by Babe Walker
I did my best to remember what was said in the session, because when the honest and brutal portrayal of my life is presented as a film in five to ten years, the scene where I talk to my mom for the first time should play out exactly like the following. I might as well start writing the script now while it’s fresh in my mind and I’m sober.
Jackson: I know we only scheduled the one session with your dad and Mabinty, but some pretty obvious and unexpected circumstances made me feel that bringing you and Donna together would be a good idea.
Silence.
Jackson: (cont.) I know it’s not going to be a simple task to open a line of communication between you and your mother, but we ought to try. Leaving this unaddressed would not only be irresponsible of us, but it would also further some of your issues, Babe.
Me: I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: I really don’t appreciate your obsession with my problems. It’s weird. Plus, this is not my issue. It’s Donna’s. She’s the one who dipped out on my life. She’s the one who fucked up. Not me. So make her talk about her issues.
Jackson: Well, we’re here to help you. Why don’t you start by telling Donna how you’re feeling?
Me: I’m honestly over it. Seriously, I don’t need a mom, okay? When I get married, I’ll have my husband’s mom to fill that role of “older woman to whom I have the absolute freedom to be a bitch.” Until that day, no mom needed. Thanks so much, guys—great session. Are we done here? I’m trying to fit needlecraft in before my colonic at one o’clock.
Jackson: Babe, wait. Donna’s here, right in front of you. She wants to talk with you, and I think it would be smart to talk back.
Me: I don’t even like talking.
I stand to leave the room.
Donna: I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. I get it. Being here is really hard for me too, but we’ve been given this chance to be together and you deserve to know why I decided to leave when you were born. Abandoning you is my biggest regret, but we all make decisions that we can’t change. You have every right to hate me.
Me: I don’t hate you, I just hate you right now. I mean, no, that’s not it. I just . . . I don’t know. You haven’t been the best mom.
Donna: I know. When I met your dad, I was nineteen and an absolute fucking mess. I had just moved from Ohio to New York. The modeling industry was eating me alive. I was dealing with addiction and my sexuality and an eating disorder.
Me: Chic.
Donna: Not chic. I cleaned up and got sober when I found out I was pregnant with you, and I thought I could be saved by starting a new life with your dad.
Me: So like what kind of pregnant were you? Were you totally fat everywhere, or were you, like, superthin with a big round tummy? And who did I meet when I was inside of you? Donatella? Ohmigod, Gianni?!
Donna: I was the thin kind. And you met both. When you were born, it was too much for me. I was scared. I didn’t know how I would be able to take care of you if I couldn’t take care of myself. I was young. Way too young. (Starts crying.)
Jackson: This is great. Keep going, Donna.
Close up: My face, totally creeped out by how into this Jackson is, yet, at the same time, totally impressed at how well Donna hides the fact that she’s from Ohio.
Donna: (through tears) I hadn’t had a drink or a narcotic in nine months and I was losing my mind. The responsibility was too overwhelming. I took a ton of Klonopin, granted full custody to your dad, and ran the fuck away from it all.
Me: Kinda selfish.
Donna: Totally fucking selfish. I was a scared little girl, Babe. I moved back to Ohio, and the guilt was so intense that I couldn’t get out of bed for months. After a year, I finally got my shit together and moved back to New York to start working—
Me: You were modeling?
Donna: Yes. But keeping my career afloat was a nightmare. I was trying to suppress my demons with drugs. It wasn’t until I met Gina and we moved to the country that I was able to clear my head and confront my troubles head-on.
Me: Did you even try Googling me once you stopped being a psychopath?
Donna: Of course. There have been so many times when I thought contacting you would be a good idea. But I didn’t want to mindfuck you, so I’d always decide just to stay out of your life.
Me: You look like me when you cry. It’s sick.
Jackson: Babe, how does all of this make you feel? What’s your gut telling you?
Me: Stop saying I have a gut. That’s offensive.
Jackson: Babe, please.
Me: Jackson, please.
Jackson: Babe. Let’s work here. Let’s get it all out on the table.
Me: You guys, I’m sooooooooooo tired.
