Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter
Page 24
“Good. It was nice to get away from Mom for a month,” she joked.
“I’m sure. But I’m serious. How are you really feeling?”
“Good and awful. It sucks. I don’t know,” she said.
“I’m sorry. But you are doing the right thing,” I tried. “I’m sure it sucks. But I think you’re really brave and tough. Hey, if we survived Mom, we can survive anything, right?”
Tiffany and Dad focused on getting healthy, working out, and eating right. They shopped at the grocery store together and tried to occupy her time and mind with better living.
But then I heard from Dad that she and Mom were at each other’s throats again, with Mom harping on Tiffany about getting a job. Mom was right, it would make her feel better to get some validation in the real world, but she had a spotty track record, which made it hard to land a job. Tiffany admitted finally that she’d been fired more than once for drinking at work or coming back from lunch inebriated.
Only a few months later Mom called me to say she’d found a liquor bottle in the back of Tiffany’s car. So she’d taken her car away, as if Tiffany were an errant teenager. Dad decided to stop drinking and ban alcohol from the house, but that didn’t work either. Mom discovered more bottles under the sink, and Tiffany went back to rehab.
Dad thought he could spend all his time watching her, but Mom started to wonder if her behavior was out of their control. For once, I worried that Mom was right.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two months after we returned from our honeymoon, Wray landed a new private equity job at a growing fund outside San Francisco. I had had no intention of moving back to California, ever. But he felt like this was an offer he couldn’t pass up. And my contract with the local CBS station in Connecticut was about to expire, so the stars seemed to be aligning for the move.
There were plenty of reporting jobs in San Francisco. And I rationalized that the Bay Area wasn’t L.A. Moving back west rattled my nerves, but I’d always believed San Francisco was the most magical city in the country. The fog cast a fairy-tale haze over the ornate Victorian homes stacked like stairs up the steep winding streets, the trolley cars rattling along tracks in front of them.
We rented an apartment on Telegraph Hill, in the shadow of Coit Tower, the solid concrete tribute to Art Deco that looms high on the hill overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf. We had an unobstructed view of the icy, deep blue waters that surround Alcatraz, and the red metal and wire engineering feat that is the Golden Gate Bridge.
Our apartment took up the entire top floor of the building. It had a roof deck and skylights that let in the barking of the sea lions below as their calls cut through the crisp morning air.
It was serenity, a postcard-perfect San Francisco home.
So my family drove up for a visit.
“We’re almost there. Tell me again where you are,” Dad said into the phone.
“We’re at the very end of Chestnut Street, right under Coit Tower. Chestnut dead-ends on our block into a hill. There’s a staircase that takes you down to the wharf, but if you find yourself down by the wharf in the car, you’re on the wrong part of Chestnut,” I said.
“Turn here! Are we going back over the bridge?” Mom snapped at Dad in the background.
“Just follow the house numbers, we’re 321. You can park on the street in front of the building or on the left side of the driveway. Or the sidewalk. Everyone parks on the sidewalk here,” I said, adjusting the shutters.
“Okay. See you in a second,” he said, fumbling with the phone.
I adjusted the blue and white throw pillows on the couch one more time and sat down. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to face the whole team at once. I wondered how long the tornado that was my family would swirl through town before moving on. They never set a firm departure date for any visit, especially when they drove. They loved to fly by the seats of their pants.
I could handle each family member individually and find an activity that would pass the time pain-free. Dad wanted to walk around leisurely and look at the city. He’d lived in San Francisco as a bachelor and thought it was the greatest city on earth. He reveled in walking tours of his old haunts. He’d listed half a dozen places he wanted to go back to, and to me, that sounded like a blast.
Mom liked to go out for coffee and cake, or drive around looking at houses, stopping at a store here and there. Marilyn was along for the ride as well. During half my life, Mom and Marilyn had been inseparable. The other half, they hadn’t been speaking because Mom had flown into one of a hundred unpredictable huffs and cut her sister out of our lives on a whim. She’d call Marilyn six months later, as if nothing had happened, and Marilyn would just quietly take her back. Dad told me they were in another joined-at-the-hip phase. I knew that could inadvertently divide the group into teams.
I realized I didn’t know what Tiffany liked to do anymore. She was in a sober phase, but I had warned Dad that cutting alcohol out of her life was probably only the first step in the rehab process. Once that problem had been dealt with, I suspected the real work would need to begin. Some deeper unhappiness or instability kept pushing her to self-medicate.
Mom, Dad, Tiffany and Marilyn stumbled into the apartment, refugees from the long car ride.
“It took us six and a half hours, because Mom and Marilyn insisted on stopping at that cattle ranch for lunch,” Dad muttered after crossing the threshold. He walked directly to the window and stared out into the endless blue waters. “Wow! That’s some view.”
He smiled with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his Levi’s, K-Swiss sneakers white as ever, blue and white button-down shirt pressed but untucked after the long journey.
Tiffany schlepped up next. She had a harder time getting up the stairs, breathing heavily once she entered. She ran her hand nervously through the top of her hair, which was longer than ever.
