Then Again

by Diane Keaton

  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, even if you have a nice husband and two children of your own? Will you?” There was a long pause. “Mom, excuse me, but when you’re gone, will I get all your money?”

  I saw her dive into the water with dozens of other little sardines in bathing suits and caps. They swam in and out of the shadows cast from the skylight. Dexter caught the sun just as her arms stretched through the water of her designated lane. Heat 2, Lane 5. In that instant, she joined the other darling daughters racing upstream. So many girls swimming toward their destiny. For me, it was just one girl. Dexter.

  Message, 2002

  “Diane, this is your mom. I’ve been going through my checkbook, and I realized I made another mistake on the check I sent. I’m going to give up. I’m just going to give the whole thing up. I made it out for 200 million or something like that. I don’t know—200 thousand? Would you check what you have, and call me back and tell me what my next move should be? I don’t know why I can’t get that into my head, but anyway, call me back, will you, as quick as you can, ’cause I’m sick of this. I’m going to close the books and never write another check. Okay, Diane … bye bye.”

  I’m Going to Miss You

  I found cat feces in a plastic wineglass next to a pee-stained envelope of a long-forgotten bill addressed to Jack Hall. These are the days of derelict debris and a mounting stockpile of nonsense. Where’s Irma, the new housekeeper? Anne Mayer, Mom’s second daughter, as we call her, tells me Dorothy won’t let Irma in. The rose-colored wall-to-wall carpet is filthy. I don’t want Duke rolling around half naked on the surface of old cat poop. I knew I could lure Mom out of the house with the promise of a visit to her beloved Randy.

  Everything was spotless when we returned. Mom shuffled into the kitchen, shaking her head as she held on to the walls for support. “Where am I?” She heaved a sigh and sat on the edge of the couch. “I don’t know where I am. This isn’t the place. Do I live here? I mean, I’ve been here before, but I don’t live here now, right, Diane? That isn’t my cat, even though it looks like a cat I would have. This is where we live? I can’t put it together. Like right now, if you went off and left me here, I’d miss you, ’cause you wouldn’t be there for me. Wait a minute. I think I’ve got it figured out. I’m in the living room, but I’m still confused. I’ll tell you this: I’m going to miss you. What I want is to be somewhere comfortable with you. I kind of dread being here by myself. It disturbs me. I need company. I’m afraid, because I’m not real familiar with me. So, I’m here to stay? Is that it? What’s later? I can’t get a vision of how I’m going to make it work. I’m going to try to make the best of it though. It takes time to get things rolling again. Right? One more thing—could you tell me where my kids, Dorrie and Robin and Randy, are?”

  Two Gifts and a Kiss, 2003

  Nancy Meyers and I were having lunch. She’d become one of the few highly sought-out female directors after her debut with Parent Trap, starring Lindsay Lohan, followed by her $374 million blockbuster What Women Want, with Mel Gibson. In the interim, I’d made more money buying and selling houses than acting in a string of bombs, including The Only Thrill, The Other Sister, Hanging Up (which I also directed), and Town & Country, all critical and box-office failures. I was pretty much washed up as an actress and certainly as a fledgling director.

  Over salad, Nancy told me she was writing a romantic comedy about a divorced playwright, Erica Barry, who falls in love with Harry Sanborn, a famous, womanizing owner of a record company. While Nancy filled me in on the details, I plotted career changes. Could I flip houses professionally? I needed an investor. I didn’t want to keep restoring homes Dex and Duke and I lived in, only to sell them a year later. Was that good for the kids? When Nancy unequivocally said she wanted me to play Erica Barry and she was going to offer the part of Harry to Jack Nicholson, I snapped out of it. “Wait a minute. Jack Nicholson? I’m sorry, but Jack Nicholson is not going to play my boyfriend in a chick flick. That’s not his thing. Nancy, you’re brilliant, and I’m totally thrilled you want me, but there’s no way he’s going to accept your offer, which is just another way of saying you’ll never get the financing either. So I wouldn’t bother getting your hopes up. Don’t even try.” I left knowing her untitled film project would never see the light of day. And, frankly, I wished she’d never told me. I didn’t want to hold on to a pipe dream. A year and a half later, Jack and I started shooting Something’s Gotta Give on the Sony lot.

