Then Again - Diane Keaton [80]
Upstairs in her workroom, I came across what must have been her last attempt at a journal. What can I say except where did the words go? She still cut pictures, but the subject matter had changed from detailed photo collages of our family to cute kitties unraveling balls of yarn. She still thumbtacked items onto her kitchen bulletin board, like Frank Sinatra’s obituary, next to the cover of an old New Yorker magazine with the caption “Is it possible to go backwards and forwards at the same time?”
At dusk the tide was low on the horizon. A lone blue heron stood on the rocks as the sun drifted toward an early sunset. Dex found a lavender starfish in the shallow water. She rushed to Grammy’s five-foot cement seawall to share her find. Mom, still excited by the wonder of any found item, leaned over. Dexter pulled. Mom fell like a clump of solid mass, landing with a thud. It was Mom who took a dive. Not Dex. Mom with her white hair. Mom with her perplexed gaze. That was the day I learned to stop trusting her judgment calls. All of them. It was the beginning of a long string of inexplicable choices that had to be overseen by a caregiver.
Message, 2001
“Hi, Diane, this is your mom. I just want to tell you I got my … I got my beautiful”—big sigh—“oh, God, look at my memory. I got the things you sent. Right now, under pressure, I can’t remember … huh, I know it sounds, uh … My wreath, that’s it, the wreath is wonderful.… Okay, here it goes. So I’m all set and, uh, hope to see you soon, and thanks again. It’s very nice. Thank you so much, Diane, okay, bye bye.”
Two Mints Instead of One
I flew to New York on February 16, 2001, and checked in to the Plaza. My suite was on the second floor. The ceilings were high. The hallway was wide. My friends Kathryn Grody and Frederic Tuten came by at six. The knock came at seven. Two chirpy women with a basket (another basket) entered, carrying you. Wrapped in a blue blanket, a blue hat, a blue crocheted sweater, a blue print Onesie with blue mittens and blue booties; I got it, you’re a boy. The basket was received with gratitude, and I picked you up. You have long, long, long fingers, and long feet with long toes, and skinny legs and skinny arms and tiny black buttons for eyes. Oh, my God, you have a cleft chin; promise me you won’t become a movie star. Here you are, little big man. Dexter’s brother, Junior Mint number two … my son.
To Duke
Dear Duke,
You’re five months old. It’s been a bit of a trial, considering the constant battles with that tummy of yours. Here’s the lay of the land. After you knock down a whopping five ounces of formula, you burp. Within fifteen minutes four of the five ounces finds its way to the couch, the kitchen floor, your blankie, our sweaters, beds, you name it. Josie, the dog, trails behind, knowing she’ll get her daily soy quota.
In the midst of this routine you’re alternately uncomfortable, cranky, fidgety, sweet, and flirty. The doctor says you’re strong in spite of your condition, which has been described as classic colic baby one day or typical reflux infant another. You’re intense. Your hands are sensory seekers, especially as they roam across my face. I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. Everything about you is big except your size. You and I share many of the same traits. The difference is you’re fast, a born handicapper. Dexter doesn’t complain about all the attention you’re getting. She likes to feed you, sometimes. She likes to give you kisses, sometimes. She’s pretty