Encore

An audience with my Alzheimer's-stricken mom isn't the same as before, but the show goes on.

'Where can I find a size 8 in a woman's shoe?" I ask the clerk. She looks suspiciously at me. "For my mother," I explain.

Anything would be better than the dingy, old-fashioned oxfords Mom was wearing that morning. Mom, after all, was a legendary vaudeville dancer, wowing them at clubs and theaters from New York to Havana, performing with the likes of Jimmy Durante and Benny Goodman. Usually, she preferred ballet slippers in "peppy colors." But as she slips further into Alzheimer's, she no longer cares.

Every few months, I fly in and visit, uncertain what to expect. My tough, wisecracking mother still belts out songs, but only when I begin them for her. What she can't remember, she improvises: "All of me, why not take all of me? Can't you see I can't be me without you?"

I enjoy these visits, at least for an hour or two, as long as I keep her singing. Otherwise, she repeats the same questions she asked just a moment before. "Now tell me where do you live?" Boston. "And where am I?" Sunrise Village. "And how did I get here?" I brought you here, Mom. "Where do you live?" I show her pictures of her great-grandchildren, sure she'll never be able to hang on to their names and faces. A year ago, it would exasperate her, all this information. Now it's simple: She can't remember what I just told her.

Which of these shoes would she prefer? Glancing around the store on a blustery Sunday afternoon, in a forsaken strip mall in Columbus, Ohio, I sigh. There are only two possible choices. One, a sensible black oxford. The other, a pair of gray running shoes with gold lame stripes embossed to resemble lizard skin. I worry that they might be more suitable for a teenage girl.

But they make me smile. And remember Mom as she used to be, full of fun and razzle-dazzle. When I present them to her, she oohs and ahs.

"You shouldn't have," she tells me. Kneeling down, I remove her worn shoes and notice her ankles: purple, corded, marbled; varicose veins like a map of life. I remember her publicity photos from the '30s: legs, long and curvaceous. I make a joke, "Hey, Mom, I'm like the prince in Cinderella." She doesn't get it. So I stick to my duty, like a circumspect shoe-store clerk. I tie the laces and reminisce to myself, remembering how I practiced tying my own shoes - I wasn't big in the fine-motor-skills department - and recall the euphoria I felt the first time I was successful.

Another memory: I'm in the coatroom in grade school, trying to put on my rubber boots - I always got the right and left mixed up - and I notice that on one of the soles, in her bright red nail polish, Mom has written an "R" and on the other an "L."

A sudden scent of urine. Can't be helped. She wears diapers now and doesn't seem to be bothered, so why should I? And how many of my diapers did she change?

I ask her to stand, and I touch the tip of her shoe. A bit of room. But not too much. I steer her to her walker, and we amble down the hallway. I glance at my watch. My plane leaves in 90 minutes. This is the hard part.

"I have to go now, Mom."

"Where to?"

"Work."

"And tell me, where is it you live?"

"Boston."

"Oh, that's right, Boston."

A nurse stops us, admires her new shoes, then says, "Last night, as I gave your mom her medication, she told me they were for birth control."

Mom can still make me laugh, still sing. Her face lights up when she greets me, even though she seldom uses my name. I never doubt her love, her determination for the show to go on even as the curtain slowly falls.

And now it is time. I punch out the security code to open the locked door, and we hug each other. I am conscious of how smooth her cheeks are, how soft. I pick up my bag to depart and take one last look at her, wondering if she will ever recognize me again.

"Don't talk to strangers," she warns.