Mom and Marilyn lagged behind her by a mile, entering like bookends in black slacks and cardigan sweaters, sunglasses pushed up on top of their heads. Marilyn was carrying her trademark black leather shoulder bag, stuffed to the gills with everything you would possibly need if you thought you might never go home again.
“I’m sorry it’s so many stairs. But look! It’s worth it,” I made a sweeping gesture toward the 180-degree view, like Vanna White.
“Have a seat on the couch. Do you guys want some water?” I asked.
Tiffany and Mom collapsed on the couch. Marilyn took the armchair facing the windows.
“This is quite a place, Miss Melissa,” Marilyn said.
“God, I’m carsick. Between your father’s driving and the streets,” Mom complained.
“Dad’s driving is fine,” Tiffany said.
Dad stood at the window, lost in the view.
“Where’s my boyfriend, Wray?” Mom said.
“He’s at work. I was able to get the day off. But he’ll join us for dinner. I hope. You never know with this job,” I said.
“Your furniture looks nice here. Is this all from New York? What’s new?” Marilyn asked.
I explained that the big, floor-to-ceiling mirror hanging behind the dining table came from a little frame shop on Union Street. I was describing the vintage shop so it took a few moments for me to realize that Tiffany wasn’t playing around.
Her arm had shot up to her chest at an angle, her fingers extended, rigid as steel. Her face froze in a pained expression, her mouth caught in a frown, as she slid off the couch and convulsed.
I watched, paralyzed, as Mom screamed for Dad to help, and Dad moved quickly to Tiffany’s side on the floor.
After several long seconds, the convulsions just stopped, and she quieted. Her eyelids fluttered as if she were waking from a spell, but she wasn’t getting up from the floor.
“Stay there! Just lie there. Can you hear me?” Dad said, trying to sound calm. “Call 9-1-1!”
He hovered over Tiffany on the floor. Mom panted with fear, as Marilyn began to cry. I scrambled to my phone and dialed.
The paramedics arrived within minutes. I heard the sirens outside the window and ran down the four flights to show them where to go.
“Over here, up the stairs!” I shouted, before darting back up the stairs ahead of the two muscle-bound men in blue uniforms. They charged up the stairs, carrying either end of a gurney.
When we reached the top, I led them into the living room.
“What happened?” the paramedic in front asked.
“She had a seizure,” Dad responded.
I had no idea what name to put to the terrifying event I’d just witnessed. But my father did.
“Do you take any medication?” the paramedic asked Tiffany.
“No,” Dad answered.
The paramedics didn’t look at him, wanting to hear from my sister. “Can you hear me?” one paramedic said to her.
“Yes,” she responded softly, tears still running down the side of her face.
I ran into the guest bedroom near the living room and got a small pillow, which the second paramedic took from my hands.
“Do you feel like I can lift your head a little? This will make you more comfortable.” She mumbled assent as he slipped the pillow under her head.
“Are you on any medications?” the first paramedic asked again.
“No,” she said.
“Have you been drinking any alcohol?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Any illegal drugs?” he continued.
“No,” she said.
“Are you prone to seizures?” he asked.
“No. This happened once before though,” Dad said.
They checked her vital signs and eventually helped her move up to the couch. Mom and I stepped back, hovering but trying to give them more space to work. Dad stayed by Tiffany’s side.
The paramedics checked her vital signs, asked more questions, and found nothing alarming. Eventually they offered to take her to the hospital for observation, but Tiffany declined, since the trauma seemed to have passed.
The paramedics gathered their equipment. I followed them to the door to show them out.
“Thank you,” I said.
“This is pretty normal for someone who is detoxing. She said she’s been in rehab recently. Just keep a close eye on her. Take it slow,” the first paramedic advised.
I closed the door behind them, heaving a sigh of relief. I looked over at Tiffany, who still looked shaky but was sitting up. What might have started out as a run-of-the-mill rebellion for Tiffany had now done real physical damage.
“So this happened before?” I asked Dad as we walked out onto the roof deck.
Tiffany had gone into the guest bedroom to lie down. Mom was watching television in the living room with Marilyn. They were whispering to each other and shaking their heads. Dad and I had decided to go up on the roof deck so Dad could smoke.
There was no railing around the perimeter of the deck, which made me feel like the slightest breeze could push me over the edge to my death. From where we stood, we had a staggering 360-degree view of one of the most gorgeous scenes in America, from the swarms of tourists buzzing through the shops of Fisherman’s Wharf straight in front of us, to the Golden Gate Bridge slicing through the clouds to the northwest, to the high-priced homes that perched in judgment atop Russian Hill behind us.
Dad took a drag from his cigarette as his eyes slowly moved across the landscape.
“God, I think I could live up on this roof. It’s so peaceful,” he said wistfully.
I felt for him. I knew it cut through his heart to watch Tiffany struggle like this. He saw himself as a man who could solve problems, though he tended to wait until the house had almost burned to the ground before he went looking for a bucket.
