Mother and daughter, who I assume to be in their 70s and 50s, who live next door. They have been our neighbors for the past six and a half years. It’s the longest we have lived in the same place in exile.
Other people live in the same townhouse complex. But mother and daughter, us, and the old man living at the other end seem to be constant. And there’s this other man who sometimes is gone but mostly here. The couple across from us also lead a very very quite life — only life signs are frequent pizzas and burgers dashed to their door. All other tenants are comers and goers – on the way somewhere.
Mother and daughter. Rarely guests. Only family. A few hours. Sleepovers. They have children. Grandchildren. Maybe great-grandchildren. Talk about trips. Nevada, Oregon, California. Visit relatives. We take care of things while they’re gone. Packages mostly. They have a cat, but never ask us to care for it. Haven’t seen the cat lately. Maybe gone too.
We mirror that. Hardly had visitors. My mother once for five months. My brother twice, two days each. Live on the other side of the world from relatives — never visit.
Very solitary lives. Quiet lives. Our son is the loudest. Youngest in the townhouse complex. Friends sometimes. Tantrums, stomping, gaming, laughter, shouting. But really quiet otherwise. His presence brings life. Not just tolerated, desired. Neighbors like it. We like it. I only turn his loudness down a few times a day.
We have a landlord. Lives far away. California, I think. Rarely comes. Only in summer. Goes from one empty townhouse to another. Taking care of things. Says he’d rather live here. But a son. Custody with ex-wife. Wants to be close. The new family doesn’t like this town. So, it works out. For him. For us, too, I guess. Doesn’t bother us. With things to do. We’re left to ourselves.
It seems as though this place has frozen in time. The town is expanding; everything is becoming bigger, newer, and noisier, yet here, time feels like it has come to a standstill. The complex resists the changing world in a quixotic manner, suspended in a state of oblivion, lacking any true status. However, that perception is misleading. It’s merely a façade. Everything is changing here, too, but the transformation is happening from within.
Sometimes we get a call from him. Our landlord. He asks if there’s any leakage in our bathroom or kitchen. When we say no, he sends someone to check the empty houses. That’s when we hear he’s found a burst pipe or a tap or a showerhead that’s just given up, worn down by time. These buildings are almost my age. A little younger, maybe. But they’ve been neglected. For the last decade. It’s strange to share the same fate with our townhouse complex and its few residents.
When we first moved here, the oldest member of the complex. Mother of the daughter who lives next door. So much energy. Got up early. Went to work. Came back, checked her mailbox. Stayed home for a few hours. Ran errands, like grocery shopping. Came back hauling bags of groceries. A big box of beer. All by herself. “For my daughter,” she’d say. Knew it was for her too.
Her job. Taking care of an elderly lady. Mentioned she was really good at it. A bit touching. At her age, wished other people took care of her. Thought about her daughter. Or her other children. I viewed things through the lens of my own country. Where people retire much younger. Have time to rest, travel. Enjoy lives with frequent visits. From children and grandchildren. Important dates.
Always think of my own mother when I see her. How they both worked really hard. But my mother retired early. Raised us mostly by herself. After she and Father divorced. Put in so much effort for her children. One traveling the world for work now. Barely ever stops by. The other — me — in exile. Haven’t been back to my country for almost a decade. My brother — the traveler. Takes good care of her. Financially fine. Doesn’t need to work. But she’s alone. So is this mother. Next door. Even though she has a daughter.
Here judging others again. I sometimes wonder what my mother’s neighbors think. Of her and her children (mostly me). “Whose only connection to her mother is through Messenger and WhatsApp.”
But it wasn’t always like this. Mom and I always lived together. Even when I was married. Except when I lived abroad. Or first got married. She stayed with us or we stayed with her. Always hauled the family. Even her grandson, who she misses dearly. Now.
* * *
Politics has split us apart.
* * *
It was quite pleasant when my mother came to visit us. A couple of times. First time in Vermont. Once even here. Staying for months. When she was doing better, of course. She kept observing the mother next door. Trying to understand why she worked endlessly. While my mother? Spending time with her grandson. Until we got home from work. Already planning her next trip here or somewhere else. Wishing we’d get a better house. Maybe a better town. Comparing it to what we had left behind. She was mind-exercising about how to make it possible. For us. Even after defeating COVID twice. With her little hunch, from fear of falling at her age. She always seemed much younger. Both internally and externally. Not just compared to people her age. But actually, me.
I wondered how quickly she’d become bored here. Had she stayed any longer? Knowing her youth. Energy. Buzzing life under the bright city lights. Our new place felt like a retirement camp for her. Not ready to move into that. She enjoyed the vastness. Tranquility. Long trails, nature… but she needed to go back. To her culture. Shopping. Busy streets. Where she could spend great quality time with her retiree group, of course. Just like that, she went back to her home.
