Me and My Shadows

by Lorna Luft

  In recovery they tell you that if you stay in a relationship with an alcoholic too long, you’ll be consumed by three things: resentment, the desire for revenge, and the desire to retaliate. For years I had been consumed by all three things. Jake was so controlled by his addiction that he wasn’t able to be the husband I needed, or that he wanted to be. There was so much anger and distrust between us by then that even if Jake had been able to give up alcohol overnight, it would have been too late. I was hollow inside, beaten and bloodied by years of abusing myself and letting others abuse me.

  I wanted to be happy and healthy again. I’d left both of those things behind in the house on Mapleton Drive thirty years before. I wanted healthy, happy lives for my children, free of the sickness that addiction breeds. In my heart I knew it was no longer possible to find happiness with Jake.

  For every camel, there’s a last straw, and there was for me. I was doing my nightclub act in Reno, Nevada, a few weeks later, and I had to fly home at four A.M. to pack, pick up Jake and Vanessa, and catch a flight to London. I was exhausted by the time I got home, and upset because Jesse was in tears at being left behind. Jake didn’t want Jesse to miss school, but from Jesse’s point of view, his whole family was going off and leaving him with the housekeeper. As we drove back toward the airport, I couldn’t get Jesse’s tearful face at our front door out of my mind. I was still struggling with the baby and the luggage when Jake said he’d meet me at the departure gate. By the time I reached the gate, I realized that Jake had managed to stop at one of the lounges along the way and have a drink. It had only been ten minutes, but I knew immediately. I could always tell. I said to Jake, “What have you been doing?”

  He said, “Nothing,” and I dropped it.

  A few minutes later we boarded the plane. I noticed that by takeoff there were still two empty seats a couple of rows behind us, so I decided to take Vanessa back there so I could feed her and put her down. As soon as the plane took off, they served dinner, so I just stayed put while I ate. Two rows in front of me, Jake was eating dinner, too. I finished feeding Vanessa, and she fell asleep on the seat next to me. I looked over the heads of the people in front of me, and I could see Jake still sitting there. He had a blanket over his head, one of those little flight blankets the flight attendants give you. I got out of my seat, walked down the aisle to him, and pulled the blanket off his head. There he sat, bleary-eyed, with a full glass of red wine in his hand.

  I just looked at him and said quietly, “Now tell me again that you’re not drinking. There’s nobody sitting next to you, so you can’t be holding that glass for anybody else. Just look me in the eye and tell me again that you’re not drinking.”

  I was perfectly calm. Jake launched into his usual explanation, beginning with, “I can have a drink now and then if I want one. You’re being ridiculous . . .” But it didn’t matter what he said. I wasn’t listening. His words were already fading into the blue.

  They talk about seeing the light. That day, that moment, standing in the aisle of that 747,1 finally got it. I looked at Jake and thought, “I didn’t cause this. I can’t stop this. I can’t cure him. I never will. And that’s okay. Take your children, and walk away.”

  My marriage ended in that moment. I got off the plane in London with my baby and went to an Al-Anon meeting the next day. Jake returned to Los Angeles. A few days later, I called him in California and told him that our marriage was over.

  I didn’t know what would happen next, but for the first time since I was a little girl, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I would be all right. I had finally let go, and when I did, there were caring people waiting to catch me.

  A few weeks later I would fall in love with the man who would become my second husband, but that’s another story. All that mattered to me now was that I had finally come home.

  Collection of the author

  In the recording studio, recording my duet with Mama on “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  Epilogue

  In 1997,1 flew to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to meet with a group of booksellers. It was a few days before Halloween, and as I got off the plane, there was a little girl standing in the concourse, waiting for another passenger. She was wearing a Dorothy outfit. I turned to the person I was traveling with and said, “See what I mean!” I was watching television with my daughter and a talk-show promo came on. The host announced that today’s topic was going to be men who dress like women. “Oh no,” I thought, “not again!” Before I could find the remote and change the channel, my daughter pointed to a man on the screen and said, “Mommy, isn’t that Grandma?” Sure enough, there sat another Dorothy, albeit a much larger one. There will always be a certain weirdness associated with being Judy Garland’s daughter, but in most respects, my life is more firmly rooted in reality than it has ever been.

