The Bridesmaid's Daughter

by Nyna Giles

  When Carolyn woke up from the surgery, she was told that she’d had a baby girl, and hysterectomy.

  She stayed in the hospital for more than a week after the surgery, doing her best to recover. The first few days, she could barely roll over or sit up without help. Her abdomen was black with bruising, and there were thick staples holding her middle together. She had lost so much blood during the surgery that when she finally looked in the mirror it was as if she were staring at her own ghost. When she coughed, the pain was so excruciating she thought her insides would spill out. She wasn’t able to stand up to visit the baby nursery, so the nurses brought me to her bedside. But my mother was so weak, it was hard for her to hold me. Each day, the nurses asked my mother for a name to put on the birth certificate, but Carolyn was too exhausted to decide.

  Malcolm barely came to visit. Carolyn knew he was disappointed. He had been hoping for a boy. She’d even put a little blue blanket with a white ribbon trim in her overnight bag, convinced that she would be able to give him what he wanted. Malcolm may have decided on my sisters’ names but he showed no interest in choosing mine.

  For an entire week, I remained nameless. The nurses felt so bad for me that they spent as much time holding me as they could, and they gave me the nickname Cuddles. Then, the night before my mother left the hospital to go home, she had a dream about a young French girl carrying schoolbooks and wearing a trench coat. My mother decided to give me a French-sounding middle name—Suzanne. My first name would be Nina, meaning “grace.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Nina

  Not long after we returned from our France trip in the spring of 1972, Jill brought home a friend, Marcia, from college. It was a weekday, and I remember I was sitting in the den, watching TV, wearing my yellow and orange pajamas I had picked out to take to France.

  Marcia came into the room and looked at me coolly. “Why are you not in school?” she asked.

  It was a good question, even if I hated the judgment it implied. Why wasn’t I at school? Anyone could see I was healthy! Even my mother believed I had been cured at Lourdes! I was twelve years old, and under Marcia’s cool gaze, I felt ashamed. For the first time, I acknowledged to myself that it was wrong for me to be home all the time.

  Meanwhile, my mother was directing her attention elsewhere, completely preoccupied with Robin, who still wasn’t well. No longer my mother’s primary concern, I seized my opportunity for freedom. Jill was working as a mother’s helper during her summer vacation for a family out in the Hamptons. I decided I wanted to spend as much of the summer as I could at the beach with her.

  Amagansett was about a two-hour drive from our home, but it was as far from my mother as I had ever ventured. Jill was almost twenty and living independently from our parents, working, studying, and with her own social life. To a twelve-year-old, she was impossibly grown-up and independent, with her long, straight brown hair, parted in the middle in curtains, and her stylish clothes. We had a lot of fun that summer. I think Jill knew exactly how restricted my life had been until now, and she felt a responsibility as my elder sister to show me the world. With Jill’s encouragement, I got my own babysitting job, taking care of an eighteen-month-old for a couple who lived nearby. The first day I was terrified. My mother had never encouraged me to have any responsibility whatsoever—homework or even the smallest household chore was considered too strenuous—but Jill kept reassuring me that I could do it. And I did; I took care of that baby, and I did a great job. Next, Jill asked me to help with the newspaper route she had, and soon I was waking up at 4:00 A.M. and delivering papers around the neighborhood. I remember Jill telling me that an independent person could stand on one leg and rest the opposite foot on the other knee. I tried it out, nearly toppling over in the process, but laughing as I finally managed to right myself.

  This was the year my body started to change. Almost overnight, I went from being flat-chested to having small breasts. I had to beg my mother to buy me a training bra. That summer, I borrowed a bikini from Jill to go down to the beach because the white two-piece my mother had purchased for me earlier in the year was already too revealing. After I got paid for my babysitting work, I remember going to a boutique in East Hampton and buying myself a new bikini in pink, navy, and purple.

  The weeks went by in a haze of working, enjoying myself with Jill, and spending time at the beach, until I had been away from my mother for almost a month. On my last day in Amagansett, I remember, we went to the beach for the entire day. The next day, I arrived back at my parents’ house with a bright pink sunburn across my shoulders and back. My mother was furious with Jill for not taking better care of me, but for the first time, I felt defiant. When my mother insisted I stay on the couch covered in Solarcaine, I refused. I didn’t want her to fuss over me anymore. The sunburn would fade, and I would be fine—and besides, it was worth it to stay at the beach all day with Jill.

  * * *

  THAT SEPTEMBER, I started junior high in a new school. I can still remember the outfit I wore for my first day: a white piqué halter top and white cutoff jean shorts, with a tan suede belt with a gold lion buckle given to me by Jill. For the first time, I was actually excited about starting a new school year. I had missed every single day of sixth grade, but seventh grade was going to be different. Students at this junior high came from all over the district, which meant that most of them wouldn’t know me. They had no idea I was the “baby” who had stayed home for most of elementary school because I was sick.

  At junior high, I could start again.

