The Residents Of Mona Lisa Manor

(Inspired by true events.)

THE RESIDENTS OF MONA LISA MANOR

I hate it when people, especially kids around my age, make fun of the residents of Mona Lisa Manor. Here is a common joke in the vicinity that everyone thinks is funny, and maybe I thought so too the first time I heard it:

“Why did they call it The Mona Lisa Manor?
“Because the people who live there are so old . . .they just lie there. . . .and they die there.”
Laughter.

          My name is April. I am 17 years old and I live with my parents and my little brother in a low-income apartment complex called The Hawaiian Terrace in Lemon Grove, California. The name sounds exotic and conjures up an image of an ocean view setting lined with palm trees, but nothing could be more opposite. There’s not a single palm tree here, but we have orange trees that mother nature must have confused with lemon trees because the oranges are very sour. Still, people fight for them and they never ripen before they’re picked. People here use them as lemons for their tart recipes requiring lemons, limes, or vinegar.

         There’s not a single unit in our community with more than two bedrooms, yet many of them are occupied by huge families ranging from five to ten people. The rule is that no more than five people could live in a 2-bedroom apartment, but nobody seems to pay attention to this rule. The apartment manager is well aware of the violations but he simply ignores the issue. I've heard that the former manager was shot and nearly died when he tried to evict a family with seven children in the household. Even some of the residents' relatives and friends come at night and use the laundry room because where it’s only half the cost of doing it outside. While this is happening, some gang members congregate outside to intimidate anyone from filing any complaint to management. Consequently, some of the machines are often out of order, and the legal residents are afraid to do their laundry at night. These abuses result in increases in the cost of utilities and monthly rent.

         The Hawaiian Terrace is situated just a block from The Mona Lisa Manor--a government-subsidized senior housing complex where residents must be at least 60 years old and U.S. citizens to qualify. Each apartment has one bedroom only with a maximum occupancy of two eligible persons living in it; usually, a couple, or a handicap tenant with a live-in caregiver. Their area is much better maintained that ours, with well-cared lawns. Each dwelling consists of four connecting apartments – two on each floor, and they have little flowering gardens at the bottom side of the stairs. It is so peaceful here, but robbers know no boundaries, or maybe because the residents are easier targets…defenseless, and have more valuables than the families who live in our complex. Still, Mona Lisa Manor is so nice you can't tell it's a low-income community for senior citizens.

          Police and ambulance sirens are heard often in the neighborhood. When they come into ours, it usually means domestic or gang violence, or somebody got beat up real bad. When they come to the Manor, it usually means someone has fallen, died, or close to it.

         I love crossing over to the Mona Lisa Manor every Sunday afternoon; it’s a respite from the noisy environment of Hawaiian Terrace where people argue and fight in multi languages, and music of all genres constantly blare in unison with barking dogs and crying babies. Mona Lisa is heavenly in its serenity and order. Except for a few walkers (or crawlers, as the mean kids call it) I hardly see any soul outside, and there is always plenty of parking space for visitors. The only time I’ve noticed any excitement in the air is when the van from a nearby casino comes to pick up some of the residents—usually on a Sunday afternoon. I enjoy working here as a part-time caregiver to Helena--a 68-year old woman with an early stage of Alzheimer's. Her regular caregiver is off on Sundays to visit her mother in Tijuana.

HELENA

          Helena was born in Mexico but has lived in the States since her family immigrated to the United States when she was a teenager. She studied journalism at UCLA and immediately got hired by the San Diego Enquirer as an editorial assistant. She retired early at age 65 after being the newspaper’s managing editor for 15 years. “I didn’t want to retire,” she once said to me with bitterness in her voice. “The company saves money from getting rid of their senior and higher-paid employees. It doesn’t cost as much to provide benefits to younger workers while they pay them half as much as their counterparts. It stinks.”

