He shrugged.
“I’ve worked my whole entire life,” I drilled on. “From day one. In commercials, at restaurants. I worked in the kitchen at my dorm when she said she wouldn’t give me money so I could be a summer intern for the Today show. I was tech support for Harvard Business School for three years to save money so I could afford to take a crappy job producing local news after graduation. I have never not worked. In my whole, entire life.”
Dad nodded, fishing for another cigarette.
I wasn’t done. “Everyone can work. It’s liberating. If you are willing to work hard, there’s a restaurant, there’s a store. It may not be the job you want or the wage you want . . .”
I was angry now. My rage at the stew of helplessness and inaction that saturated our family bubbled to the surface as our problems finally came to a boil.
“Well, she can’t earn enough doing anything to make a difference, or to pay the mortgage, or to make a dent in the debt,” he resolved.
I wanted to say that if Mom were working, she wouldn’t be spending, and she might feel better about herself and not dig so deep into me and now Tiffany, but we were heading into the weeds now, and settling nothing.
So I stopped.
And we both just looked quietly into the abyss.
My family returned to L.A. after only a few days. Tiffany was spent and exhausted and wanted to get back to her own bed.
I settled in to a new reporting job in San Francisco. An Internet company hired me to report on tech and financial news for their website. It was the height of the dot-com craze, and everyone at the company was under thirty and sure they’d be able to retire on their options within a few years. Some of the older employees who’d been in news for a while saw the stock as a gift from Jesus and quickly cashed out.
At the same time, Wray worked from before dawn until late into the night trying to manage a portfolio of assets. I didn’t see that much of him.
I had a hard time getting Tiffany to come to the phone when I called my family, but I talked to Mom and Dad separately every few days and their account of current events varied wildly. The only common theme was the descent into chaos.
“Hey, how are you guys,” I asked Mom. I’d called from my desk during lunch. I thought I’d get the day’s update out of the way while I ate a sandwich.
“I guess we’re selling the house. We got an offer that was way too low,” she moaned.
“What do you mean too low?” I asked.
“Well, it was barely above the asking price,” she said dismissively, but not without a hint of pride. Another phenomenon of the dot-com economy: offers that exceeded the asking price.
“Above the ask? That sounds good to me. How much?”
“It’s almost double what we paid! Once again, I’ve made a brilliant real estate investment for this family, and I made us a lot of money,” she said with a sigh.
I didn’t point out the fact that she’d pre-spent that profit on porcelain knickknacks.
“That’s great. Are you going to accept it?” I asked.
“Then where will we go?” she said.
“You have to find another place. Downsize,” I said.
“Oh, that’s easy for you to say. You’re married to Wray. I’m married to your father,” she sniped.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, disgusted by her self-pity over a situation of her own making.
“If I sell this, and take the profit, it’s just gone. We pay our bills, then what? Soon we’ll have nothing left,” she said, blurting out the obvious. “We should hang on to the house and watch it go up further. Or buy another house and do it again.”
“But I think it’s going to be a challenge to make the payments going forward, right?” I pointed out.
“That’s your father’s job,” she said.
“Why don’t you manage kids? You’ve always been great at show business,” I suggested. “You could make some real money. I never understood why you didn’t do that.”
“Because I only ever wanted to make you a star. Both of you. I don’t want to do that for some stranger. Share that magic with someone outside the family,” she said.
That was her standard answer, whenever this idea had been suggested.
“I don’t know what else to tell you. You can buy something smaller and make it beautiful. You already have all the stuff,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
“How’s Tiffany?” I continued.
“Hopeless,” she said.
“Come on. How is she feeling? Is she around? Can I talk to her?” I asked.
“She’s not here. She’s polluted her body with God knows what all these years. Everything she could get her hands on, I guess. My baby. She was such a beautiful little girl. What happened? The doctor says her pancreas is shot. They are going to try some medications. She never feels well.” She trailed off. “She’s at the doctor with your father now.”
“You didn’t go with them?” I asked.
“No. I don’t feel well either. I’m losing my house,” she said.
Click.
A few days later, I called home and got Dad.
“Hey,” I said when he answered.
“Hi, baby. How are you?” he said.
“Pretty good. How are you guys? How’s Tiffany?” I asked.
“She’s not so good. She spent last night in the hospital. She’s home now resting. She was in a lot of pain, so we took her to Dr. Lewis and they admitted her for some tests. I didn’t want to call you late and worry you. I know you and Wray have a lot going on.”
