When Kathi is ready to go out, she walks into her massive closet—less a closet and more a room for clothing—and sheds whatever she’s wearing. She opens all the doors to her cabinets and wardrobes and grabs this or that and heads out into the world. I put a dirty-clothes hamper in the room and take all the cabinet and wardrobe doors off the hinges; this way she never has to close one to open another and the bang, slam, yank, grind of getting dressed is eased, at least a small bit. She can now walk in and see all her options at once, every shoe choice, every legging, every blouse and jacket.
In her closet, she has a shoebox filled with precious metals and gems scattered about, necklaces knotted around diamond rings, brooches pinned through emerald earrings. I clear out a sock drawer and fill it with velvet jewelry holders to sort her bracelets, hold her rings, untangle her chains. Loose diamonds go in one section, crystal earrings go in another.
Kathi yells, “Where’s my orange brooch with the doodads and blap?”
I yell, “In your jewelry drawer.”
Kathi yells, “I have a jewelry drawer?”
I puff my chest. “You do now.”
Under her bedroom is a small basement with an empty four-drawer black file cabinet, so I fill it with contents I find scattered all over the house: family pictures, press photos, headshots, intimate letters from family and friends and exes. Everything gets put in manila folders and filed in alphabetical order.
Kathi wrote all of her books by hand on thousands of pages ripped from yellow legal pads. The looping writing of her thoughts turned to words that stretch for miles across page after page in various color inks and without regard for the silly blue guidelines that came printed on the pages—those lines are for the birds, not for film icon Kathi Kannon, whose writing sometimes appears in circles from the center of the page, twirling prose all the way out to the edges, on the backs of pages, with arrows and lines and new words inserted here and paragraphs scratched out there. All of these pages are sorted and filed. I look forward to helping her write more.
As Agnes naps in the kitchen, I turn to the problems of the pantry, using Post-it notes to mark the designated places to put brown sugar, white sugar, powdered sugar, noodles, tomato sauce, napkins, paper towels. I print the inventory so when Agnes orders groceries, she knows exactly what is needed. I sort kitchen drawers and stick Post-it notes to each. Utensils. Pot holders. Mystery items.
Kathi continues with her life, me in her orbit. Or is she in orbit around me?
Sleep, bake, Vegas, repeat.
“Do you want to do any writing today?” I ask, pen and legal pad in hand.
“No, thanks, Cockring. I’m going to Vegas.”
“Again? What’s left to buy? Your room is full of new stuff from Vegas trips this week.”
She says, “There’s always room for more.”
She says, “I’m helping the economy.”
She says, “Why drink from a puddle when you can drink from the ocean?”
Kathi walks to the front door and turns. “And by the way, everything is looking good,” she says, waving her hand about as she strolls out, leaving the door wide open. I gleefully hop up and close it for her. I get back to work, her life.
Sleep, bake, Vegas, repeat.
Unanswered emails get answered.
Her lawyer and agent are loving me as shit gets done, handled. Paperwork gets signed. Kathi starts getting small tasks completed—a favor for this hanger-on, for this magazine, for that producer.
I say, “Hey, Kathi, People magazine wants to know how you would describe yourself?”
She says, “I’m sorry.”
I repeat it, louder this time. “People magazine is asking—”
“No, I heard you,” she replies. “I’m answering you. That’s one way I’d describe myself. Sorry. I’m also bipolar, manic, OCD. I’m postmenopausal, over the hill, a former drug addict. I’m short, overweight, single, poor-ish. I’m loud, smart, insecure. I’m a pinup and an antique simultaneously. I’m bloated and pretentious—those last two go together.” And slam. She closes her bedroom door, in for the night at three P.M., to be asleep in moments. Easy for me to think it’s a waste or a loss. But in truth, I wish I could take a nap in the middle of the day. Who’s to say it’s not a more productive life for her to work when she wants, to create when she wants; perhaps she needs more rest than other mere mortals, perhaps her brain works harder, longer, perhaps her heart beats faster, harder.
Sleep, bake, Vegas, repeat.
I ask, “Am I the best assistant you’ve ever had?”
“Not yet,” she says coyly. “But keep at it.”
“What’s my latest grade?”
“I guess a D.”
“A D!” I yell. “I was a D, like, two weeks ago, and look at all the work I’m doing!”
“Well, I don’t know,” Kathi says defensively. “We’re still new together. I can’t give you an A! I don’t even know what time of day you poop! How about a C minus?”
“WHAT?!” I yell.
“I’m still figuring out if I like what you’re doing! I don’t know how I feel about my panties sorted by color!”
Hey, Siri, this is painful but progressive. Therapista says not everything in life has to be tied in a neat bow, that’s not how life works—we have moods, people get diseases, nothing is perfect. Therapista says I can’t let this be a setback, a mudslide into my familiar suicidal thoughts. Therapista says I must steady this happier, more hopeful course, trust the process.
Sleep, bake, Vegas, repeat.
I order more pale-blue pill cases so on the first of every month I can take her new prescriptions, which are hand-delivered to her house by pharmacy staff, and fill all the cases at once; she will be set for the month, and I’ll know at a glance when it is time to order refills.
“Do you want to write today?” I ask.
“Maybe tomorrow, Cockring.”
I cleared seventy-two new and unheard voicemails—some as old as two years—and several from—my heart swells—Miss Gracie:
Beeep: “Hello, dear. It’s your mother. I don’t expect you check your voicemails and I know it’s possible you won’t get this message ever, but I wanted you to know we are out of bologna down here, so that should tell you all you need to know about how I’m doing. Goodbye. Thank youuu.”
Beeeep: “Hello, dear. Don’t sleep in the same room with your cell phone. They can cause cancer. I saw it on the news. Terrible cancers. Maybe that’s why you’re always so tired. Maybe you’re dying. Anyway, good night, sleep well. Thank youuu.”
Beeeep: “Hello, dear. I’m ordering a chopped salad from Brighton Catering. Do you want anything? Hello? Well, I’ll get one for you and if you don’t want it, I’ll put it outside for the raccoons. I tried poisoning them, but they survived, so now I’m accepting them. Thank youuu.”
Assistant Bible Verse 4: Delete unhelpful messages.
Kathi is constantly misplacing her cell phone, so I drill a tiny hole in her phone case and put it on a lanyard to wear around her neck. She’s always losing precious jewelry, so when I see a piece lying around, I pick it up and lock it back in her jewelry drawer. She’s always losing her favorite scarves, so I make note of designer and style to easily order replacements.