by Diane Keaton
We dressed her in brown wool pants, with a white shirt 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 passed 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 passed 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.
I didn’t tell them Mother’s death was as inexplicable as the life she lived right down to her last undetermined breath. I didn’t tell them how the door stood open for twelve days. I didn’t tell them Mom stepped in and closed it behind her without so much as a murmur.
Little Goodbyes
I’ve been opening and closing doors all my life. But the door marked LETTING GO has remained shut. Writing the story of Mom’s story was not intended to underscore loss over other aspects. I didn’t plan on an elegy. Still, Dad’s five-month sprint to goodbye, followed by Mom’s protracted journey to farewell, had a cumulative effect.
My belated hello to a baby girl and boy created different kinds of endings. I call them the Little Goodbyes, like the day Dexter stopped getting into bed with me at three A.M., and the day Stellaluna was put on the bookshelf for good. There was the day Dexter caught seven butterflies with her bare hands. Goodbye, butterflies. There was the last time she said, “Good night, Dorrie, and Ray [Dorrie’s dog], and Mojo [her other dog], and Shatah [her ugly dog]. Good night to Steve Shadley Designs, and Uncle Bill [Robinson], and Grammy, and Lindsay, and Uncle Johnny Gale, and TaTa, and Sandra, especially Sandra.” There was the day I brought a brand-new Duke Radley home from New York City. That was the day Dexter said goodbye to being an only child. There was the day Duke said his first word. “Moon.” There was the day he was twelve months old. I want back the last day Dexter and I sneaked into the former Jimmy Stewart house, under construction on Roxbury, and the day Duke and I were in the backyard looking at the sky when he said, “We will keep lying down on the grass in order to look at the sky forever, right, Mom?” “Sure, Duke, of course, always.” I can’t remember the day Dexter stopped saying “Member.” “Member how Josie threw up in the car?” “Member the bird’s nest we found?” No more “member”s, Dexie. There was the afternoon she didn’t want to dive for plastic elephants at the bottom of the pool. Goodbye, elephants, and crocodiles too. There was the day Duke stopped watching Kipper and Thomas the Tank Engine videos, and the day he forgot to beg me to play “Come into my house.” Goodbye, little cardboard house. There was the last day we sang “Gillis Mountain” as we tooled along in my big black Defender. That was the day I cranked the volume as high as it would go, so we could scream out the words “I took a trip up Gillis Mountain on a sunny summer day.” Goodbye, Gillis Mountain. Goodbye. You’d think the accumulation of so many little goodbyes would have prepared me for the bigger ones, but they didn’t.
It all comes back to the same old thing, Mom. I wish we could talk. I wish I could hear what you might want to tell me from the other side of nowhere. Your last lesson, the one I can’t bear to acknowledge and refuse to identify, is beginning to take hold. I think I know what you want to say from THEN. That’s where you are, isn’t it? You’re in THEN. From there I bet you want to tell me to lift my hands off the handlebars of the bike and let go. You want to say, “Diane, don’t cover your ears; listen. Don’t close your eyes; look. Don’t shut your mouth; open it wide and speak.” You want to say, “Dear Diane, my firstborn, take a deep breath, be brave, and let go. Release your hands from their grip on the bike, lift them up and fly.”
I’m trying, Mom, but it goes against every instinct I possess. I promise you one thing though. I promise to unleash Duke and Dexter from the stranglehold of my need before it’s too late. I promise to give them their freedom no matter how much I want them to hang on. I promise to let go of you too, the you I created for the benefit of me. I only wish that once, just once, I had the courage to say what I felt as I averted my eyes and waved goodbye. You see, Mom, it was always you. It was you for as long as long is.
Where Are They Now?
Yesterday, Nick Reid photographed Mom’s journal from 1968 on a tabletop he devised in Duke and Dexter’s playroom. The cover of the black-ringed binder is a collage filled with photographs of Randy, Robin, Dorrie, and me in gangster getups, à la Bonnie and Clyde. “It’s a Great Year So Far” is pasted at the bottom left-hand corner. “Cut Loose” is at the top right. On the title page inside are the words WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
Here’s where we are, Mom. Robin is sixty. Can you believe she’s been married to Rickey Bevington for twenty-seven years? Impossible, right? They still live on their forty-seven-acre farm in Sharpsburg, Georgia. Her baby, Jack, is going to college, and twenty-one-year-old Riley has a new baby named Dylan. Robin continues to carry on your penchant for collecting stray dogs and cats. She has thirteen.
