There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me (6 page)

My mother was terrified of SIDS. A politician’s child had recently died of crib death, and Mom could not get the thought out of her mind. She slept with me literally strapped to her chest and repeatedly held up a mirror to my mouth and nose to make sure I was breathing. The steam from my breath became her source of calm. I was a terrible eater and ate only half an ounce every half hour. Mom said she would premake countless bottles filled with half-ounce bottles of formula in a cooler next to her bed and feed me accordingly. This went on for some time, and after about six months, I was transferred to my wooden crib. I soon started pulling myself up in my crib and used the rails as a teething surface.

Mom and I became obviously physically bonded and my dad remained seemingly less knowledgeable and comfortable with his baby. One day Mom passed by the bathroom while my dad was in the shower. I was in need of my bath and Mom suggested to my dad he shower with me and get me cleaned up at the same time. He took me and a bit later Mom passed by the bathroom again only to see my dad standing in the shower holding my little naked body but now wearing his blue boxers. Another time Mom went to church and left me alone with my father. We were using cloth diapers in those days, and when Mom returned I was lying completely naked in bed, and a huge pile of diapers lay on the floor. When asked what had happened, Dad explained he knew not how to clean the mess and that he had used the diapers like tissues. Needless to say, that month’s diaper supply had been depleted. Clearly my father was in over his head with regard to being a dad.

Dad found out soon enough, though, that the mother of his child could be quite a troublemaker. During one argument between my mom and dad it somehow happened that Mom’s bra had gotten torn.
For the first time ever, Mom had bought a sexy red-lace bra, which she was wearing at the time of the fight. In addition to the torn bra, a chair got broken. It was rare for my parents to fight in any sort of physical way, so this must have been a pretty big argument or Mom was the one to do all the damage. A broken chair and a ripped brassiere were hardly out of the realm of possibility for her to destroy. In any case, on this particular Saturday it all happened and my father stormed out of the apartment. Where he was going, she didn’t know, which must have made her even angrier.

My mother was not satisfied. She wanted to have the final word. So she decided to tie the torn red-lace remnants of her bra onto the spindles of the destroyed chair and hand-deliver them to the Racquet and Tennis Club of Manhattan. Now, the Racquet and Tennis Club was one of the oldest all-male clubs in New York City. It is an incredibly old-school, traditional institution, complete with leather-lined libraries for cigar smoking and backgammon and huge oil paintings of elaborate foxhunt scenes or dead geese lined up under the watchful eye of a skilled pointer. Women were not allowed to be members and never set foot past the entrance.

Well, my mother marched right up to the club, walked through the doors, with the broken wooden chair strategically draped with red-lace undergarments boldly labeled “Mr. Frank Shields from Mrs. Frank Shields,” and deposited it all right in the middle of the lobby.

I’m sure the staff had no idea of how to react. What was this? I guess they decided it was an art installation of some kind for one of their members. It was the sixties. Packages, evidently, were to be claimed during the workweek only, so, as my mother told the story, this symbol of public humiliation sat in the middle of the lobby for the world to see over the entire weekend. Dad’s mortification would be witnessed by many an esteemed colleague. His shame had thus been initiated. It remained true that while Mom wanted to be accepted by high society, she equally loved challenging its social mores
and sexist rules. My dad’s version of the fur-coat story had arrived in full force; this should have sent up the proper red flags.

Looking back, I imagine that this incident was just one of many outrageous antics. It was not, however, enough to break them up—yet. I speculate that there was a power to her that he somehow could not resist. I believe that it was not dissimilar to the type of power his own mother wielded. No doubt my mother was unlike anyone else in his life.

•   •   •

He had relief, though, because he often traveled for work. Dad left once more for Europe and began writing letters to Mom from abroad.

What transpired over the next few months is documented by letters sent to my mother in very small, neat handwriting, usually on hotel stationery. In the letters from Dad, he expresses his confusion and sadness about the fact that his father had not been to visit Mom and the baby. His family was not the kind to have many family get-togethers. In his writing, Dad seems hurt by the fact that his father was not reaching out to me and Mom more. My father also worried that Mom was not getting any help. He said many times that he was concerned that she wasn’t getting out enough and that she should really ask for some help so as to spend time on herself.

He also promised to give my mom more money when he could get it, and a real wedding in a church one day. At times he wrote of wiring money and wishing he could be sending more but Italian banks and the like were less than helpful. I am struck by the tenderness that Dad had for “little Brookie” and how sad he seemed to be away. He seemed quite sincere about wanting things to work out.

•   •   •

In one of his more vulnerable correspondences, he comments on the joy he felt receiving a Valentine’s Day card from my mom and me. He
said it made his day and he was sorry to be missing being with his “girls” on what had always been my mom’s favorite holiday. It is heartbreaking to hear his vulnerable tone in the correspondences only to discover that he was about to experience a devastating blow.

