The Bridesmaid's Daughter

by Nyna Giles

  From the minute I arrived, I loved New York. For the first time in my life, I felt free to come and go as I pleased. Each day, I walked to school along Fifth Avenue, a distance of exactly one block. Right below the apartment, there was a little hamburger place where I’d stop for a burger whenever I had the money. On the weekends, Jill and I often went out together. She’d take me to the nearby Hilton Hotel for drinks with her friends; then we’d go to a disco where they didn’t check IDs, where we could order white wine spritzers and dance the Hustle. Everyone in Jill’s group was kind to me, the little sister. When we had money to spare, which wasn’t often, we’d go downtown to Orchard Street or the Village, where Jill’s model friends told us we could get great deals. I remember buying blue bell-bottom jeans at the new Fiorucci emporium after it opened, right around the corner from Bloomingdale’s.

  I was learning on my feet, racing to educate myself, to grow up, all the time trying to leave my childhood behind me. Away from my mother, I never missed a day of school. I loved Rhodes and was eager to make up for lost time. My lack of education had taught me to listen carefully, to follow others, to learn by emulating what I saw around me. By the end of the year, I was getting straight A’s in Spanish, social studies, algebra—nearly all of my classes. I even made the honor roll. I wanted to succeed. I didn’t want to miss out on anything. I would have gone to school with a 102-degree fever if that was what it took. After school, I did my homework. Jill bought a vocabulary-building book—30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary—and we would read it together. I remember looking in the book and learning the meaning of the word “altruism”: “the unselfish regard for or devotion to the welfare of others.” This made such an impression on me: that a whole philosophy of life could be contained in a single word.

  In my rush to escape from my parents and their influence, I attached myself to anyone who could give me the stability and structure that they’d been unable to provide. Chendo Perez was a grade ahead of me at the Rhodes School. He was tall and good-looking, with dark eyes and wavy brown hair. We connected with a teenage intensity that convinced both of us we’d be together forever.

  Chendo’s family lived in a small house in Queens with a tiny kitchen that was the hub of the home—the place where the entire family gathered, talking over one another in Spanish, making food, breaking bread. Chendo was born in Cuba, where his parents had been wealthy jewelers, but when Fidel Castro came to power, they were forced to leave. Now his father ran a jewelry business on Forty-seventh Street in the Diamond District, while his mother stayed home to take care of the family. There was no tension between Chendo’s parents, just a sense of pride for the life they had built together in a new land. Marina, the mother, had a kind of fierce love for her three children. She was so connected to her son and two daughters, always talking, hugging, encouraging, laughing with them; this was the complete opposite of my own silent, withdrawn, and withholding mother. I had never learned how to cook, so Marina taught me how to make picadillo (a Cuban dish made from ground beef, onions, and peppers) and frijoles negros (black beans) and rice in a pressure cooker. Chendo’s sisters, Marina and Marta, were so young and innocent, guided and protected by their strict parents, something I had never experienced in my own childhood. The Perez family embraced me, took care of me, and showed me what a happy, functioning family looks like. Yes, I’d fallen in love with Chendo, but I loved his family, too.

  I slipped happily into the role of surrogate daughter and sister.

  * * *

  MY MOTHER STAYED in Philadelphia for some months after leaving the house on Long Island. Then, toward the end of my first year at the Rhodes School, she moved to Manhattan, to an apartment in the Seventies on the Upper East Side. The apartment had barely any furniture, but what little furniture there was, my mother kept covered in white sheets or plastic wrap. She had developed a terrible fear of germs; she needed everything around her to be white and pure, including her clothing. When I visited, I had to make sure to wash my hands before touching anything.

  After she moved to the city, I confess, I didn’t see my mother all that much. The more time I spent away from her, the more I began to realize that Robin had been right. I hadn’t been sick. I didn’t have internal bleeding or a weak heart. I didn’t have tuberculosis or rheumatic fever or pneumonia either. There was nothing I needed to be “cured” of in Lourdes. My mother had kept me home all those years without any valid reason. Away from her, I did well in school, doing my best to move on from my childhood in order to survive.