Dorrie wakes up to a perfect view of the San Gabriel mountain range, like you used to when you were a girl. She loves her tree house high on top of a hill in Silver Lake. As the CEO of Monterey Garage Designs, she remains a premier dealer as well as collector of the American West, specializing in Monterey furniture. She loves to drive to the Tubac, Arizona, home with her dogs Cisco and Milo. You would be proud of her, Mom.
Randy still has that rusty Toyota van Dad gave him. It’s been sitting in his carport for fifteen years. Typical, right? His new apartment in Belmont Village is jammed with what must be thousands of collages, and books, and torn-out magazines and weird frames, and paintbrushes and glue, and, well, ephemera everywhere. He still keeps his poems in the oven. I finally got him on the phone the other day. You know what he said? He said he’s never been happier. How about that, Mom?
I’m okay, but it’s Christmas, and your ashes are in the back of my Tahoe Hybrid. We’re driving you to Tubac, where Robin, Dorrie, and I will spread your remains next to Dad’s. I found an old tin cross at Architectural Salvage in Minneapolis last fall. We painted your name across the surface. “Dorothy Deanne Keaton Hall. Beloved Mother to daughter Dorrie, daughter Diane, son Randy, daughter Robin.” You’ll be overlooking the Santa Rita mountain range up in the high desert along with Dad and his traveling companion.
I’m on the road with Duke, my very own Junior Jim Carrey, and Dexter, my Teen Queen. Every day I check out their faces, looking for signs of change. I look at their perfect noses, their radiant smiles, their thick hair. I scan Dexter’s wide-set eyes and Duke’s gorgeous cleft chin. Do they have to grow up? Why am I so fortunate? How did these two choices thrust me out of a
life of isolation into a kind of family-of-man scenario, complete with an extended family, new friends, and much needed ordinary activities? How is it possible I became one of those swim-meet moms, driving Duke to Santa Clarita at seven A.M., only to find myself standing in the rain watching Dexter swim the 400 free at five P.M.? Wish you could have been there. Wish you could have seen Duke and Dexter stretch their perfect bodies and dive into that cold water. Wish you could have come to Hawaii too. That would have been fun. You could have ordered pineapple snow cones under the waterfall. You could have watched them fly down the water slide, laughing all the way. You could have joined us on the boat ride from hell with the Iraqi war-vet tour guides tossing us up and down at sixty miles an hour in ten-foot swells.
One more thing, Mom. How does it all so soon become then? I guess there’s a consolation. It’s weird, but I think you’ll understand. As I’ve written our memoir—your words with my words—sometimes I feel like it’s Again without the Then. Do you understand what I’m saying? Can you hear me? I’m saying I’m with you again. THEN. AGAIN. Then again, Mom. Then again.
To my City of Women:
Stephanie Heaton, Sandra Shadic, Lindsay Dwelley.
Plus two men: David Ebershoff and Bill Clegg.
They know why.
IN MEMORY OF
DR. LEO RANGELL. ROBERT SHAPAZIAN. MICHAEL BALOG. LARRY SULTAN. MAURY CHAYKIN. MARTHA CARR. MIKE CARR. RED. ALAN BUCHSBAUM. MAHALA HOIEN. NANCY SHORT. DAVID MCCLOUD. GEORGE. AND EDDIE. ROY KEATON. FRANK ZIMMERMAN. DR. FELICIA LANDAU. SANDY MEISNER. AND SADIE. DOMINO. JOSIE. WHITEY. WALTER MATTHAU. AUDREY HEPBURN. RICHARD BURTON. GALE STORM. BILL HEATON. INEZ ROBBINS. MAUREEN STAPLETON. GRACE JOHANSEN. HARRY COHEN. JANET FRANK. JILL CLAYBURGH. FREDDIE FIELDS. MARLON BRANDO. VINCENT CANBY. ROSE COHEN. GEORGE BARBER. GREGORY PECK. ORPHA AND WESLEY THEISEN. JACK SHAWN. GERALDINE PAGE. CHESTER HALL. WILLIAM EVERSON. MRS. CLARK. KERRY BASTENDORF. BILL BASTENDORF. RICHARD BROOKS. MARY ALICE HALL. TOM O’HORGAN. BEULAH KEATON. LEMUEL W. KEATON JR. ANNA KEATON. JACK N. HALL. DOROTHY DEANNE KEATON HALL.
