All the Best,
Hillary
Randy fell in love with Hillary. One of the poems he wrote at Belmont is titled “Lady H.”:
I like the nature of Hillary, her forward Ho! Lady H. is my Island. I sail in her direction. Hell-o my curvaceous colors of a rainbow. I only hope my words touch her essence and speak gently. She is harmony in every move she makes. I want to waltz in her shadow, humming like a comet between the open spaces of unknown planets.
CHAPTER 13
FOSTER’S FREEZE
Randy and I began to develop a weekend ritual. Down the block and across the street from Belmont was a Foster’s Freeze, home to our very favorite soft-serve vanilla cone with nuts on top. Once we had them in our hands, we’d get into my car and tool around Burbank, looking for a neighborhood we wanted to explore. Much to my surprise, Randy would often lead the way. “You know, my work has gotten better, Diane, mainly because I’ve been forced to deal with people. Before, I was in my own one-sided world. Now I’m seeing the other side. Whether I like Belmont or not, I’m learning.”
One Sunday, we passed a church where people were exiting in their Sunday best. Randy hated the suits and ties, which he was sure the men had been forced to wear. “You want to know what I believe, Diane? Here’s what I believe: I believe God exists in human art. I believe in our struggle to explain what can’t be explained. I believe people are the essence of beauty brought together by wonder. Living in itself is an act of courage.”
Sometimes, after I parked the car to drop him off, he’d have me come in so he could read one of his recent pieces. “I always thought I would love sitting on a hill overlooking the vast meadow of God’s best creations. I was certain my poetry would take great leaps forward. It didn’t happen, thanks to God’s distractions. Here’s my question to Mr. God: Who will bleach the stars when the heavens go black? Who will wash my socks on the day I die?”
On one Foster’s Freeze outing, we were surprised by a house at Olive Avenue and Ninth Street. Randy wanted to get out of the car and walk around the stone-covered California bungalow, built with what must have been tons of indigenous river rock. According to him, the cozy landmark was a scientific venture into new building practices. As he rambled on, another subject came to mind. “You know, I read about these scientists who worked twenty years in an attempt to find a sign of Pluto, even though there wasn’t any. When they finally found it, no one believed them. They’d spent all those years looking for a planet the size of a sharpened pencil. How could anyone dedicate their lives in search of something that abstract?”
Those weekends of looking without an agenda gave me a glimpse into the wonder of Randy’s imagination. Welcoming every direction on impulse led us in and out of the perimeters of Burbank. Being with him helped me let go of old habits and tired routines. For the first time in years, I began to take in his face. I noticed it was getting better with age, just like Mom’s. Maybe their beauty had been enhanced by the pain they endured, or the depth of their feeling—I don’t know. I do know this: Randy was giving me a path to new perceptions.
* * *
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One day, about to cruise through a new neighborhood after we’d finished our vanilla cones, Randy said, “I’ve been at Belmont for ten years now.”
I laughed, saying, “More like six months, Randy, not ten years.”
“No wonder I’m crazy, I’ve been getting a lot done. In a certain way, Belmont has been nice. I wouldn’t call it home, though. Home is where Mom and Dad are in Laguna Beach.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I miss them, Randy. I miss Mom especially.”
“Mom?” he said. “Mom and Dad are still around, Diane. I know ’cause I talked to them a couple of days ago. I talked to one, then the other, but I didn’t talk to them in unison.”
One of my favorite excursions led us to Valhalla Memorial Park Cemetery, a broken-down resting place to thousands of deceased residents. Wandering through a sea of headstones illustrating photographs of the departed, I couldn’t help but compare it with the National Cemetery in San Francisco, where a sea of white crosses frames the great Pacific Ocean. As we sat on a concrete bench under a drooping oak tree, Randy began a description of an encounter with Brenda, the friendly, unassuming receptionist at Belmont Village.
“Are you ready for this one, Diane? It’s unbelievable. One day, Brenda and I walked into this empty room, and she did something that utterly amazed me. Remember, now, this was Brenda. Anyway, she said, ‘Randy, do you wanna dance?’ I said, ‘Sure.’ So I put my arm around her and we started dancing. There was no music, so I started humming a very pretty song. For the life of me, I can’t think of it now. Anyway, we danced for four or five minutes. When it was over, she looked at me and said, ‘I think I love you.’ The next day, she greeted me at the front desk with ‘Hi, kiddo.’ The romance was off. The following week, she asked me if I wanted to dance again. I think that’s why she fascinates me. She’s truly a puzzle. Now, here’s the tricky part….Brenda doesn’t want me to get near Miriam. As Miriam, Brenda is more matter of fact. She’s Miriam. She’s not some dreamer like Brenda. Can you believe it? They are exactly the same person.”
Not knowing exactly how to respond, I said, “What a great story, Randy. So detailed.” I got up and walked over to get a closer look at an etched granite headstone incorporating a black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired boy with a big smile who had died on July 17, 2005, at the age of seven. It made me think of little Randy’s constant blank-faced smile. As I looked up to see him lumbering toward the broken-down mausoleum, I thought about the insane story he had so flawlessly woven. Did it mean that having dementia opened up new vistas, new perceptions? Randy had never been more content. He’d never been more affectionate, available, and even vulnerable. Was it that he finally felt free to live with people, to be instinctively aware of how lucky he was to have a “Hillary” in his life? But I did know one thing for certain—that for the first time in a long time I looked forward to seeing Randy. I even began to anticipate the weekend visits and what surprises Randy would share with that inimitable mind of his. Our unexpected bond began to grow. Perhaps his highly inventive, newly scattered brain enriched his ability to share feelings and thoughts without impulsively erecting walls that protected him from people.
One Sunday, about a year after Randy had arrived at Belmont, I took the elevator to his third-floor apartment and knocked on the door. Once inside, I noticed that all the collages had been taken off the walls. “Yeah, I took them down. I don’t see myself as a great artist. You know what I want? I want to be part of the unexpected surprise. If I were to take a photograph of a person, I’d want to catch that person out of character. That doesn’t mean looking goofy. It means I’d want to catch him or her when he or she is not being who they pretend they are. I’d like to grasp—‘grasp’ is the right word, right?—anyway, I’d like to be a witness to their unseen beauty.”