Her Beautiful Brain Read online

  Her Beautiful Brain

  Copyright © 2014 by Ann Hedreen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-938314-92-6

  e-ISBN: 978-1-938314-93-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014934292

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  There are as many versions of every family’s history as there are family members. This is mine. Some names of people and places have been changed.

  I WANT TO BE STRONG

  Words and music by Glenn Close and Kathe Jennifer Green

  Published by Sobel Global Music o/b/o Up With People

  All rights reserved. Used by permission

  IN THE MIDDLE OF IT ALL

  Words and music by Arthur Alexander

  © 1962 (Renewed 1990) TEMI COMBINE, INC.

  All rights controlled by COMBINE MUSIC CORP. and administered by EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission

  Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

  To my husband, Rustin

  And my mother, Arlene

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: Typing Class

  In Haiti

  Tonight, Tonight

  The Tennis Club

  A Hundred Christmases

  Sisu

  The Madrona House

  The Troubles

  Gero Psych

  John the Divine

  If, If, If

  The Helsinki Yacht Club

  Northern House

  Epilogue: Light She Was

  Prologue: Typing Class

  I had a new nightmare: I was suffocating in the giant breasts of Miss Weis, as she surrounded me and contorted my fingers into unnatural positions and—from just next to my ear—yelled her commands to the class. “Ready, go! The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Faster! The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Faster! The quick brown fox …”

  Louder and louder she shouted, as I struggled for breath, trapped inside her titanic bosom. Gone were the old dreams of giant spiders under my bed or my braces being tightened by a plumber’s wrench. Miss Weis now reigned supreme over my nights, screaming about the quick brown fox and the lazy dog, predicting my doomed future: unable to get a good secretarial job, I would wander the earth in search of work as a waitress, a maid, a janitor.

  It was 1969. I was twelve years old. Fall semester, eighth grade, Nathan Eckstein Junior High School, Seattle, Washington. I had no future because I could not type.

  Ah, Miss Weis! You saw my clumsy fingers and you feared for me. You sized up my pointy tortoise-shell glasses and my mouth full of braces and yes, you feared for me. You knew that girls like me had to learn to type. You knew that all that noise about times allegedly a-changin’ was just that, noise, and that your mission was to form the fingers of vulnerable girls, to train their hands, before their heads got all filled up with all this new noise about college and careers and, God forbid, Women’s Lib.

  Ah, Miss Weis. You gave me my first C. Maybe you grieved for me a little as you noted it in your ledger. But then you moved on to the next semester: six more class periods, thirty students per period. A few boys, but you ignored them, those lazy dogs, because you knew they didn’t need you. The girls needed you.

  And I moved on too, like a quick brown fox, running as fast as I could from the future as envisioned by Miss Weis.

  And the times, they did change. Fancy east coast colleges decided they wanted geographic diversity and public school kids, and Wellesley College gave me a scholarship.

  And typewriters changed too. Correct-tape was invented, thank the Lord. Electric typewriters were now affordable, and Mom gave me a little blue Royal as a high school graduation present. And, just as Miss Weis had predicted, typing kept my body and soul together. I typed all of one summer at my grandfather’s insurance company, convinced I was going crazy. But by the end of that summer I was able to type faster than I could think. At college, I typed other girls’ papers for cash. After college, my first job title was “secretary” at a Boston publishing company, where I was given charge of my very own Queen of All Typewriters, the IBM Selectric. Miss Weis would have been astounded by the speeds I reached: sixty, seventy, 100 words per minute. Fingers flying, hands properly arched, off I went, typing my way into adulthood.

  Just as my mom had, a quarter century earlier. Divorced, with two small children and one year at the University of Montana, it was her typing and her math skills that got her in the door at a life insurance company.

  When I was twenty-one and in that first job, smarting a little every time I saw the word “secretary” next to my freshly graduated name, there was a part of me that felt defeated by the world, by the fact that I was doing exactly what my mother had done to stay alive, back in the dark ages of the early fifties. There was a part of me that felt ashamed for having taken the Little, Brown personnel director at her word when she explained that “all of our young women start as secretaries, while our young men start as sales reps.” It was 1978. I should have stormed out of the office. Many of my Wellesley classmates would have. But I was paying my own rent, and I was being offered a job in publishing, and I took it. And though it wasn’t right or fair that it was the ONLY start offered me by personnel director Cindy Cool, it was a start.

  A start I never would have gotten without Miss Weis and her metronome and her quick brown fox.

  Fast-forward thirty-plus years, and my husband and I are walking around a little building in south Seattle called the Telephone Museum. We are there because we’re making a documentary film about Alzheimer’s disease, which has been hard at work destroying my mom’s brain for at least a decade. We’re looking for visual metaphors and they are everywhere: colorful tangles of cables, rows of big black switches with labels like Data and Memory. Then we see an old Teletype machine. We both spent most of the 1980s in newsrooms, so a Teletype evokes a visceral reaction for us, a cascade of all the events we first saw in staccato type beating down on rolls of newsprint: John Lennon murdered. Challenger exploded. Grenada invaded.