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PHOTOGRAPHY and ARTWORK
CAPTIONS and CREDITS
Opening photo spread © Annie Leibovitz, courtesy of the artist
First Color Insert
1.1 Dorothy Hall’s journals. PHOTO: NICK REID
1.2 Scrapbook of Diane Keaton, by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
1.3 Page from Diane Keaton’s scrapbook, by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
1.4 Interiors of Dorothy’s journals. PHOTO: NICK REID
1.5 Father and Daughters, collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
1.6 Spines of Dorothy’s journals. PHOTO: NICK REID
Black-and-White Insert
2.1 Diane as a child. PHOTO: DOROTHY HALL
2.2 Jack Hall.
2.3 Dorothy Hall and Diane as a baby.
2.4 Randy Hall. PHOTO: DOROTHY HALL
2.5 Robin (standing) and Dorrie Hall. PHOTO: DOROTHY HALL
2.6 Diane and Woody Allen. PHOTO: DOROTHY HALL
2.7 Diane as a young adult. PHOTO: FREDERIC OHRINGER
2.8 Diane close-up. PHOTO: SMP/GLOBE PHOTOS, INC.
2.9 Diane in a suit. PHOTO: © GARY LEWIS/CAMERAPRESS/ RETNA LTD, USA
2.10 Diane and Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: JACK HALL
2.11 Diane with hands by head. PHOTO: DOROTHY HALL
2.12 Warren Beatty. PHOTO: COURTESY OF PARAMOUNT PICTURES. Heaven Can Wait copyright 1979 by Paramount Pictures Corporation. All rights reserved.
2.13 Al Pacino on the set. PHOTO: COURTESY of PARAMOUNT PICTURES. The Godfather: Part III copyright 1990 by Paramount Pictures Corporation. All rights reserved.
2.14 Duke and Dexter Keaton. PHOTO: JULIA DEAN
2.15 Diane with Duke and Dexter. PHOTO: RUVEN AFANADOR
2.16 Diane with pearls. PHOTO: MICHEL COMTE
Second Color Insert
3.1 Ear, collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
3.2 Honor Thy Self, collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
3.3 Woman with Hand on Breast, collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
3.4 THINK, found pinned up on Dorothy Hall’s bulletin board. PHOTO: NICK REID
3.5 “Who Says You Haven’t Got a Chance?” collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
3.6 Legs, collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
3.7 Or Not to Be, collage by Dorothy Hall. PHOTO: NICK REID
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For Randy, Robin, and Dorrie, who shared the same mother but different experiences, and loved her their way. For my dear friends who read my words, and Mother’s too: Carol Kane, Kathryn Grody Patinkin, and Stephen Shadley. For the valiant transcribers who saw scribble and made sentences: Jean Heaton, Arlene Smukler, and Saundra Schaffer. For Jean Stein, who gave me Bill Clegg … who in turn gave me David Ebershoff. For Joe Kelly, Bill Robinson, and Carolyn Barber, who supported me in my varied interests throughout the years. For Dr. Leo Rangell, who stuck with me in spite of my endless repetitions. For Susie Becker, Daniel Wolf, Larry McMurtry, Ann Carlson, Marvin Heiferman, Richard Pinter, Jonathan Gale, Sarah Paulsen, Nancy Meyers, Mary Sue and Josh Schweitzer, Alice Ann Wilson, Dr. Keith Agre, Debbie Durand, and Ronen Stromberg. For my darling companions, Josie, Red, Sweetie, and, last but not least, Emmie, and Dixie, our pet rat. For Woody Allen, Warren Beatty, Al Pacino, and Bill Bastendorf, who wrote so well. For Michael Gendler and Brian Fortman for getting the deal done. For Emily Blass and her designing eye. For Nick Reid’s beautiful photographs of Mother’s journals. For Eric Azra, who saved the documents I erased by mistake. To the team at Random House for actually publishing Then Again, including Gina Centrello, Susan Kamil, Sally Marvin, and David’s assistant, Clare Swanson. For Anne Mayer, Susana Dionicio, and Irma Flores, who dearly cared for Mom. For Dorothy’s doctors: Dr. Jeffrey Cummings and Dr. Claudia Kawas. If you’d like to make a donation to the Mary S. Easton Center for Alzheimer’s Disease Research at UCLA, please visit www.eastonad.ucla.edu.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DIANE KEATON has starred in some of the most memorable movies of the past forty years, including the Godfather trilogy, Annie Hall, Manhattan, Reds, Baby Boom, The First Wives Club, and Something’s Gotta Give. Her many awards include the Golden Globe and the Academy Award. Keaton lives with her daughter and son in Los Angeles.