My stomach sank. “Is it . . . more serious?”
“Well, they don’t know. You always say doctors have no idea what they’re doing, and I hate to think you’re right,” he said.
“I know a lot of people from school who are close to being doctors now. They’re great people, but even they admit there’s a lot of room for error, and different ways of interpreting the same data,” I warned.
“They are going to try some new medications, but she’s having trouble digesting food. I hope it’s all temporary but I’m not totally sure about that,” he said. I could hear the edge of despair in his voice. “The doctors also put her on Lithium. They agree with you. She’s bipolar.”
“Maybe that will help,” I said. I was worried it was too late.
“What about the house? Mom said you got a great offer?” I asked, hoping to boost his spirits.
“We did. And we went back and forth again. He came up even higher,” he said.
“Well, you know Wray’s mom is the best broker in Florida. She always says you should make a deal with the first guy, because that’s always the best offer.”
“We are going to. But he wants to close pretty quickly. I have no idea where we will go. Your mom is out looking at bigger mansions, like we’re moving up. She’s unbelievable,” he said.
“Is she being nicer to Tiffany?” I asked.
“No. She’s still picking on her. Criticizing her hair or her skin or whatever. It’s cruel. I tell her to lay off, but you know Mom,” he said.
“Yes, I do.”
“I wish she could just have some compassion. But Tiffany baits her. I can’t worry about Mom’s insanity right now . . . I need to worry about Tiffany’s health first. Get the house sold, get us on solid ground, help Tiffany,” he said, sounding overwhelmed.
They sold the house after a healthy period of holding out that only raised the price further, and then set a closing date for mid-May.
I was planning Wray’s thirtieth birthday party at the time, and his family was coming into town. I was a little worried about mixing Mom with them. Apparently, she’d mailed back a Christmas gift that Martha had sent her, a large hand-painted ceramic bowl. I’d seen it in the store in Florida and it was lovely. Martha had sent it to Mom with a Christmas card, and Mom had rejected it, firing it right back to Florida without explanation. Martha didn’t tell me. I’m sure she guessed that I would be mortified by Mom�
�s behavior, and she didn’t want to embarrass me. Wray told me after the fact. And I had nothing to say. I’m sure if I had asked, Mom would have cited an imagined slight she was responding to. I could feel the feud of a lifetime taking shape. I loved Wray’s family. They could turn any family gathering into a free-for-all party. They could laugh until we were all doubled over and crying, even at a funeral. And they loved each other.
I could tell Mom was going to try to ruin this for me. Wray’s family had been gracious at every turn, and she’d made every effort to insult them. They were a threat to her control. She called them loud, just loudly enough for them to hear. She said she didn’t believe that Martha was as nice as she seemed, and if she wasn’t as conniving as Mom suspected, then she wasn’t very clever. Mom’s insults and paranoia made my head spin.
I did not relish the idea of bringing them together again.
The closing of the sale of my parents’ house took place a day before the party.
“Are you guys coming up?” I asked Mom on the phone.
“Well, your aunt and I are. I don’t know about your father and your sister,” Mom said.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I packed up the house, but we still don’t have anywhere to go,” she said.
“But you close in like two days, right?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.
“Noon. The day after tomorrow I guess,” she said, like it was no big deal.
“You know that at noon, you hand over the key and don’t go back inside, right?” I wondered if anyone had explained this to her.
“I know what it means,” she shot back, annoyed.
“But what are you going to do with all your stuff?” I asked.
“The moving company said they would hold it in storage until we know what we’re doing,” she said, as if that were normal.
“But where are you going to sleep?” I said, cutting to the obvious question.
“I don’t know. I can always stay with Marilyn. Or you, right?” she said.
My mouth fell open at the other end of the line.
“What about Dad and Tiffany?” I asked, deflecting the question.
“They are such good buddies, always leaving me out and making fun of me, they can do whatever they want,” she said.
I just assumed they’d all to go to Marilyn’s condo, or a hotel together, but neither was a long-term solution.
On the day of the party, Mom called to say she was driving up with Marilyn. The party was at an Italian restaurant and bar in Russian Hill that Wray and I loved. We had about fifty friends coming. I had been running around town all day, finishing the final details, like favors and balloons. I was exhausted.
“So where do you live now?” I asked Mom, jokingly.
“I’m staying with Marilyn, but your sister and father are staying at a hotel,” she huffed.
