“What a true friend does: For one thing they stand up for one, give him counsel, they help him in adversity, they safeguard his reputation, won’t hear ill of him, share his triumphs and ignore his faults.” —L. Ron Hubbard.
* * *
I didn’t want my mother to hear about Charley from someone else. I wanted to tell her about our relationship before the kids and I left for Atlanta to join Charley for rehearsals for Twist. I invited Mom to meet me at the Magnolia Café on Sunset Boulevard. So the church would give her a pass to leave her Sea Org base, I said I wanted to talk to her about getting back on the Bridge. It was off hours, between two and three o’clock, and the lunch crowd had emptied out. I led Mom to a round booth in a corner. We sat down next to each other and I got straight to the point.
“Mom,” I said, “I have something I want to talk about.”
My mother was not the person she had once been. Once she had been a liberal, freethinking, fun-loving, life-of-the-party type. But over the years, I’d watched her turn into a rigid thinker who had given up her values to adopt church values, as we all had. I was well aware she supported the church’s stance on homosexuality, but I didn’t believe that she believed those things, at least not deep down.
Still, I tiptoed.
“Mom,” I said, “I know you’ve heard me talk about my friend Charley and the play we’re working on together.” I saw apprehension in my mother’s expression. Where is this going? What is this about? “Mom,” I said, “I love her. I’m in love with her.” My mother’s face turned a deep shade of red and she burst into tears. She couldn’t stop crying.
My mother had bragged about me since I was a little girl. She was proud of everything I was and everything I did. She talked to her friends about how beautiful and kind and successful I was. I was the best mother, the best insurance agent, the best human rights advocate. Now she was embarrassed by me. It was heartbreaking. I could see it in her face. I told Mom about what had happened with Mary. She was crying too hard to speak. I knew she had to be worried about how having an openly gay child would affect her standing in the church. What would the people in the Sea Org say? Would she be ostracized? Would she be stripped of her post because of her daughter the lesbian?
While she cried, I tried to allay her fears by talking about Charley and all her wonderful qualities, including her business success. I reminded my mother about how unhappily married I’d been, and for how long. Sean had hurt me. He had done terrible things to me that the church did nothing about. “Are you with her because Sean hurt you?” she asked.
“No!” I said. “Mom, this is right, I promise. This is the first time in my life that I’ve felt this way. I’ve never been in love before and I am in love!”
How did I explain to my mother that I could not breathe without Charley? That my every thought included her? I ached to hear her voice, to feel her touch, to just be near her. I felt a magnetic pull that was indescribable; it was as if I had no control over what was happening to the two of us.
Those were all the things I really wanted to say to my mother, but I knew that day was not the day.
Lunch didn’t last long. Mom said she had to get back to the church. It felt strange not being able to connect with my mom. After we parted, I thought about the church’s disconnection policy, which pressured members to break ties with anyone who questioned church dogma. If she were one day told to abandon me, I wondered, would she do it?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Twist
The opening of Twist was set for September. Charley was trying to keep the peace with Maria until she could get back to Atlanta.
Right before she was supposed to leave, she told me there were housekeeping things she had to take care of at the cabin that she and Maria owned together in the San Bernardino Mountains. I worried about her being in such a remote location alone with Maria, who had become increasingly combative as their relationship deteriorated. What if she started a fight? What if she got physical? Who would be around to help Charley?
She assured me that she would be in the mountains for only a day. A crew was coming to repair the dock, which she wanted to oversee. She wouldn’t even stay the night, she said. She’d pack things she needed for Atlanta, meet with the construction crew and drive back to LA. I was overcome with a foreboding and waited for word that she had arrived safely and everything was okay.
About halfway through the day, an e-mail from Charley popped up. “I am having the hardest time being here,” she wrote. “Nothing is right without you near me. I miss you terribly. I cannot wait to see you.” I was so relieved. Thinking it was safe to respond, I e-mailed back, “Only two days until freedom! Stay strong. You are amazing and I love you so much.”
Some time passed and my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but decided to answer anyway, just in case. I heard Charley’s voice whispering frantically.
“Miche! Miche! She knows!”
“Oh my God!” I cried. “How?”
Charley said she had been outside with the contractors when she heard screaming and glass breaking inside. She ran back to the house, where she found Maria gripping her iPad. Glass shattered and liquid flew when Maria threw a flute of champagne at Charley, soaking her face and hair. Maria held up the iPad and screamed at her. “Two days until freedom? Two days until freedom?! What does that mean?!” She grabbed Charley’s cell phone off the kitchen table and threw it and the iPad off the balcony and down the side of the mountain.
“Oh my God, Charley!” I said. “Are you okay? Where are you calling from? Whose phone is this?”
The phone went dead. A few very long minutes later, Charley called again. I could hear Maria screaming in the background.
