And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434)

by Spungen, Deborah

  I found Suzy on her bed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  “I don’t have a sister anymore,” she said quietly.

  I sat down next to her. “You haven’t had one for a long time, Suzy.”

  She looked startled.

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t cry for her,” I said. “All I mean is you could have cried for her a long time ago.”

  She mulled that over. “I know. But I also know … I’ll never see her again.”

  She began to cry again. I tried to hug her but she pulled away from me, seemingly repulsed by my touch.

  “I did feel a physical revulsion,” she recently admitted to me. “I didn’t want to be touched or told I was loved. I wanted to be separated from you.”

  Neither of us understood why at the time. I was baffled and hurt by her rejection of my love. I got up and started to leave her room.

  “Mom?” she said. “What will they do to her?”

  “What will who do to her?”

  “The funeral parlor,” she said, looking down.

  “I don’t know. She’ll be wearing her green prom dress and, well, I suppose she’ll look as nice as possible. Why?”

  “Do you think they can do something with her hair. It was so beautiful before. Could they dye it back from that horrible white?”

  She didn’t want to remember her sister as she’d been at the end. It seemed important to her.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call them. Maybe they can.”

  I could hear the funeral parlor director gulp when I passed on Suzy’s request over the phone. Apparently it was an unusual one.

  “We … can do that, Mrs. Spungen. Yes. What color was your daughter’s hair?”

  “It was chestnut.”

  “Chestnut.”

  “Yes, with these sort of, uh, gold highlights.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, I understand. It may not be exact, but we’ll do our best.”

  The rabbi came that afternoon. The four of us sat with him in the den and explained to him that Nancy’s life had been as much of a tragedy as her death. She had lived a life of pain and had brought pain to those who loved her. She had left scars.

  I showed him Dean’s poem. He read it and was deeply moved.

  He said he would write the service around it. Then he left. We were satisfied that our wishes would be fulfilled.

  I slept poorly that night. I awoke ten or twelve times; every time I thought I heard a noise outside. The press was out there, I feared. Each time I checked the clock to see how many more hours it would be until the limousine came to take us to Nancy’s funeral. I had a nightmare at one point, the same old one I’d had off and on since the first time I saw the track marks on Nancy’s arms.

  “Look what I have, Mommy!” exclaimed my eager five-year-old Nancy. “Look what I have!” Then I saw the track marks, and she cried, “Help me, Mommy! Help me!” I reached for her but my arms were paralyzed.

  The limousine was due at nine thirty. We were all up hours before that.

  “Will he come?” I asked Frank anxiously as we dressed. “Will Sid be there?”

  He shrugged unhappily. It was the eighth time I’d asked him. I couldn’t help myself.

  There were no reporters outside when the limo came. We climbed inside and glided silently through the deserted Sunday morning streets. The kids and my mother looked out the window, lost in their private grief. Frank and I held hands tightly.

  I saw a lot of our friends waiting outside the chapel. Mercifully, I saw no reporters or cameras.

  The funeral director escorted us to a small private room off the side of the chapel. The front door of the chapel was still closed. No one was in there yet, aside from Nancy. He gave Frank and David yarmulkas to wear. Then he cleared his throat.

  “I know you requested a closed casket, but it’s a state law that you identify Nancy before we close it.” He turned to Frank. “It’s only necessary for one of you to do it.”

  “I want to, too,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said David.

  So did Suzy and my mother. We all went into the chapel and approached the open casket. When we got near it, a force seemed to pull us collectively away. It took a mighty effort to fight it off. We inched toward the casket, clinging to one another for support. I saw her feet. They were covered with flowers. I saw her legs and her stomach, draped in her green dress. Then I saw her face.

  It wasn’t her. She was at peace. The pain was missing from her face. She had no more pain. Without it, she looked almost like a different person. She wasn’t angry anymore.

  “Now I know how much she really suffered,” I cried out. “Her pain was greater than ours, greater than all of our pain.”

  The scars and bruises were gone. So was the white hair. They’d dyed it almost to its natural color.

  Frank’s eyes filled with tears. Suzy and David wept openly. Once again I cried only within, a knot in my throat, an ache in my chest. None of us moved any closer. None of us touched her.

  We returned to the side room, still clutching one another. Frank nodded to the funeral director.

  He disappeared into the chapel. A moment later I heard the casket slam shut with a bang. Forever.

  Then the chapel was opened and our friends filtered in. The rabbi joined us in the private room. He pinned a black button on each of us, then tore off a piece of black cloth affixed to it—part of the Jewish grieving ritual. Then he said a prayer and we all went out to the chapel.

  My eyes searched the rows of mourners for unfamiliar faces, for Sid’s spiky hair. Happily, I saw only the familiar faces of our loved ones. Some had driven three hours to be there. They cared. I felt good knowing that.

  We sat in the front row holding hands, the six rows behind us cordoned off just in case anyone tried to bother us. I resented the precaution, resented that a distance had to be kept between us and those who loved Nancy and us enough to come.

