There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me (20 page)

The rafters were big palm-tree trunks and the roof was a thatched canopy with a peak. The shape of the roof enabled rain to cascade down the sides and not leak into the room. Our bure consisted of two connecting rooms, each with two twin beds. This was perfect for when I had friends visit from the States.

The first few weeks we rehearsed and prepared to film, and Chris couldn’t have been sweeter. He was so excited, energetic, and kind all the time and took me on tours of all the special spots in our new home away from home.

He was really cute and I think everybody was even secretly hoping that we would become a real-life couple. I could tell that Randal, the director, really wanted it, and he enlisted my mother to be encouraging as well. Even though it was not overt, I felt people believed it would be good for the film. God forbid we just act! Chris seemed equally excited to become my best friend and possible boyfriend and was always around me. Anyway, if it was going to happen anywhere, this stunning island would be the perfect environment in which to fall in love. I, however, began to feel standoffish. I have never been good with people forcing themselves on me, or acting too gung-ho about becoming my closest buddy. The moment I sensed the push, I put up a wall so tall that my mother had to tell me to give the kid a break and not take it out on him. I would have none of it and their plan almost backfired. But he really was so sweet and happy that I would eventually develop a crush on him. It lasted only a very short time because Chris and I were really more like brother and sister than we were lovers. Strange that our relationship was actually closer to the essence of the film than even others could see.

Mom explained that Chris probably believed he had to fall in love with me to be a good actor. I was going to teach him otherwise. Even though Chris originally came across a bit strong and off-puttingly eager, I really did respect how he was committing to his debut role. Chris had learned to spear fish, skin-dive, build a thatched hut, and start a fire with sticks. He was trying to be as authentic as he could and I appreciated his approach. I, too, committed to learning whatever I could from the locals.

Like Chris, I set out to adapt immediately. Within two weeks I could climb palm trees in bare feet, dive for coral and shells without a tank and without making bubbles, and weave palm fronds into bowls and small boxes for catching rainwater. I had worked up to holding my breath for over a minute so I could do the underwater scenes more efficiently. I jumped right into being an island kid, rarely
wearing shoes, and swimming whenever I could. Mom and I both chose to tie traditional
sulus
around ourselves instead of wearing shorts and T-shirts. A sulu is almost exactly like an Indian sari or a wrap you often wear at the beach. They are made of brightly colored cotton and can be tied many different ways.

We learned the difference between eating coconuts right off the tree and those that had fallen on the ground. One Fijian man in particular taught me to use a pointed stick and a machete to break open mature coconuts for their meat and young ones for their milk. Our crew consisted mostly of Australians and Americans, but included a few sturdy Fijians. The native Fijians spoke very little English, but with the few words they did know, and with the Fijian I picked up, we communicated fine.

I forget his name but the man who taught me about coconuts was the same man who made my mother a long sword from wood so she could beat away the rats that moved into our roof. The rats had moved in a few weeks after Mom and I began living there. They were really terrible and seemed to come out mostly late at night. I hated rats and slept with the blankets over my head. I pictured them landing on my head in the middle of the night and chewing my face off. I’d hear Mom leap up and start whacking at the thatched-roof ceiling after hearing a scurry. I don’t think my mother ever slept.

We all got used to living on a deserted island and dealing with everything that came along with it, such as rats, bugs, sewage issues, mail once a week, storms, and sunburn. Only one man had ever lived on this island with his wife. He owned it, and his dream had been to eventually turn it into a resort.

The cinematographer, Academy Award winner Néstor Almendros, used only natural light and fire to light the entire film. In order to complete a day’s worth of scenes, we needed as many hours as possible, so Néstor came up with the idea of pushing our clocks ahead. Everyone working on the film synchronized his or her watch to a new
time. Each morning I had to get up at 5:00
A.M.
or even earlier. So while my clock said 5:00
A.M.
, for my body it was actually 4:00
A.M.
Mom was never a good sleeper and rarely slept more than five hours a night, sober or not. But the benefit of this self-imposed time shift, which we dubbed Bula Time, was that except for all-night shooting, which was lit by fire and candlelight, we would finish our days by dusk. Sometimes, immediately after filming for the day, Chris and I would go diving for shells. I was collecting white shells that had rays of red dots that fanned to the tip. It took me weeks, but I collected enough of them to make my mother a necklace for her birthday. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I’d find a piece of black coral and string it on to some leather for myself.

My skin had trouble holding on to a tan and I began losing all pigmentation. Patches of white began appearing, so to avoid looking like I was starring in
The Jungle Book
as a leopard instead of in a love story about sun-kissed teenagers, I had to get up even earlier than everyone else so I could be sponge-painted with makeup mixed with iodine. The makeup lady used big natural sea sponges and spread the liquid all over my body until I was the desired color. I was only allowed to take limited showers, and then only on days when we had finished a sequence the day before. The feeling of being painted by wet, cold sponges before dawn every morning was, to this day, one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.

Our one day off a week was Sunday. Mom and I were getting along much better these days. My rage toward her had subsided and we were back in a routine we loved. Mom and I both loved to create new little lives for ourselves. Wherever we went, we would make it a home. We decorated our huts and wore traditional attire and played the music of the Fijian people. But we maintained some of our own traditions. Mom and I would wake up early and take a small motorboat to a mission on a neighboring island. It took forty-five minutes and we wore no life vests. For much of the trip no land was visible. Then, off in the distance, I’d see the outline of the small island and the steeple of a church. Mom and I attended Catholic Mass every Sunday with the nuns from the mission, who also taught the children their lessons. I kind of dreaded the idea of having to trek so far to go to church, but I loved being on the open water so early in the morning, and the service was always sweet and filled with singing.

