Then Again Part 7

Mom was beginning to leave messages on my voice mail all the time. She'd never been a phone person. The calls had a girlish aspect, as if she was concerned about things that had no relevance. I didn't consciously decide to take over her role as the family doc.u.mentarian. But I began to save her messages.

Almost two years after her diagnosis, she still volunteered at the cancer thrift shop, where she put my wardrobe from The First Wives Club on prominent display in the window. She visited Robin in Georgia. She built a tack house for Dorrie in Tubac. She kept her friends. It's true our conversations centered on my concerns, like Dexter's oral fixations. Why did she keep sucking her dirty stuffed cow instead of a clean pacifier-which, by the way, I had doubts about too. Just the word pacify was not indicative of a healthy sense of self-esteem. Mom concurred while pointing out Dexter's more serious problem: eating sand. Might it have something to do with her formula? Maybe it was time to switch from Nutramigen to soy.

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 b.u.mps 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 a.s.sure 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 ca.s.seroles. But she's fine, she says, as she wanders around the house. And for the most part she's still hanging in with a modic.u.m 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, h.e.l.lo 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 h.e.l.lo 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 d.a.m.n question. Were the tangles and twists growing on the outer edges of her cerebral cortex the c.u.mulative 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 ma.s.s, 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, G.o.d, 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 grat.i.tude, 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 b.u.t.tons for eyes. Oh, my G.o.d, 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 cla.s.sic 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 s.p.a.ce 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 cla.s.smates, 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 const.i.tutes a family? Hard to say. Take me. I was born into an attractive-looking postWorld 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 gla.s.ses of wine, and we sat down to Grammy Keaton's sc.r.a.pbook, as usual. Mom was feeling proud of herself. She'd pa.s.sed her periodic memory test with flying colors.

Dr. c.u.mmings had presented a set of drawings with complex grids and intersecting lines, designed to confuse. Mother's a.s.signment 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 c.u.mmings asked her to list as many words as possible that start with F in sixty seconds, Dorothy Deanne scored higher than expected.

Keep pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 b.u.t.te, were pus.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s of wine, and the big picture window, with the floating boats pa.s.sing in honor of enjoying the calm before another storm, and the pride I know you feel for pa.s.sing Dr. c.u.mmings'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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.h.i.+rts 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, 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 winegla.s.s 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 p.o.o.p. 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 unt.i.tled 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 Hotel Plaza Athenee in Paris for the last night of princ.i.p.al 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 G.o.d. 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. "d.a.m.n 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 what 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 G.o.dsend, 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 c.o.ke." Mom spun around. "What is she doing? Why is she telling you secrets in front of me?" "She wants a c.o.ke, 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 pa.s.s?

Does the effect of acc.u.mulated 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? G.o.d knows taking vitamin E and ginkgo and Aricept and two gla.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+eld of apathy and silence. f.u.c.k 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d the kids slept through it. Anyway, please get the alarm guy to come over today and fix the d.a.m.n 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.

I went home, packed a bag, and headed to Cove, where I found everything once again transformed. The word stuff came to mind. Stuff and junk-not the kind you collect but the kind you throw away. Old medicine bottles. Broken plates. Too many Kleenex boxes on the bed stand. Caregivers' logs. Too many ugly balloons and awful floral arrangements. This wasn't a celebration. Mom's beloved home was stuffed with the effects of illness. If she were cognizant, she wouldn't have allowed Suzy D to throw a sheet over the picture window, nor would the ancient videos of my films be collecting dust in the cabinets Dorothy so carefully designed. But it was the sight of Mom's mottled hands holding a cute little stuffed bunny next to her chest that just about did me in. "Isn't it pretty, Diane! If you pull the cord it plays 'Mockingbird.' "

Robin had flown in from Atlanta with Riley. Randy walked around with a Rolling Rock beer as he smiled at Claudia, his friend. Anne Mayer, Suzy D, and Irma were also in attendance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte, the hospice nurse, try to drip morphine under Mom's tongue. Morphine and Ativan every two hours. Suzy tried to help widen Dorothy's clenched jaw. "Open your mouth, Mamacita. We love our Mamacita, don't we, Dorrie?" Dorrie nodded.

