She was thinking that she should never have married Louie. At the time he had been her ticket out of a tricky situation, but still, she should not have married him. They really had nothing at all in common. He was in California right now so he could make her dream come true, but it wasn’t because he himself felt the pull. If left to his own preferences, he’d have been happy to turn gray and die in the Bronx without so much as seeing California. Happy just to drink five or six bottles of Corona on hot summer evenings and play dominoes with the other men on their block. Happy with day trips to Orchard Beach or Far Rockaway or Coney Island. And the music she loved so much, it didn’t speak to him at all.
She was lonely with him. But this loneliness would not last forever. When it was a bird’s time to fly, it flew.
Meanwhile, there was still the pregnancy to deal with. Ron had a friend who was a nurse, and she had pledged to help. Ron was probably paying her, but my mother was never told any details of this arrangement, if there was one. That was all right; she preferred not to know.
They came by just a little after noon, during the children’s naptime. The nurse was blonde and prim-faced with an air of martyrdom. My mother had pictured a white uniform and starched nurse’s cap but she was in regular clothes: green corduroy bell-bottoms and a gingham shirt. She did have a white smock that she put on after washing her hands at the kitchen sink. She also had a medical bag and a gallon jar with a black rubber seal.
There were no introductions. Ron had warned ahead of time that there wouldn’t be. The nurse would lose her license if anyone found out; she could even go to jail. She did not want my mother to know her name.
Ron was wet-eyed and resigned. He felt bad about what she was planning to do, but he shared her fear that the baby might be his and her belief that ending the pregnancy was for the best. He stood holding her hand while the nurse put a pot of water on to boil, so she could sterilize her equipment. Then they watched in silence as she draped several towels across the kitchen table and set out an array of gleaming metal rods.
Something about the towels and the jar and the rods made my mother shiver. She found herself suddenly cold and breathless, overcome by what they were about to do. The nurse’s implements looked sinister, and violent, and unnatural. Just then, she felt the baby flutter in her belly and she knew she couldn’t do it. Or at least she could not do it this way. There had to be a better way, a gentler way. She began backing away from the table. She backed away until she found herself against the wall and then she slid down to the floor and started to cry.
Ron came over and sat down beside her and took her hand. He stroked her hair and whispered encouragement in her ear. My mother rested her head on her knees and just shook her head no over and over. No, no, no.
The nurse packed up her equipment. She told my mother to drink quinine—a bottle or two of tonic water might do the trick—and then spend the afternoon moving her furniture around.
Ron went out and got her the tonic water. There wasn’t much furniture in the apartment besides the nubby orange and brown tweed sofa and Louie’s matching La-Z-Boy recliner. She threw herself into tugging them around in circles. The kitchen table and folding chairs were way too light to bother with.
By evening, there wasn’t so much as a spot of blood. She didn’t even have a cramp.
All across the nation
Such a strange vibration
People in motion
There’s a whole generation . . .
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there . . .
MY MOTHER WOULD attempt to end her pregnancy in other ways. She would try to starve the baby by eating nothing at all for days on end. On other days, if she felt light-headed or dizzy or faint with hunger, she would nibble a package or two of Saltine crackers. Every time she felt the baby move, she would imagine it was in its death throes.
For good measure, she would try every psychedelic she was offered during the weeks and months leading up to her due date. She had heard of people losing pregnancies to LSD. Maybe if she were lucky enough the same thing would happen to her. Acid made everything better anyway. It brightened the long days at home with her kids. It made the Bronx bearable.
By May she would go west as she had dreamed of doing for so long. She would settle with the kids in the apartment that Louie had secured for them in the Haight-Ashbury district of the city, and not long thereafter she would leave him for a grifter named Rick.
In the meantime, she would be in the audience at the Monterey Pop Festival. She would listen live to The Mamas and The Papas and The Grateful Dead and Ravi Shankar and Otis Redding and Jefferson Airplane. She would watch Jimi Hendrix set his guitar on fire and she would hear Janis Joplin keen and croon and growl and caterwaul her way through “Ball and Chain.” She would festoon police officers with flowers as they tried to break up the tripping, half-naked, and ecstatic crowds.
And on a July evening in 1967, after all of it—after the nurse showed up in her Bronx apartment and then left again; after the bottles of tonic water and the hours and hours spent hauling her sofa around; after the fifty-calorie days and the nothing-but-air-and-water days and the peyote and angel dust and acid days—my mother burst through the emergency room doors of the San Francisco General Hospital, clutching her swollen belly and gasping that her baby was coming; it was coming now.
The ambulance driver who just happened to be standing there swiftly assisted the intake nurse with guiding her onto the nearest gurney and then, true to her word, she gave birth within the next ten minutes. The baby was a girl, pinched-looking and underweight, shriveled and tiny, purplish and nervous, startling at the slightest noise or unexpected touch from the very first moments of life.
As for the birth itself, there was no difficulty at all. There was no striving; there was no pain. As my mother tells it, she didn’t even have to push. She knew then that nature had taken its own course from the start, and she had never been anything but powerless to stop it.