  When I turned sixteen in November, Jill threw a surprise sweet sixteen party for me at our apartment. Both my parents came. Robin traveled in from Philadelphia. My half sister, Patricia, Chendo, and a few of our friends from the Rhodes School were there. I remember I wore a floral skirt and dusty-rose-colored scoop-neck shirt, my hair parted in the middle and ironed flat so that it swung at my shoulders. It was a wonderful night for me. I remember how important it felt that my sisters and I were together as family. We had survived the divorce and leaving the house on Long Island. We were adjusting. I felt buoyed up by the support of the people who cared about me. At some point in the evening, someone took a photograph of my father with his four daughters—the only one that was ever taken. My mother wasn’t in the picture. She sat in one spot for most of the night, not saying a word.

  It was not long after my sixteenth birthday that my father announced he had run out of money. He told me that he could no longer afford to pay for my tuition and that I was going to have to leave the Rhodes School. I was finally experiencing educational success, and now it was being taken away from me. I was heartbroken.

  I went with my mother to visit the local public school, but all I remember is the yellow-tile walls covered in graffiti and being terrified of such a big school and so many students.

  At the same time, Chendo had been offered a job on the Caribbean island of St. Thomas, managing a jewelry store for a family friend. He wanted me to go with him. His new employers promised me a job as a counter manager for Clinique in the same store. The choice was so simple: my boyfriend and I were in love, and I wanted to make my life with him. His family wanted me to go with him to St. Thomas. So I decided that was what I was going to do.

  Chendo and I decided we needed to see my mother to tell her about our plans.

  “Well, at least that’s one I don’t have to worry about” were her words.

  I was sixteen, already living apart from her, and now I was moving with my boyfriend 1,600 miles away. But my mother didn’t stand in my way. The following week, she took me to an ob-gyn, staying in the room with me as the doctor fitted me for a diaphragm.

  That August, Chendo and I flew to St. Thomas, moving into an apartment complex on a hilltop overlooking the city. Once I arrived on the island, I sent my father a letter to say I was going to St. Thomas to get “a different kind of education.”

  Years later, I learned the real reason I had to leave the Rhodes School. My father had decided to write a novel. He’d used the funds that Sherman had left me for my education to pay for his trip to Europe for his research.

  * * *

  ON ST. THOMAS, I started working full-time as a cosmetics counter manager in a department store, C. & M. Caron. I enjoyed the job, getting dressed up every morning, helping my customers, having the responsibility of handling sales. After work, Chendo and I played at being grown-ups. I bought a Betty Crocker cookbook called Cooking for Two and started to try my hand at cooking. One of the first dishes I tried was meatballs. They turned out square. Chendo thought this was hilarious.

  On my days off, I’d sip piña coladas on a raft at the pool attached to our apartment building, or Chendo and I would take the ferry over to Trunk Bay to go snorkeling. I was scared to snorkel at first. I’d never taken a swimming lesson in my life, and I could barely doggy-paddle. But Chendo encouraged me and made me feel safe, until I was completely at ease in the water. The island was surrounded by miles of coral reefs and hidden coves. Unde
rwater, I saw every kind of brightly colored fish and coral, turtle, ray, and sponge in magical formations. Paddling through the turquoise water, I was transported to a world of stunning beauty and peace.

  My new salary gave me choices and the ability to pursue my own tastes and interests. I began to wear designer clothes and silk blouses with the gold jewelry that Chendo had given to me. I remember I bought a crystal statue of the Greek god and goddess Pan and Diana, made by Lalique, because I was fascinated with Greek mythology. I started going to calisthenics classes, trying to make up for all the years my mother had made sure I was excused from gym. Chendo and I moved to a bigger apartment at Sapphire Bay Resort, a much nicer complex on the other end of the island with views of the ocean from our terrace. Now that we had more space, I rented an upright piano for ten dollars a month. I had wanted to play piano ever since I was old enough to beg for lessons, the only thing I remember fighting for as a child. My mother had arranged for lessons for me but they didn’t last.Before long my parents announced they couldn’t afford to pay for them anymore.