I take one long, deep breath, slowly shut my eyes, and pretend to nod off in my chair.
Jackson: Babe!
Me: Fine! I’m up! That was a super-intense story, and I’m sorry to hear that I have ancestors in Ohio, but I’m not going to freak out about it, because I promised myself I wouldn’t cry or scream at anyone today. Is that okay? I mean, what do you want from me? Donna, Mom, lady, whatever—you fucked up. I’m angry. The end.
Donna: Thanks for being honest with me, Babe. And I do hope that we can start to build a relationship.
Me: I don’t know . . . I’m gonna be, like, the busiest ever when I get out of here. So we’ll see.
Donna: Well, my door will be open to you from now on. You know, sometimes Gina and I go to church and pray for you. Not that I really believe in all of that shit. I’m sure that doesn’t make you feel any better, but I thought you should know.
Long silence.
Donna: (cont.) P.S. Your jeans are really good. Are they Rag & Bone?
Me: Yeah, they’re really old. So, you knew Karl Lagerfeld when he was fat?
Donna: I did actually. It was chic in person, believe it or not.
Me: Ew, really?
Donna: He was youthful, so the extra weight was working for him. I always loved walking for Karl. You know, it was fast music, great energy, short skirts.
Me: And he always featured his little black fan, right?
Donna: (laughing unreasonably loud) Yes!
Me: So, you walked for Chanel, or Fendi, or what?
Donna: Both. I did lots of running around in those years. It was a shit show. I think you would’ve liked it.
Me: Liked it? Are you fucking kidding? I would’ve disintegrated into a pile of mush to have been at his spring ’94 shows. I’ve been scouring eBay for those crotch-emblazoned Chanel bikinis for five years.
Donna: You’re kidding. Those are hideous!
Me: Speak for yourself, lady.
Donna: Well, Gina has one lying around that she’s never worn because I forbid it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all yours.
Me: OHMYFUCKINGGOD THANK YOU!!!!!!
Donna: It’ll be a hand-me-down from us.
Me: I accept.
Jackson: I’m really glad we did this.
Donna: Me too.
Silence. They both stare at me.
Me: What? Am I supposed to say something?
End scene.
And that’s how it went down.
Love,
B
Day 19
Last night I dreamt that I gave birth to a baby version of myself at the end of the runway during Oscar de la Renta’s seminal spring/summer 1987 fashion show. It was vile. Remind me to never give birth. My mind was racing and I couldn’t get back to sleep after that, so I woke Gina up at 5:30 A.M. I dragged her out of bed, threw her in a lace slip that I found on the floor, and we left for the woods. I had a million questions about Donna/Mom. I needed answers. I’d gotten the story of why she’d left, but I didn’t know the little details that made her the woman she is now.
Gina and I walked for about nineteen cigarettes, and I got to ask her all of the things that I wanted to ask Donna but couldn’t. I found out what Donna’s favorite color is (gray), who her favorite designers are (Azzedine Alaia, Calvin Klein, Husse
in Chalayan), if she’s good in bed (yes), does she eat white starches (no), what her favorite leafy green is (kale, which is weird because kale is my favorite leafy green too). I’m beginning to piece together who this woman is. This woman . . . my mom! That’s so fucking weird to say. Ew.
Unclear,
B
Day 20
Gina completed her treatment program and left Cirque this afternoon. It’s not like me to miss people, but I’m going to miss her a ton. What am I gonna do without her? She became my loyal confidante when no one else understood me. Every time my fellow rehabbers turned on me in group, I had Gina to bitch to over a glass of Pellegrino at the end of the day. When I wrote Paul an anonymous love letter, sprayed it with my perfume, and slid it under his door, and he didn’t say ANYTHING about it to me, Gina let me hold her Birkin and cry. Out of all the people in the world that have fucked my mom, she’s my favorite, after my dad.
When I was walking Gina to the car, she stopped me as we were crossing the serenity bridge and handed me a little piece of paper with her e-mail address scribbled on it. She said that she wanted to be a part of my life, and that I was always welcome in hers. It was a total moment. I was crying, she was crying, and my hair was a mess from the wind. It was a TOTAL moment. I do hope that we can keep in touch. Is it bad that I kind of wish Gina was my mom instead of Donna?