Because each earthly being must obey a certain pull. Every living creature has to answer its own call. As migrant birds are pulled south by the sun, as my mother was pulled west by the summer of love, I was pulled headlong and headfirst into this world; I answered the call to survive.
Chapter 2
THE WOMAN ON the other side of my desk was making me uneasy.
“I had a brilliant career in graphic design,” she was saying. “We’re talking dozens of layouts in national magazines, and a lot of high-level awards.”
Karen was applying for admission to the college I own and run, the Heritage School of Interior Design. At first glance, she didn’t come across as the typical candidate. She wore a shapeless black dress with no accent pieces or jewelry. Her graying hair hung over her eyes and she kept brushing it back.
So far, I’d heard a lot about how successful she’d been until a sea change in her industry had stripped her of her prospects and optimism. To give herself a lift, she’d remodeled her kitchen—and the result was so stunning, she wondered if she’d stumbled on her next move.
“I’ve worked with world-famous photographers,” she went on. “I’ve done multimillion-dollar ad campaigns.”
“That’s very impressive,” I told her, hoping I didn’t sound as impatient as I was starting to feel. “With a portfolio like that, are you sure you want to walk away from graphic design?”
“It’s not that I want to,” she said. “And I wouldn’t say I’m walking away. I’m getting bounced out on my butt!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, a little bewildered. “How so?”
“Overnight it’s like I’ve become a dinosaur. You have to understand, I spent decades building my reputation in print media. Honing my skills in darkrooms and type houses. My God, when I think of the hours I put in . . . and now? Just like that,” Karen snapped her fingers, “it’s all about web design.”
I was quiet for a moment. Karen was angry, and I didn’t blame her. She was afraid, too,
as anyone in her place would be. I could understand her bitterness.
But it still wouldn’t serve her. In fact, it would hurt her. It would make others want to steer clear of her.
I said none of this. If she ended up a student at Heritage, she would leave a different person than she was today.
For now, I said only, “The good news is that all those skills will enhance your interior design work. Every creative practice you’ve ever undertaken will end up informing your work in some way. So with that in mind, let me ask you: Are there any other art forms you’ve pursued, even as a hobby?”
“Well . . .” she said. “I guess so, if you count my quilts.”
“You’ve done quilting? Of course that counts. In fact, sewing skills are prized in the design world.”
Suddenly, she was fumbling in her purse and withdrawing an iPad.
“Wait,” she said. “I created a website gallery of the quilts I’ve done. Just give me a second to pull it up . . . here.”
She thrust the tablet at me, and what I saw was so startling that at first, I could hardly form a response.
Her quilts were a revelation. They were playful and poignant and piquant and uplifting. They revealed an extraordinary sense of color and composition. You could see Karen’s love of life in each one, her appreciation of nature’s beauty and bounty.
Many of them had an unassuming simplicity. Several featured childish flowers: tulips, poppies, and snapdragons. They were intensely hopeful and open. It was nearly impossible to reconcile the undefended hope and openness of those images with Karen herself at this moment in my office.
The spirit emanating from those quilts was irresistible. It had come from within the woman in front of me. Where was it?
“Karen,” I said. “These quilts are breathtaking.”
And with these words, Karen’s face transformed before my eyes. The relief of being seen etched itself into her features.
“You have an incredible sense of design,” I went on. “One of the very best I’ve seen. Learning to apply it to interior spaces should be a very natural step for you.”
That much was true. I wasn’t worried about her technical ability.
“But I imagine you have some questions about the school,” I said. “Is there anything you’d like to ask?”
She hesitated. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I’ve always thought of interior designers as very chic people. And as you can probably tell, I’m not much interested in fashion or makeup. Is that going to be a handicap for me in this business?”
I was quiet for another moment. I wanted to tell her no. That the industry’s obsession with aesthetics did not extend to a designer’s appearance.
But it wouldn’t have been true. Most of us expect other designers to show some personal flair. The way we present ourselves is itself a statement. That’s true for everyone, of course, but it’s especially true for us. A designer needn’t be a classic beauty, but her personal presentation should be intentional, self-possessed, and visually interesting.
“I wish I could tell you it doesn’t matter,” I finally said. “I can’t. But I can tell you that you’ll have the opportunity to explore that side of yourself here. You just made over your kitchen. You knew just how to highlight the natural and unique beauty of that space. Can you imagine making yourself over?”
This question is really at the heart of every interview I conduct with prospective students. Can you imagine making yourself over? Can you imagine making your life over?
It’s hard to put into words just how much I love my school. I love everything about it. The wide windows overlooking Mississippi Avenue. The coziness of the classrooms, the wooden beams, and the tables of live-edge cherry. The full wall of fabric swatches—thousands of them, in baskets, in books, on racks—that showrooms send over. Sometimes when I’m having a hard day, I’ll flip through a new fabric book and feel restored by the velvets and silks and brocades and damasks. Above all, I love the atmosphere itself, charged with passion and purpose and industry.
