What could we do? Treena quit, and Ophelia continued as a sometime check-in nurse. I called him from New York, leaving a benign message. I called again and again. There was no response.
Randy’s insistent refusal to take even the slightest responsibility for himself drove Dorrie crazy. I couldn’t blame her. Robin and I weren’t there to help. “He doesn’t think of the implications, Diane. He was on his way out. Is he grateful in any way other than a general nod of appreciation in our direction? Does he know the names of the twenty-five pills he has to take daily? Does he read the booklet his transplant co-coordinator gave him? Has he memorized the phone numbers of his lifeline? Does he clean himself? Has he written anything? Is he a writer? Does he address the huge financial expenditure that has been made on his behalf? Does he even worry? Does he think about his future as he watches E! Hollywood and True Story? Yesterday he asked me if I knew who really killed Thelma Todd. Thelma Todd!!!!! Some twenties party-girl actress? A day isn’t a day without Access Hollywood?”
Weeks later, when I was finally back home, Dorrie and I found Randy sitting under a pepper tree drinking a quart of Cuervo Gold tequila in Carol Kane’s front yard. As we approached, Dorrie spoke first. “How are you doing?”
“I knew you two would come by. I wondered how long it would take.”
“We’re concerned about you, Randy.”
“Fuck you. You dress like a couple of dykes. Fuck you both. I don’t give a rat’s ass about anybody. I hate people. I don’t want to live. Why should I?” As he spun around, he grabbed his bottle, went inside, and slammed the door. Dorrie and I followed as his stammering outburst continued. “See these teeth? Yes, they’re rotten, I know. Do you think I’m an idiot? No. You never listened to me.”
Dorrie interrupted. “We want to listen now.”
“Fuck you. And fuck you too, Diane.”
I tried to take the bottle out of his hand, saying some stupid thing, like “Randy, we need to take you to the hospital.”
He began swirling it as if he was going to throw it at us. “Leave me alone. I don’t want your help,” he shouted, his eyes defiant. We called the paramedics.
After Randy was admitted to the lockdown wing of the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, I called him. He hung up when he heard my voice. A few weeks later, while I was getting Dexter ready for school, the hospital called; my brother, John, wanted to talk to me. A sober Randy got on.
“I want you to come here and take me to Laguna. I want to go home and drink.”
“I can’t do that, Randy.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to help me do what I want to do with my life?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me live it the way I want and stop interfering.”
“Yes, Randy, it is your life, but you made a deal. You wanted the transplant. It was your decision. A dying man gave it to you. Did you ever consider that??? He gave it to you instead of someone else. You’re alive because of him and his anonymous generosity. You owe him.”
Randy shot back, “I was waiting for you to say that. Let me tell you something….I never wanted this, ever, and I don’t owe anybody anything.”
I immediately called Robin, who, as a former nurse, had a better way of handling Randy’s moods. When she called back, her advice was to let him go. It was his life, and his decision.
A week later, in October of 2003, I picked up the phone to hear: “Hello, Diane. Come and get me, ’cause they’re going to let me out. I want to go to Laguna Beach. I’m not going back to Carol Kane’s. I’ve never felt better in my life. I’ve never felt more free. I’m an alcoholic. And I don’t care. Just get me out of here. Don’t mess with me. I’ve been screwed twenty million times since I’ve been here. I will never stop drinking, ever. Come and take me home. It’s my body. Just say yes and drive me home. I want to live on my own terms. These holier-than-thou doctors are nothing but Bible thumpers. I don’t like people. The only thing I like is my writing and my art. Don’t bother with me, Diane. Okay? Just take me home. Please.”
I did.
CHAPTER 10
SLIPPING AWAY
In 1998, Mom had been formally diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Even though she admitted she was having trouble with her ability to recall names and events, she vowed she would overcome her memory issues. But, following her decline, Robin flew in and helped us hire Ann Mayer, who would become Mom’s assistant. Ann in turn gathered together Susie Dionisio and Irma Flores, a couple of wonderful women, to care for her. Randy, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in Mom’s state of mind. His wish was to be left alone. We honored the request.
Dorrie called: “Mom is freezing Pablo and J.C.’s cat food. I found two tea bags next to several loaves of molded country white bread in the freezer. She’s fine, she says, as she wanders around the house holding on to the walls. She can’t get her balance. She doesn’t remember to drink lots of water. She doesn’t remember to prepare food. She doesn’t want to see me. She doesn’t want to play Scrabble or take walks on the beach. What she is, is quietly struggling on the perimeter of thoughts that won’t express themselves.
“I see she’s hiding what she can’t remember. She’s afraid to drive to Los Angeles. She’s afraid of falling. She’s seventy-seven. It’s a hodgepodge mess. Random books line the back wall, next to dozens of collages by Randy, including a metal roadrunner I bought her in Tubac. There’s a new look in the living room: sterility. It’s like Mom is disappearing. She’s beginning to let go.”
Later, I got a call from Mom herself. “Oh God, Diane, I’m awful. I’m not doing good. People are over here. I don’t know how to focus, Diane. I don’t trust my walk. I get up in the morning with the intention of doing things, but then I can’t remember. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t want to do anything. It’s terrible. Just wait until you’re old.”
* * *
—
Years later, breaking a long silence, I finally called Randy and told him he needed to visit his mother. After all, he was the love of her life. I’d drive him there—anything. He said he was busy working on some new collages and writing at night. I asked if he had any feelings for her distressing situation. He said if he did he would have mentioned it. I told him how much she missed him. Randy was silent on the other end of the line. I was still waiting for a response when I got a call from someone else, and took it.
On New Year’s Day, after a visit with Mom, I forced myself to drive to the apartment off the Pacific Coast Highway where Randy had been living. He opened the door. A gangsta-style beanie was pulled over his forehead. His white beard touched his chest. As expected, he was wearing a greasy sweatshirt, and he shook. His hands shook. His head shook. His whole body shook. When we sat down, I looked at the filthy floor in front of the love seat he slept on. The Monterey coffee table I’d given him years before was piled high with photographs, paint, brushes, and hundreds of magazines. The entire room was a gallery of collages he’d Scotch Taped, hammered, and glued to the walls. They also lined the floor, in stacks that reached the ceiling. As in the old Tangerine Street days, he even stored them inside his oven. Coffee cups filled with chewing tobacco rested on the arm of every chair. When I took note of a pink background framing a woman whose eyes had become pins, her mouth spewing out hypodermic needles, I could see clearly that he took the art of collaging very far.