Stephanie called. The unanswered to-do list was waiting. Mom didn't have Internet access. Just as well. In her workroom, surrounded by stacks of carousels filled with slides from the sixties of Randy, Robin, Dorrie, and me catching waves at San Onofre, I told Stephanie I was going to take a break.

Dad would have loved Google and Twitter and Facebook and the BlackBerry. He would have been taken by the immediate everything, the instant history, the access to anywhere across all continents. Still, the dilemma is the same as it always was: What to do? How do we focus on some aspect of information that will help forge a path to an emotionally fulfilling life? Dorothy knew it was a matter of picking and choosing. She never quite figured out a way to find an audience for the missing part, the part that made her feel she was enough. She lost something on the way. Mom's strength as a writer came out of a.s.semblage. She understood the transitory nature and impact of information. In one ear, out the other. At heart, she was a modernist without the craft to gather her insights into a cohesive message. From Mom's brain to the world. From the outer reaches of her mind's impulses to her silent audience. The incoming messages. The outgoing summing up of a life.

She knew one thing: It all boils down to family. One day you end up having spent your life with a handful of people. I did. I have a family-two, really. Well, three if you think about it. There are my siblings, and there are my children, but I also have an extended family. The people who stayed. The people who became more than friends; the people who open the door when I knock. That's what it all boils down to. The people who have to open the door, not because they always want to but because they do.

A Balloon Four days have pa.s.sed since our band of caretakers decided to hang in for the duration. Sometimes we sleep on the couch downstairs or in the storage room with Mom's old file cabinets. Sometimes we share our parents' king-size bed. Sometimes Suzy D spends the night, other times Anne and Irma too. The hospice nurses come and go, carrying little vials of morphine in their handbags. Yesterday the kids came for a visit. Robin and I were watching them play at the sh.o.r.eline when we heard Anne screaming. Robin grabbed my hand. We rushed past Don Callender, heir to Marie Callender pies, propped in a wheelchair. He made a gesture not quite capable of being called a wave. Running past, I thought of all those frozen pies sold to all those millions of American consumers. Money couldn't help him now. He tried to speak. What was he saying? Robin gripped me. "Diane, come on. Hurry."

Inside, Dorrie, Suzy, Irma, Anne, and Riley were gathered around the hospital bed. Mom's breathing was irregular. Charlotte, the nurse, checked her stopwatch at every inhalation. Mom would take a breath, hold it for thirty-five seconds before exhaling to take another, hold it for thirty seconds, then take another for fifty. Having had asthma, I knew how hard it was to work for so little air. Inhale, hold for thirty. Exhale. Inhale, hold for forty. Exhale. Inhale, hold for thirty-eight. We looked for a pattern. We waited. When she took a breath and held it for sixty-five seconds, Dorrie started to cry. Robin pressed her face against Mother's cheek. Duke, with a towel around his shoulders, came running in. "Mommy, don't cry. Don't cry, Mommy." I hugged him tight and kissed his seven-and-a-half-year-old body. Was this the end? Duke untied a helium balloon at the end of the bed and pushed its words, GET WELL, close to Mom's face. "Get well, Grammy. See, it says 'Get well.' " Mom, as if hearing his plea, didn't die. But it made me think of the others who already had.

Some Deaths First Mike Mike Carr, my cousin, died in 1962. He was fourteen. Mom, Dad, Randy, Robin, Dorrie, and I piled out of our Buick station wagon and entered the mid-century A-frame church still standing on the outskirts of Garden Grove, California. We sat in a pew close to Auntie Martha. She wasn't crying, but her face looked unfamiliar. It was as if she'd been dealt a blow too hard to a.s.similate. Martha Carr was never the same, not ever, ever, ever. Something was broken that could never be repaired. The minister's message was filled with Bible quotes chosen for funerals. There was no mention of the allegations that Mike accidentally shot himself with a rifle during an acid trip in Seattle.

Then Eddie Aunt Sadie's husband, Eddie, went next. Grammy Hall hated Eddie. After thirty years, she finally convinced Sadie to kick him out of the duplex. According to Mary, "men don't count for much." Eddie and George were weak; why else would they cling to women with means like her? When Eddie died in his cabin up in June Lake, there were no hard feelings between him and Sadie; he left all of his paint-by-number landscapes to her and their son, Cousin Charlie.

