There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me

by Brooke Shields

  My mother really did seem to try to stay sober at first. I could tell it was tough for her. I even dreamt of a world in which she could be able to drink moderately. Addicts must abstain completely. There is no such thing as an alcoholic being able to be a social drinker, but I secretly wished that she could find a way to reasonably drink so we could all be happy. This is how codependent my thoughts were and how much I wanted her to enjoy life and be healthy and happy. Because if she was happy, I did not have to worry. I never liked any part of her when she was drinking. She may have been fun for others but I really authentically enjoyed her only before she took her first sip. When she laughed sober, I felt oxygen in my blood.

  I really thought everything would be better if she stopped drinking. But it wasn’t. We fell back in the same patterns, just with different details. It was time to do something new and different. To go far away and get back to the golden age and good feelings we’d had shooting movies in the past and sticking my head in the sand about everything else. And as luck would have it, my next movie role would take us farther away than I could have imagined.

  Chapter Eight

  Blue

  In early 1979, just as my mother and I were adjusting to post-rehab life, I got an intriguing offer. An author named Henry De Vere Stacpoole wrote a novel back in 1908, The Blue Lagoon, that had already been made into a movie twice. The first version was from 1923. It was black-and-white, silent, and filmed in England. Neither my mother nor I knew anything about the silent version, but my mother was a fan of the 1949 version, which was filmed in both England and Fiji and starred Jean Simmons and Donald Houston. Mom had loved Jean Simmons and thought the idea of a remake was wonderful.

  The Blue Lagoon tells the story of two cousins, Emmeline and Richard Lestrange, who survive a shipwreck and grow up together on a tropical island in the South Pacific. Through most of the movie they’re completely alone, eventually developing a romantic relationship and having a child.

  Shooting this film meant we’d be on location again, this time for months. We’d leave for the South Pacific in June and not return until September. Mom and I had always loved being on location. It was like this great sanctuary in which I worked hard and Mom played hard. We were excited and I was anticipating feeling relieved because Mom had not been drinking and I believed her sobriety would continue on this deserted island. After all, there would be no bars.

  The director, Randal Kleiser, who had just had a huge success directing the movie Grease, and the studio, Columbia Pictures, wanted Matt Dillon to play my character’s cousin, a choice that thrilled me. But Matt’s mother was against the idea and they turned it down. I was devastated because I knew Matt and thought he was cute and talented. He was very sweet about the whole thing and made it a point to tell me that his decision was in no way a personal affront to me.

  The filmmakers began to search for someone to play Richard. This choice was, obviously, a very big deal for me, since the two of us would basically be the only actors in the entire movie. Minus some flashbacks it would be just us. By this time I had been in seven films and was very worried about working with an amateur. The studio finally found a kid with straight blond hair and a beautiful physique who had no film or acting experience and had spent his extracurricular time as an athlete. The director had called to tell us that they had found my counterpart, an eighteen-year-old student from Rye, New York, whose dream had been to go into sports medicine. His name was Christopher Atkins and I was going to love him! I was skeptical but had no say and his photo looked fine. I had worked with many veterans but this would be the first time that I was the actual veteran.

  Mom and I packed our suitcases, sent our two rescue cats to a boarding house, and left for the island of Vanua Levu in Fiji. We had to fly to the mainland and to the city of Lautoka, via Australia, and then take a seaplane to Turtle Island, where we would be living for the next four months.

  We touched down on water and taxied to the dock, where were met by Randal and Chris and some Fijian men to help with the bags. Chris’s light-blond, naturally stick-straight hair had been given a perm. I didn’t understand why it was necessary for him to have curly hair but it was not up to me to decide. He looked different from his photo but cute. Once on the dock, I was instructed to leave my bags to be taken to where we would be staying and go directly to the tanning area. Some preparations needed to start right away. There was still enough sunlight to get color and I was told I needed to start to build up enough of a tan so that it looked as if I had been living on an island my entire life. The tanning space consisted of two small areas enclosed by mats of woven palm fronds. I was to take off all my clothes and begin that day by getting a base. Chris had already been on the island for a week so he was already darker than I was. I would have to catch up. I was told I could choose to live on the big sailing ship that would be featured in the film or I could remain on land.

  At first, I was sure I’d choose the ship. I had this fantasy that I would have a quaint little cabin where I would write in my journal and be rocked to sleep nightly. I would stick pictures on my wall and write letters to my friends back home and it would be as if I was part of an expedition a hundred years ago. But after getting off the scary seaplane that sat only three people and being confronted with the real-life version of my fantasies, I took one look at the ship and changed my mind. It was ancient and had rats and creaking planks. I opted for a bure, or hut, as non-Fijians called them.

  The bure I would share with my mother was right on the beach and basically consisted of a cinder-block square with a standing sink and a partitioned-off toilet.

  The rafters were big palm-tree trunks and the roof was a thatched canopy with a peak. The shape of the roof enabled rain to cascade down the sides and not leak into the room. Our bure consisted of two connecting rooms, each with two twin beds. This was perfect for when I had friends visit from the States.

