Once Mila appeared to be past the heartbreak of a romance that ended, she set her mind on new prospects. What better place to find a good guy than a church singles group? It took a couple of years of potlucks, but she found her pot of gold at the end of the pew. Seventeen years younger, the man I’ll call Ken was all in for good meals, a vivacious mate, and Mila’s lovely home in the manicured 55-plus development.
We found Ken to be intelligent, gregarious, and conversational. After college, he served as a medic in the Marines, and later earned an LVN to work in emergency rooms and nursing homes. During trips to Texas and the East Coast, Mila met both of his parents, and he accompanied her to a high school reunion in Kentucky where he met more of our family. They appeared to be very devoted, but did see a couple’s therapist after a couple of years to sort out relationship issues.
What had started as a whirlwind of concerts in the park, day trips, parties, and dancing at local clubs began to wind down about a year later. By 2014, Mila had dropped her volunteer work, and cut back on gym and knitting projects to focus on Ken’s and her business ventures. Initially, they were selling legal insurance, soon followed by miracle skincare, and later, by alkaline water, and even a brain supplement. I found it nearly impossible to talk to my sister without her trying to sign me up to her sales team for the product du jour.
She and Ken attended Toastmasters groups, Chambers of Commerce socials, farmers’ markets, church gatherings, and singles events, all with one goal in mind, recruiting people for their multi-level marketing teams. Whenever they went to a restaurant, Ken pitched their waiter before he gave his order. One of Mila’s friends reported that Ken knocked on doors in her senior apartment building for the same purpose. In at least one instance, he stuck his foot in the door so the elderly lady couldn’t close it.
Only later would I discover Mila paid the bills for nearly all of their business expenses and memberships while he drove her car, avoided rent, and occupied her living room with electronic devices with cables winding in every direction. Since Ken’s older model car was in need of paint and repairs and sat idle in the carport, we suspected he had little or no income. Dan and I would later learn Mila’s retirement income, social security checks, credit cards, and loans financed purchases they couldn’t afford, with only minimal sales. We were suspicious of Ken’s motives and lack of financial responsibility, unwilling to even repair his car so he could drive it.
Mila had fared pretty well with her bipolar illness since moving to the San Diego area. But a storm was brewing. She didn’t want us to know, but she stopped taking her anti-psychotic medications in early 2017 because she believed the miracle brain supplement Ken sold and she’d been taking would cure her bipolar. She found a doctor at the “Institute for Longevity” who wrote a prescription to support her decision. Dan and I had already warned against ever stopping her meds. We also encouraged her to assume more ownership of her car and make Ken pay his share of the rent.
On Mother’s Day weekend, I visited Betsy and her partner at their cozy condo in the St. Johns Bridge neighborhood of Portland. Driving me to their home, she pointed out the antique bridge with patina-encrusted arches over the river, and my phone rang. Amy said we needed to talk, and I should call her back once I got settled. It was about Mila.
Betsy’s living room was decorated in soft hues of blue, with a low shelf of vintage album covers stacked along one wall, and colorful glass pieces perched in a high window sill on the opposite wall. I sat next to her and returned Amy’s call, anxiety pulsing like a distant siren in my head. Amy’s voice was slow and precise as she told us her husband, Dustin, had gone out to a local club with a group of friends the night before. When he gazed around the dark room, Dustin spotted Ken with another woman. Startled and confused, he and his buddy kept an eye on Ken and his companion, who sat close for most of the evening, and eventually held each other in an intimate embrace. Ken never noticed Dustin.
Rubber Dolls Part Four concludes a preview to the memoir I’m writing about my sister and me. I welcome your comments below or via email: vicki.beck@yahoo.com.
