Kick-Ass Kinda Girl

by Kathi Koll

  On a typical warm California day in September, I walked into my new school with my mom. I didn’t know anyone—not one single kid—and it’s the first time I remember having butterflies in my stomach. What was this strange place with nuns who wore habits that not only covered their entire bodies but most of their faces, too? Notre Dame had nuns, but I could see more of their faces. My mom held my hand as we walked down the mirror-like, polished corridor to my new classroom. I was wearing my new blue-and-white saddle shoes, navy blue jumper trimmed with scallops, and a crisp puffed-sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar covered by a navy blazer trimmed with white piping. Topping it off was my blue beret, cocked to one side so my ponytail, tied with a white grosgrain ribbon, peeked out.

  “Mommy,” I asked as we walked past girls doing a strange plié I’d never seen, “what are they doing?”

  “They’re curtsying,” she answered with a smile. “It’s a sign of respect to adults.”

  Wow, I thought. Will I have to do that? I was used to running down the hill from our home and watching the trains go by, hiking the dirt path to the house behind ours, playing in mud after it rained, climbing the large sycamore trees framing my house. I was a tomboy. My new surroundings felt so strange. On top of the uniforms and curtsies, there were no boys. I’d never been to an all-girls school. What were my parents getting me into?

  As I quietly took my spot at my new desk, I could feel the other girls looking at me. They weren’t being mean; they were just curious about the new girl. When the recess bell rang, the class rose in unison and lined up at the classroom door anxiously waiting to get out onto the schoolyard. I followed suit with a little lump in my throat. I wanted my friends back. I stood alone in the play yard. Don’t these kids know I’m fun? Across the yard, I noticed a girl walking my way.

  “Hi, I’m Lucie. Do you want to be my friend?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “OK,” she said, taking my hand. “Let’s go play.”

  Even as a child, there’s something comforting about a person holding your hand. Here was a little girl who didn’t have to help or take care of me, but she welcomed me into this wholly new place without a single reservation. Her generosity of spirit eased my nerves that day and many days.

  I wasn’t aware at the time that Lucie was the daughter of Lucille Ball. It wouldn’t have mattered, but once I found out, I thought it must be so exciting to have a “funny” mother. I Love Lucy was my favorite TV show. I imagined Lucie’s kitchen with a conveyor belt for her mom to wrap chocolates, or was that how she made Lucie’s lunches? Was there a large wooden vat in her backyard for her mom to squish grapes with her feet? Whose mom did these kinds of things? I thought she was so lucky. Did her dad sing “Babalu” every night? What was her brother Little Ricky like? Reality and TV were one and the same for me then, but soon I learned it was make-believe. Her mom was actually quite serious. Ethel and Fred weren’t her real neighbors, and her brother’s name was Little Desi, not Little Ricky.

  Lucie became my best friend.

  Kathi and Lucie Arnaz

  “Do you want to come over to my house and spend the night?” I asked her. “I have an extra bike and fun trails that lead down to a canyon behind my house.” We couldn’t wait for the day to arrive. I found out later it was Lucie’s first overnight.

  “Kathi,” my mom said, “go outside and wait for Lucie. She’ll be here any minute.” My house was at the end of a cul-de-sac with only a few homes on it. I always loved the curved red-brick walkway that led to our front door. It was lined with little rose trees my dad had planted. As I rode my bike back and forth on the sidewalk, I wondered why all the neighbors were in their front yards. One man was mowing his grass, another lady cutting flowers, another standing in her driveway reading her mail. Even my dad was home from work, which was unusual for that time of day.

  In the distance, the nose of a black car peeked over the hill. It was the biggest car I had ever seen—the first limousine I had ever seen. It slowly made its way past the staring neighbors, who by now were frozen in place, hypnotized by the car.