  While most of the kids on their first day at a new school were looking for familiar faces, I was looking for anyone who didn’t know me or my history. I remember looking across the room and noticing a girl at the center of a group of other students. Like me, she was tall and slim and had very long, wavy brown hair. We ended up sitting next to each other. Her name was Diana, and we clicked right away. I started spending as much time as possible with my new friend, often going back to her home after school.

  Diana’s family was so different from mine. Her father was the superintendent at the Cold Spring Harbor High School, and unlike my father, he actually came home each night for dinner. Diana’s mother would bake cookies for us; she was the PTA president and was very involved at school. The family went to church on Sundays, and I went with them more than once, envying the feeling of belonging and acceptance that the services seemed to offer. Even little things at Diana’s house felt new to me. I remember the smell of Herbal Essence shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom. How could a shampoo smell so good? I spent as much time at Diana’s house as I could.

  * * *

  THAT FALL, my mother was still distracted. Robin was in trouble again. My sister had received a call to say that she was under investigation by the welfare department. Robin had been claiming emergency welfare payments since earlier in the year, when she fell sick and had been unable to work and pay her rent. Unfortunately, she had lost her wallet on a visit back to Long Island, and a newspaper reporter had found it. The reporter, seeing that Robin had food stamps and her welfare card alongside her landing card from the trip to France, decided to look into her case. He had called the welfare office asking questions, which triggered an inquiry.

  The reporter returned the wallet to my sister, interviewing her and my mother about what had happened. He told my sister that he was writing a report on how tough it is to live on welfare, but when the article came out that October, it was a very different story. SHE LIVES IN A $100,000 HOME—AND ON WELFARE, the headline read. The article stated that Robin had claimed welfare checks even though she came from a “wealthy” family living in an expensive home and that she had used her welfare money to help fund our trip to France. In the coming days, there were more articles in the paper describing Robin as a “poor little rich girl.” One reporter referred to her as “one of a growing number of young people from middle-class backgrounds who have left the security of their homes to be part of a less certain cultur
e.”

  “I’m being crucified because I’m some politician’s idea of a welfare rip-off,” Robin told a reporter from The Philadelphia Inquirer. At the time she was interviewed, she had just been told that she had to move out of her apartment because her landlord had found out about the scandal and evicted her. The reporter described Robin as “fighting back tears, her long brown hair disheveled.”

  Robin had become a kind of poster child for the dropout generation. Hate mail began arriving at our home. “When I think that any part of the burden of my taxes goes to support things like you,” someone wrote, “I get sick with fear for the future of my country.”

  Robin was now facing possible fraud charges. The truth was that she had lied about her age when she first applied for welfare; she had told the office she was twenty-one when she was actually eighteen so that she would be eligible for help. In her defense, Robin had been sick; she needed the money and didn’t see any other way to get by. She wasn’t receiving any support from our parents, and her frequent illnesses meant she was missing work. Without any guidance or supervision from the adults in her life, my teenage sister was lost.

  My father blamed my mother for what was happening with Robin, and in turn, my mother blamed my father for forcing us to come back from France. Perhaps the only advantage of this period of turmoil at home was that my mother was too busy to worry about me, which meant I was able go to school each day. I got up each morning, got on the bus, and went to classes. After school I went to Diana’s house. I had friends and an actual social life. At the end of the year, Diana was voted “most popular” and I was voted “best dressed.”

  The seventh grade ended up being the only full year of school I completed while in my mother’s care.

  In February 1974, Robin’s welfare case was resolved and she was required to pay the state back the money she had taken. At this point my mother turned her attention back to her youngest child. The school records indicate that Dr. Farley thought I had either pneumonia or the flu followed by possible appendicitis. In April, he signed my application for Special Educational Services, and I started receiving home tutoring again. The notes show I had lessons with Mrs. Ackerman, my English teacher, Mrs. Griffin for math, and Mr. Johnson for science although I can’t recall anything about them. What I do remember is Mr. Finnegan—my young, blond, handsome history teacher—tutoring me while sitting on the edge of my bed. My mother seemed to think it was more important for me to stay in my bed than it was to protect me from having a young male teacher in my bedroom.

  Soon enough, my mother started calling the school to cancel my tutoring sessions, because I was “too sick for the visits.”

  Once again, I was alone in the house on Long Island with my books and my thoughts. My sisters were away. My parents were miserable in their marriage. I was back to watching my soap operas and the TV news three times a day. That summer, President Nixon resigned after the Watergate scandal. I was thirteen years old, about to turn fourteen. I was still a child, but I wasn’t a baby anymore. I knew the old president was a liar and a new president hadn’t even been elected. I was starting to understand that things were very wrong, not only with the world, but right here in my home as well. Although I would never have dared to voice opinions in my father’s presence, I was starting to question him, his beliefs, and most of all his treatment of my mother.

  * * *

  IN THOSE YEARS when I still lived at the house on Long Island, I used to have a recurring dream. In the dream, I was standing in the five-and-dime store in Huntington, not far from our home. There was a cash register right in front of me. I knew my mother was near, but I couldn’t see her. I had the feeling that something was very wrong. I knew I needed to let someone know what was happening, but when I tried to open my mouth to scream, nothing came out. I had no voice—no way of letting anyone know I was in danger. When I woke up from the dream, I was shaking, the cries still trapped in my throat.

