Then Again - Diane Keaton [6]
I wish she had. And, because she didn’t, I’ve written not my memoir but ours. The story of a girl whose wishes came true because of her mother is not new, but it’s mine. The profound love and gratitude I feel now that she’s left has compelled me to try to “unravel” the mystery of her journey. In so doing I hoped to find the meaning of our relationship and understand why realized dreams are such a strange burden. What I’ve done is create a book that combines my own memories and stories with Mom’s notebooks and journals. Thinking back to her scrapbooks and our mutual love of collage, I’ve placed her words beside mine, along with letters, clippings, and other materials that document not just our lives but our bond. I want to hold my life up alongside hers in order to, as she wrote, reach a point where I begin to see me—and her—in a more understandable light.
PART ONE
1
DOROTHY
Extraordinary
Dorothy’s commitment to writing began with a letter to Ensign Jack Hall, who was stationed with the Navy in Boston. It was just after the end of World War II. She was resting in the Queen of Angels Hospital after having given birth to me. All alone with a seven-pound, seven-ounce baby, she began a correspondence that would develop into a different kind of passion. At that time, Mom’s words were influenced by the few movies Beulah had allowed her to see, like 1938’s Broadway Melody. Harmless fluff pieces with dialogue out of the mouth of Judy Garland. Mom’s “I sure do love you more than anything in the world” and her use of “swell” and “No one could ever make me happier than you” mirrored the American worldview of life and its expectations during the 1940s. For Dorothy, more than anything, it was love. It was Jack. It was Diane, and it was swell.
Mom wrote her first “Hello, Honey” letter when I was eight days old. Fifty years later I met my daughter, Dexter, and held her in my arms when she was eight days old. She was a cheerful baby. Contrary to my long-held belief, I was not a cheerful baby or even very cute. Mother’s concern about my appearance was defined by a bad photograph. Photography was already telling people how to see me. I didn’t pass Dad’s pretty-picture test, or Mom’s for that matter. Holed up in Grammy Keaton’s little bungalow on Monterey Road in Highland Park, Dorothy had no choice. Through her twenty-four-year-old eyes she wanted to believe I was extraordinary. I had to be. She passed this kind of hope on to a baby girl who got caught up in its force. Our six months alone together sealed the deal. Everything for Dorothy became heightened because she was exploding with the joy, pain, fear, and empathy of being a first-time mother.
January 13, 1946
Dearest
Jack,
You should be just about getting into Boston, and I’ll bet you are pretty worn out from the trip. It’s hard to realize it could be so cold there when it’s so nice here. I’m sorry I acted the way I did when you left. I sure didn’t want to, but the thought of you leaving got me so upset. I tried awfully hard to stop crying, because I knew it wasn’t good for Diane.
It’s 8:00 p.m., and your daughter’s asleep. She’s getting prettier every day and by the time you see her you may decide to have her for your “favorite dish.” That’s not fair, honey—I saw you first, so I should be first choice in your harem, don’t you think? Chiquita and Lois came over today. They agreed she was swell, even though she has one bad habit—whenever anyone comes to look at her she looks back at them cross-eyed.
Well, honey, I think I’ll wake little