There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me (52 page)

I loved you so much, Mama, that for so long I put you before me. I blindly defended you because you were my mom. It was often just that simple. As a mom, I admit I sometimes wish my daughters looked up to me with the same undaunted devotion as I did you because I imagine it felt good. But I also don’t want them to have to carry that burden. I carried you because I loved you and needed you, but I needed to learn to care for myself, too. I remained conflicted because I felt like you never really let me in, yet you absorbed me so far in that I could hardly find my way out.

I appreciated you and all you gave me in my life. It was very hard to get past the alcohol and yet, when you were not drinking, we were so unique and glorious together. The laughter healed everything.

I am just so sad that you were so sad and that you could not get your life straightened out or fully actualized. And yet, it was your life, and you chose to do with it what you wanted.

I remember when we were being interviewed by Barbara Walters when I was sixteen. When Barbara asked you what message you wanted to leave with the public, you simply and resolutely said, “I’m not going to change.” And you didn’t. But in life I believe change is healthy and necessary for growth. You saw it as defeat, and I believe that was unfortunate. I knew you meant that you were never going to take criticism lying down or cave to others’ wills, but it also carried into your life.

I realized that up until the end I was fighting the same fight. I was navigating your demons. I was trying to do for you what only you could do for yourself. I was never going to “fix” you. I see, too, that much of your unhappiness was independent of anything I did or was, but as a child, one carries that responsibility. I did not have faith that you would be OK, so I kept trying to be the source of your happiness and self-worth.

I wrote this book as a way to shed light on your complicated yet vibrant and, at times, tragic personality. I wanted you to live longer. I wanted you to be a more integral part of our lives, but the booze killed everything. You died too early. You had more to enjoy and do. We had more to laugh about.

But we did share an extraordinary life together, and you taught me so many wonderful things. I learned about humor, survival, and perseverance. I learned the power of observation and the necessity of generosity and good manners. I learned how to always work hard and try my best. I even learned how to have better posture. “Stand up straight, Brookie. . . . And keep your head held up high.”

I learned how to “never take no for an answer” and how to fight for what I want. I learned how to pick myself up when I fall and never allow defeat to define me. You taught me to cast off any negative comments often hurled at me and not to “sweat the small stuff.”

You taught me to look for the good in people and to admit that life could always be worse. You taught me how to adapt to my surroundings and to jump into life with both feet. You taught me how to find treasures at flea markets, to love both NECCO and Choward’s Violet candies, sneak into a second movie, and be silly for a laugh. I learned to dab perfume in various, and even precarious, places because “ya never know where you might be kissed.” And most important, you taught me to “never say fuck in front of the B-A-B-Y!”

Throughout the good and the bad, I would not have traded you for any other mother. I would have exchanged some of your behaviors, sure, but I can say that about practically everyone I know, including myself. You did the best you could, and so did I.

It is sad, though, and that was the overriding emotion that permeated my life throughout writing this book. Sadness. I wish I had written this letter while you were still aware.

Neither writing the book nor this letter felt at all cathartic. People speculated it would, but in actuality it all just gave me a heavy heart. But soon I will only remember the good.

I am choosing now to concentrate on and revel in only the wonderful memories. They are as much a part of me and us as are the bad ones. I have always loved you, and I am thankful for all you were. That will be your legacy.

From now on, when it rains, I will know it’s just you up there being bossy. And from now on when I throw my kisses at the moon, I will hurl some your way.

I love you, Mama,

XX, Your baby girl

Preteen Mom with her beloved sister, Louise.

All photographs are courtesy of the author unless otherwise noted.

Mom at the age when she’d sneak into the “movin’ pictures.”

Mom the majorette. One of the only times she followed the rules.

Mom while she was working at Krueger Brewing Company.

Mom and her legs getting pinned.

Mom and Sal out on the town.

The “gams” that Mom was proud of.