“This happened in rehab at New House, in Ventura. They called and told us afterward. They said it was pretty normal when your body is used to a steady diet of alcohol and you suddenly stop drinking. She’s got other problems too. With her pancreas. She’s done a lot of damage to her body,” he said, taking another drag.
This news was a lot to take in. I knew plenty of people who seemed to drink gallons of vodka or liquor or whatever and lived long lives. How could my sister have done such serious damage to her body when she was barely thirty? Even if she had, I still wondered if the real problem was in her head, not her body. I felt like the older she got, the more volatile her moods had become.
“But have they looked at anything else?” I asked.
“What do you mean? Besides her pancreas?” he said.
“No. I mean . . . I was looking at stuff online, and on WebMD. Do you think she’s bipolar?” I ventured.
“What does that mean?” he asked, flicking the ashes of his cigarette away from me, where they fluttered through the air before landing on the rooftop, blending in with the tarpaper beyond the edge of the deck.
I had been thinking about this since Tiffany had gone into rehab, and wondered how to bring it up with either of my parents.
“Well, it means she has sort of pronounced highs and lows. Lots of energy, and then none,” I explained.
“That’s the alcohol,” Dad said.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I thought about that. But when I think about the way she acts, the way she’s always acted. Really happy, or really agitated, like wired, frantic. Then other times, so depressed. Totally drained.”
“That doesn’t sound like Tiffany,” he said quickly.
“Seriously?” I replied. I took a breath and eased back before continuing. “Didn’t you tell me she got up in the middle of the night? You heard all these pots and pans crashing because she was cleaning out the kitchen and cooking all this food at like three in the morning? Turned the entire place upside down? One night, not too long before the wedding,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem like she goes from jumping out of her skin to lifelessly depressed?”
“I don’t know. Most of her problems have to do with Mom riding her all the time. If Mom could lay off, Tiffany could relax. I could relax. Hell, you escaped. Ran away.” He laughed.
I smiled, accepting the jab.
“I think I need to get her away from Mom,” he said, staring off into the distance.
“Yes, Mom makes it worse for sure. They are like oil and water. But I’m not sure Mom’s the root of the problem. I think Tiffany needs therapy and medication to beat a chemical imbalance. I’m talking about the kind of thing that’s genetic. Chemical. It’s no one’s fault. If you started there, she might still have a chance at a normal life.”
“I’m not sure your theory is right . . .” He protested.
“Neither am I. Obviously. You’re right. I’m playing amateur therapist because I read too much. So ask a professional. I’m sure there are tests or evaluations that can help.”
He didn’t respond.
“What if a medication could do half the work for her? How great would that be?” I pressed.
He raised his eyebrows and nodded, dragging on the cigarette until it was all but gone. Then he flicked it over the edge of the roof and thrust both his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.
“There’s more going on though,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. You had so much on your plate with you and Wray pulling up stakes and moving out west. And it’s hard to really talk on the phone,” he said, meeting my eye for a second and then returning his eyes to the water line.
“We’re broke,” he said shaking his head. “Mom spent everything. On the house, on the furniture, on silly pillows and fancy dishes, stupid fucking tchotchkes, on the wedding . . . on whatever!” He rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in disbelief.
“I’m making money,” he continued, “but I had no idea of the size of the bills she was racking up. I mean, it’s a mountain. Now there are medical bills for Tiffany piling up on top of everything.” He pa
used, letting it sink in.
I had heard him talk like this a few times while I was growing up, but he was always ready with a solution.
“I don’t see any way to get ahead of it. We can’t use the house as a piggy bank like we did when this happened before, refinancing and taking equity out to pay the bills. The math on that doesn’t work now because the new house is worth too damn much, and we already owe a lot. Even if we qualify for another loan, we can’t make a bigger payment,” he explained.
“So what’s the answer? What does that mean?” I asked. My mind was racing to a solution, and I could only see one.
“We have to sell the house, cash out. Pay off the loan, pay off the other debt, downsize. Take what’s left, find another place to live, and live within our means. For once!” he said, nostrils flaring.
“It’s hard to imagine Mom doing that,” I said, rubbing my forehead and temples.
The news of my parents’ financial straits coupled with Tiffany’s seizure was too much crisis for me to handle in one day. A migraine was blooming quickly and I could see the spots starting to form in my line of vision.
“Ha! What do you think Mom said?” Dad asked scornfully. “It’s my fault. I’m not working hard enough, I should be making more money. Tiffany should be working. Everyone but her, right? Have you ever noticed that Mom has never had a job in your lifetime?” he cracked.
“Yes, in fact, I have noticed that. She always said she would scrub floors to take care of us if need be, but I don’t think I ever saw her clean a floor, or much of anything else, the whole time I was growing up. She’d call the housekeeper,” I replied with a laugh.
Dad laughed too, welcoming a break in the continuing flow of bad news. “Right, well, to be fair, she drove you to all those auditions. Sat on the set and taught you your lines. She’s not qualified to do anything now. She didn’t go to college. Who would hire her?”
“So she can’t work as a receptionist at a doctor’s office? She can’t work in retail? She can’t work at Nordstrom’s? She can’t file at some office? I don’t buy it,” I said.