by Diane Keaton
I began to write letters to Dexter about her development, including my concerns with her oral fixations (it takes one to know one). But there were also themes hopefully crossing the barriers of our fifty-year age gap, sort of explanations and apologies pertaining to who I am. It was my way of preserving Mother’s legacy and a sense of carrying it on with my new family.
Dear Dexter, 1998
I named you Dexter Deanne Keaton for several reasons. I wanted a D name because of your grandmother Dorothy, your aunt Dorrie, and your mother, me, Diane. Dexter is short for dexterous, good with your hands. It also means adroit, proficient, shrewd, and wily. I gave you the middle name Deanne because your Grammy Dorothy’s middle name is Deanne. I also named you Dexter because I like the sound. It has weight. I like the fun abbreviations, as in Dexie, Dex, Dext, or even DeeDee. The choice of Dexter also relates to Buster Keaton, a great clown of the silent films, and Dexter Gordon, who was an influential tenor sax jazz musician. Maybe you’ll be funny. Maybe you’ll love music. I hope you like your name. If you don’t, you can change it later. I changed mine to Keaton because it’s your grandmother’s maiden name. I believe people evolve into who they want to be. In a way you create who you are.
Here’s a bone of contention. More often than not, people come up to me and say, “Is that your granddaughter?” Dexter, I’m sorry I’m a Grammy-aged mother. I know it’ll be a burden. But maybe you can turn it into a plus. I’m sure there will be some serious bumps on the road, but I’ll try to keep up with your point of view, and I promise to listen. Maybe that way we’ll find a common ground. Aunt Robin and Dorrie are considerably younger, so if anything were to happen to me they’ll take care of you. I regret you don’t have a father, not even a father figure, but who knows, things could and do change. I’m sorry. When I get too long in the tooth to take care of myself, I assure you I will not be a burden. You’ll have your independence, just as Mother gave me mine. In return, let’s cut a deal: promise me you’ll be the kind of woman who has empathy for the plight of others. I’m not asking you to wear your heart on your sleeve. I’m asking you to try and put yourself in someone else’s shoes and understand what it might feel like. You’ve been given privilege. It’s a responsibility you have to live up to by being even more aware of what it’s like not to be so fortunate. Stay human, sweetie, stay human.
Dexter, you’re a brown-haired, brown-eyed three-year-old girl. Carol Kane says, “Ooh no, no, no, she’s not a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, Dexter’s got hazel eyes and strawberry-blond hair.” Kathryn Grody says you’re an out-and-out blonde. Color-blind Bill Robinson claims it’s red. “She’s got red hair, with green eyes.” Green eyes? All I can tell you is, they’re dead wrong. They want you to be their fantasy of an adorable little princess. They’re making up a future you that fits their agenda. Even Mom betrayed her own sensibilities by declaring, “Dexter is a blond-haired angel.” She has all kinds of theories about how special you are. Special schmeschial. I don’t think this kind of encouragement is conducive to a healthy ego. Feeding you the bottomless pit of extraordinary is too much. I ought to know. Besides, what’s wrong with brown hair and brown eyes? I love your chocolate orbs of impenetrable joy. All you have to do is squint them up into a smile, and the world is right. Brown is beautiful. The earth is brown. A chocolate Labrador retriever is brown. Bears are brown, and your eyes are the best brown ever. I don’t want to be party to mythologizing you. Not only does it make for ridiculous expectations, it’s not reality. Oh, and before I forget, one more promise. Promise me you won’t be like I was, forever trying to please other people’s expectations. Don’t, Dex. It’s a slippery slope. Brown is brown. Go with it.
Love you,
Mom
Almost Five
In the whirl of life you became three then four and almost five. All my observations remained the same but you became more and more your own person. Not my projection of who I wanted you to be, or what I thought was cute, or annoying. You’ve told me how much better life will be when you’re five. When you’re five you’ll be able to ride on the roller coaster; when you’re five you’ll be tall enough to touch the ceiling; when you’re five you’ll outgrow your bed; that way you can sleep with me every night.
Meanwhile Mom is putting popcorn in the microwave for 35 minutes. Today she entered the living room with a grapefruit, asking where the kitchen is. Yesterday she had her underwear on the outside of her pants. She’s long since stopped making her famous tuna casseroles. But she’s fine, she says, as she wanders around the house. And for the most part she’s still hanging in with a modicum of independence. The same independence you’re fighting for as you approach age five. It’s a backwards game when you get old, Dexter, especially for people like your grandmother, victims of an illness that reverses the order of life. As your uncle Randy says, “Her memory is walking out the back door.” Anyway, hello to five, Dexter.
Dear Dexter, 2000
Along with the new millennium, there’s an important subject I want to bring up. Occasionally we’ve talked about the addition of a brother or sister. You’ve expressed a modest interest in a baby sister—congratulations —but not a boy. I was two when Randy came along. He was a breeze. Then Robin came. I couldn’t stand her. Of course that changed with time, and now I love her dearly. And Dorrie is still my adorable baby sister. Dexter, I don’t know what life would be without them. Now that I’ve lost my father, they’re even more invaluable; a word for you to remember. By invaluable I mean essential, or, if not essential, then part of a quality of life that can’t be replaced.