  Now that I had my own money, I found a piano teacher who lived close by. She was a petite woman in her sixties with white-blond hair and skin that was tan and leathery from years under the island sun. She was kind, patient, and motherly, and I practiced for hours each day hoping to win her approval and make her proud. I played Beethoven’s “Für Elise” over and over, sensing the emotion written into the music as the notes escalated, then quieted again. I learned to play Tchaikovsky’s melodies for The Nutcracker, all the music my mother and I loved from our trips to the ballet. I pounded and caressed the keys until I improved, and I felt real pride in my skill. It was as if I had finally found the structure and discipline my parents had failed to offer me growing up. Playing piano gave me something else I had never experienced before: a sense of accomplishment.

  The following year, Chendo and I were married. I was only seventeen, and he was nineteen. We went to the courthouse and filled out the paperwork. I wore a matching Courrèges shirt and skirt with a white, turquoise, and pink pattern. Chendo wore his best pair of pants and a short sleeved button-down shirt. When the judge pronounced us husband and wife, there was a moment of hesitation between us. We were so young; I don’t think either of us had ever attended a wedding before. Was this the part where we were supposed to kiss? The judge looked at us and laughed, saying, “You may kiss the bride!” Afterward, we went to the nearby island of St. Barts for our honeymoon.

  As Chendo and I neared our second Christmas on the island, I began talking with Robin about bringing our mother to visit. I was a married woman now, completely emancipated from my family, but even so, I wanted to share some of my happiness with them. I knew that my mother hadn’t been doing well. Jill had found her a job at a small store, but it was more than she could manage, and the owner let her go. Robin arranged the travel plans and booked and paid for the flights. I met them at the airport. I noticed right away how different my mother looked. Her hair was longer than she liked, falling around her shoulders, and under the bright skies of the islands, she seemed frail and out of place.

  Even so, I was eager to show my mother and sister my new life. One of my favorite recipes from my Betty Crocker Cooking for Two cookbook was Cornish hens, served with wild rice and homemade cranberry sauce in orange cups. The night they arrived, I made it for the four of us, setting the table carefully, hoping my mother would notice my care. Chendo and I had bought a Christmas tree and set it up next to my piano. That night, I put on my favorite floral dress with a black velvet bodice. After I served dinner, I sat at the piano next to the tree and played for my mother and sister. I had worked tirelessly to perfect Chopin’s Waltz no. 7, which I knew was featured in one of my mother’s favorite films, The Red Shoes.

  I wanted to share everything that I loved about my new life with both of them, especially my mother. I wanted her to see that I had escaped from our cycle of sickness and absence, and that I was thriving.

  During their stay, Robin and my mother took the short walk with me down to the beach—two miles of soft white sand and clear blue waters that met a bright blue sky at the horizon. I was going to show my mother and sister how to snorkel.

  We waded into the warm, shallow water, and I helped my mother put on her snorkel mask, tightening the straps and adjusting the breathing tube. I remember she was wearing a swimsuit in pale pink, always her favorite color. I explained how she was going to float on top of the water and submerge her face, breathing through the tube in her mouth. I wanted her to practice now because in a day or so we were planning to go by ferry to Trunk Bay, the best place for snorkeling in the area.

  My mother watched me as I demonstrated what to do, and then, awkwardly, she bent down and put her face to the water, just barely beneath the surface. Immediately, she stood up again, gasping. I encouraged her to try one more time. It really wasn’t that complicated. Again she put her face to the water, then stood right back up again. I felt immediately annoyed. This shouldn’t be a big deal. It was so simple for me, and I had never even taken swimming lessons because she had always been too worried I would catch a cold. If I could do it, anyone could! I begged her to just try, told her that there was a whole magical world beneath us—the darting yellow and orange fish, the magnificent flame-colored coral. I wanted to share it with her; I hoped it would make her happy, the same way it made me happy. But instead, she just stood there, staring up at me, her wet pink bathing suit clinging to her thin frame, the mask on her face making her look like a lost child.

  At that instant, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to become furious with my mother.

  “All I wanted was for you to experience this one thing,” I told her, tears forming in my eyes. “You’re not even trying!”