I get a lift from seeing my students. Every single one of them is lit with a sense of their own possibilities. Every one of them found the grit to invest in themselves, to take a risk. Some of them have been obsessed with design since early childhood. Many are making this investment well into middle age.
Before Heritage expanded to serve design students in other cities, I met individually with each student when they began the program. I sat with them for as long as they needed and asked questions about their hopes, their goals, and their concerns.
These conversations became intimate very quickly. The students on the other side of my desk were usually in a vulnerable place. For them, this tended to be a time of transition and uncertainty. They were leaving a way of life that no longer felt right. Some of them told me they felt unfulfilled as stay-at-home mothers now that their children were of school age. Others wanted to leave a career that no longer inspired them or—like Karen—an industry that had imploded. For those who were switching careers, starting over could feel perilous. The ones who hadn’t worked outside the home for a long time were often afraid to take themselves seriously.
Usually these discussions stayed focused on the students. But once in a while, over the years, I found the spotlight turned back on myself. “Where did you grow up?” someone might ask, or, “What do your parents do? Are you close with them? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Very early, I became adept at sidestepping these questions, not only with students but with everyone: “Oh, I grew up in different places, what about you? Are you from here?”
Or: “My mom and I actually aren’t all that close, how about you? Do you have a good relationship with your parents? Are they proud of all the amazing things you’ve done?”
I wasn’t about to tell them my mother was criminally insane, that I’d grown up mostly in a series of ghastly foster homes, that the man I’d believed was my father had killed himself and I had no idea who my real father was. I wasn’t going to say that two of my siblings were convicted felons, one was on disability for mental illness, one was a depressive recluse, and one was dead.
Instead I asked admiring and leading questions meant to draw them out, make them forget about me. And usually it worked. Once in a while, though, someone would persist, and whenever that happened, I felt myself breaking into a sweat of alarm beneath the cover of my clothing.
When no other form of deflection was at hand, I’d find an excuse to bolt. I went for almost fifty years without telling anyone about my past—not my trusted staff, not my closest friends, not even my own children.
My husband, Jim, knew. Eventually I had a therapist who knew. But no one else.
This deception, this omission, began to leave me depleted, strung out. Day after day, in an attempt to soothe myself, I would take stock of how far I’d come and how much I’d built. This list included a happy marriage of more than twenty-five years. A stable, close-knit family, with two sons who had come to us in the usual way and a daughter we’d adopted from Guatemala. A cherished career as an interior designer, ownership of my own design schools, a cabinet full of tennis trophies. A devoted staff and beloved friends. A beautiful house in a tranquil neighborhood. Security and achievement against the most staggering odds.
From the outside, it all looked good—very good.
But what no one knew was the fact that I would come home from my days, go straight to the bedroom, lock the door, and pull all the shades. I’d sink down onto the edge of the bed and weep.
Once I released the tears I’d held back for hours, I often couldn’t stop. Sometimes these crying jags lasted the whole weekend. I wouldn’t get out of bed between Friday evening and Monday morning. I cried into my pillow. I cried in the shower. I cried until I couldn’t draw a breath without shuddering.
Sometimes I had panic attacks, episodes that left me clutching my chest, fighting for air, afraid I was dying.
My husband had stopped asking questions. The first tim
e I was overtaken by this nameless grief, he pressed me for a reason, and all I could say was: I’m sad. It was as if an invisible wave had broken over me, broken something inside me.
Jim tried to help. He cooked for me, brought me gifts, wrote me cards, told me jokes. When nothing else worked, he simply stayed with me. Holding my hand. Stroking my hair. Lying beside me in bed with his chest pressed against my back.
If I could have given words to what weighed on me, what was breaking me, I would have talked about the unbearable burden of secrecy, of feeling like a fraud. I needed to come out of hiding and come clean with others—even with myself—about my life. I needed to finally face my past.
And the day of my interview with Karen, that process was irreversibly set in motion when my cell phone rang and my mother’s name appeared on the screen.
My heart pounded at the sight of it. It had been years since we’d spoken. Her call now, if indeed it was her, was in violation of her stalking order, the one I’d filed against her after she threatened to burn my house down.
Since that stalking order had been set, I’d seen her just once while picking up a furniture shipment for a client’s renovation. I pulled into the warehouse parking lot, which was next to a local Motel 6, and there she was. Sitting on the curb in front of room #107 and smoking a cigarette. She looked wild, and her eyes were drawn into slits behind her tangled hair.
I didn’t get out of the car for a long time. I sat in the driver’s seat and watched her, holding myself very still. More than once, I had to close my eyes against the agony of being within fifty yards of her but not able to approach or speak to her. I longed for her.
After a while, she got up and went into her room—and what was going on behind that closed door, I couldn’t guess. How long had she been there? How long would she stay? Who—if anyone—was she with? She might be staying for a night or two or twenty, alone or with the last man to score her some drugs.
American Daughter Page 2