I was expecting to get in touch with my demons and maybe drop a few pounds at rehab, but I found a new friend in Gina. Bye, bitch.
Love,
B
Day 22
I fucked Paul.
Whoops,
B
Day 25
Jackson and I had our last one-on-one session today. I wanted to talk about ways that he could refresh his look, namely with some Rogaine and a new jacket (preferably not from Patagonia). I even brought some before and afters that I’d mocked up for him, but all he wanted to talk about was my recovery and my dad and meeting Donna and how I was going to cope with life on the outside and the most annoying question of all: how I got to this place in my life.
Jackson has asked me this same fucking question literally twenty thousand times, and every time I say the same thing: “I am in rehab because I spent $246,893.50 at Barneys in one afternoon. It’s embarrassing, I get it.”
Today, Jackson refused to let it go. He kept trying to tell me that there were underlying issues that led me to this place in my life. He seems to think that I need to face these issues head-on in order to “make progress in my recovery.” Also, now that all of this Donna shit has hit the fan, he keeps bringing her up and wanting to talk about my feelings toward her, and I need him to stop because I don’t know what’s going to happen between Donna and me! It’s weird, the whole thing’s weird! I feel like I have all of these unresolved questions about who she is as a person, but Jackson’s the last person I want to talk to about them.
UGHHHHH. What’s his problem? Was that therapy session he sprung on me not enough of an ambush? Why is he so obsessed with me?
And he didn’t stop there. Jackson spat all kinds of nonsensical reasons why I ended up at rehab, like that my dad wasn’t around to enforce boundaries so I made my own rules, and that my grandmother’s death stirred up painful feelings of abandonment I had from not having a mom, and that I grew up with a dependence on material things, and blah fucking blah. Whatever.
I told Jackson that he clearly doesn’t get my struggle and I’m out of here in three days anyway so it doesn’t even matter. And then, AND THEN, he had the nerve to tell me that I needed to adjust my attitude because he was trying to help me?! Fuck you, man. I’m going to sleep.
Suck it,
B
Day 28
Today is supposed to be my last day, but after reading through everything that I just wrote over the past forty-eight hours, one thing is clear: I’m kind of a psycho and kind of a drug addict, and kind of toying with the idea of staying on for another twenty-eight days of treatment. The last month hasn’t been ideal, and there were certainly moments when I thought rehab was hell, but maybe I just wasn’t open to accepting the fact that I might actually need help? It wasn’t all a wash. There were minor successes: I got back on a horse, I made a great friend in Gina, and I fucked Paul.
This morning, I was looking for my matches, and I pulled the little paper out of those jeans and saw that it read: [email protected]. Turns out that the e-mail address Gina gave me wasn’t hers after all. When she gave it to me, I slipped it into my pocket without even looking at it because I was too busy crying.
At first my heart kind of sank, because I felt like Gina expected me to reach out to Donna and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to do that. But maybe it’ll be good for me to connect with both of them. I could use some positive lesbian influences in my life.
Another thing I realized after reading through all the stories I’d written was that I clearly needed to make amends with a few people, so I wrote a really positive e-mail.
FROM: Babe Walker
SUBJECT: Sowwy!
DATE: July 11, 2011 11:37:43 PM EDT
TO: Dad
CC: Mabinty
Hi guys-
Just wanted to drop you all a line and let you know how sorry I am that I’ve been gone all month. I didn’t really take into account how you all would feel about me being absent from your lives for so long. It’s clear that I had some growing up to do while here in UTAH! I’m not sure I’ve succeeded in doing so, but only time will tell.
Dad— I love you. I’m sorry that Donna ditched you when I was born, and I’m sorry you had to date a string of semiretarded models in order to get over her, but I am so grateful that throughout everything, we’ve had each other. I’m also sorry about the whole Barneys thing. I wish I could say that you taught me to know better than that, but . . .