  Her casket was now covered with lovely fall flowers. The rabbi approached the pulpit, looked at all of us with genuine sadness in his eyes, and began. As is the Jewish custom, his remarks were brief.

  “We were all deeply shocked by the tragic death of Nancy Spungen,” he said. “We extend our deepest sympathies to the bereaved family. The burden of grief is always difficult to bear. Yours is uniquely painful—not only the loss but the knowledge of circumstances which led to this end.

  “I would not be so presumptuous as to tell you how to cope with your sorrow. This is a time when words do not easily trip off the tongue nor ease the burden. Words of comfort ring hollow in the deepest abyss of life’s sorrow. It is not by words but by the presence here of friends—loved ones—whose hearts and hands reach out to you that solace will come.”

  I could hear our friends crying behind us. Sobs and sniffles seemed to fill the chapel. Possibly, everyone there was crying with the exception of myself.

  “And yet,” the rabbi continued, “not to speak some words of tribute would be to deny the life that was, the goodness and sweetness she brought. The years she lived must not be lost to us in the shadow of her death.

  “What I am about to say is her family’s tribute to Nancy.

  “From the time of her birth, Nancy was a special, gifted, and troubled girl. Despite the love, caring, and concern of her family she experienced an inner torment and disquietude. She turned to drugs not for sensationalism, but for relief from the pain that afflicted her. She knew herself, but was not responsible for the consequences of her actions. She lived for each hour, each day, and consequently much living was crowded into the years of her life.

  “She was capable of compassion, and of perception rare and unusual for her age. These are signs of her special gifts.

  “The following was written by her cousin, Dean Becker. It captures the feelings Nancy would have wanted to express about herself to her family:

  “Don’t misunderstand me!

  What I do has purpose

  A meaning you may not see.

&nb
sp; I know what I’m doing.

  Please don’t judge me

  From where you stand.

  “My life is my own

  My decisions are in my hands

  Don’t try to make your dreams

  A part of mine

  For I have my own.

  “Don’t misunderstand me!

  Be happy in your thoughts.

  Your recollections of our happiest hours

  Will be enough to help you forget

  The bad times—the hard times

  The sadness you feel today.

  “Nancy is now at peace,” the rabbi continued. “She saw, heard, felt what others did not and could not. She was different.

  “May her family go forth from their pain of separation, to strengthen each other, to face the ongoing tasks of life with courage. And with love for each other, and remembrance of the goodness and happy hours you shared.”

  I felt very comforted by what he said. We all did. It was beautiful and right.

  The pallbearers removed her casket. The limousine took us to her gravesite, where chairs had been set up under a canopy. The rabbi said a few more words, then she was lowered slowly into the ground.

  I reached over and broke off a yellow chrysanthemum from the blanket atop her casket. I needed it. It stayed on my nightstand for three nights. Then I pressed it into her Darlington yearbook, where it remains.

  I felt incredible relief as we rode home. Nancy was safe and protected now. For her, the fight was over.

  For the four of us, the battle was just beginning.

  Chapter 24

  Sid’s mother phoned that night.

  Janet took the call. She approached me in the living room, where I sat on a folding chair, talking quietly with friends who had come by to help us sit shivah, the Jewish period of mourning.

  “Debbie,” whispered Janet, her face ashen, “it’s Anne Beverley. She wants to talk to you.”

  I froze. “W-what does she want?”

  “She says it’s very important.”

  I took a deep breath, let it out. I motioned for Frank. He came over. I told him.

  “Talk to her,” he suggested. “Get it over with. If you don’t she’ll keep calling.”

  “Are you sure it’s her?” I asked Janet. “It could be a prank.”

  “She has an English accent,” Janet said.

  I turned to Frank. “Come with me?”

  He nodded. We went to the phone in the kitchen. I picked it up and said hello.

  “Mrs. Spungen? It’s Anne Beverley,” she said. “Thank you for giving me a moment. I’m in New York. I’m here to be with my son. He’ll be out tomorrow on bail, you see.”

  I said nothing.

  “Mrs. Spungen, I wanted you to know that my boy wouldn’t do such a thing. He couldn’t.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “There’s no point in talking about it.”

  “Our Sid and Nancy were very special people. I didn’t understand her. I was sorry I didn’t. And I’m very sorry for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said woodenly.

  “I hope we can meet someday. Under better circumstances, of course.”

  “Thank you for calling, Mrs. Beverley.”

  I put the phone down and began to tremble. Frank held me. When I didn’t stop trembling, he held me tighter. I was okay in a few minutes. Then we returned to our mourning.

  Our friends stayed late. A couple of them who live far away stayed over. It was one of them who answered the doorbell when it rang the following morning at about ten. Frank and I were still upstairs getting dressed. I was bleary-eyed. It had been another sleepless night for me.

  “Who is it?” I called from the top of the stairs.

  “A friend who came to see you,” our guest called back.

  Frank and I came downstairs to greet the friend.

  A total stranger stood there.

