Duckie and Charles, my partner’s parents, bought the lakefront condo in the late 1990’s to fulfill their lifelong dream of retiring to South Florida. They were both in their early 70s at the time, and in exceptionally good health. They loved the view of the lake from the screen porch and were excited to have amenities that they never had in their New Jersey home: A dishwasher, central air conditioning, two full bathrooms. If they were concerned that their new second-story apartment had no elevator they never brought it up.
About a month before they were ready to move Charles fell, broke his hip and suddenly living in a condo without an elevator was not an option. But Charles and Duckie were optimistic about his recovery and the condo sat empty — just waiting for the time when Charles would be strong enough to climb the steps.
But the time never came and soon Charles was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and then Alzheimer’s; he was admitted to a nursing home, where he lived for seven years until he passed. But keeping someone in a nursing home for seven years is expensive so Duckie had no choice but to rent the condo while, optimistically, she waited for Charles to get better.
Duckie’s first tenant was a hooker who ran her business from her home — and according to the neighbors business was booming, especially at night. The next tenants were two nice young men who set up a meth lab in the back bedroom; their lease abruptly ended when the Broward Sheriff’s Office took them both away.
Other tenants included a middle-aged couple who complained about every minor issue: (“There’s a palmetto bug in the kitchen: what are you going to do about it?”) and the Smoking Man who spent five years chain smoking; when he left the walls were was stained nicotine-yellow and the carpeting had to be replaced, not because it was worn but because it reeked of cigarette smoke. There were also assorted other tenants who did not pay their rent and generally left in the middle of the night. Let the record show that I liked the hooker and the drug dealers the best; they were polite, and paid their rent on time, in cash.
And now the condo is empty again. Duckie is90, sharp as a tack but increasingly she needs a cane or a walker to navigate her house in New Jersey; but she still dreams of living in her condo on the lake. This has become a point of contention between Louis, her eldest son in New Jersey and my partner. Louis wants to rent the condo again “until Mom can move down” while my partner feels strongly she should sell it, especially since a guy in a neighboring unit has offered to buy it right now, “as is.” With cash.
I suspect Duckie and Louis will prevail; they both regard the fact that Duckie is 90 and uses a walker as conditions that will improve with time, kind of like a seasonal allergy. “We’re optimists,” Louis told my partner during a fairly stormy phone call.
“But it’s a good offer,” said my partner, an uncompromising realist, citing the amount of expensive work the condo needs to make it rentable again, and the looming assessments for a new roof.
I’ve learned to stay out of discussions like this, although what Louis calls “optimism” I call “delusion.” But it’s easy for me to be neutral: it’s not my condo, my mother or my money, and I’ve never had to put a price tag on “hope.”