  I’d like to tell you that Jake and I had a very civilized divorce and went on to become best friends in later years, but it simply isn’t true. Our separation was as painful as the marriage had become. By the time our attorneys were through, we ended up with joint custody of our children and a fiercely contested financial settlement. Jake still manages performers, but except where the children are involved, I try to stay out of his life.

  For the most part, my life is very happy. I got married two years ago to Colin Freeman, the young English musical director I met on tour shortly after I separated from Jake. Colin and I have been through a lot together; he has survived the assaults of the tabloid press, all of them claiming he broke up my marriage to Jake. He also endures a mother-in-law who seems to be an ongoing, if invisible, part of our home.

  I have two beautiful, healthy children who have come through the rigors of divorce and custody disputes with remarkably level heads and cheerful dispositions. I am grateful for them every day of my life.

  The seven of us—me and Colin, Jesse and Vanessa, two Dalmatian dogs, and one long-suffering cat—inhabit a happy, if sometimes mobile, home. The thing I hate the most about my career is the constant traveling. Somehow, though, we all manage to adapt. I share custody of the children with their father, which makes it possible for them to stay in the same school year round. Unlike me, they won’t be attending seventeen schools each by the time they graduate from high school. Instead,, they’ll settle down and lead more happy and normal lives.

  Not that I count on that, of course. My family is still long on performers and short on more traditional occupations. When they grow up, they may choose to carry on the family tradition. If they do, I’ll be in the front row cheering, like my parents and grandparents before me. Meanwhile, my children’s only job is to have a happy childhood. The important thing is that they know they have choices.

  My father turned eighty-one last year. His health is good for his age, and he is as irritating and charming as he ever was. His emotions about this project have run from lukewarm to ice-cold. He has always acted as if he were the sole guardian of my mother’s memory, but I hope when he reads this book he will understand how much I love them both. He still keeps a beautiful framed portrait of two-year-old Frances “Baby” Gumm on the large glass coffee table in his living room.

  Joe still lives on the other side of the Hollywood Hills from me with the Smiths, who have become his second family. Joe has found in them the stable, traditional home he needs. He never married, though he’s come close once or twice. Joe continues to battle the effects of my mother’s medication intake during her pregnancy. He has suffered some damage that makes life a little harder for him than for me, but like me, he has struggled with addiction. For some time now, however, he has been winning that struggle—one day at a time. I admire his courage and perseverance. Unlike the rest of us, Joe didn’t choose performing as a way of life, and he relishes his comparative anonymity. He has a little less hair than he used to, but he still bears the scar of my attack in his crib when he was a baby. Of the three of us, he still looks the most like my mother. Joe has her small frame and pixie face. He’s also kept the gentl
e nature he had as a boy. I cannot imagine my life without the brother I once wanted to send back to the stork.

  Liza turned fifty-one in 1997, the same year our mother would have been seventy-five. Liza, of course, is in the tabloids almost as often as our mother was. Her personal disaster in Victor/Victoria and a string of canceled concerts have an eerily familiar ring. Liza, like me and Joe, has struggled with her own ghosts and shadows. Sadly, Liza and I have not spoken to each other for a while. Those of us who love her confronted Liza two years ago with our concerns about how she was living her life. She is not yet willing to take responsibility for her life or to leave behind the hangers-on who encourage and enable her self-destructive behavior. She has made a choice I cannot support, so I have chosen to live my life without her for now. I hope and pray that one day she will make better choices so that I can welcome her back into my life. I truly hope that those who surround my sister will find their consciences and take her best interest to heart.