Imagine my own shock at reading Dad’s next letter, postmarked February 16, 1966, which read:

Mumsy, after receiving such a wonderful Valentine’s cable, to receive your cable of this morning was a real shock and suddenly I am unable to think clearly. I have a feeling of loss, a sense of nothingness, no aspirations, no idea of what to do, and as a whole a very sick feeling inside. Up until this morning I didn’t consider the impact of the meaning of divorced, which I have brought on myself, my wife, and baby. I am trying to reason that the decree is merely a legal document and not an emotional state which cannot be reversed or resolved. I wanted to start clean but I didn’t see the necessity legally of anything more than a separation. . . . I want to be happy with the two of you as a family and I am not going to change my thinking. I think of you as my wife this time away from New York, and I hope to God that I can redeem myself in your eyes so as to bring us back together. . . . I am trying to put out of my mind the trip to Mexico. I just don’t know. . . .

He was clearly confused and did not know how to continue. He did love my mom and they did have a child together, so maybe he believed a separation would help. But he seemed to be fooling himself. My mom was not going to wait for what she was feeling would be the inevitable. She feared they would not last, and although convinced my father wanted to try to do the right thing, she thought he would not be happy in the long run.

I have no letters from Mom to my dad during this time, but I found some diaries in which Mom wrote about how ashamed my father was
of her: “I am a burden to him financially and especially socially,” one entry read. “He’s ashamed to be with me in public for fear I may say something that might embarrass him.” Another one read, “I am too opinionated and don’t act right in public. I give a cheap appearance. ‘Cheesy’ was the word he used.”

She told me Dad would get exasperated with her and her “deez, dems, and doz” way of speaking. She felt my father was ashamed to be with her. She writes that he wanted her to be a different person with a different background. I believe Mom was afraid he would eventually reject her, and she wanted to save herself the pain.

She knew deep down that my father loved us but wanted a different life. Maybe she really was doing this for him, to set him free. I can’t say what is actually the truth or what my mom’s real insecurities were, but for some reason, she made a preemptive decision. My mother probably heard my father use the word
separation
and just made a rash choice.

She flew to Mexico, where it used to be the very easiest place to obtain a divorce on your own. Mom left me with Lila and got the divorce by herself. By the time Dad returned from Europe, my mom had declared herself a single mother.

What is so shocking and sad is how stunned my dad appeared by Mom’s pronouncement. I don’t think he was quite ready to be free from my mom, but I wonder if he was secretly a bit relieved.

Mom’s actions often had an impulsive and self-destructive quality. She saw herself alone, and although I believe she craved love and partnership, she feared she was not worthy and therefore often jumped ship before she could get too hurt.

Now, however, she had this little baby who couldn’t leave. She had a baby daughter who was completely dependent on her.

My mother explained to my father that she wanted neither alimony nor any kind of child support other than an education for me. She said she could take care of the two of us somehow but insisted that he send me to school all the way through college.

I doubt Dad talked about marriage again but they definitely took time to fully disengage with one another. They seemed to find a way to still spend a lot of time together because of me. He helped out when he could and they celebrated some holidays together for a couple of years. In fact I have many photos of us all together while I was a toddler and a young kid. It was as if without the pressure of being married, my dad could relax and love us both. They lived separately but eased out of one another’s lives. I have no idea if it was painful for my mom during this period but I am sure his getting married again would have stung when it happened.

My father kept true to his word and paid for my entire formal education and was present and beaming on every graduation day.

So, although the whirlwind of life and the emotions that accompanied the events of 1964 and 1965 were fraught, they did not seem void of love and some version of respect and understanding.

Chapter Three

She Could Make It Rain

H
aving never really known my parents as a couple, I had no feeling of loss or guilt surrounding their divorce. I would grow up knowing, or at least trying to know, them each independently. From the day I was born, whether they were a couple or not, my mom always made sure that my dad saw me frequently.

It was clear that my mother wanted my father to have a relationship with me. Even if she herself could not be with him, she wanted me in his life. She would invent ways for him to be forced to see me. Sometimes, if Dad hadn’t seen me in a while, Mom would dress me up in a fancy dress or romper, complete with bonnet or bow and Mary Janes, and take me to the building in which my father worked. She’d do this at the end of his workday. Mom would wait with me just around the corner but with a good view of the building’s entrance. She would watch for my dad to leave, and as he came out of the building, she’d push me out alone and say, “Go, go see Daddy!” She told me she’d duck out of sight and I’d toddle over to him. Slightly surprised and a bit nervous for my safety, he’d scoop me up in his arms and search for my mom. When she popped out into view, he’d use his
naturally booming voice and exclaim, “Jesus Christ, Teri, what the hell are you doing?”

After the ambush, I’m not sure if we all spent some time together or they just chatted on the street for a bit. I’m sure my dad usually had some place to go, but Mom was satisfied just knowing she made him see his baby girl. There was never a doubt in my mind that he was my dad.

I even have pictures of both Mom and Dad strolling me down Fifth Avenue during the Easter parade. In the photos I’m about two or three, and we look like a perfectly intact, happy family. Mom is chic in her black-and-white plaid skirt and cropped jacket with a white pillbox hat. Dad looks dapper as always, in a suit and tie. I am in a navy wool double-breasted coat and a white hat. My white tights were a bit twisted or saggy and dirty at the knees, but my black patent-leather Mary Janes are shiny. Together, they were a stunning couple and always turned people’s heads. They didn’t look divorced.