Mabinty— Thanks for always letting me be myself and understanding my struggles. I’m sorry for taking my bullshit out on you. You don’t deserve to be screamed at or bossed around, but I guess that’s kind of what mother figures are for. I’m not saying it will never happen again, but I am saying that now I’ll be able to recognize when I’m doing it, and that’s progress.
Roman— Hey Ro, love your new FB profile pic (so ripped!!!?!). I miss you! How’s Uri? Can’t wait to see you when I get out of here! P.S. I’m sorry for being a cunt sometimes, but I’m working on it. Plus, you can be a cunt sometimes too. Love you!
Gen— I’m sorry that you never texted me back when I told you I was going to rehab.
I miss you guys and I miss my old life, but I’m kind of excited about my new life? See you all soon-ish. Prob staying for another 28 days. I’m feeling like treatment might actually be a good idea for me, it just took me some time to warm up to it!
LOVE,
B
I also wrote this . . .
FROM: Babe Walker
SUBJECT: (No Subject)
DATE: July 11, 2011 11:37:43 PM EDT
TO: Donna Valeo
CC: Jackhole
Hi.
So, we’ll see how all of that pans out. In the meantime, maybe my stories can help other people. My journey is pretty inspiring—I should try and turn it into a book. Everyone and their mother is writing a memoir these days. I mean, I realize that this wouldn’t technically be a real memoir because I’ve never been molested or raped, but still.
Possible titles:
Babe Walker: Perseverance
I’m Fine: The Babe Walker Story
I’ll Buy the Flowers Myself: The Babe Walker Story
Babe Walker: The Babe Walker Story
Walk the Line: The Babe Walker Story
Fashion: My Story
All really good ideas, but I have plenty of time to decide. I’ll let it come to me organically. You can’t force the
creative process, especially when you’re out of Adderall.
It’ll be really interesting to see if I can get my shit together.
Love,
B
Acknowledgments
This book (my life) would not have been possible without the love and support of the following people:
Dad, Mabinty Jones, Genevieve Larson, Roman Di Fiore, Robert, Donna Valeo and Gina, Jackson Whatever, Lara Schoenhals, Tanner Cohen, and David Oliver Cohen.
And now I’d like to take a moment to mention all the people who should thank me for writing this book:
Butch Schoenhals, Linda Schoenhals, Jake Schoenhals, Kurt Schoenhals, Sara Schoenhals, Jennie Hunnewell, Chandler Hunnewell, Marcia Cohen, Stewart Cohen, Jessica Lindsey, Natalie Stevenson, Luce Amelia Stevenson-Cohen, Cristiana Andrews Cohen, Penelope Ziggy Cohen, Liz Newman, Frank Newman, Tristan Andrews, Byrd Leavell (a super-hot dad and the best agent a girl could ask for), Jill Schwartzman (my fearless editor), Samantha O’Brien, and the entire Hyperion team, Howie Sanders, Larry Salz, Jason Richman, Amanda Burnett, Wyatt Hough, Jenna Griffin, Carey Waggoner, Colette Kennedy, Eva Amurri, Rachel Schubert, Susan Sarandon, Audrey Adams, Leonardo DiCaprio, Ryan O’Connell, Olivia Wolfe, Celine Rixey, Megan Fulton, Chris Macho, Christine Ronan, Amanda Bynes, Emma Roberts, Steve Jobs, Princesca, Gizmo, Babe, Catcher, Oscar, Moose, Big Pudy, Little Pudy, Milo, Pepper, Tiger, Socks, Pudy, Nancy, Neko, Toby, Sophie, Biscuit, Rockwell, Panda, Martha, Orangie, Emily, Red Sox, Little Kitty, Tabby, Butch Jr., Madison, Little Black Princess, Wolf Girl, Dirty Nose, Whiskers, Cleopatra, Sophie, Maxwell George, Maggi, Samba.
About the Author
Babe Walker lives (and very occasionally works) in L.A. You can find her on Twitter (@whitegrlproblem) or on her blog, www.BabeWalker.com.
Copyright
Copyright © 2012 David Oliver Cohen, Tanner Cohen, and Lara Schoenhals
Illustrations copyright © 2012 Wyatt Hough