* * *
Everything changed rapidly after that.
* * *
I got cancer. Didn’t want Mother here. Knowing her hurt. Asked Brother to come to my surgery. School was open, Husband had to take care of Son. Everyone had to do what they needed. I needed Reason, not Emotion. So Mother stayed apart. Worried but not touching the pain. Blood, mucus, radiation. Onion skin. Mom is a retired nurse. Another commonality with the neighbor. But I didn’t want her to have to take care of me when it needed to be reversed.
Daughter next door. Sick too. Teeth failing. Many surgeries. The mother took care. Took on shifts. Daughter needed to keep job. Easy to lose everything.
But the mother started to complain. First time. About her daughter. Did it to herself. So much drinking. Unhealthy life. Downtime with beer. Two separate shifts. Seven days a week.
When I heard the mother complain, felt glad. Didn’t pull my mother into my sickness. Kept her away. Didn’t want her to say what I did wrong. Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Didn’t want her to feel obliged either.
But I didn’t know. How it would eat at Mother. Not being useful. Not caring for someone dear. No real purpose. Flesh and blood. Next door mother and daughter had each other. I didn’t know. What helplessness feels like. From a distance.
* * *
Things swapped rapidly. Again.
* * *
While on vacation. Mother stumbled. Injured her spine. Required reconstruction. Doctors promised magic. Unburdening her spine. Restoring youth. Always young in spirit. Didn’t need doctors for that. But her spine… first to give in to age. Stayed in the hospital for weeks. Maybe months. Felt like she’d died. No one is telling me. Hurt really bad to be away. Even my spine… started to succumb to my pain.
Mother fought a battle. Life and death. Followed by weeks of wondering if she would walk. Or be stuck in bed. Months struggle to accept she needed help. Caretaker there 24/7. High spirits lifting her weary body. Just the other day, she said… 10,000 steps total. Now I believe she’ll return. To a more youthful version of herself. But it’s different. Never the same.
The mother next door… ignored warning signs. Shoulder gave out, cracked. Hospitalized for a while. Daughter going back and forth. Work, home, hospital. The Bermuda Triangle of life.
Then her mother left the hospital. Went to a friend’s house. Talked about it when she got back. Said her friend would take better care of her. Daughter couldn’t manage it. Daughter thought mother needed a recliner. But no recliner in the house.
When the mother returned home, really sick. Still in pain. Mentioned the caretaker friend got pneumonia. Friend’s children blamed her. Kicked her out. Cast, pain, heavy heart. Made her way back home. Back to daughter. Wished it wouldn’t take long to get back to who she was. Like when they first met. Believed daughter would hate taking care of her like that.
Second day back. Started groceries. Drove with just one arm.
* * *
Don’t know how exiled and low-class Americans compare. Exiled might know other life somewhere. Places they left. Can’t decide which is better. Knowing or unknowing.
Our shower in the master bedroom – started flooding. The shower cabinet must have a leak. Entrance vinyl is getting dirtier, uglier each day. Weather and wear and tear eating the front door. Now it has a big gap where a family of mice decided to enter when we were away this summer. Weeds in the small backyard, rampant.
Husband and I talk about repairs, replacements. But we never do it. Never have the budget. Just want to get through the week – enough food, money for lessons, small luxuries like books (still buying books I don’t have time to read), new furniture. Small facelifts seem more manageable than actual reconstructions.
And I wonder — will we stay here forever? Mother and daughter next door, planning to leave since we arrived. The man alone, who mentions to our landlord, “Check on me if rent’s late” — that’s when we’ll know. The couple across the way, like characters from a Samuel Hunter play. Always unsure if they leave the house, or what they do when they do. Visitors? No, not once.
Other houses — empty ones. They almost breathe, becoming tenants too. Each one neglected, deteriorating. We’re all aging, here. Dying. Except for one — my son. Off to college in a few years. Yet, he likes it here for now. The quiet, the peace. An old soul, he is — people always say.
I think of Mother. Would she fit here? Emotionally, physically. Changes needed: extra bed or bed/sofa, perhaps — someone would need to take care of her when we’re gone. The mother next door, back at work — maybe she could help? Could be her day job. Mother and mother could become Friends, perhaps. Gossiping about reckless adult daughters who can’t manage their lives.
* * *
I picture a lawn picnic. Us all together. A gathering of loners. Zoners. The tenants of this broken townhouse complex. Yet complete. Dying. Alive. Lonely. Stitched together in an odd way. How long before change? How long before this town. Closer to what Mother desires? Kicked out because the landlord wants… something else. Bigger. Contemporary. Alive. Crowded. Attractive. Expensive. More than what or who we are. Until then, we want to freeze time outside. Even if we can’t freeze it inside. And wait. Like we’re in a pointillist painting.