“Miche,” she whispered, her voice shaking, “I’m hiding in the bedroom. She has a knife. Call 911.” The phone went dead again.
I was panic-stricken. I had finally found the love of my life and now she was going to die? Not if I had anything to say about it.
I dialed 911 and was patched in to the San Bernardino police. I explained a domestic violence incident was taking place and it was urgent that the police get there immediately.
“What is the name?” she asked.
“Charley Harper,” I said.
“And what is the husband’s name?”
“It’s not a husband,” I said, stammering. “She is married to a woman.”
A pause.
“She’s married to a woman?”
“Yes!” I cried. “What difference does that make? Get someone there! Right now!”
“Ma’am,” she said dispassionately, “someone is already on the way . . . and who are you, by the way?”
“I am her friend,” I said.
“Just her friend?” the dispatcher asked.
I was astonished. Charley was in grave danger and this woman was judging us. What was wrong with people?
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I said, and hung up.
I had to get to Charley. I grabbed my purse and told my assistant that I was driving to the mountains. I gave her a brief synopsis of what was taking place. She knew that Charley and I were close friends and she looked concerned.
“It’ll take you two hours to get there!” she said.
“I’m going!” I replied, grabbing my purse, and rushed out to my car.
When I got on the road, I called the CFO of Charley’s company, Bob. He and Charley’s Twist partner were the only people from her circle who knew about us.
“Bob!” I cried. “You are closer than I am. Can you get to the mountain house? Charley’s life is in danger.”
“Oh my God!” he said. “Why? What’s wrong?”
I quickly explained about the fight with Maria. “I’m so scared,” I said.
Bob promised to leave right away. “I’ll call you when I get to her,” he said.
The speedometer on my Bentley read 100 miles per hour as I passed cars on the I-5. Once I hit the 210, traffic was stopped dead. There’s never traffic on the 210. I banged my hand on the steering wheel and tried to think. My love was going to die while I was sitting in traffic! How will I get to her? A helicopter! I thought. I picked up the phone and called my assistant. I was crying.
“Find me a helicopter,” I said. “I don’t care how you do it. Please find it and find it fast.”
She called back within ten minutes with directions to the nearest helicopter hangar, near the airport in Van Nuys.
“It’s ten minutes from where you are and the helicopter is waiting for you,” she said.
As if in some kind of action movie, I ran several red lights and jumped out of my car as soon as I pulled up to the hangar, running to the copter as the rotors went whoosh-whoosh-whoosh over my head.
Flying over the San Bernardino Mountains, I had a moment of calm. It was almost as if God was with me and letting me know that everything would turn out okay.
“Where will I be landing?” I asked the pilot.
“We have to land on the other side of the mountains,” he said.
“So how will I get to the house?” I asked.
“Uh, I don’t know,” he said. “Let me call ahead to see if someone can take you.”
I closed my eyes and prayed. I loved this person so much and I would do anything for her. Please, God, don’t take her from me.
As the helicopter hovered over what looked like a farmer’s field, Bob called. “Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m in a helicopter,” I said.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked.
“Where’s Charley?”
“Charley’s okay,” Bob said. “She’s beaten up, but she’s okay. Don’t come here. The police are here. Charley is refusing to press charges.”
Bob told Charley that I was close by. “She’s going to a hotel. She said to meet her there.” He gave me directions.
“Okay,” I replied. “Thank God she is safe.”
The pilot announced that we were landing. I looked down and saw a farmhouse, but nothing that looked like an airport or a landing strip.
“This is it?” I asked. “This is where we’re landing?”
“Yup, this is it!” he said.
Just as we touched down, I saw an old red pickup truck approaching. Inside were an older woman and a young man I assumed to be her son.
“Are you coming with me?” I asked the pilot.
“Oh no!” he said. “I have to get back before dark.”
“Where to?” the woman asked.
I named the hotel.
She motioned me toward the back of the truck. I climbed up onto the dusty, muddy bed of the pickup and she took off on a winding mountain road. Bob was standing outside the lodge when we got there. I jumped off the back of the truck and dusted off my clothes, as my chauffeurs waved good-bye and screeched out of the parking lot. Bob just shook his head.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“She’s inside,” he said. “Just be calm.”
I walked into the resort and saw Charley standing in the lobby. Her shirt was rumpled and ripped and she was soaked with champagne. She looked tired and defeated. I ran to her and wiped the bloody mascara from her cheek.
Right there in the lodge, in front of strangers, we held each other tightly and I didn’t care who saw.
Charley cried quietly into my shoulder.
“I’m never going to let you go,” I said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Atlanta
During August and September, I spent long weekends in Atlanta with Charley. It was the place we could “play house” without anyone knowing about our pasts. The weeks leading up to the premiere of the play were bliss. Charley would attend rehearsals six days a week. When I was in town, I conducted my business from the theater. I delegated more to my staff than I probably should have, but I kept up with my clients and spoke every other day by phone with Dror about the production company.