  The limo drove right into my driveway and out jumped little Lucie. Slowly a woman with red hair followed. It was Lucie’s mother. I looked toward my front door, and there was my mom in her very favorite dress. It finally dawned on me what was going on: The real I Love Lucy was at our house. It was probably the biggest thing that had ever happened on our little street. Maybe it’s because I was young, or maybe she was just really that hard to impress, but I had never seen my mother look at anyone the way she beamed at Lucille Ball as she made her way up our path. I hoped that one day she would look at me and my life with that same pride and awe.

  My mom invited Lucy into the living room, where they sat down getting to know one another. Since it was Lucie’s first sleepover, I guess her mom wanted to meet my family and make sure we were alright. Before you knew it, Lucy and my mom were sitting side by side on the piano bench playing a duet. Lucie and I groaned, wondering when all the fuss would be over. We just wanted to go outside and play.

  As our friendship bloomed, we spent plenty of beautiful Southern California days taking in the sun while riding bikes and hiking at my house, and putting on little plays at her home in Beverly Hills. Even though there was no lunch-making conveyor belt or wooden vat for grape squishing, that didn’t mean that Lucie wasn’t the star of our friendship. She was always the lead in our makeshift plays while I was a maid or gardener or other lesser character. I never questioned it, though, because it was her house, her garage, her stage. She was the undeniable tip-top of the pecking order, but seeing that self-assurance helped me identify it in myself and foster it. Having Lucie as a friend taught me a lot about the difference between outsiders’ perceptions and reality, which has turned out to be a common thread throughout my life.

  Complicated relationships were par for the course in my family. There was always more than met the eye. My dad was a very kind and calming personality in my life. My mom was the fiery Irish one. The one huge problem—the only problem with my dad, as far as I could see—was his drinking. It was a constant issue during my parents’ entire marriage and the only thing they fought over. My dad didn’t drink on a regular basis, but he did binge, and when he did, all hell broke loose in my home. My mom tried everything to get him to stop. Everything was fine most of the time, but when those binges came, life was impossible, sad, turned upside down. My brothers were already grown and gone, so I witnessed quite a lot without the support of siblings to lean on. To this day that certain smell of alcohol haunts me, a silent warning.

  My mom always said, “You can talk about it inside the house, but once outside, never tell anyone that your father has this problem.”

  Holding this in, I suffered a lot in school. I should have been a stronger student, but my teachers never knew about the many times throughout the years that there was no time for homework or studying because of the disruption inside my home. My mom would always bring me into the middle of it. The most difficult times were when she’d drive me to a bar when I was as young as ten to try to coax my dad to come home. She’d pull up to a rather seedy bar and insist I go in to get him. I pleaded with her to not make me do it, but she said I was the only one he’d come home for. It was a sickening feeling, walking from the bright outside into a very dark, narrow room with men sitting on bar stools, drunk. I hated seeing my dad like that, and the minute he laid eyes on me, it was clear how hurt and humiliated he was to have me witness his losing struggle with this demon. Naturally, he was furious with my mom for pushing me to go into such a place, but he’d always come out with me, stumbling and squinting as he faced the bright afternoon light, his cheeks rosy from too much alcohol. I would always be crying, scared, embarrassed, wishing this wasn’t happening. Hating my dad for being like this. Hating my mom for charging me with this unbearable task.

  I still feel the power of her saying, “Never tell.” And here I am telling. But it’s important for me to exp
lain that even at a young age, I understood that this wasn’t my dad; this was his drinking problem. He didn’t want this. He couldn’t help it. He loved me and was a wonderfully caring father. He called me his baby doll, and I adored him. Many years later, it felt strangely ironic to hear my husband, Don, call me “baby doll,” never knowing that my dad had called me that. He was such a gentle person, a good provider, but not the strongest person in the world. Drinking was his Achilles’ heel, and he was unable to get a grip on it until the latter part of his life.

  My high school years were probably no different from my peer’s, other than the drama being played out at home with my dad’s drinking problem. I went to Marymount High School, an all-girls Catholic School near UCLA. Starting kindergarten at four, a year early, made me one of the youngest in my class every year, but I didn’t feel out of place with my older peers. The only time the age difference really bothered me was when my friends could drive or date a year earlier than I could. I never felt that was fair. My parents said I had to be sixteen. They caved a little and moved the timing up to fifteen-and-a-half when I started dating my first boyfriend, Ernie Wolfe, who’s still a close friend of mine today.