          If Helena was one of the higher-paid employees then she must have a sizable pension; if so, where does the money go? I don’t know what happened to her husband because she never talks about him. However, she’s told me that she raised all her three daughters alone, and that they’re all highly educated, married to successful professionals, have children and with great jobs. It seems to me there’s enough money to go around the family to support Helena so she won’t have to live here. It’s none of my business, but I’ve heard rumors that many of the residents of Mona Lisa Manor hide their personal properties to qualify to live here. I hope that is not true, it’s not nice to cheat the U.S. Government.

         Looking very stylish always, Helena never goes out of her apartment without makeup on and a hat and some jewelry. But I think she should wear lesser makeup because it makes her look older than her real age. Her apartment is decorated very well, like those I see in magazines. Her number one hobby is cleaning her silver dishes, chalices, candle holders and utensils, which fill up an entire cherry cabinet. Gallery framed art prints of Mexico grace her walls, and her furniture I'm sure didn't come from thrift stores like our did. She does not seem to fit the criteria for a low-income subsidy, but here she is, a resident of this community. Maybe she used to be rich, or she inherited all this stuff from someone who was.

          “Where did you learn how to speak English so well?” Helena would ask every now and then, especially when I use some fancy words like zymurgy, not to show off but to practice the new words I learn to improve my vocabulary. “You speak much better English than most of the people who’ve lived here for eternity.”

          “My mother taught me how to read and write in English. I also learned it in school in the Philippines.”

          Helena takes a bite of the Portobello slices cooked in olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper. It’s her daily afternoon snack (when she remembers). Her regular caregiver cooks them ahead of time and stores them in individual containers, one for each day of the week. Helena takes one every afternoon, transfers them onto a fancy China dish, warms it up in the microwave and sits at the table looking dreamily as if she’s about to eat a very rare delicacy. To me, they look like slimy leeches and I avoid looking at them; instead I pick at the peanuts in a small silver bowl she prepares for me. I’ve only tasted mushrooms once and almost vomited at the texture and taste. I can’t understand how people can eat these fungi. They taste like how I imagine mud would taste like. I’m 17 now. Maybe as I get older I’ll develop a taste for them.

“I hated mushrooms too when I was your age,” Helena said as if she read my thoughts. “Then I wrote a piece about their health benefits, and I was transformed. Except for my forgetfulness, I am very healthy in general, and I have my daily snack of Portobello mushrooms to thank for it. I love Shitakes too, but they’re too expensive to eat everyday.”

I wonder if she eats these mushrooms because they're good for the brain. I hope it's true so her dementia does not get any worse.

          I get along very well with Helena and she seems to enjoy talking to me and having me around. Sometimes, however, she forgets who I am. I would be knocking on the door and she would not open it; instead, she yells from the inside and tells me to go away. It would take about a minute before she starts remembering who I am then she blushes endearingly and apologizes. She pays me $7 an hour and it's always in cash. I usually spend four hours with her each Sunday, and the income is enough to pay for some school supplies or some clothes at AmVet. The work is easy. I arrange and organize her medications, pay her bills, and do some light cleaning. Most of the time, we just talk. I think her regular caregiver does everything else, and the government pays for it.

          America is so good to her people. Nothing like this happens in my native land.

          The only visitor Helena gets is one of her three daughters, Josephine, who looks and acts like someone who would not let her daughter invite me to their house, except maybe to render maid service for them. She lives in one of those fancier suburbs of San Diego, like La Jolla or Del Mar, Helena has told me without a show of pride, which I find kind of intriguing. Don’t parents usually brag when their children are rich and successful? Why then can't Josephine afford to house her mother in a better retirement home in their community, or, better yet, live with them? Back in the Philippines, we don’t send our parents away when they get old; we return the favor and take care of them. I don’t ever ask her any personal questions, so unless Helena confides in me I never get my curiosities satisfied. Josephine’s BMW, which she drives to visit her mother sticks out like a sore thumb in the parking lot every time she comes. Not that there aren’t any other nice cars around The Mona Lisa Manor, but her car shines so bright as if a billion rays shoot down upon it directly from the sun.