I felt truly free in Atlanta. I didn’t have to think about the church, and the people in the city were so progressive and accepting that I felt comfortable being “out.”
I was hopelessly in love. Charley and I spent every minute together and made love before falling asleep in each other’s arms every night. This is the person I want to be with for the rest of my life, I thought. When I brought the kids to stay with us, we went to places like Piedmont Park or the aquarium and we scouted out our favorite Southern food. It felt like family.
Savy liked Charley from the start. She recognized her from walking the dog in our Valencia neighborhood and claimed credit for “finding her” for us. The twins were still too young to grasp what was happening. London seemed to adore Charley, but Jadon was generally more reticent and seemed to be keeping a close eye on her.
Sage was nine—old enough, I thought, to have “the conversation.” I worried if I didn’t tell him early, he’d eventually hear it from his father, and nothing positive would come of that.
I took Sage to a Mexican restaurant, just the two of us. As soon as we sat, I ordered a margarita, hoping it would give me courage. After a sip or two of my drink, I asked, “Sage, how do you feel about Charley?”
“I like her. Why?”
“Do you know what she does?”
“Something with music, right?”
Our meal came and Sage dove into his burrito. My stomach was in knots and I didn’t touch my food.
“I want to have an adult conversation with you now, Sage,” I said. “Are you up for it?”
He looked up from his burrito with a quizzical look on his face.
“I have something important to tell you and I want you to hear me,” I said. “I want you to tell me how it makes you feel. Okay?”
Sage shrugged. “Okay,” he said.
“I’m in love, honey,” I said.
“Oh.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m in love with Charley,” I said, wincing.
My son paused midbite and stared into his plate. I waited for his reaction, which didn’t seem to be coming. Finally, after what felt like an entire afternoon, he swallowed his food, threw his head back and giggled. “This is so embarrassing!” he cried. With that, we both laughed and the ice was broken.
“Look, Sage,” I said. “I know this is different for you, but your dad and I made a mistake being together. The only good that came from our relationship was you and the other kids. Honey, I’m in love for the first time and she loves me too. There is nothing wrong with a woman loving a woman or a man loving a man. It’s love.”
“What will my friends say?” Sage asked sheepishly.
I thought for a moment and remembered when I’d been uncomfortable holding hands with Charley at the hotel in New Orleans. “Honey, let me ask you something,” I said. “Are you embarrassed that you have a brown sister?”
He sat straight up in his seat. “No! Of course not!” he said. “I love Savy!”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “We all do. But there are people who think that us adopting her was wrong. But we weren’t wrong, were we? We are the lucky ones because we understand that our differences make us more loving and compassionate and understanding toward others. Our differences make us better people. If your friends ask, hold your head high because all that matters is family and love, no matter who you love.”
“Okay, Mom,” my son said, sipping his drink. “Can we get dessert?”
* * *
My divorce was final on September 10. Sometimes I couldn’t believe my good luck. My kids were healthy and happy, I was in love and my life insurance business was thriving. We had more clients than we could handle. I left it to Dror to keep me updated on Not Forgotten, and he assured me that sales were on track.
By th
en, Dror was putting his energy into building up Windsor Pictures. We had Twist on our production roster and we’d met with some big hitters about future projects to invest in: Lee Daniels had a movie project called Selma, and Alicia Keys was looking for producing partners for the film The Inevitable Defeat of Mister & Pete, about a couple of kids growing up in the projects of Brooklyn.
Two days before Twist was set to debut at the Alliance Theatre in Atlanta, I flew in Celeste and Monica to help with the out-of-town guests who were coming for the opening. Celeste had pushed to be there. She said she didn’t think Monica could handle the arrangements alone. I agreed that she should come along. I wanted everything to turn out perfectly.
From the moment Celeste landed, she began taking photographs with a camera I had purchased for the trip. It seemed excessive. At first, I thought it was just her excitement over being in a new place. But after a while I began to notice she was usually focusing the camera on Charley and me. When I asked her about it, Celeste said she just wanted to document everything about the opening. I didn’t give it much thought. Until Charley expressed her concern.
“Miche,” she said, one evening as we were preparing for bed. “Celeste is making me very uncomfortable. She is always in our face taking pictures, and it doesn’t feel right. Something is up with that girl and I don’t like it.”
I told her I thought she was overreacting, but considering what had happened with Mary Mauser, I wondered. I promised to talk to Celeste again.
At breakfast the following morning, Charley and I were sitting next to each other, each of us checking our e-mails, when I looked up and saw Celeste aiming her camera at us. Click click. Click click. Click click. Charley was furious. She put down her phone, slammed her reading glasses on the table and looked squarely at Celeste. “Get that camera out of my face,” she insisted. “Why are you taking all these pictures of us? It’s very strange. Now put it away.”
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