He had arranged for a home health aide to run her errands and prepare the simple soft foods that she loved and clean up when necessary (not that there was much to clean in her little L-shaped room), and hired a visiting nurse to check in on her once a day, always meaning to see her more often than he did. The Steakhouse." On the outside Sun Valley looked like any number of generic apartment buildings stacked up like red and white Lego blocks, but its proximity to the interstate was a key selling point with Bradley, who neglected his mother in the easy way children can when their lives are full. Kitchings, whose faithful son always arrived in his tank-sized Buick Riviera every Sunday afternoon at two to take her for a drive and the fried fish and chips she loved. The residents of Sun Valley talked nonstop about their children and grandchildren, embellishing their accomplishments, trying to outdo each other until Cora couldn't stand to listen to them anymore. It was important that her Bradley be perceived as the best of all sons. From early morning until late in the afternoon a line of anxious seniors checked each car as it pulled in, anticipating a drive and a meal to relieve them of the monotonous days that fell, one upon the other, like long-winded speeches at a political symposium.Ĭora was a big believer in keeping up appearances. All the activity confused Cora, who couldn't remember from week to week whether Bradley had called, so just to be sure she waited outside for him every Sunday. On Sunday mornings the parking lot at Sun Valley Assisted Living Community was a hubbub of vehicles coming and going. Her mind tumbled with the past and the present she could never fully rely on either's authenticity and so had given up worrying about it. She walked with some difficulty, but had not yet resorted to a cane, which was a source of pride to her-that-and her long pink fingernails she had manicured once a week at the lobby salon. Her face was the same, with jowls that quivered when she moved, but she had kind, clear blue eyes, and had only to wear her magnifying glasses for reading. She looked every bit of her eighty-six years, brittle and bent from osteoporosis, with portions of freckled skin dangling off her neck and arms as if it had fully separated from her flesh. (So few windows opened to the south side, and the one that did was covered with dust-ridden mini-blinds and a line of dead cacti balanced on the windowsill.) So when the time came for her son to pick her up, Cora waited outside on a bench underneath a canopy donated by the local chapter of the Elks Club, dressed in her favorite lavender pantsuit with the white Peter-Pan collar and embroidered seashell pockets and her newly-polished orthopedic shoes. The light in Cora's efficiency apartment had little to do with the time of day.
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