The Rainbow Comes and Goes: A Mother and Son On Life, Love, and Loss (22 page)

S
omeone recently said to me that it is easier to be clever than it is to be kind, and I think that is very true. So I add to my list of regrets the times I have not been kind, choosing instead to be clever, usually at someone else’s expense.

We began this conversation the day you turned ninety-one. You are now a few months shy of ninety-two. As a reporter, I try never to ask that stupid question “How does it feel,” but has your vantage point changed a lot?

After a lot of
living, I have become the mother and father I never had, like one of those Russian wooden dolls you open to find a smaller doll inside, and then another inside that, until you come to the smallest doll of all: yourself.

Age begins to dawn on us only as we grow older. It’s in the shadow we cast on the pavement one sunny day. It’s in the image reflected in a glass window on a busy street as we pass by.

Who is that?

Could it be the girl who, as a child, craved to be grown up, to be old, which meant to be independent and in control? From the time I was eleven until I was sixteen, the days, from dawn to dusk, crept along seemingly without end. How I wanted to be free to leap up onto that rainbow so far, far out of reach.

Of course, Andy, I must appear to you to be not only very old, but ancient. I assure you, that is not how I appear to myself. No doubt, you will believe me to be in denial, but this is not so.

How does it look from this high up on the bridge? Pretty good, actually. No impulse to jump into the river below as it winds “somewhere safe to sea” as Swinburne wrote—just curiosity about what’s going to happen next. Unexpected gifts await as age takes hold; past tragedies, although never forgotten, are made more bearable, settling into a landscape that is mercifully behind me.

The low self-esteem, the insecurities I’ve harbored since childhood are largely resolved. I trust myself. I have energy. I remain active. Last year I had three exhibits of my paintings. I have close family and devoted friends, a passionate love of beauty, and I still believe in romance, lovely things can happen when you least expect them. . . . The phone can ring, and your whole life can change in a blink (for better, of course!).

All this may sound like pie in the sky, but why not? Isn’t pie in the sky (my choice being angel lemon meringue) more soothing, not to mention more energizing, and conducive to pressing on than, say, a rose rooted in the earth with its blossoms drooping to the ground eventually dying for lack of water?

Oh hell, please don’t label me a hopeless optimist. We all have moments when we die a little, or a lot. But stay calm. Take a look at yourself in the mirror. No crying, please. These moments can be the beginning of a rebirth, another chance to reinvent yourself.

“The rainbow comes and goes,” Wordsworth wrote, and boy, was he right.

T
he rainbow comes and goes.”

I like the slight note of resignation that phrase implies—the acceptance that things can’t always be good.

The rainbow does come and go for all of us, but what is
remarkable about you is that you still believe it is out there even when you can’t see it, and you keep moving forward, searching for it, even on the darkest of days. That is what you have always done. You believe the rainbow will always return and that, around the corner, a new adventure waits: a man with a boat who might whisk you off to the South of France; a creative project that might become a big business.

As you know, I am more of a realist, perhaps even a catastrophist. I prefer both those words to
pessimist.
I plan and prepare always for the worst-case scenario.

You are certainly not a hopeless optimist, and I am always rather skeptical of those who are, but you are relentless in your determination to find the rainbow, and because of that, you remain one of the most modern people I know.

I find it reassuring
knowing the rainbow comes and goes. It helps me accept the way things often are.

In every life, you have moments of blinding beauty and happiness, and then you land in a dark cave and there is no color, no sky. Then the rainbow returns, sometimes only briefly, but it always does come back. You have to believe that it will, even in the darkest of times. That belief is what is really important.

Nothing is meant to last forever. Our lives are fleeting. We surround ourselves with objects, collect things, try to hold on to people and money and status, but it doesn’t last.

We are not meant always to be happy, and who would want to be? Happiness would become meaningless if it were a constant state. If you accept that, then you will not be surprised when something bad occurs, you will not gnash your teeth and ask, “Why me? Why has this happened to me?”

It has happened to you because that is the nature of things. No one escapes.

The rainbow comes and goes. Enjoy it while it lasts. Don’t be surprised by its departure, and rejoice when it returns.

There is so much to be joyful about, so many different kinds of rainbows in one’s life: making love is an incredible rainbow, as is falling in love; knowing friendship; being able to really talk with someone who has a problem and say something that will help; waking up in the morning, looking out, and seeing a tree that has suddenly blossomed, like the one I have outside my window—what joy that brings. It may seem a small thing, but rainbows come in all sizes.

I think about Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
singing, about where “bluebirds fly,” and Jan Peerce singing about “a bluebird of happiness.” Well, they may never find it, they may never reach it, and that’s okay. The searching, that’s what I think life is really all about. Don’t you?

I
’m not sure I believe in always searching for it. I know the rainbow will come back. It always does in nature, but
how can you be sure you will be there when it appears? I would much rather teach myself to be comfortable in the darkness, save money, buy supplies, prepare for the long winter. If a rainbow breaks out—well then, what a lovely surprise!

I do wish I had a little more of your hopefulness. I used to think that because I’ve spent so much time over the past twenty years working in war zones and disaster areas that my caution was born of experience, but I don’t think it is just that. I was cautious long before I ever thought of becoming a reporter.

So much of my current outlook has been shaped by early loss. I know yours was as well, yet each of us has reacted differently to those losses. I became far more independent, and began teaching myself that I could survive on my own no matter what, proving to myself that even if the rainbow didn’t come back, I would be just fine.

I think your way
makes much more sense. I’m certainly not advocating my way for others. Had I been more of a realist, perhaps I would have avoided many of the dreadful mistakes I made in my life and not trusted people I shouldn’t have.

