A Lotus Grows in the Mud (23 page)

I write back:

In one of his final letters to me, Aldo writes:

I write to Aldo for more than four years, sending him gifts, flowers and photographs, and I visit whenever I am in Europe. One day, his letters stop coming, and I know in my heart that he is dead. I try to find him, to send flowers to his grave, but the world has swallowed this remarkable human being whole and closed over him like water, leaving no trace.

F
rom the briefest of chance encounters, from a kind word to a stranger, Aldo and I ended up giving each other so much. To this day, I feel the light of his life illuminating mine. One should never be closed to new friendship, no matter how old or tired or busy. Every relationship has its unique gifts, and Aldo’s gifts to me were priceless.

Blanche DuBois, Tennessee Williams’s character in
A Streetcar Named Desire,
said, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” I feel that deeply. There is something about being vulnerable to a stranger. Not vulnerable in the sense of being endangered, but vulnerable in that you are in unfamiliar territory, a place where you need to avail yourself of the help and kindness of others. It not only helps you restore your faith continually in humanity, it is also so humbling.

I never want to get so comfortable that I forget the importance of those small connections people can make with other human beings. When you are comfortable, you can miss so much, and I for one don’t want to miss a thing.

M
y eyelids flicker open and then close. I am in that delicious state of wakeful nothingness, floating weightlessly just before sleep. It is a warm afternoon in early 1982, and I am lying on my bed for a rare afternoon nap. Curled over into the fetal position, a blanket pulled right up around my neck, my mind drifts with the tide of my thoughts, back and forth, lapping gently against the inside of my skull.

Through the swirling water, something begins to emerge like an image on photographic paper. Only this isn’t static; it’s moving. It is as if I’m witnessing something but am detached at the same time. I can see my father. He is in his new apartment in Los Angeles, and he is busy in his kitchen with something.

I smile. What is Daddy doing? Is he cooking hush puppies? I wonder. Or is he creating something with his beautiful hands?

I continue to watch him as he walks from the kitchen into his dining area. Then I suddenly see him clutch his chest and fall to the floor.

In a blind panic, I awaken with a start, sit up and call his name.

What in the world was that? What have I just seen? I jump out of bed, hoping to dispel my bad dream and shake myself back to reality. I run to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Looking into the mirror at my own reflection, I say, “I’m gonna call Dad.”

Walking back into the bedroom, I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Daddy?” I am so relieved just to hear his voice.

“Go? Hi, honey, how are you?”

“I’m fine.” I exhale. “How are you, Daddy? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” There is a weariness to his tone.

“So how was your day, Dad, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Hmm. Maybe a six.”

“Why don’t you come over for a cup of coffee?”

“Okay.”

As I put down the phone, I think to myself, He sounds so uninspired. I hate that.

Out the kitchen window, I watch his Pacer idle into the driveway. That was fast, I think. I run to put the coffee on. I watch him saunter up to the kitchen door and hear it slam behind him. I am so glad he’s here.

Sitting at my kitchen table, stirring his coffee, he sits opposite me with a wistful expression. “You know, Go,” he says, “I’m not afraid of dying…but I’m so lonely sometimes.”

I stare at him, my own spoon frozen in my cup. I feel like I could die. I can’t bear to think of my dad feeling lonely; he has always been so self-sufficient, so self-generating and so creative. This admission knocks the wind clean out of me.

Maybe I should tell him I’d like to take that road trip we’ve always dreamed of. Just then, Oliver chases Kate through the kitchen screaming, reminding me how difficult it would be to get away these days. Instead, I change the subject and start to talk about my preparations for my next movie,
Best Friends,
with Burt Reynolds. That always cheers him up.

“Mom’s going to meet me in D.C., Dad. You see, first we’re filming in Buffalo, and then the company’s moving to Washington. Isn’t it neat? I’m going to be in our hometown, making a movie. Why don’t you meet us there?”

“Nah.” Daddy sighs. “I don’t care to go back to Washington. Been there, done that.”

“I’m gonna miss you, Daddy. I wish you’d think about that. But I’ll call you, all the time, as usual. Give you the scoops. And when I get back, let’s talk about that road trip we’ve been planning for so long.” I’ve said it anyway.

He perks up. “Great, Go.”

T
he call comes early one morning. I am in a hotel in Washington, rushing around trying to get ready for the day’s shooting. My mom is in the next room, I’m late as usual, the kids are playing, and I haven’t even washed my face yet.

The telephone rings and I pick it up while pulling on a shoe.

It is Patti. Her voice is shaking. “Goldie, Daddy’s in the hospital. He collapsed in his kitchen last night. An aneurysm has burst his aorta. Please, you and Mom have to come home right now.”

My world goes cold. I saw this.

Mom and I can barely hold each other up. We are both too scared to cry. We don’t know where to go or what to do first. Norman Jewison, my director, somehow appears magically in front of us, hugs us both and says, “Just go. Don’t worry about anything. This is only a movie. Go home and be with your father.”

Mom and I hardly speak on that long journey back to Los Angeles and Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, the place where I gave birth to my children and where my father is now in critical condition.