  “Could you turn it on?” we ask.

  “Sure,” our guide, a retired phone company lifer, responds. The machine, which is the size of a snowmobile, hums to life. Then he presses the red Test button and the beautiful clacking begins, and we see the test sentence: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” Carriage return, repeat. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” Return, repeat. Over and over again, in twelve-point Courier type. We are hypnotized.

  “Could you make it screw up?” my husband asks.

  We watch as our guide hits “repeat” before the full test line is typed. The keys falter and jam. He does it again and then again. Soon, there’s a pileup of a dozen keys and a black blot of text on newsprint.

  Quick Brown Fox becomes the title of our film.

  It wasn’t obvious enough, we were told. It will hurt sales. And maybe it did. But we stuck by it. The sight of the keys jamming on an old Teletype said everything we needed to say in one image about Alzheimer’s disease.

  And it said more. For all the generations of women who typed to f
eed their children, to get through college, to survive, the words Quick Brown Fox said struggle and survival. They said that this life does not deserve to end in the jammed keys and black ink of Alzheimer’s disease.

  Computers have put the secretaries and the Miss Weises of the world out of a job. Now, executives bend their groomed fingers around smart phones and our children type faster than we do.

  But these are boom times for Alzheimer’s disease.

  My mother was seventy-four when she died after nearly two decades of first knowing that “something was going wrong” and then knowing that she had Alzheimer’s disease. She had always planned to write her own story. Instead, her life ended wordlessly, all connections between brain and speech finally severed. Not for lack of trying: she had labored mightily to keep communicating, in English, then gibberish, then smiles and hums, just as she had tried to keep walking, feeding herself, focusing on a photo or a face, until it was as utterly impossible for her as turning on the TV when the power’s out. No current means no current: you can’t blow on it like a little bit of kindling and paper and make it spark.

  Mom’s last years were her own version of the Miss Weis nightmare, though she was suffocated not by giant breasts but by plaques and tangles that made her efforts to write or speak as useless as typing and typing while the keys tripped and jammed, the letters melting into a black puddle, the paper itself tearing from the weight of the pooling ink, nothing she wanted to say ever getting said. Her Alzheimer’s disease was not a blank page; it was a sticky swamp.

  I want to tell the story that I think she wanted to tell. It’s her story, but it’s mine too. The film we made was the first step. Now, I am sitting down at the keyboard to type. To write all that we couldn’t say in the film. At least, thanks to Miss Weis, I know my fingers can keep up.

  In Haiti

  Twenty-three years have passed, but I can still picture my mother stepping off the plane in Port-au-Prince, her silver hair blasted by the hot Haitian wind, her nose taking in for the first time the tangled smells of overripe mangoes, a million cooking fires, rivers of sewage; the humidity triggering a tidal surge of her own sweat the likes of which she’s never experienced in her temperate life. I can see her walking with the crowd from the plane, everyone around her yelling, frantically trying to find each other, find their luggage, get going, in a language she had thought would sound more like French.

  She’s traveling alone. She hasn’t told me, or anyone, that she thinks something might be wrong with her brain.

  This was my mom, Arlene Marie Grundstrom Lind Hedreen Tocantins, on the afternoon of March 31, 1987. She was fifty-six years old. Two decades later, she’s gone, fully erased at last by the plaques and tangles that were already, on that spring afternoon in Haiti, wrapping tendrils around her neurons, like morning glory vines quietly going to work on a garden.

  The passport in her hand that day was still shiny blue because she had only used it a few times in her life. But her youngest child of six, my baby sister Caroline, was in the Peace Corps, and Mom had promised she’d visit.

  I had been in Port-au-Prince for two days when she arrived. I was a TV news producer for the CBS station in Seattle and I was producing a series of stories on Peace Corps volunteers in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Caroline had given me the idea when she mentioned in a letter written during her fall training in Washington, D.C. that a surprising number of volunteers from Washington State had been assigned to Caribbean countries.

  I knew that Haiti was the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere because I’d been doing my homework. But I thought I was pretty worldly because I had lived in England for two years, one as a student and one as a waitress, and traveled Europe on the cheap. I was looking forward to finding real croissants and café au lait in Port-au-Prince, maybe flexing a little French. I was beside myself with excitement at being out of the newsroom for two whole weeks.

  I had just turned thirty and I had been officially divorced for less than a month. Traveling with me was my new boyfriend, Rus (short for Rustin), who, to the annoyance of some of the older guys, was getting a reputation as one of the best cameramen at our Seattle station. He was good-looking, too, in a young Tom Selleck way. Some people thought he was arrogant but that’s because they didn’t know him like I did; they didn’t know that deep down, he was a class-clown movie geek who had escaped a blue-collar high school for the University of Washington. I had just spent the most romantic working week ever with Rus in the Dominican Republic and I couldn’t wait to introduce him to my sister.