  It was so rare for me to show my feelings to anyone. That was something that Robin did, or Jill at times, but not me. I was too intent on being “the good one”—always quiet and obedient, watchful of others and considerate of their feelings. But I couldn’t hold back my feelings a moment longer.

  “Why can’t you do anything I need you to do?” I bawled at her. “What is wrong with you?”

  Years of pent-up anger and hurt came spilling out.

  “Why is it up to me to teach you how to do this anyway?” I asked. “Why aren’t you teaching me something for a change?”

  Even in the moment, I knew my tantrum was selfish. It was silly, over nothing. But I couldn’t control it. My mother was incapable of giving me what I needed as her daughter. She just stood in the water, trembling, looking down at the waves, her mask hanging uselessly around her neck, the tube of the snorkel drooping.

  “I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating, shaking her head. “It’s my fault.”

  The fact that she blamed herself infuriated me even more. She never took a stand. She always backed down, blaming herself, even with my father! That she was unable to defend herself against my pathetic attack was the final indignity. No wonder my sisters always described her as “the martyr.” I stalked away, leaving Robin to pick up the pieces.

  Back at the apartment, I sat down in the living room, looking around me. I had my rented piano and my cookbook for two; I had my husband, my little crystal statue, my job at the department store, my clothes in my closet. I was seventeen years old, and this was my world, and I had made it myself. I wasn’t going to be silent anymore. I alone was in charge of my own destiny.

  Later that week, my mother and Robin went home. I stayed on the island for the next two years, living completely independently from my family. Although Robin came to visit me again while I was there, my mother never did.

  CHAPTER 15

  Carolyn

  It was Fred, Sherman’s groundskeeper, who came to the hospital to pick up my mother and me to bring us home that cold day in late November. Fred helped Carolyn to the car, holding her arm so she wouldn’t slip. He was always kindly that way. Together, we returned to
the Dream House. In the weeks to come, the snow continued to fall, until there were fourteen inches of white covering the land. The nanny took Jill and Robin to the school bus each day and brought them home in the afternoon while Carolyn rested and tried to get her strength back. It was months before the incision fully healed and she felt as if she could move around easily. During the week, Malcolm was in the city for work. He was uninterested in the baby and Carolyn’s recovery, which seemed to bore him. On the weekends, he disappeared next door to Sherman’s parties, his busy social life continuing more or less unchanged.

  The first time my mother left the house with me, it was so cold she had to bundle me up in coats and blankets to protect me from the artic wind coming in from the frozen Sound. “Long Island in winter is like living in a Russian novel,” she used to say.

  Grace wrote letters regularly, keeping Carolyn updated on the children’s progress, her official duties, and life at the palace. But it was hard for Carolyn to write back. What could she say? That she was unhappy living out at the end of the world? That the older children made so much noise and were so demanding, and that the baby often refused to settle, leaving her feeling helpless? That her career as a model was over? That her body had been destroyed by the three surgeries? That ever since the hysterectomy she was getting hot flashes, going through menopause at age thirty? That she didn’t want Malcolm anywhere near her? Next door, at Sherman’s castle, a regular parade of young models arrived each weekend. As she waited for her husband to come home at night, she knew she had been replaced. The more difficult her life became, the less Carolyn felt herself worthy of her friendship with Grace, the unimpeachable princess.

  Every now and again, Malcolm would invite their friends from the city out to the new house for parties. Eileen Ford and her husband, Jerry, came to visit. Hope Lange, a young actress they had both known from Manhattan House days, would also drop by, and Tippi Hedren, one of my mother’s modeling friends, would come to stay for the weekend. But Carolyn no longer felt at ease in social situations. She was too awkward now, out of place, as if she were always about to say or do the wrong thing. She could no longer rely on her youth or prettiness. It didn’t help that when Malcolm told jokes and stories, they were usually at her expense. On the rare occasion she met someone new, either through the children or Malcolm, she never knew quite where she stood. People seemed to automatically know that she was the bridesmaid—after all, Grace’s wedding had been televised around the world in front of thirty million viewers—but Carolyn was never sure if they really wanted to be her friend or if they were just fascinated by her connection to the princess.