Hear me out on this; one of the big benefits of having siblings is a shared history. You will come to appreciate his or her different point of view. For example, take the complaints you already have about me, your tiresome mother. A sibling will help you deal with the ups and downs of my deliberately oppressive parenting. You will have a sounding board. He or she will help you learn how to handle all the miscalculations and injustices I will throw your way. Right? Right! Honestly, Dex, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be an only child. I acknowledge it’s absurd for me to take on an infant at age 55; all the bottles and formulas, and diapers, and sleepless nights. But, no matter how uncomfortable and frustrating, or how overloaded our already highly active lives would be, I’m thinking of making an executive decision. Imagining you at 30 and me at 80, you know what I see? I see you won’t want to be alone. You’ll wish you had a sister or brother. There’s no getting around it. I think this is the right time to say hello to one more life. One more, Dex; one more.
13
THE GRAY ZONE
January 1, 2001
I was knocking on the gray door of Mom’s freshly painted gray house with the gray trim and the gray gate blocking the ocean view when Mom peeked her head out of the kitchen window. Dex and I walked into what can only be described as “erosion.” Pulling open the kitchen drawer to make a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, I found greasy silverware—the result of the plaque building barriers in Mom’s brain. As always, I asked myself the same damn question. Were the tangles and twists growing on the outer edges of her cerebral cortex the cumulative effects of her lifelong insecurity? Could depression and self-doubt be a precursor to Alzheimer’s? As always, it was the same answer. There is no answer.
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 fi
nd. 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 stoic about our new “intrusion.” She seeks solace in the thrill of her body flying through space in the Six Flags Hurricane Harbor roller coaster.
You’re a very different baby than Dex was. It’s already clear you will communicate your needs. Sometimes I worry—well, frankly, Duke, I worry all the time. Let me explain; yesterday Dexter’s school called to inform me of an incident. Apparently one of her classmates, a girl, told Dexter she was born in the pound, bought at the zoo, and didn’t have a real mother. Dexter’s response was unfathomable. My response to her response was exactly—well, sort of—what the experts said to say. “Dex, being adopted is like finding yourself with a whole new family.” Whatever that means? What I didn’t say was this. Everyone is sort of adopted, in that eventually we’re all abandoned in one way or another. What constitutes a family? Hard to say. Take me. I was born into an attractive-looking post–World War II family, with a daddy and mommy and three siblings. We appeared normal, but we weren’t. Who is? The idea of family can be expansive, as in extended family. Duke, you have two mothers; one had the wherewithal to know she couldn’t raise you given her set of circumstances. The other, me, chose to take care of you, and always will. Someday you may decide to make your own family. You might marry and have children of your own. You may even consider close friends as part of your family. These are options, and there are many more. Think Big.
Being adopted is to start life with loss. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Loss helps us learn how to handle goodbyes. Like Dexter, one day someone will tell you you’re adopted, as if you are less than your typical run-of-the-mill person, whatever that means. It’s not true. In fact, starting out knowing something they will have to learn has its strong points. You will already have the tools to make you more open to the many varieties of love. Love is not restricted to a set of rules. I will say this: The sooner you embrace the word adopted, the sooner you will find a defense that will help you grow into the loving man I know you can be.
Edited Out
I drove Mom home to Cove Street for our little ritual. The ocean was waiting behind Dad’s picture window. I got two glasses of wine, and we sat down to Grammy Keaton’s scrapbook, as usual. Mom was feeling proud of herself. She’d passed her periodic memory test with flying colors.
Dr. Cummings had presented a set of drawings with complex grids and intersecting lines, designed to confuse. Mother’s assignment was to draw exactly what he’d drawn. The task was completed with few mistakes. First test down, two to go. The next section—always the hardest—required Dorothy to identify as many animals as she could in sixty seconds. She came up with cat, dog, elephant, lion, tiger, bear, reindeer, pig, and porcupine. Pretty darn good. When Cummings asked her to list as many words as possible that start with F in sixty seconds, Dorothy Deanne scored higher than expected.
Keep passing those tests, Mom. I hate them too. They continue to mount, not just for you but for Duke and Dex and me—well, everyone. It’s rough. How about this one? Last week I plugged my ears in a bathroom stall at the Landmark Cinema when I heard someone say “Did you see Diane Keaton?” I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to hear what she might say. Some things never change. But forget about that; what I really hate are the mounting edits in our conversation. Neither one of us is passing that test. I know Duke’s a nuisance you have a hard time tolerating. He’s already caused you more confusion and more noise than Dexter ever did. I can’t explain why he takes up so much space. I know you need my undivided attention. I just wish we could go back a couple of years. I’d love to get your take on him. For instance, I wish I could have talked to you about how I wound up with Duke’s name.
First there was Parker, then Wade and Rover. I loved Clovis and Boeing, but Dorrie thought the reference to any kind of aircraft would bring us bad luck. I’m sure you would have 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.