  “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Spungen,” he said quickly, handing us his card.

  It identified him as a correspondent of People magazine.

  “I’m working on a story about your daughter. We’re running—”

  “Look, pal,” snapped Frank angrily. “Why don’t you just get the hell out?”

  “I’m so sorry!” cried our friend. “He said he knew you. He said he was an old friend!”

  The man did not deny it. Rather, he said, “I thought you’d want to know: We’re running a whole feature on your daughter. If you don’t talk to me, it’s going to be an unflattering portrait. I’m sure you’ll find it very upsetting. If you’d only give me a few minutes, well, I’ll say whatever you want me to say. It’s in your interest to talk to me. I mean, if I were you I’d want to make sure my daughter’s side of the story was told.”

  What easy marks we were that day. What a smoothie he was. He was, in effect, saying, “Give me an interview or your daughter gets screwed in print.” But we were so vulnerable, and he was so sympathetic on the surface, that we fell for it. We gave him the interview. It wasn’t until he’d been gone an hour that we realized we’d been coerced into it, fallen for a sleazy journalistic tactic.

  We were angry at ourselves. And even angrier than before at the press. A number of them seemingly played by no rules of civilized human conduct. Felt they were above them, I guess. No sooner had we finished breakfast than a taxi-load of British reporters showed up on our front porch. They wanted to know what we thought about Sid’s being released on bail that morning. They refused to leave when we told them we had nothing to say. One of them actually began to nose around in the backyard.

  “Yeah, there’s a pool all right!” he called to one of his buddies.

  Frank phoned the Huntingdon Valley police. A patrol car came at once. Two officers escorted the reporters off our property. They got in their cab and drove off, shaking their fists at us.

  I began to wonder how this, the first day after Nancy’s funeral, could possibly get any worse. It wasn’t long before I found out.

  The phone rang. At least it had been quiet that day—the phone company had finally given us our new unlisted number. I answered it.

  It was a special operator. She said she realized our number was now unlisted but she had an urgent message to pass on to us.

  “What’s the message?” I asked warily.

  “Sid Vicious wants to talk to you,” she said. “He says it’s very, very important. I have a number you can reach him at.”

  I calmly took down the number and hung up. Then I screamed “Frank!”

  He came running.

  “It’s Sid!” I cried. “He called the operator. He wants to talk to me. What do I do?”

  “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Of course not. But what if I don’t call him? What if he gets angry or something?”

  We stood there looking at each other. Neither of us could believe it. I was about to phone the man who was accused of my daughter’s murder. I had no choice. I was afraid to do it, but even more afraid not to.

  I dialed the number. It was a hotel switchboard. I was put through to Sid’s room. It rang.

  “Hullo?” said Sid.

  “Sid?” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s D-Debbie Spungen.”

  “Oh, Debbie, thank you. Thank you so much for calling. I wanted you to know, Debbie, how very, very sorry I am I couldn’t come to the funeral.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. I couldn’t believe how calm he sounded.

  “I wanted to so very much,” he said, “but they wouldn’t let me out. They wouldn’t let me say good-bye to my Nancy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry she’s dead, Debbie. So sorry.”

  Suddenly there were so many questions I wanted to ask him. Had he done it? Why? How? But I was afraid to ask them. I remained silent.

  “Debbie, I don’t seem to … I don’t know why I’m alive anymore, now that Nancy is gone.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I knew you would, Debbie. You�
�re the only one who could.”

  “Sid, I … I can’t talk anymore.”

  “May I call again?”

  “I … I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You know, Debbie, you’re the only real friend I have left. Thank you for talking to me. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Sid.”

  I hung up. Then I caved in. Frank held me again until I’d stopped trembling.

  For the first time, it occurred to me that I might not survive this ordeal, that I might lose my mind before it was over, that I might lose it soon.

  I felt the same way on Wednesday, the day we tried to get back to the rest of our lives.

  The four of us had breakfast together. The house was quiet, our friends and relatives gone. A number of lovely condolence notes had arrived in the morning mail. We read them aloud while we ate. When we were through we sat there for a moment, staring at each other.

  Then Frank said, “Maybe I’ll go to the office for a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll pack up the folding chairs for the funeral parlor,” said David, “so we can get them out of here.”

  “I guess I’ll be heading back to the city,” said Suzy.

  I didn’t seem to have anything to offer. I mumbled something about how much I was looking forward to putting the kitchen things back where they belonged.

  I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, falling apart right before their eyes, and nobody noticed! I was unable to sleep, barely able to eat. I was frightened. I was in pain. I was inert. I felt cut off from everyone—the outside world, my family, my old self. I wasn’t me anymore. I was somebody I didn’t know, somebody lost and scared, somebody whose life seemed to have no focus. And nobody noticed! How could they not notice?

  The doorbell rang. I answered it.

  It was the same group of English reporters. Their cab waited for them on the street. One of them waved a Xerox copy of a London tabloid. On it was the banner headline: NANCY WAS A WITCH!