  Some people say my life has been a matter of survival. I object to that word. Survivors are people who, like my former in-laws, emerge from the horrors of Auschwitz or some experience like that and somehow manage to live beyond it. My life can’t be compared to that kind of experience. I choose to think of my life not as surviving, but as coping.

  Sometimes it’s been difficult, and sometimes it’s been glorious. Either way, I’ve coped. And I’ve learned from it, which may be the most important thing of all. I was never very good at school, and I’ve sometimes been a slow learner in life’s school, too. But the important thing is that, eventually, I did get the point. I understand, and that understanding has changed my life, and I hope and pray it will change the lives of my children. There are some family traditions I don’t want my children to carry on. My mother would be the first to agree with me.

  Meanwhile, I count my blessings. I have a healthy body, free of the chemicals that once controlled it, and a wonderful group of people who help me keep that commitment. I have a husband who is able to love me for who I am, and who doesn’t try to make me someone I can never be. I have a teenage son with a wonderful smile, his father’s face, and his uncle Joe’s sweet disposition. And I have a beautiful little girl with my blue eyes, my mother’s face, and a voice like an angel.

  One evening a few years ago, I was sitting in a restaurant with a group of my friends, including Ernie Sabella, who would later be the voice of Pumbaa in The Lion King. Over the years it seemed as though whenever I’d be spotted at a restaurant or club, someone would play one of my mother’s songs. They always meant it as a tribute, and they always thought they were doing a nice thing for me, but it was always painful. Hearing her songs were a reminder of what I had lost. That evening, someone put on a song from my mom’s Carnegie Hall album. Before I could groan and say, “Oh no,” Ernie looked at me and said, “Isn’t that cool? It’s like having a guardian angel.” It was as if someone had turned on a light switch. I had never thought of it that way. From that day forward, every time I hear her, instead of thinking, “Oh this is terrible,” I give thanks that my mother is watching over me.

  My Al-Anon book, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, lies on the table beside me. Each day I read the passage given to me, and I remember that the blessings of that day are enough.

  It’s all that any of us can ask.

  Mama at the age of four at the old Lewis Hotel at Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park. At a dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Victor Gray, Mama jumped off her chair and ran out onto the dance floor and started doing the Charleston. (Photo by Victor Gray, courtesy of Dorothy Schwartz and the Judy Garland Children’s Museum)

  Mama’s beloved father, Frank Gumm, soon after his 1914 arrival in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. (Photo courtesy of Robert Milne and the Judy Garland Children’s Museum)

  The Gumm Sisters in 1926, shortly before their departure for California. From left to right; Mary Jane, Virginia, and Mama. (Photo courtesy of the Judy Garland Children’s Museum)

  The Gumm Family in southern California, circa 1927. From left to right: Mama, Frank, Ethel, Virginia, and Mary Jane. (Photo courtesy of the Judy Garland Children’s Museum)

  Mama at about age five, in the middle, surrounded by Mary Jane and Frank on the left and Ethel and Virginia on the right. (Photo courtesy of the Judy Garland Children’s Museum)

  Mama and her mother on board the “Hiawatha” to a homecoming in Grand Rapids, in 1938. She was almost sweet sixteen. (Photo by Lou Daugherty, courtesy of the Minneapolis Historical Society and the Judy Garland Children’s Museum)

  With Mama in 1953. (Collection of the author)

  Daddy and me on the set of A Star Is Born in late 1953. (Photo by Pat Clark, courtesy of Warner Bros.)

