Then Again - Diane Keaton [85]
Maybe that’s the reason Mom was reeling around half mad yesterday. She didn’t care if Dad’s ashes were scattered on the hill in Tubac or not, she was going to sell the house, and she was going to cut down the star pine they’d planted on the terrace too. “Mom, sit down. Let’s talk about it. Eat.” But, no, she was up to get something she’d forgotten, saying, “What is that thing you cook with? What is it? Who’s that boy? Shut up, little boy.” Duke started to cry. I told him not to worry, I’d take him for a walk to Big Corona. Dexter whispered, “Mama, ask Gramma if I can have a Coke.” Mom spun around. “What is she doing? Why is she telling you secrets in front of me?” “She wants a Coke, Mom.” “Well, why doesn’t she ask me? Speak up, young lady, you’re in my house.” “She knows, Mom. I think she’s feeling a little shy.” “Well, if she doesn’t want to talk to me, she shouldn’t come over. I can tell she doesn’t even like me. Do you, little girl? Do you? What’s your problem anyway?” Dexter froze. Duke tugged at me. “Mama. Come.” We left.
It was hard to watch Mother struggle with the constant agitation she couldn’t comprehend. The slow picking away plopped her smack dab into the late middle stages of Alzheimer’s, maybe even early late. I don’t know, and I don’t want to. When Duke, Dexter, and I said goodbye after our walk to Big Corona, Mother had forgotten we’d left, or even that we’d been there, for that matter. She was sitting in the living room, staring into space. When I kissed her, she wanted to know what group I was with.
Chubby Cheeks, 2006
What group are you with, Duke? I know the answer: You’re with the group called inception. You’re with the beginning. I kiss you good morning. You rub my cheek and say, “It’s what your cheek wants.” “Really, how about a kiss for Mom?” “No. You get what you get, and you don’t get more, cheek stealer.” “That’s not the way to talk to your mother, Mr. Man. And what’s with the cheeks? Now, c’mon, let’s get going and have some breakfast.” I frown big-time. You laugh as you run into the kitchen and open the Traulsen freezer, grab two SpongeBob Popsicles, and yell, “Save it for the movies, Mom.” “Put them back, Duke Radley, and guess what, breakfast is for healthy food, not Popsicles or frozen mini mint pancakes. How about some oatmeal?” “Mom, you know what’s bad about your name? Die. Die. Die. Mom, when you die and I die, will we still be able to think?” “I hope so, Duke. Please don’t climb on the countertop.”
Dexter, not a morning person, appears grim-faced as she heads for the Life cereal. You say you’ll eat the oatmeal but only if you can add a serving of Cinnamon Crunch and two sugar cubes. “Okay, okay,” I say, and turn on CNN, while pouring soy milk into a bowl, which I put in the microwave. I watch you press CLEAR, then 2, then 1, then start, then stop, and then repeat the whole process all over again. “Twenty-one seconds, right, Mom?” “Twenty-one, not forty-two, Duke.” Finally you sit down, take a bite, then tell me how fat your tummy is. “Mom.” “What?” “Why does it have to end with your cheeks?”
The kitchen door swings open. Lindsay Dwelley walks in, already exhausted. You whisper, “I wish Lindsay was separated from Lindsay.” Dexter sticks her foot out. You trip. “Dexter, I saw that. That’s a time-out.” Dexter screams, “Duke’s an idiot,” and runs off. “Mom, does Dexter creep you out, or is it just me?” “Duke. That’s enough smart talk.” “But, Mom, you’re so complicated. You’ve got to snap out of it.” “Duke. Dang it, Christ. That’s enough! Time-out for you too, buddy.” “Mom, I won’t say ‘Dang it, Christ,’ if you don’t. I won’t say ‘stupid jerk’ if you don’t. I won’t say ‘fuuuuuuu’ ”—you stop yourself—“if you don’t. Got it, Mama Cheeks? Fair enough?” “Duke, I’m not going to say it one