As I’ve said, I am not an optimist, but it is in my nature to be hopeful; there is a huge difference between the two. It’s some
sort of a gene I was born with, and though it has not always served me well, I would not want to be any other way. I think I have a lot more fun because I am open to new experiences, and it doesn’t always turn out badly.

The advantage of being trusting is you don’t harden, which I admire. I don’t like hard people. By remaining open, you live in a way that’s more productive.

The risk is that you can lose everything, and I have at times, or nearly everything.

I remember Dodo once said to me, “You don’t know the world, Gloria.”

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, and I wish now I had pursued the conversation.

Anderson, because of your experiences in the world of journalism, your worldview is far more encompassing than mine. You are far more wary and suspicious than I could ever be. But you have not made the mistake of hardening your heart, despite all that you have seen. You have not lost one shred of humanity, integrity, or compassion.

Although we come from very different starting points, the end result, the openness to others and ideas, is the same. It is in my nature to trust with an open heart, my gut instinct the only compass I follow. At times it is right on the mark; at other times, far off it.

I do now know the world, the good and the bad, and I would
rather greet it with open arms; it is worth the hurt, the sting of loss or betrayal. Yes, worth it all.

Hope is essential. The alternative is to stop living.

It never occurs to me that the rainbow will not come back. As you said, I just know there is a yacht, or at least a big rowboat, waiting for me in the Mediterranean right now, and someday I’m going to be on it with all my loved ones. You’re invited, of course. You can make things happen by willing it. It’s like praying. Hope has energy and its own life force to make dreams come true.

I
wish I shared your belief. I pray every night for those I care about and worry about, but I don’t believe you can make things happen just by willing them to. I’ve seen a lot of people who really wanted something good to happen in their lives, and it didn’t. The world is full of people with dashed hopes, living in unfair circumstances, good people who deserve a better hand than the one they’ve been dealt. It’s not a lack of will that prevents them from changing their lives. I’m all for believing in the power of will, but only if it spurs me to work harder.

It’s not that I don’t have dreams, hopes, and ambitions, but I would rather work to achieve them, and if I can’t, I want to be at peace with that.

I don’t want to envision a yacht somewhere out there waiting
for me. I don’t want to dream of something that doesn’t come to pass. It may sound dull and unimaginative of me, but I don’t want to be disappointed if it never materializes. I would much rather be present in the reality of now, learn to accept what is, not what might be someday.

I still feel my life and career are on the upswing. I am still learning new things, still getting better at my job. But I worry about the day I no longer have that feeling, when the best of everything is past and I am in decline. It is inevitable of course; that day will come, and sooner than I can imagine. I just hope I can handle it with grace.

Andy, the longer you live
, the more brilliantly you will soar. The sky is the limit for you in whatever pursuits you choose; of this I am certain. No need to fear “inevitable decline.” My career didn’t really start taking off big time until I launched Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. I was fifty-four. Listen to your Mamacita: you have time, lots and lots of time.

I
appreciate the positivity, but I usually discount positive things. It may not be a healthy habit, but I worry always about becoming complacent.

When I went to Hanoi after college to study Vietnamese, I learned that some Vietnamese people believe that if a baby is very pretty you never say, “Oh my, what a pretty baby.”

You say, instead, “That is an ugly baby. How can a baby be so ugly?”

You do this so evil spirits in the air don’t hear that there is a beautiful baby and take him away. This is one of the few superstitions I pay attention to and have expanded to cover more than just babies. I tend to avoid saying anything too positive about myself or my circumstances. Why tempt any evil spirits that might be floating around somewhere?

You telling me, “The sky is the limit,” makes me want to search for some wood to knock on. As you know better than anyone, the sky can fall at any moment, and I want to be ready when it does. I don’t want to be one of those people who find themselves lost when they are no longer valued at their job, or passed over by someone younger and smarter. I want to be ready for what is to come, the good and the bad.

Well, I understand
the fear, which is natural, but as your mom, I am allowed to imagine accelerating and infinite heights for you. That is what mothers do. Excelsior!

I just received today a letter from my old school chum Prudence Gayheart, whose counsel applies more to you than it does to me. This is what she wrote:

She always did have a way with words, even way back when we were in high school.

Take her words to heart. Let them sink in. Please. Of course what you must come to terms with, what we all must define, is what success means for each of us. Money, fame, praise from co-workers, career advancement? Are these your definitions of success? They are for many people. But I believe there are many kinds of success: happiness with one’s work, the feeling that you are making an important contribution, helping people in one way or another, creating something that speaks to you or to others, loving someone who loves you, creating honest relationships, giving of yourself to someone and getting something back.

It is very easy simply to define yourself by your job, your title, your salary, but these rarely give you long-term feelings of success and happiness.

Your father was a fine writer, but he never sold a huge number of books or reached the level of renown that was his dream. But he knew that his greatest success, his most important achievement, was you and Carter, creating you, and raising
you, teaching you and talking with you. That is what he lived for and tried to stave off death for.

All these other benchmarks by which people define success: money, power, fame, Instagram likes, followers on Twitter—they are all meaningless. They aren’t real. Money can give you independence, but once you start chasing it, there will never be enough. No amount will make you feel whole or safe.

The problem arises when no matter how successful you become, the rainbow is still not enough. When you think it could always be brighter, and last longer.

I know this for a fact. Yes, you can buy beautiful things, and live in a nice home, and provide for those you love. That is certainly important, and it has been important to me, but it doesn’t last, and it doesn’t take away the feelings of loss and pain that exist in one’s core.