  The first few weeks we rehearsed and prepared to film, and Chris couldn’t have been sweeter. He was so excited, energetic, and kind all the time and took me on tours of all the special spots in our new home away from home.

  He was really cute and I think everybody was even secretly hoping that we would become a real-life couple. I could tell that Randal, the director, really wanted it, and he enlisted my mother to be encouraging as well. Even though it was not overt, I felt people believed it would be good for the film. God forbid we just act! Chris seemed equally excited to become my best friend and possible boyfriend and was always around me. Anyway, if it was going to happen anywhere, this stunning island would be the perfect environment in which to fall in love. I, however, began to feel standoffish. I have never been good with people forcing themselves on me, or acting too gung-ho about becoming my closest buddy. The moment I sensed the push, I put up a wall so tall that my mother had to tell me to give the kid a break and not take it out on him. I would have none of it and their plan almost backfired. But he really was so sweet and happy that I would eventually develop a crush on him. It lasted only a very short time because Chris and I were really more like brother and sister than we were lovers. Strange that our relationship was actually closer to the essence of the film than even others could see.

  Mom explained that Chris probably believed he had to fall in love with me to be a good actor. I was going to teach him otherwise. Even though Chris originally came across a bit strong and off-puttingly eager, I really did respect how he was committing to his debut role. Chris had learned to spear fish, skin-dive, build a thatched hut, and start a fire with sticks. He was trying to be as authentic as he could and I appreciated his approach. I, too, committed to learning whatever I could from the locals.

  Like Chris, I set out to adapt immediately. Within two weeks I could climb palm trees in bare feet, dive for coral and shells without a tank and without making bubbles, and weave palm fronds into bowls and small boxes for catching rainwater. I had worked up to holding my breath for over a minute so I
could do the underwater scenes more efficiently. I jumped right into being an island kid, rarely wearing shoes, and swimming whenever I could. Mom and I both chose to tie traditional sulus around ourselves instead of wearing shorts and T-shirts. A sulu is almost exactly like an Indian sari or a wrap you often wear at the beach. They are made of brightly colored cotton and can be tied many different ways.

  We learned the difference between eating coconuts right off the tree and those that had fallen on the ground. One Fijian man in particular taught me to use a pointed stick and a machete to break open mature coconuts for their meat and young ones for their milk. Our crew consisted mostly of Australians and Americans, but included a few sturdy Fijians. The native Fijians spoke very little English, but with the few words they did know, and with the Fijian I picked up, we communicated fine.

  I forget his name but the man who taught me about coconuts was the same man who made my mother a long sword from wood so she could beat away the rats that moved into our roof. The rats had moved in a few weeks after Mom and I began living there. They were really terrible and seemed to come out mostly late at night. I hated rats and slept with the blankets over my head. I pictured them landing on my head in the middle of the night and chewing my face off. I’d hear Mom leap up and start whacking at the thatched-roof ceiling after hearing a scurry. I don’t think my mother ever slept.

  We all got used to living on a deserted island and dealing with everything that came along with it, such as rats, bugs, sewage issues, mail once a week, storms, and sunburn. Only one man had ever lived on this island with his wife. He owned it, and his dream had been to eventually turn it into a resort.

  The cinematographer, Academy Award winner Néstor Almendros, used only natural light and fire to light the entire film. In order to complete a day’s worth of scenes, we needed as many hours as possible, so Néstor came up with the idea of pushing our clocks ahead. Everyone working on the film synchronized his or her watch to a new time. Each morning I had to get up at 5:00 A.M. or even earlier. So while my clock said 5:00 A.M., for my body it was actually 4:00 A.M. Mom was never a good sleeper and rarely slept more than five hours a night, sober or not. But the benefit of this self-imposed time shift, which we dubbed Bula Time, was that except for all-night shooting, which was lit by fire and candlelight, we would finish our days by dusk. Sometimes, immediately after filming for the day, Chris and I would go diving for shells. I was collecting white shells that had rays of red dots that fanned to the tip. It took me weeks, but I collected enough of them to make my mother a necklace for her birthday. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I’d find a piece of black coral and string it on to some leather for myself.

  My skin had trouble holding on to a tan and I began losing all pigmentation. Patches of white began appearing, so to avoid looking like I was starring in The Jungle Book as a leopard instead of in a love story about sun-kissed teenagers, I had to get up even earlier than everyone else so I could be sponge-painted with makeup mixed with iodine. The makeup lady used big natural sea sponges and spread the liquid all over my body until I was the desired color. I was only allowed to take limited showers, and then only on days when we had finished a sequence the day before. The feeling of being painted by wet, cold sponges before dawn every morning was, to this day, one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.

  Our one day off a week was Sunday. Mom and I were getting along much better these days. My rage toward her had subsided and we were back in a routine we loved. Mom and I both loved to create new little lives for ourselves. Wherever we went, we would make it a home. We decorated our huts and wore traditional attire and played the music of the Fijian people. But we maintained some of our own traditions. Mom and I would wake up early and take a small motorboat to a mission on a neighboring island. It took forty-five minutes and we wore no life vests. For much of the trip no land was visible. Then, off in the distance, I’d see the outline of the small island and the steeple of a church. Mom and I attended Catholic Mass every Sunday with the nuns from the mission, who also taught the children their lessons. I kind of dreaded the idea of having to trek so far to go to church, but I loved being on the open water so early in the morning, and the service was always sweet and filled with singing.