Then George One thing about George, Grammy's boarder: He never failed to give us kids the best birthday cards. They always pictured different kinds of trees filled with a dollar's worth of dimes in the branches. We called them the money-tree cards.

George was a painter, a housepainter. He was also a member of the painters' union. Every Christmas, the union threw a big bash with a giant Christmas tree and tons of presents for all the children. An announcer hosted my favorite part, the talent show. He carried a big silver microphone with a long cord and asked if anyone wanted to get up and sing. I never had the nerve, but I wanted to. I really wanted to. I used to wish Daddy had joined the union. I wanted him to dance and do funny voices like George. George did card tricks too.

Grammy didn't say much when George got skinny. The morning he keeled over and died, Grammy didn't cry. "He never gave me a dime. Not one dime." That's all she said. I thought of the money-tree cards. I wished I hadn't spent all those dimes. I would have given them to Grammy so she wouldn't be so angry about George. After all, he died. I was sure George meant for her to have as many dimes as she wanted. And even if he didn't, he always tried to pay his rent on time. Grammy's response was hard for me to decipher. Why wasn't she sad? It wasn't nice. What it was was cold and unattended, like her duplex on Range View Avenue.

Then Sadie "Ninety-three years is no small eggs, but what does it matter now that Sadie's gone?" Grammy Hall paused. "There ain't much left in a way. I'll tell you one thing. There's no sense in worrying about dying. A lot of people ain't got very good minds on the subject. I say don't be overactive in thinking, Diane, because you can think so much your mind goes haywire. I can't get Sadie's pacemaker out of my mind. It wasn't pulling its weight. She had a little b.u.t.ton for the d.a.m.n thing. She was always fiddling with that b.u.t.ton, you know. Rolling it around and around. Then she started acting stupid for about a week. I never thought much about it. I went to the store, and when I came back she was dead. She had on a pink dress. I think she put on that dress 'cause she knew her time was up. I hate to say it, but the truth is, Sadie got taken up in the whodunit of an all too predictable death."

Even Dr. Landau Too Dr. Landau was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. She told me she was retiring but she would still like to see me in her apartment at 96th Street and Madison. On our last visit, she was telling me the story of how she and her husband, Marvin, had escaped Poland on the eve of Hitler's invasion, when out of the blue she began speaking in a language I couldn't identify. I pretended to understand what she was saying by nodding my head and smiling in what I thought was a soothing manner. Even with Alzheimer's, Dr. Landau didn't suffer fools. She glared at me as if I was deliberately putting her on. She wasn't wrong, but what the heck was she saying? No matter how much I tried to placate her, she got more unnerved, so much so that she started to point her finger at me and scream as if I'd betrayed her. A nurse appeared and took her away. Dr. Landau, like Mary Hall, did not look back. We didn't say goodbye, and I never saw her again.

In better days, Dr. Landau explained there was no such thing as fair. I didn't agree. Life had to have its reasons. It couldn't be a lawless jumble of contradictions. As I watched her shuffle out of her living room, holding on to her caregiver's arm amid the orange and black furniture she'd spent years collecting, I couldn't believe the woman who'd spent her entire adult life helping people battle the insistent demons playing havoc with their minds had been struck down by Alzheimer's. It would take twenty years before Mother would be joining her in the fl.u.s.ter and distress of a shrinking brain. Felicia Lydia Landau was right; life is not fair.

One Phone Call, Two Messages, September 8, 2008 On the seventh day of our encampment on Cove Street, I went to pick up some lunch from Baja Fresh while Suzy sprayed Mother's hair with dry shampoo and freshened her braid. The signs couldn't be clearer. Low blood pressure. Low pulse rate. A waxy surface spreading across her face. Poor circulation. Dehydration. Every hour, on the hour, as if there was some reasonable order to the process, Dorothy's gurgling sound got louder.

When I got back, there was a message from the kids. "Hi, Mom, it's Dexter. Today was such a great day at the beach. I caught a six-foot wave with a four-and-a-half-foot drop. Oh, my G.o.d. Everyone was like, 'Dude, that was sick.' It was, like, sooo awesome. The boogie-boarding waves were soooo good. Whoo-hoo. I'm a beast in the water. I don't think I'll ever stop being a water bug. Tomorrow should be the same. Please, oh, please, let there be big waves. Here's Duke." "Mom, come home. Where are you? I want to sleep with you tonight. Can we all sleep together? I get to sleep in the middle. Mama, I wanted to say something. I'm having the Irish oatmeal. And, Mama, I wanted to say that when you get home I want to play with you for a little. And, Mom, there's something else I wanted to say-Dexter is evil. Bye."

