a pattern was beginning to emerge, one of a woman slowly losing grip with reality. On more than one occasion, my mother said, “I think I’m losing my mind.” She was.

A few years later, my less-than-sentient mother agreed to move to an assisted living facility. Twice, arrangements were made for her to move. Twice, she refused to leave the house. This led to the grand scheme, the ultimate kidnapping of Renee Reiss.

She was unusually chatty as we made our way south on the New Jersey Turnpike, driving past the New York City skyline.

“That’s my city,” she said with pride, admiring the tall buildings that reminded her of her childhood. There was a library of stories in her head, as fresh as if they’d happened yesterday. But ask her what day of the week it was, or what month or year, and she casually said, “I don’t know.”

An hour later, we arrived at her new home, although she thought we were just having lunch.

“Oh, this place again,” my mother said, as if somewhere in her mind, where most things are forgotten, this building, with its enormous orange and yellow assisted living sign, triggered a normal synaptic reaction.

At lunch my mother said, “This is a really nice place, and the food is so good.”

She spoke as if she’d been here before. She had not. Ever.

There was a plan in place. I would tell her that my wife and I are taking a trip, and she would be staying at the facility until we return. I was dubious that the plan would be successful, but this was what the experts at the facility were recommending. I knew my mother well; she may have had dementia, but she was not stupid.

During lunch, two of the residents joined us. They were supposed to engage my mother in conversation. Yet, hardly a word was spoken. I began to lose confidence in the plan. My mother and I finished our meals and rose from the table. As we were leaving the dining room, I saw an empty table and asked her to sit down.

“I have to talk to you,” I said.

“OK,” she replied.

“I’m going away for a while.”

“Yeah, so what? You go away all the time.”

“That’s true,” I said, “but you’re going to stay here while I’m gone.”

Suddenly, my mother was as quick as a cobra about to strike its prey.

“No!” she screamed, slamming her fist down on the table. “You SOB,” she shouted as she stormed out of the building, unexpectedly instilled with purpose.

To my amazement, the diners continued quietly eating. I suspect they had seen this before. I found an aid, and then I found my mother in the parking lot. We brought her inside and showed her the beautiful suite that would be her new home, fully furnished and decorated by my wife and me. As we were looking at the suite, she raised a fist at me.

And then I did the unthinkable. I left.

Later that day, I went for a bicycle ride. Normally cycling clears my head, but this ride was different. I was obsessed with what I had done. How could I leave her and not even say I love you? She is going hate me for the rest of her life.

As the days passed, I was terrified to see her, despite assurances from the staff that she was adjusting nicely.

“Is she asking to go home?” I asked one of her caregivers.

“No, but she thinks someone is coming to get her soon.”

A week passed and my youngest son took it upon himself to visit his grandmother for lunch, knowing it was unlikely she would be angry with him. She introduced him as her favorite cousin from New York, but she didn’t bring up returning home. The following day, I mustered up the courage to see her. My wife joined me.

My mother was waiting for us when we arrived. She looked amazing: clean and nicely attired in the clothes we bought her. She smiled and embraced us as we sat down in the dining room.

“Let me tell you about this place,” she said with confidence. “The people are so nice. They really know what they’re doing. When we’re done eating, I’ll show you my room. It’s so big.”

Whenever there was a moment — and there were plenty — my wife and I looked at each other in joyful astonishment. And then there was the most amazing transformation of all. On the day I walked out, my mother was escorted along a walking path, chain-smoking in her desolation. A week later, the staff told me she hadn’t had a cigarette in five days — this from a woman who had been smoking since she was 15. I took it as a sign, the lightning bolt of affirmation I needed.

I convinced myself that my mother believed she was on vacation, although lately I’ve come to believe there was a subconscious recognition that for the first time in many years, she could simply relax with no worries. I could relax, too, a little bit at a time, knowing I had done what needed to be done.