  It’s rather funny to think that I was not allowed to go steady in high school for fear I’d get married too young, but I ended up being the youngest of all my friends to marry. My mom didn’t want me to marry young like she did, so there was a strict rule in my household that I could only date the same boy once a week. I will say, this gave me an opportunity and great excuse to date a lot of different guys. There was even a stint with Mark Harmon of NCIS. I never felt being in a girls’ school all day hindered my opportunity to meet eligible guys—there were a number of boys’ schools in the vicinity with plenty of young men on the lookout for us. They seemed to be everywhere. Hanging out in the school parking lots after school, dance mixers on a regular basis, brothers of classmates who always seemed to be home with their friends when my girlfriends and I went to one another’s homes after school. Dino, Desi and Billy—a ’60s singing group comprised of the son of Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball, Dean Martin’s son, and the brother-in-law of one of the Beach Boys—even came to our school mixers. It was an idealistic and innocent time of my life that I will always look back on with wonderful memories.

  Even if I did feel a little stifled at an all-girls school, once I turned eighteen I could finally meet my true love on The Dating Game. It seemed like everyone who was anyone in Hollywood went on at least one date that way. I thought, What the heck? and applied. Being accepted was a fun distraction from home problems, and who knew what could happen? The possibilities were endless and exciting.

  “From Hollywood, the dating capital of the world, in color. It’s The Dating Game. And here’s the star of the show and your host, Jim Lang.”

  Johnny Jacobs’ familiar voice was announcing one of the most popular game shows of the ’60s as host Jim Lang swiftly bound onto the stage. The audience’s enthusiasm veiled their exhaustion from waiting hours outside the stage door to snag a seat. My modeling career throughout high school left little to write home about, but I did have a resume of print work, TV commercials, and a small part on a short-lived series called The Visual Girl. As a member of AFTRA, I knew I’d get paid at least $300.00 to be on The Dating Game, and maybe I’d even get an interesting date. It was the money and recognition I was looking for more than the date. Secretly I hoped to be “discovered.” What the heck? My life at home was pretty grim, and this was my chance to be on television.

  Offstage I was nervously awaiting my entrance as each of the three bachelors were being introduced with silly stories, each one more ridiculous than the previous one. I randomly picked my bachelor. On a scale of 1 to 10, he was a 4, and our prize was a trip to New Orleans. What in the world was I going to do with a Mister Four–type in New Orleans?

  “Kathi, hi.” I had hoped the studio lost my number, but a few days later, Mister Four called. “This is Paul, the guy you met on The Dating Game.”

  After a few pleasantries and an awkward conversation, I knew we weren’t going anywhere—most importantly New Orleans. A dinner was one thing, but a whole weekend? Chaperone or no, it wasn’t happening. I explained to the representative of the show that my mom was ill, and I really couldn’t leave her. Lucky Mister Four still got his prize, and he even got to take someone of his choice.

  During the summer between my senior year of high school and freshman year of college, my mom was diagnosed with colon/rectal cancer. It was hard to comprehend because she was always so strong, so full of life, so in charge of the family. I had no idea what it meant, but reality hit pretty quickly.

  I just wanted to be normal like my friends. As a teenager, that meant a mom who wasn’t ill. After her chemotherapy sessions, my mom and I often stopped at the Brentwood Mart for lunch. It was a nice way to perk up otherwise somber days. The Mart then, and still today, is a small cluster of shops, restaurants, and a specialty grocery store housed in a number of quaint red barn buildings reminiscent of a farmers’ market.

  Just as I bit into my hamburger, my mom’s face went pale and serious as she said, “Kathi, I think I’m going to get sick.”

  Of all places for her to get sick, I thought, of course it’s one of the most popular hangouts for all my friends. Before I could say anything, my mom darted from the table, almost knocking into the lady behind us as she pushed her chair back.