We ate tacos around the dining room table. Everyone looked worse for the wear. Robin went to drop Riley off at the airport. Dorrie left to get more supplies. The caregivers took a break. It was Mom and me alone together for the last time. I looked at her face, not her ice-cold ankles, or her yellow feet. Nature had been so d.a.m.n inconsistent. How ironic that Mom's handsome face made it all but impossible for people to trace the fragile soul hiding behind such stature. I leaned in close. Safe within the perimeter of Mother's pale aspect, I wondered what she'd seen before her eyes shut. Had the landscape of bobbing, once-loved faces been an intrusion, all those perplexed nodding heads? Mom, what do you hear in the land of no words? The dishes being washed? The ocean pounding against the seawall? Does the chorus of voices whispering "Mamacita" and "Morning, Mom" and "Dear, dear Dorothy" and "Mrs. Hall" mean anything at all?

Alone together, I hope you can identify our voices. Or are we another refrain you can't make out? If sound is the last thing to go, I hope our chorus soothes you. It's our lullaby of heartache. Can you hear us cooing? Does it reverberate? It's our song of loving you from the other side of your white sheet.

I guess it's safe to a.s.sume your eyes won't be opening anytime soon, will they, Mom? I see you're still clenching your jaw. No one's messed with that mouth of yours since the day you bit Suzy D's finger. "Dorothy's Last Stand," that's what Dorrie called it. I wish you didn't have to grip so hard. I know you're trying to hold on to what little is left. I would too. I'm sorry there's only one door left for you to open.

Everything seems arbitrary and haphazard and distorted and out of whack. Remember Grammy Hall harping about "health is wealth"? Only now do I know what she meant. Duke and Dexter are covered by a host of physicians. There's Dr. Sherwood, Dexter's orthodontist, and Christie Kidd for her skin care. There's Dr. Peter Waldstein, Duke's pediatrician, and Dr. Randy Schnitman for his many ear infections. As for me, the doctor list gets longer and longer. There's my dentist, Dr. James Robbins, who recently made me a bite plate; yes, I grind my teeth. There's his wife, Rose, the dental hygienist; and Dr. Keith Agre, my internist. Dr. Silverman gives me the yearly eye examination. There's ninety-six-year-old Dr. Leo Rangell, my irreplaceable psychoa.n.a.lyst. And I can't leave out Dr. Bilchick, for my sprouting garden of skin cancers.

Remember my first squamous cell at twenty-one, followed by a series of basal cell carcinomas in my thirties? Warren used to bug me all the time about sitting in the sun. Why didn't I listen? This year, more than forty years later, that mean-spirited invasive squamous cell revisited the left side of my face. I drove to Cedars-Sinai, put on a shower cap, and lay down on the gurney. As the anesthesiologist injected me, I began to drift through a kind of flip book of images. I saw you, just like me, lying on a gurney, only you weren't alive. I saw Dad on a gurney too. I saw the extra-long needle putting Red-dog to sleep. Should I have given him more treats? I saw my friend Robert Shapizon sitting under his Andy Warhol with the giant dollar sign, discussing the emotional effects of inoperable lung cancer. Why hadn't I spent more time with him? I saw Larry Sultan holding the cover of his book Evidence as everything started to go black. That's when I swear I heard Larry's voice say he wanted to live three more weeks, just three more weeks. It wasn't like he was asking for much.... When I woke up, I had a four-inch scar running down my face. Life is starting to chip away at me too, Mom. This living stuff is a lot. Too much, and not enough. Half empty, and half full.

The Day Before Suzy called from downstairs. She was looking for a pair of tweezers. I went into Mom's workroom. It's funny how you overlook the obvious. Along with THINK, Scotch-taped to the wall was a quote I'd never seen. "Memories are simply moments that refuse to be ordinary." I hope Mom has kept a few tucked away in some retrievable part of her mind. Hunting around, I came across a few random pages Mom wrote after Dad died.