  As I left the Hôtel Plaza Athénée in Paris for the last night of principal photography on Something’s Gotta Give, I was greeted by a phalanx of paparazzi hoping for Cameron Diaz, who was at the hotel, or Jack, only to find themselves in front of a solitary Diane Keaton—or was it Diane Lane, as my invitation to the Valentino Fall Collection was addressed. It had been a long shoot, six months to be exact. After our last shot, Jack hugged me goodbye, saying something about a little piece. I hugged him back and we went our separate ways. Two years later, a check with a lot of zeroes arrived in the mail for my back-end percentage on Something’s Gotta Give. I didn’t have a back-end deal. There must have been some mistake. I called my business manager, who told me it was from Jack Nicholson. Jack? That’s when I remembered him saying something about a little piece when we hugged goodbye. Oh, my God. He meant he was going to give me a piece of his own percentage.

  There were so many contradictions and inconsistencies with Jack. So many surprises. One day we were shooting on the set of Erica’s beach house. The script described the scene as: “Erica and Harry, wet from the rain, quickly shut all the doors and windows. Lightning crackles across the sky and the lights in the house go out. A match is struck and a candle is lit. Then another one, and another one. Erica turns and finds Harry just looking at her. Before either of them has time to think, they kiss.” For me, Diane, not Erica, the kiss was a reigniting reminder of something lost suddenly found. “I’m sorry,” Erica says. “For what?” Harry says. “I just kissed you,” Erica says. “No, honey, I kissed you,” Harry says. Then, as scripted, Erica kisses Harry. Instantly I, Diane, forgot my next line. “Damn it, I’m sorry. What do I say?” The script supervisor whispered, “ ‘I know that one was me.’ ” In other words, I, Diane, or rather I, Erica Barry, took the lead and kissed Harry first. We tried the take one more time. As soon as I kissed Jack—or, rather, Harry—I forgot the line again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on here. What’s the line one more time?” From her director’s chair in Video Village Nancy shouted, “Diane, it’s ‘I know that one was me.’ ” “Right. Oh, right, right, of course. I’m sorry, Nancy. Let me try it again.” This went on for another ten minutes. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing. The only thing I remembered was not to forget to kiss Jack. Kissing him within the safety of a story that wasn’t mine, even though it felt like it was, was exhilarating. I forgot I was in a movie. Nancy’s story was merging into my story—Diane’s story of a kiss with Jack, aka Harry. And the great thing was, Harry aka Jack had to love it just as much as I, Diane, aka Erica, had to love it. I don’t know wh
at Jack, not Harry, felt. I just know everything that came out of his mouth gave me the rush of a “first-time love” over and over. It wasn’t the script. It was Jack. And Jack can’t be explained.

  So that’s what Something’s Gotta Give gave me: Nancy’s godsend, Jack’s kiss, and a piece of the back end. Something’s Gotta Give will always be my favorite movie, not only because it was so unexpected at age fifty-seven, but also because it gave me the wonderful feeling of being in the presence of a couple of extraordinary people who delivered two gifts and a kiss.

  A Different Message, 2005

  The new nurse left a message before she quit. “Your mother appears to have a lot of hallucinations. When she took the lorazepam, she screamed and started staggering. Her arms shook too. If she wanted something, she let out a scream. She held on to the pull bar and wouldn’t let go. She kept screaming ‘No’ over and over and said the wall was moving. She saw people in the room. I don’t think this medication is working.”

  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 more time—GO UPSTAIRS.” You head out, but not before grabbing as many action figures as your hands can hold. “I’m sorry, Mom, but honestly, I mean, what does a man have to do to get help with his luggage?” “UPSTAIRS.” “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. When you die I’ll be so sad, but at least I’ll be able to touch your cheeks without asking.”

  Frank Mancuso Jr. and Mount Rushmore

  When did Suzy Dionicio, Mom’s new caregiver, start dripping food into the right side of Mom’s mouth three times a day every day? Breakfast takes an hour and a half. Lunch and dinner two. Suzy is patient, knowing Mom has a hard time remembering to swallow. After the meds have been mashed into a thickened tea for Mom to sip, Suzy turns on the new flat-screen TV to PBS so Mom can look at the primary colors on Sesame Street. After she pulls all 130 pounds of Dorothy Deanne’s five-feet-seven-inch frame onto the Hoyer lift, she watches her mamacita rise like a phoenix. It’s as if a giant baby with a long white pigtail is gliding across the room in a computer-driven stork. Suzy’s navigational skills plop Dorothy into the wheelchair, where her head lands with a thud on her chest. How will Mom see all the colors if her view is limited to the discounted tile floor she and Dad fought over?