  I sat there frozen, hoping none of my friends were watching. I kept my head down, staring at my burger and fries in the red-and-white checkered paper basket, as I wondered if my mom had made it to the ladies’ room in time. I didn’t get up to check. I sat motionless on the little white wooden bench at the picnic table wishing this was happening to someone else’s mom, not mine. I had spent so many carefree afternoons there. This time was different; I was different. I had a mom who was throwing up. I looked around to see if any of my friends where there, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I didn’t recognize anyone.

  She came back and took her place across from me without bringing up her embarrassing escape. My mom never wore much makeup, just a little mascara and lipstick. I noticed how pale she looked. Would some blush help? Should I mention that? I silently pondered. No, it would just make her feel like she doesn’t look good. She was perspiring as she tried to jump back into the nothing conversation we had been having. I could see beads of sweat gathering on her face. For the first time, she looked vulnerable and frail. This was impossible for me to wrap my head around. My mom was the strongest person I knew.

  I have often recalled that afternoon as one of the worst days of my life. Not because of the realization that my mom was ill, but the sickening memory deep in my gut of how I didn’t help her. The thought haunted me until years later when I read the book Motherless Daughters, by Hope Edelman. I celebrated the discovery that I wasn’t alone. My feelings were similar to those of so many motherless women. I was young, immature, and frightened. My mother knew that. She never judged me.

  My dad had a very hard time dealing with my mom’s diagnosis, and his drinking took on a new fervor. He was trying to escape the reality that the love of his life was facing something so terrible, escape his inability to save her, but mostly, he hated seeing how much more his escape hurt her. He was caught in a Gordian knot. It was still binge drinking, but with more regularity. Needless to say, the two years of my mom’s illness were not only extremely difficult, but the sorrow of knowing I was going to lose her was compounded by the sorrow piled on her by my dad’s drinking.

  More than once she asked me, “Can’t he even stop while I’m going through this?”

  The answer was no.

  He did try. He’d gotten a prescription for some kind of medication that was supposed to squelch his desire for alcohol. One evening, my Mom accused him of having a drink, but he completely denied it. So she put one of the pills in his coffee. She wanted to believe he was telling the truth. And she didn’t know that the combination of the pills and alc
ohol could be lethal. My mom was so weak from her chemo that she couldn’t get off the living room sofa when my dad stumbled into the living room gasping for help. He’d lied to her. He had had a drink and was choking to death right in front of us. My mom was wailing and screaming, “He’s dying. He’s having a heart attack. Call 911!”

  In that harrowing moment, I was all alone with the fear that both my parents were about to die right then and there. I called 911. It seemed like an eternity went by, and they weren’t showing up. Where were they? We lived up a canyon, and before the days of GPS navigation, our home could be difficult to find. I jumped into my car and raced down our steep driveway onto the narrow, windy canyon road, driving with the fear I wouldn’t find help in time to save them. There at the bottom of the canyon were the ambulance and fire engines, lost and turning around on another street. I rolled down my window and yelled, “Follow me.”

  The paramedics had no idea what they were walking into. My mom on the sofa, half passed out from weakness, fear, and the cancer that was robbing her of her life. My dad barely alive on the carpet in front of her.

  “Hurry, please. Hurry!” I struggled to explain in as few words as possible. “My mom is dying of cancer. My father has been poisoned. Please, please, get us to the hospital.”

  They were both quickly loaded onto gurneys and into the ambulance. Shock and adrenaline blurred the next few minutes, but I followed all alone in my blue Camaro. Driving down that familiar driveway, tears streaming down my cheeks. How could I lose both of my parents tonight?

  There was a lot of confusion at the hospital. A lot of questions. My God, I realized, it almost looked as if my mom had poisoned my dad— and she had—but not on purpose. In the ER, surrounded by police asking me questions, I could see one emergency team doing CPR on my dad and another team doing the same on my mom. I called my brothers, and they arrived shortly, thank God. My parents survived the evening, and all misunderstandings were explained, but it was a nightmare that still haunts me.