I enjoyed speaking with Jonathan Kay of Quillette about the changes I’ve seen in Portland since I arrived here in 2004, a discussion prompted by my recent article in Tablet, colloquially titled, “So Long, Portland.”Read More
I believed my ticket to stardom would arrive in a big car soon after I arrived in Los Angeles. It did not. Nor was it in the Porsche 911 I found myself stepping into one evening, a car that belonged to a man I was told had the biggest dick in the world…Read More
Three Sets of Keys
I tuck three sets of keys in the zip pocket of my purse. I did not used to do this. For years I did not know where the keys were, if I even had keys and if I did, what drawer I’d put them in. For twenty years it did not matter, I did not need keys, ringing the buzzer brought the doors flying open, happy screams, food on the stove, talk, oh, let me hold the baby.
The doors have changed. The people inside have grown frail, apologetic for the frailness, thankful for every tiny kindness, too thankful, too laudatory about our beauty, our strength, that we know how to get the phone working. I tell them, stop; you did this for us, the difference being my brother and I would grow tall, whereas they are growing small.
We have watched two others die, they wizened like apples; I flew across the country for the first death, to be at Dave’s bedside. I watched him die. I had seen someone die before but not like this. There was so much beauty at the moment of death, near audible like a sip through a straw rushing into the night, the skin on his face going taut in an instant, and the color of beeswax.
Back home, I tried to better recall where I left the keys, keys that had grown from two sets to three, in addition to my parents I now had my best friend’s, what with the parents moving to smaller places, and also, she said, so you have a place to de-stress, plus it’s closer to the hospital.
The hospital from which your mother calls in the middle of the night to say, come, I don’t think I will make it. She makes it—you knew she would. You are not so sure about your dad, who on the last day, earlier today, you found pinned between kitchen and hall, one hand on each wall, knees collapsing. He had given away none of this as you let yourself in the door, had called, “Hello, Nan!” as though all was right. And when I found him and asked, how long have you been there? He said, not long, and, it’s this damn plantar fasciitis, which you both know is ridiculous; you get him to agree, yes, it’s also something more, some weakness, and you make suggestions, about getting help, and he makes the ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ face, and you both go back to watching “Escape from Alcatraz.” This is what he does now, he watches movies; he escapes inside them. I try to have a sweet goodbye but he does not want anything sentimental and I wonder if he really does not want it, or if he is going to cry if he thinks about my leaving, as I nearly do as I let myself out the door.
I am not afraid of dying. I am not afraid of my parents dying. I am afraid of the approach, I could say (as I type this on the airplane home) like planes coming in for a bad landing, and there is that, there is the ricketiness, the unsteadiness. But the plane analogy is wrong. They are each walking a road alone, my parents, no matter how we prop them up, say we are there, bring the food and the Tylenol and the walker and clean up the splats on the bathroom floor. They are walking alone. I see one lurching toward the end, dogged, head down, the other looking around, wondering, is there a turn off? Can I make it?
I know where the keys are now. I keep them zipped in the pocket. Someday, there will be two sets, and then one, and then, perhaps, none. Time moves faster, now that we have a view of the road we will be on, are on, the road I did not consider when walking in the door, handing my ten-week-old to Dave, watching her speak on and on to him, and he to her, watching as they spun connection.
These metal keys, these keys in my hand, say, I am welcome here, I came from here, I come to you now, using the key you entrusted to me. And when these keys no longer fit, when the locks are changed, when others are behind these doors and others carry the keys, where do I go?
When my daughter was an infant, I several times woke in the night weeping uncontrollably, waking with what seemed to be cobwebby star-stuff stuck to me, as though I had just been transported from deep space, where the truth had been revealed: the most important thing, the only endless thing, was my love for and connection to my child. Her existence placed me on a continuum, a silver cable I previously knew nothing about, could know nothing about, but which I now knew was infinite.
My place on the cable let me see only ahead, but of course our parents are there, right behind, beaming the way, fading back into the blackness, as we all will fade, but never gone, not possible to be gone.
It’s a comfort to know this, but still, the temporal, the day to day, the fear and the wonder, the keys in my hand, knowing they are destined to be memento.
I am tweeting my manuscript FORTY BUCKS AND A DREAM: STORIES OF LOS ANGELES. Chapter 3, “Jena at 15, A Childhood in Hollywood,” about actress Jena Malone’s life as a child star and bid for emancipation from her mother Debbie, can be found here. The piece originally appeared in the LA Weekly and won a few local and national awards (okay, two)…Read More
I am tweeting my manuscript FORTY BUCKS AND A DREAM: STORIES OF LOS ANGELES. And sometimes videotaping! Including chapter 2, “The Camera and the Audience,” the only piece in the collection that does not start in Los Angeles but winds up there. Go follow on Twitter, @nancyromm…Read More