Staring out the window of the plane, I pray to the God I prayed to to save my son. “Please, God, please let him live. He’s only seventy-three.”

When we arrive at the hospital we meet up with Patti and her two sons, my beloved nephews Michael and David. Shaken to the core, we are led into the Intensive Care Unit, a world of strange beeps and sounds, measuring the pulses of life. Daddy is hooked up to all sorts of machines. We have never known him to be sick; he hardly ever went to see a doctor.

Mom, my sister and the children and I visit Dad every day for eighty-two days. We are now shooting the movie in L.A., which allows me to be with my father as much as possible. I rush from the set every night after work, to sit with him and stroke his hair and whisper how much I love him. My mother, who never divorced my father and never met anyone else, rarely leaves his side. Patti and I do our best to shore her up. Those eighty-two days are some of the longest of our lives.

Sometimes when I arrive late at night, he is asleep and I scribble little
notes for him. One night I write, “You know, Daddy, I want to tell you how important you are to me and how all your advice and your philosophy is part of all of us now. I know you thought it went in one ear and out the other but it didn’t. See you tomorrow.” I kiss him good night, and ask the nurse, “Please give him this when he wakes up.”

Those final weeks of the film when I am trying to make people in front of the camera laugh, when I am secretly dying inside, are truly awful. One night, I am in the middle of the breakup scene with Burt Reynolds at the end of the movie when I get a call from the hospital.

“Come right away, Goldie.” It is my father’s favorite nurse who cares for him. She is a sweet girl who Daddy jokes he will marry one day. Tenderly, she adds, “He’s not doing well. Could you come to the hospital?”

With the insistence of Burt and Norman, I flee the set, still wearing my costume. Luckily, this is one of many false alarms. But then, soon after the film wrapped, the inevitable phone call came. “You’d better come to the hospital, Goldie. Your father’s blood pressure is dropping. This could be it.”

After running every red light trying to get there for his final breath, I run into Intensive Care, but something is wrong.

The machines that had been whirring and ticking, bleeping and monitoring Daddy’s life force, have fallen silent. All I see is his beautiful body lying there—lifeless. I throw myself over him. I can’t believe he’s gone. I’m hurting inside. I’ve lost my best friend. This isn’t possible. I wanted to say, “Come back, Daddy.” It was too late. All that can be heard is the sound of the nurses, who loved him, weeping softly. My mom, my sister and my nephews all run into the room. We hold each other hard, and we cry. We cry for an unusual man who did unusual things.

T
his loss feels unbearable for a while, as if no one in the world has ever felt this much pain.

He wasn’t the best husband, and I guess he wasn’t your all-time perfect father either, but he was an unusual man who did eccentric things. In truth, perfection is only something we can strive for. I am so lucky to
have my memories, to be able to feel his love from this distance, to share in the wonder of his spirit. That will never leave me.

I have since come to learn that loss is part of being alive; it’s part of loving. Sadness is just as important as joy. Letting go of someone we love is the hardest thing we will ever do. Pain provides us with the vital ingredient in the genetic makeup of our character; it is part of the DNA of our philosophy. Some people never surrender to love for the fear of being hurt. But to not have loved, to not have felt the immense joy it brings, would have been a far worse kind of death.

To the tune of a lone fiddler, we buried Daddy.

“My father was a king among men,” I told the assembled throng. “His crown was studded not with precious stones but with love, kindness, humor, music, dignity, honesty and integrity…From the day he hocked his violin for a sax and took it into the woods and worked at that instrument until he learned to play it, he was committed to a philosophy that carried him through the rest of his life. It kept him learning and discovering new things up until the day he left us.

“When he met our beautiful mother, they gave us life. He learned to change our diapers at the same time he taught himself to repair watches. He opened a watch shop and became an institution in our small city. He played the fiddle at night for all the great world dignitaries and repaired watches by day. We were so proud of him…He taught us the simple pleasures and curiosities of life…Daddy kept us laughing. His sense of humor was a gift from God as well as his gift to us.

“He was a man of few words, but when he spoke we listened. His words of wisdom to me when he sent me to New York will ring in my ears forever: ‘Always look like you know where you are going…Keep your feet on the ground. If you need me, the umbilical cord is stretched to wherever you are…Don’t pick your nose in public. And remember to put the butter back in the icebox.’

“He has passed these philosophies to each of us in his own way. We have grown straight and tall because of him…This was our father, the tenderest, most gentle person I’ve ever known, and I was so proud that not only did I understand what he felt but that I agreed and I re
joiced and thank God for him and his influence in my life and the life of my family.

“Not only did he see his loved ones clearly but also himself without illusions. He loved without pomp or pretense, and he never stopped loving all of us even when we let him down. He told Patti and I time and time again to stop rushing and don’t forget to smell the flowers along the way. Well, Daddy, you’ll see, we will take your advice and continue your dreams. I wish everyone on earth would follow your dreams and objectives, then for sure we would have more peace on this earth and goodwill toward men. Daddy, your light will always shine inside your children, and we will never stop loving you.”