One of our Fijian crew members enjoyed the ride and would come with us to do the navigating. At the conclusion of the shoot, my mother arranged for the film company to donate our generator to the mission. This generator enabled them to have electricity for the first time in their lives. The nuns loved my mother, who made them laugh and donated much of my per diem to them weekly. They needed it more. There was nothing else to spend the small weekly amount provided by the producers on, so it was no loss to me. My long hair
fascinated the schoolchildren and it took me a while to get used to them wanting to touch it. I often had to remind myself I was not in Cannes.

We would return to our island in time to have a big breakfast or take a nap. Many Sundays and most nights, while walking back to my bure, I’d pass the local men having their nightly kava ceremony. Kava is a root that when crushed and placed inside a man’s tube sock, and then soaked in water, makes a liquid resembling dirty dishwater that tastes like mud. It is served in half a coconut shell and if offered cannot be refused. It was considered rude, and unlucky, to refuse the call of “Kava, kava,
bula
kava!” Whenever I passed the ceremony, I’d try to go unnoticed, but I often failed and was forced to accept a cup. You were supposed to swallow the liquid from your coconut in one gulp. After ingesting this disgusting, lukewarm substance, you had to clap three loud, hollow-sounding claps with cupped palms, before passing it on to the next willing victim. I never learned what the claps symbolized but it was part of the ceremony. Kava numbs your mouth and throat and gives you a sedated feeling. The effects did not last too long, especially if you drank only one cup, but the taste was so disgusting and I hated it so much that I tried to avoid the torture whenever possible. Mom never got into it, either, because she said she didn’t like the feeling. I was surprised they offered it to a kid, and I did not find it fun or cool.

•   •   •

It wasn’t long before Mom began drinking again. The moment I saw the look on her face I knew. She got the usual flushed cheeks and familiar blurry eyes, and of course her lips had their signature brittle-looking texture. I always asked her to breathe out so I could smell her breath, and she’d come very close and open her mouth but never exhale. She despised the idea of my trying to control her in any way. I
made it clear that I was aware that she had started up again. She had halfheartedly tried to conceal it from me, and then before long, it was every night, out in the open, and with zero remorse. I believe Mom simply felt drinking was her prerogative. If she wanted to get drunk, then she would get drunk, and as long as I was OK or fit her definition of
cared for
, then she saw no downside.

What I felt were the personal consequences of her drinking, consequences that she saw as insignificant. If I got hurt because she said I could be a “bitch” or in a rage that she hated me, she’d dismiss my feelings. Because she knew she loved me, and because she knew I believed she loved me, none of it mattered. She had no idea how deeply her mean comments, whether representing her true feelings or not, cut into my heart.

I was devastated at Mom’s inability to stick to the program and her failure to stay clean. I felt angry that she did not keep her promise. Mom, however, never seemed ashamed by her choices—choices that I clearly regarded as displays of weakness. She would never issue forth any apology or justification. She just did what she wanted to do. I’d yell at her when she was drunk and told her I hated her, but she knew I loved her so she let the insults roll off her like water. I never talked to her sober about any of it. Why ruin the moment? We avoided all of it and all the rules of recovery, and I never expressed how deeply pathetic I thought it was that she could not control herself. But I had learned that accusing my mother of being even remotely inept in any way could easily result in disaster. She held a power over me. I mostly kept my mouth shut and instead pouted around her, hoping to give off an air of disappointment.

I felt like I lost my mother every time she drank. I felt completely alone and on edge all the time waiting to see if she had been drinking or was about to drink. I was always afraid of what she’d say when drinking. I was embarrassed by her cursing and flirting with crew
members and was grossed out by everything about her attitude and appearance. I lived inside my stress and in a constant state of anticipation of the possible wreckage of the future.

Here, however, I wasn’t concerned about her safety. There was nowhere my mother, nor anybody, could really disappear to on this island, so some of my fears dissipated. Unless she went swimming, the risks were fewer here than in a city. Mom didn’t even know how to swim, so there was no worry of her going for a midnight dip and drowning. I guess she could have been trampled by the wild horses that roamed the island, or been nibbled on by the rats or the huge stone crabs that had invaded our camp, but this did not concern me. Soon, however, I began to compartmentalize, as I had learned to do years back. I just gave up emotionally. I hated her drinking, but I could not seem to do anything about it, so I buried my head and my anger in the proverbial (and fitting term for island living) sand. Once again, because I was on a movie set, and there was work to do and other people around, this was quite easy to do.

There was a real safety in being on an island that was seven miles long and a mile wide, with no roads or potential vehicle accidents. All this comforted me, but it especially helped that I had my favorite student-teacher and social worker on location with me, and I felt protected watched over by her. Her name was Polly and I requested her every time I got a job. She had been with me on many jobs and I adored being with her. We had the same sense of humor and had an incredible amount of fun together.

Mom must have felt confident knowing that Polly was watching over me, and was emboldened to drink even more. Often, at night, Mom would stay behind in the makeshift bar the crew had put together, and Polly would bring me back to our bure at bedtime. For this movie Polly acted as more of a companion and a caretaker than a teacher because it was summer vacation. She really kept an eye on
me, occupied my time—which helped me not obsess about Mom’s drinking—and even made sure the director did not try to talk me into doing my own nude scenes behind my mother’s back.