          Josephine’s visits are always brief and she never exhibits any happiness when she’s around her mother. If you didn’t know they were related, you’d think she was the owner of the place and was threatening to evict her. In contrast, Helena fusses over herself and her silvers days before the visitation …when she remembers. Half the time she knows someone’s coming but can’t remember whom, so she asks me constantly. Then she blushes with embarrassment for having forgotten.

         Last week, Josephine informed Helena that she would not be coming to visit for a while because she’d be joining her husband and two children for a European vacation. Her husband wouldn’t be staying with them the whole time because of his work in San Diego. I know she works too, but she didn’t talk about that. Helena just smiled and wished the family a great time in Europe. She cried as soon as her daughter left her apartment. I didn’t know what to do. I was glad when she asked me to leave, and I did, but regretted it when I got home.

          I drop by after school almost everyday to see how Helena’s doing. Sometimes it takes a moment before she recognizes me, then she gives me the most endearing smile. At 68, she’s still got all her teeth, and they sparkle when she smiles big.

          I love my time with Helena and I always look forward to our
conversations. Hearing about her experiences while traveling to other countries transport me to those places, and I feel as if I’ve tagged along with her. I’ve learned so much from her, especially in the grammar department. She doesn’t pull any punches and would correct me right away when I make a blunder, almost as if she takes the mistakes personally. She always gives me a blank book for my journals as well as books about writing and writing well. She knows that I like to write and has even critiqued some of my stories and essays. “I appreciate the fact that you are not timid about showing your work to others for their constructive criticisms,” she had said. “And you shouldn’t be shy about it; it’s the only way to learn fast.”

          She has great respect for the English language, and she castigates those who take it for granted, especially her next door neighbor, Maddie. “Damn her,” Helena would exclaim, her wrinkles deepening. “She’s been living here for more than 30 years and still can’t speak English. It’s so hard to talk to her.”

         I have met Maddie, and yes, it’s very hard to understand her. It is perplexing to me why many immigrants never bother to learn to speak English when they decided to live the rest of their lives here.

MADDIE

          She is about 70 years old but looks like a woman in her nineties. She walks with a cane, back severely humped in a convex position, and I fear she’d fall forward and would never be able to get up. She is Helena’s next door neighbor, and they can never be more contrasting in appearance, personality and behavior. Helena is sweet, charming, pleasant and stylish. Maddie is the total opposite in every way. She looks angry all the time. Some of the kids call her “The Witch”. “All she needs is a broom,” they’d say about her, which is not nice.

         Maddie’s windows are adorned with U. S. Marines stencils. Miniature military paraphernalia or cheap-looking plastic souvenirs are arranged on the window sills. I used to wonder if she had been a Marine in her youth and that a war injury was responsible for her hunched back. Then I found out her grandson is the U.S. Marine and is now deployed in the Middle East.

          I always can tell when Maddie’s family has come to visit her. Loud voices of children fill the area as they play outside. Some of the residents welcome the raucous but most frown upon it. Helena loves it. She says it makes her relive her younger days when her children were very young. She stops short at sharing more than that, but from her expression I surmise that her children were much happier and livelier around her. I wonder what has caused the change.

          Happy children spread happiness around them. It’s the only time when I see both Helena and Maddie look and act joyfully. And it seems to be the only time when Maddie does not smoke her cigarettes, as if she experiences temporary insomnia, forgetting that she’s a chain smoker. “You can smoke an entire turkey inside her house,” Helena often says. “I’ve complained to management about her smoking but they tell me there’s no law against it so they can’t make her stop. Meanwhile, I’m probably going to die of second hand smoke that comes through my apartment through the vents. I’ve begged her to smoke outside, or install some kind of a smoke eater, but she only got angrier at me. I’ve given up.”

          Helena’s apartment always has scented candles burning in every room, and several in the bathroom where Maddie smokes directly below in her bathroom. She also has a huge supply of Febreeze sprays for her rooms and clothes. “It’s costing me a lot to deodorize my apartment,” she says.