  In reality, it was my sister Robin who came to my rescue. Soon after I entered ninth grade in September of 1974, Robin came out to visit us at the house on Long Island. That afternoon, she asked me to take a walk down to the beach so we could talk privately. I took her hand, and we crossed the lawn out to where the inlet gave way to a small crescent of soft beige sand. We sat down, hugging our knees, the breeze sweeping strands of our hair across our faces, looking out across the green-gray waters of the Long Island Sound. In summer, boats would crisscross the waters here, but now that it was fall, we were perfectly alone.

  Robin asked about how I was getting along in this new school year. I told her I was working hard to catch up on the work I’d missed toward the end of eighth grade when I’d been out sick. I explained to Robin that I was miserable at home; our parents were barely speaking to one another.

  My sister listened. And then she turned to me.

  “Nina,” she said, “you know, you were never sick all those years.”

  The meaning of Robin’s words was impossible for me to process in that moment. No one had ever said anything like this to me before! My mother had told me I had internal bleeding. That I had rheumatic fever. She was my mother. Why would she say those things to me if they weren’t true? But at the same time, I knew in my heart that Robin would never lie to me.

  Robin explained that she had talked to Jill and that they both felt I should leave Long Island. Our parents’ marriage was over. They had financial troubles; the Dream House was their only asset. The only way our mother and father could afford to separate was by selling the house, and the only thing that was holding them back was me: they were staying together for my sake.

  “Nina, if you leave now it will be better for everyone,” Robin told me.

  I didn’t question my sister. I knew I needed to leave. If I hadn’t been sick all those years, then my mother had been doing something very wrong keeping me home, and if that was true, then I knew I didn’t want to be around her anymore.

  I had one decision to make: Did I want to live with Robin or with Jill? That day on the beach, Robin and I talked over my options. I could either go to Philadelphia with her or live with Jill in Manhattan. Robin had a live-in boyfriend, Skip, and I felt I didn’t want to be in the way. Jill had graduated from college and could use the help with the rent. Manhattan also seemed like the easier transition; I was familiar with the city, and I would be close enough to still see my friends on Long Island. I decided to go with Jill. In the space of minutes, the decision had been made. I was going to leave home, and this would force our parents to finally separate, something they should have done years ago.

  Together, my sisters and I took charge of our family’s future.

  The next morning at school, in math class, I told Diana the news that I was leaving and moving to New York City. We made a pact that she would come to see me in the city, or I would come out to visit her on Long Island. Our friendship would continue, but with the whole of Manhattan at our disposal.

  Although I remember my excitement at telling Diana my news, I don’t have any recollection of what I said to my parents. My father was so uninvolved in my life that my absence wasn’t going to affect him much; when my sisters presented the plan to him as a fait accompli, he had no objections. What about my mother? Did Robin explain that I was going to leave? I can’t be certain. And although I know I should be able to find a memory of my mother the day I left, it’s a blank. My mother was forty-six years old and watching her youngest child leave home. Her marriage was over; her nest was empty. But as hard as I try, I can’t picture her face as we said good-bye. Perhaps I was so focused on looking ahead of me that I forgot to turn and look back.

  What I do know is that my mother didn’t at any point try to stand in my way. She let me go. I think she knew in her heart that she didn’t have the strength to take care of me anymore, and in her own way, she wanted to do what was right for me. If I went to live with my sister, it would be one less struggle for her to bear, and maybe I would have a chance at a better life.

/>   * * *

  THAT OCTOBER, I started my new life in New York. Jill was twenty-three years old and living in a small studio apartment at Thirty-third and Third Avenue. She’d begun working as a booking agent at the Wilhelmina modeling agency, crossing paths with famous models of the day such as Margaux Hemingway and Pam Dawber. I started at the Rhodes School, a small private school on West Fifty-fourth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Rhodes wasn’t at all elite or academic, and even with my less than perfect school records, I was able to pass the entrance exam. The fees must have been somewhat affordable as well, as my father paid for them using the money that Sherman had left in his will for my education.

  Now that I’d left home, my parents rented out the house on Long Island and began divorce proceedings. My mother went to live with Robin in Philadelphia, while my father moved to Manhattan. He found a fourth-floor apartment in a brownstone on Fifty-third Street near Fifth Avenue, and, soon after, Jill and I moved into a fourth-floor walkup just across the street. The apartment didn’t have a kitchen and needed a lot of work, but we were eager to leave Jill’s tiny studio, and the rent was cheaper on Fifty-third. Our new apartment had long dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling and an old fireplace that no longer worked. Jill and I refinished the floors and painted the walls with a stucco effect. My father built a small bar to give us a kitchen area, and we bought a refrigerator, toaster oven, and hot plate. There was one bedroom, where Jill and I slept on mattresses on the floor. Malcolm paid my share of the rent and, in the beginning at least, gave me sixty dollars a month for food.