Cyrus, the cat, was mercifully and painlessly put to sleep this morning. This is a statement of sorrow at losing my beautiful Abyssinian cat, a real cat who understood his position in life and until his death did his job magnificently. I already miss him.

I don't know why the verse from Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, came to me as I sat in a hot bath trying to get over the fact that Cyrus is no longer alive, but it did. I got out of the tub, picked up my mother's old Bible, and found it. "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, a time to dance. A time to get and a time to lose."

I find peace in these words, probably because death is a mystery and at times a torturous burden to live with. It's so hard to understand the complexities of our human existence. Why were we created with emotions of love only to be left with such emptiness when those we have felt love for are taken out of our lives? I will never know the answer until I die and join those who have gone before me: Jack, Mother, Mary, Sadie, Cyrus the cat, and quite probably I, next.

The Long Haul After eleven days, Suzy D's incessant "Praise the Lord, I pray for our Mamacita morning, noon, and night, G.o.d bless Dorothy" rant was driving me nuts, so nuts that I put my finger in Mother's mouth, hoping she'd bite me, just to shake things up, but Mom's fight-back spirit was gone. I was free to feel the jagged edges of her teeth. She was flunking her last test, or maybe she pa.s.sed it and was ready to let go in order to join Jack.

Dorrie and I pushed her hospital bed in front of the picture window, where we tore off the hanging sheet. Enough with the darkness. What exactly had we been protecting Mother from? Certainly not the sun. With Mom only three feet away from Dad's picture window, Dorrie and I stood looking at our still life. That's what she'd become-a still life, a painting, an object. What did any of our gestures matter? Picture window or not, prolonging Mother's life felt like cruelty, even a form of subdued torture.

We washed and bathed her. We held her hand as she was turned from one side to another every hour on the hour. We swabbed her mouth with a wet sponge. The hospice nurses administered morphine. Dr. Berman consoled us much in the same manner Dad's doctor at UCLA had done. It was the quality of life. The quality of life? As far as I could see, there was no quality left for Mom. She couldn't swallow. She couldn't speak. She couldn't see. The only part of her body that moved was her left hand, and its only function had been reduced to clutching the railing of the hospital bed. Now, with our mother's face directed toward the warmth of the sun, she no longer clutched the railing either.

September 18, 2008 Sitting at the edge of the bed, I monitored Dorothy's condition while Suzy D went upstairs. She was holding steady at sixteen breaths per minute. I didn't see it coming. There was no sign. Only when the purple in her hands began to fade did I understand Mother had pa.s.sed away without so much as a single involuntary sound.

We dressed her in brown wool pants, with a white s.h.i.+rt and an old black sweater embroidered with a green cactus. Her braid was perfectly straight, like her patrician nose. All dressed up in her desert go-to-dinner outfit, with lipstick highlighting her no-longer-blue lips. Robin, Dorrie, and I drank red wine behind the picture window. We waited for the man from the Neptune Society to push her through the living room, past the two club chairs we bought at Pottery Barn, just like Dad before her.

I went home the next morning and told Duke and Dexter that "Grammy's heart slowed down, and she stopped breathing. She had a good ending." "Grammy had a good ending?" "Yes, Dex." "She didn't deserve to die," Duke said. I told him once again how her heart slowed down. But this time I added the miracles. I talked about the day her fingertips started to turn crimson, and how as time pa.s.sed the color slowly began to crawl up her arms and legs, and how her body began to look like a beautiful plum. That was the first miracle. Then I told them how things changed on the night of Grammy's death. Her lips turned an indigo blue like the ocean at sunset. I told them I didn't know the exact moment Grammy pa.s.sed away, because I was distracted by the sudden sound of flapping wings. I looked outside and there in the dark was a swarm of seagulls standing on the deck, as if they were trying to say goodbye to the nice lady who used to throw bread crumbs on the seawall's deck. When I turned back and saw Grammy's arms, then hands, and even her ocean-blue lips return to normal, I knew I was in the presence of a miracle. But the biggest miracle came when I looked into her eyes: The same beautiful brown eyes that had been closed for seven long days and seven long nights were open. Wide open. I asked Dexter and Duke if they thought their grandmother might have been seeing something she'd never seen before. They both agreed she must have been looking into something on the other side of new.