  That was me in the spring of 1987: in the full, selfish, glorious bloom of new love, topped off by the thrill of the biggest break yet in my working life. Looking forward to dipping croissants and interviewing Peace Corps workers and hanging out with my sister, barely thinking about the fact that my mom would be there, too. Still kicking myself for not checking her schedule, for not realizing that the only week that Mom, a high school teacher, could make her big trip to Haiti happened to be the very same week that Rus and I would be there.

  Haiti, in the spring of 1987, was also in the bloom of love: a torrid and turbulent infatuation with democracy. On the very day Rus and I arrived, March 29, 1987, Haitians had lined up at dawn to ratify their new constitution in the first free and fair election in the republic’s history. Their hated dictator, “Baby Doc” Duvalier, had been banished for more than a year. People wore T-shirts proclaiming “Haiti Libérée 3 Février 1986,” which was the day Duvalier was put on a plane to France. The flights coming in from Miami to Port-au-Prince were packed with well-to-do Haitians returning home with TVs and coffeemakers, their little girls in dresses that looked like wedding cakes and their little boys in tiny suits.

  A white couple who resembled my southern, golf-loving former in-laws stood behind us in the passport line. They heard us talking about where to stay: the Peace Corps had not reserved anything for us, as they had in the D.R., so we were winging it. The only hotel we had heard of was the Hotel Oloffson, the setting for Graham Greene’s novel, The Comedians.

  “Excuse me,” said the golf-skirted woman, in a sweet Dixie voice. “I can’t help but overhear you. I believe the Oloffson is closed for repairs.” She spoke calmly, as if she often had to guide people like us through their first hours in Haiti. “It’s going to be hard for you to find a place, what with the election and all. Why don’t you stay in our company’s apartment at the Hotel Montana? We’re with Stride Rite Shoes and we keep a guest apartment at the Montana. It’s really the best place to stay. The safest, on a day like this.”

  She insisted. We looked at our cases of TV gear and agreed. Soon, we were following her swaying skirt to her four-wheel-drive Montero and then listening from the back seat as she narrated while her husband drove the car a few feet at a time through the post-election throngs of Port-au-Prince.

  Stride Rite had a shoe factory in Haiti and her husband had run it for ten years. They lived in Pétionville, a suburb of Port-au-Prince, which she said was the nicest place to live because it was up in the hills and not so hot.

  Outside our windows, the streets were becoming more and more jammed, the few cars and trucks swimming upstream in a river of people, wave upon wave of brown and black faces, their heads piled high with bobbing stacks of clothing and bags of rice and beans and baskets full of fruit or peanuts or live chickens; all the women wearing head scarves, some bright or white but most old and faded. The smells were of smoke and sewage and dozens of less identifiable aromas: Spoiling meat? Exotic flowers? The sounds were of vendors calling urgently, as if to make up for the time they’d lost that morning casting their votes, and the unmuffled motors and bleating horns of the tap-taps, trucks jammed with people and brightly painted with curlicues and flowers and saints and slogan-like names in Kreyol or French or English: “Baby Jesus Deliver Us,” “Merci Bon Dieu.”

  I sat in the back seat, feeling awed and amazed and profoundly embarrassed: for not having understood the importance of the election, for
having thought there would be cafés with croissants, for having craved any such thing. For having been lulled by the relative luxuries of the D.R.—where the Peace Corps had been operating for twenty-five years and could afford to assign someone to take care of our needs full-time for a week—into thinking Haiti would be more of the same.

  Embarrassed, yes, but humbly on fire, too—with the fervent thrill of being in a place that I could see was unlike anywhere I’d ever been. And I was there with Rus. Whatever Haiti had in store for us, we would stumble through it together. Look at what had just happened: we’d been offered a ride and a place to stay!

  It was hard to imagine Mom arriving in just a few days and having to jump into the bedlam of post-election Port-au-Prince: Mom, who had lately been oddly distracted, self-absorbed, even, as if the minutiae of her life—papers to grade, tennis to schedule, bills to pay—was so preoccupying that she couldn’t retain any details about the lives of her six grownup children, let alone their spouses or new boyfriends.

  The crowds thinned as we climbed up and up, out of the city and into Pétionville, where the streets were paved with river rocks in hand-laid patterns and shaded with unfamiliar trees. At the end of a lane on the highest hill stood the Hotel Montana, a white stucco palace with an electronic gate that swung open as we approached. When we pulled in, the sunset was streaking the sky like a smashed papaya mixed with soot. Far below, cooking fires and a few weak streetlights dotted the city, tiny fireflies of light compared to what you’d see from a hillside above any North American or European city. An encouraging smell of grilled meat drifted from the hotel restaurant.

  The Stride Rites handed over the key and refused any payment. “We’re so happy to help,” Mrs. Stride Rite said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to open up the company apartment to two total strangers. “Haiti needs all the good publicity she can get. We’re thrilled that the Peace Corps is here now and that you’re doing your story.”