  Sitting on the table in Mama’s dressing room, while she feeds Joey, 1955. (Collection of the author)

  Lauren Bacall, Mama, and me at a western-themed birthday party. (Collection of the author)

  Joey, Mama, and me, 1960. (Photo by Malcolm R. Woolfson)

  Liza and me ice-skating at the Concord Hotel with the hotel’s instructor, February 1961. (Collection of the author)

  Greeting Mama, December 1964. (Collection of the author)

  Modeling Norma Kamali Clothes in New York. (Photo © Dirck Halstead)

  Francesco Scavullo’s photo of me for the cover of Interview magazine. (Photo © Francesco Scavullo)

  My wedding day with Jake, 1977. Bill Wyman and Astrid Lundstrom sit behind us. (Collection of the author)

  A “Girl for All Seasons” in the movie Grease 2. (Collection of the author)

  Maureen Teefy, me, and Allison (Muffy) Becker as the Pink Ladies in Grease 2. (Photo © Francesco Scavullo)

  Visiting with my dear friend Ryan White. Ryan was a true hero. (Collection of the author)

  In Paris with my ex-fiancé (and still good friend) Philippe Lavot and Pierre Boulon. (Collection of the author)

  The wrap party after Trapper John, M.D., finished its seven-year run. (Collection of the author)

  Me in the role of Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls with the fabulous Hot Box Girls. (Collection of the author)

  Backstage in my dressing room with my friend, “Sister Wisdom,” Whoopi after a performance of Guys and Dolls. (Collection of the author)

  HRH Prince Albert of Monaco greeting me after singing at the closing ceremonies of the Special Olympics. (Collection of the author)

  With Vanessa Redgrave in London, 1992. (Collection of the author)

  Backstage in Tokyo with one of the great voices, Whitney Houston. (Collection of the author)

  With Uncle Frank—my favorite male singer—backstage at the Royal Albert Hall in London in 1992. (Photo by Maria Weisman)

  With HRH Princess Diana after a charity luncheon at the Mayfair Hotel in London. She made the world a better place. On my left is Colin, my future husband, and in the background is ballet star Wayne Sleep. (Photo © Richard Young)

  Colin and me right after our wedding ceremony, September 14, 1996. (Collection of the author)

  My beautiful Vanessa. (Collection of the author)

  My son Jesse. Is this a petulant look, or what? (Collection of the author)

  Me and Liza snuggling with Lily aboard Pia Zadora’s private plane on the way to Paris to celebrate my birthday. (Collection of the author)

  All grown up now: my childhood friend Leslie Bogart, her mom Lauren Bacall, and her brother Steve Bogart, after a performance of mine at New York’s elegant Rainbow and Stars. (Collection of the author)

  Joey, me, Vanessa, Liza, and Liza’s stepmother Lee Minnelli on Hollywood Boulevard after Liza received her star of the “Walk of Fame.” (Photo © Michael Jacobs)

  Vanessa holding a photograph of her guardian angel. (Collection of the author)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to express my heartfelt thanks to all who have supported me on my journey in writing this book.

  Alan Nevins: I couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I love you.
r />   Ken Ross: Thank you for capturing, holding onto, and truly “getting me.” I am forever grateful.

  Mitch Ivers: Your never wavering support, love, laughter and focus kept me going.

  Gordon Wise: Thank you for your caring friendship, wonderful dedication, and love for this book.

  To all my friends who were there for me: Steven Rowley, Bob Duva, Eliot and Maria Weisman, Roni and David Agress, Sonny (W.T.F.D.I.P.T.) Golden, Michael Goldburg, Gary (E.G.T.M.) Hecker, Barry Manilow, Vern Alves, Tony Oppedisano, Janet Fitzgerald, Gunnar Peterson, John Kelsch, John Miner and everyone at the Judy Garland Children’s Museum, Dr. Joe Takamine, Nancy Conway, Alan and Arlene Lazare, Liz Derringer, Stacey Wood, Liz and Alan Wyatt, Trevor Jones, Joe Luft, Jered Barclay, Brian Aris, Jack Martin, Nikki Haskell, Maxine Messinger, Leslie Jones, Barbara and Don Rickles, Shirley and Ramon Greene.

  And John (A.T.W.I.N.Y.) Fricke: Thanks for all your help.