  In between the joy of the kids and the heartbreak of Mom’s decline, there was the day I couldn’t remember the name of Mount Rushmore. A few weeks before, Frank Mancuso Jr.’s name went missing too. On the one hand, who cares? Is Frank Mancuso storage-worthy? When you consider all the things that need to be addressed, why flog myself for forgetting someone I don’t really know or care about?

  When does “Where did I put my keys?” become a diagnosis? Will I be joining Mom in the fog of forgetting? Will our family’s genetic profile snatch my memory away too? Do I have it already? I’ve stopped telling people my mother has Alzheimer’s disease. It turns an otherwise simple encounter into the beginning of what feels like, that’s right, a test. Will I pass?

  Does the effect of accumulated self-doubt create a form of depression that leads to Alzheimer’s disease? I know I keep asking, but does it? That’s the only answer I can come up with. I know I’m grabbing at straws, but really!!! I know, I know, learn to live with the questions. But, seriously, does one’s psychological profile play a part? And if it does, would this knowledge have changed things for Mom? God knows taking vitamin E and ginkgo and Aricept and two glasses of wine a day didn’t do one bit of good. Just as advanced language skills, education, and even genius didn’t stop Ralph Waldo Emerson, Iris Murdoch, E. B. White, or Somerset Maugham from the “insidious onset.” Consider this: Speaking is present tense. Writing exists in thought. They wrote. Adding voice to ideas gives words vitality. Of course, speaking is not a cure for Alzheimer’s, but it is a vital component in the battle against depression and anxiety, both of which dogged Mother. I’ve always had trouble putting words together. In a way, I became famous for being an inarticulate woman. The disparity between Mom and me is that I got my feelings out. I memorized other people’s words and made them feel like my own. Writing is abstract. I’m sure I’m wrong, but to think of my mother, a person who loved words, got A’s, went back to college in her forties, and came home with a diploma, as another victim of Alzheimer’s disease without a clear-cut reason is something I can’t accept.

  I hate the fact that Mom’s middle years under the auspices of Alzheimer’s
have ended. What does she get in return? The famous blank stare, that’s what she gets; another face of forgetting. Give me back the years of agitation, anything over the soothing shield of apathy and silence. Fuck it. What’s the point of my questions and potential answers to something that can’t be explained? It’s a fruitless enterprise. All of it. I just want Mom’s brain back.

  Get this: As Duke and I were waiting in line at Jamba Juice this afternoon, my cellphone rang. It was Stephanie, the captain of Team Keaton. Did I remember the conference call with Michael Gendler? I was about to say yes, but Frank Mancuso Jr.’s name popped up as Duke dropped his aloha pineapple vanilla smoothie all over the floor. Mount Rushmore and Frank Mancuso Jr. came rushing back. They’d been saved from obscurity, but only after I let them go.

  14

  THEN AGAIN

  Family

  I was on my cellphone in the car, going over the endless to-do list with Stephanie. “Can you believe the alarm went off at four A.M. yet again? That’s three times in two weeks. What’s going on? All I can say is, thank God the kids slept through it. Anyway, please get the alarm guy to come over today and fix the damn thing. Okay? Oh, and I’ve got to reschedule dinner with Sarah Paulsen; plus, return the call to John Fierson. Do you have his number? Dang it. Hold on for a sec? Someone’s calling. Shoot, I’ve got a zillion things to go over with you. Don’t go away. Never mind. I’ll call you right back.”

  It was Anne Mayer. She was saying something about Mom having bronchitis. She was aspirating. “Anyway, they admitted her into Hoag Hospital. But Dr. Berman thinks she’ll be home by tomorrow.” As I turned the car around and headed for Hoag, I forgot about the to-do list.

  When I found Mom, she was plugged into an IV. Some sort of machine had been placed over her nose and mouth to help loosen the phlegm. The X-rays revealed evidence of a recent, undetected stroke. There was no indication of pneumonia, but Mom couldn’t swallow. Without taking extraordinary measures, there was nothing more Hoag could do. Mother would be released. That meant hospice, and hospice meant morphine.