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By Root 753 0

approved of Cormac and Wimmer. But I bet names inspired from cities on the map, like Trancas and Butte, were pushing it, right? I considered Chester, Cleveland, Edison, and Ellis, then thought better. Too formal. I liked Hunter, but the connotations were creepy. I was mixed on Royce and Shane but loved Carter and Kendal. For a couple of days I was convinced his name had to be Walter, because of my long-standing crush on Walter Matthau. I wish we could have discussed the issue of Cash and Cameron and even Dewey. But Dewey was way too close to Dexie, who had some ideas of her own, including Tramp, and Mickey as in Mouse, but most of all Elmo. We would have had fun, Mom, but what’s the point of rattling your brain when it might intrude on our glass of wine, and the big picture window, with the floating boats passing in honor of enjoying the calm before another storm, and the pride I know you feel for passing Dr. Cummings’s memory test. Congratulations.

Message, 2001

“Diane, you’re the hardest person to get ahold of. I hope you get this. I just want to congratulate you on being appointed to the Pasadena, no, no, no, to the, anyway, you’re getting an award, or you’re going to. Something’s happening to you really big and good. I just want to congratulate you and root for you. Anyway, I’m home here. So maybe you could call me. Bye, Diane. Could you call me, Diane?”

Different Kinds of Bliss

I called Mom and told her I wasn’t getting an award but I loved her congratulations. Yesterday I helped give her a sponge bath. Her breasts were like pendulums swinging back and forth. Had she wanted such big things so close to her heart? Every time I look at Duke or Dexter’s flawless youth, I’m reminded of my own aging and how awful it is to witness what the human body comes to. Who am I if I don’t recognize myself? Growing old, and I do mean growing, requires reinvention. In a way, growing old could be like joining Dexter on the Hurricane Harbor roller coaster—the ride of a lifetime, if I let myself go with it. I will say this: Growing old has made me appreciate things I wouldn’t have expected to enjoy, like holding Mother’s hand and trying to smooth out the folds of skin.

There’s nothing to smooth out with Duke, whose crib sits in the middle of the closet next to my bedroom in the rented house on Elm Drive. Every morning he opens his eyes to an audience of hanging shirts and skirts. On the shelves above are dozens of hats. If he turns to the right, he sees the old Menendez Brothers’ house out the window. It tells a dark story: Don’t kill your parents. If he turns to the left, he sees me in the bedroom. It tells a happy story: Your mom loves you. Every morning I give him a kiss. Every morning he smiles, and I smile back. Simple, right? Wrong. With Duke there is no sixty-second time’s-up within the free fall of his wonder. I grab him rough-house style and throw him on the bed. “You better not, Duke Radley Keaton. You better not.” He loves the veiled threat, almost as much as he loves going crazy mad screaming with laughter.

In between some serious skirmishes—like when he refuses to have his diaper changed, or when he starts crying because he’s been put down or Dexter has stolen his waffle, or when he bangs his head on the sidewalk, or he doesn’t get to pick worms out from under the concrete pavers in the front yard and I, the ogre, force him into his car seat, or I, the coldhearted, don’t pay attention when attention must be paid—in between these scuffles, there are moments that feel like an eternity of bliss.

It was a different kind of bliss with Dexter at the swim meet, as I rubbed her back with sunscreen in the holding room at the indoor pool in Santa Clarita. Out of the blue, she suggested I take Lipitor. I looked over at the television screen mounted on a wall to see a fifty-something woman surfing a ten-footer in Hawaii as it cut to the word Lipitor in black. “Take it, Mom, you’ll be stronger.” “Thanks, Dex. Can I ask you something? When I’m eighty, will you still let me rub your back and kiss your sweet cheeks and hug you forever,