  One of our Fijian crew members enjoyed the ride and would come with us to do the navigating. At the conclusion of the shoot, my mother arranged for the film company to donate our generator to the mission. This generator enabled them to have electricity for the first time in their lives. The nuns loved my mother, who made them laugh and donated much of my per diem to them weekly. They needed it more. There was nothing else to spend the small weekly amount provided by the producers on, so it was no loss to me. My long hair fascinated the schoolchildren and it took me a while to get used to them wanting to touch it. I often had to remind myself I was not in Cannes.

  We would return to our island in time to have a big breakfast or take a nap. Many Sundays and most nights, while walking back to my bure, I’d pass the local men having their nightly kava ceremony. Kava is a root that when crushed and placed inside a man’s tube sock, and then soaked in water, makes a liquid resembling dirty dishwater that tastes like mud. It is served in half a coconut shell and if offered cannot be refused. It was considered rude, and unlucky, to refuse the call of “Kava, kava, bula kava!” Whenever I passed the ceremony, I’d try to go unnoticed, but I often failed and was forced to accept a cup. You were supposed to swallow the liquid from your coconut in one gulp. After ingesting this disgusting, lukewarm substance, you had to clap three loud, hollow-sounding claps with cupped palms, before passing it on to the next willing victim. I never learned what the claps symbolized but it was part of the ceremony. Kava numbs your mouth and throat and gives you a sedated feeling. The effects did not last too long, especially if you drank only one cup, but the taste was so disgusting and I hated it so much that I tried to avoid the torture whenever possible. Mom never got into it, either, because she said she didn’t like the feeling. I was surprised they offered it to a kid, and I did not find it fun or cool.

  • • •

  It wasn’t long before Mom began drinking again. The moment I saw the look on her face I knew. She got the usual flushed cheeks and familiar blurry eyes, and of course her lips had their signature brittle-looking texture. I always asked her to breathe out so I could smell her breath, and she’d come very close and open her mouth but never exhale. She despised the idea of my trying to control her in any way. I made it clear that I was aware that she had started up again. She had halfheartedly tried to conceal it from me, and then before long, it was every night, out in the open, and with zero remorse. I believe Mom simply felt drinking was her prerogative. If she wanted to get drunk, then she would get drunk, and as long as I was OK or fit her definition of cared for, then she saw no downside.

  What I felt were the personal consequences of her drinking, consequences that she saw as insignificant. If I got hurt because she said I could be a “bitch” or in a rage that she hated me, she’d dismiss my feelings. Because she knew she loved me, and because she knew I believed she loved me, none of it mattered. She had no idea how deeply her mean comments, whether representing her true feelings or not, cut into my heart.

  I was devastated at Mom’s inability to stick to the program and her failure to stay clean. I felt angry that she did not keep her promise. Mom, however, never seemed ashamed by her choices—choices that I clearly regarded as displays of weakness. She would never issue forth any apology or justification. She just did what she wanted to do. I’d yell at her when she was drunk and told her I hated her, but she knew I loved her so she let the insults roll off her like water. I never talked to her sober about any of it. Why ruin the moment? We avoided all of it and all the rules of recovery, and I never expressed how deeply pathetic I thought it was that she could not control herself. But I had learned that accusing my mother of being even remotely inept in any way could easily result in disaster. She held a
power over me. I mostly kept my mouth shut and instead pouted around her, hoping to give off an air of disappointment.

  I felt like I lost my mother every time she drank. I felt completely alone and on edge all the time waiting to see if she had been drinking or was about to drink. I was always afraid of what she’d say when drinking. I was embarrassed by her cursing and flirting with crew members and was grossed out by everything about her attitude and appearance. I lived inside my stress and in a constant state of anticipation of the possible wreckage of the future.

  Here, however, I wasn’t concerned about her safety. There was nowhere my mother, nor anybody, could really disappear to on this island, so some of my fears dissipated. Unless she went swimming, the risks were fewer here than in a city. Mom didn’t even know how to swim, so there was no worry of her going for a midnight dip and drowning. I guess she could have been trampled by the wild horses that roamed the island, or been nibbled on by the rats or the huge stone crabs that had invaded our camp, but this did not concern me. Soon, however, I began to compartmentalize, as I had learned to do years back. I just gave up emotionally. I hated her drinking, but I could not seem to do anything about it, so I buried my head and my anger in the proverbial (and fitting term for island living) sand. Once again, because I was on a movie set, and there was work to do and other people around, this was quite easy to do.

  There was a real safety in being on an island that was seven miles long and a mile wide, with no roads or potential vehicle accidents. All this comforted me, but it especially helped that I had my favorite student-teacher and social worker on location with me, and I felt protected watched over by her. Her name was Polly and I requested her every time I got a job. She had been with me on many jobs and I adored being with her. We had the same sense of humor and had an incredible amount of fun together.