“Seriously?” I said, surprised they weren’t all staying in the same place.
“Ask them. I don’t know what they’re doing and they aren’t decent enough to tell me. After all these years, they just pulled away from the house and laughed,” she said.
“Really?” I said. I wasn’t sure what to think.
“Yes, that’s the thanks you get. At least I have my sister,” she said.
I got off the phone and called Dad. I didn’t have time for this, but I wanted to know what was going on.
“Did you guys really move into a hotel and leave Mom high and dry?” I asked Dad when he finally answered.
“No, of course not. We had appointments to look at some temporary rentals. We told her where they were and she turned her nose up at them, and said she was going to Marilyn’s. There isn’t room for all of us at Marilyn’s really, especially with Tiffany’s cat, so Tiffany and I checked into a motel. We’re going to look at three places today. Why, what did she say?”
“Basically that you left her high and dry,” I replied.
“Whatever,” he said, sounding disgusted. “I don’t have time for this. We’re living out of suitcases in a motel because we sold our home and still don’t have a plan for where we’re going to live. This is totally insane!”
“Are you coming up here for Wray’s birthday party?” I asked.
“When is it?” he asked.
“Tonight,” I said, going over the list of RSVPs in front of me.
“I’m sorry, honey. We’d love to be there. But we’re so overwhelmed with finding a place to live, and Tiffany isn’t that strong right now. I thought the trip would be too much for her, and I thought I told you that, but we’ll drive up in a few weeks. Tell Wray we love him, and happy birthday,” he said.
Mom held court in the corner of Wray’s party, talking to some of our friends but largely ignoring Martha and the rest of his family. When dinner was served she sat at a table with Marilyn, and many of my girlfriends made their way over to her to say hello and make her feel welcomed. I was grateful to them, and grateful for the fact Mom didn’t appear insane to the naked eye.
The celebration stretched into the night, long after Mom and Marilyn went back to their hotel. In the morning, she called from a bed and breakfast on Union Street.
“Melissa, I want you to come down and see this place. It’s so cute. Union Street Inn. Marilyn, what’s the street number?” she asked with her hand over the phone.
I was still in bed and nursing a pretty severe hangover. The last thing I wanted to do was get up and drive to the place where she was staying.
“Mom, I’m still sleeping, can I call you later?” I said.
“Well, why don’t you just throw on some clothes and come down. I want you and Wray to see it,” she insisted.
“Why Wray? He’s definitely sleeping,” I said, poking him next to me in the bed. He grabbed an extra pillow and covered his face with it.
“Because the broker is on her way. I think it would be a great investment for you two,” she said pointedly.
Almost asleep, I had my eyes closed, but with that, they flew wide open.
“A what?”
“Investment. You know I’m good at real estate. Look how much money I made on the Sherwood house. Look how much money I made on the Northridge house. You buy this bed and breakfast, Marilyn and I will move up here and run it for you. Then we’ll all sell it for a profit,” she said.
I thought she might be kidding, but in my bones, I knew she wasn’t.
“Oh my God. I do not need to buy a hotel. We’re trying to buy a house to live in,” I said.
“This is only one point three million. You don’t have to put much down these days. Not even ten percent.”
“How could a hotel on Union Street be that cheap? Not that we could afford one in addition to a house, but that doesn’t sound like much for a hotel,” I asked.
“There’s only one guest room,” she said.
I hung up.
Within a week, Dad and Tiffany found a house to rent. They looked all around Westlake at a few small ranch-style homes with yards in various tracts that sprang up in the ’80s and ’90s, as well as a few condos in meticulously designed developments, before settling on what they described as a nice, modest three-bedroom with a fruit and vegetable garden in the back.
The one-story wood-frame house with a brown shingle roof lacked the grandeur of Lake Sherwood, but the quiet neighborhood and hilltop view were peaceful. When I saw the ad for the rental online, the photo looked like a home where Dad and Tiffany could relax.
It also looked like a home that would repel Mom on sight. “So is Mom going to live there?” I asked Dad when he told me the lease was signed.
“I have no idea. I called her every time we were going to look at something. She never showed. She never called. We tried to include her. She’s certainly welcome, but at this point, it’s pretty peaceful without her.”
They drove up to San Francisco to visit Wray and me for the few days until their lease kicked in. I took the day off from work, and I met up with Dad and Tiffany at an outdoor rest
aurant called Sam’s on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Sam’s was famous for mouth-watering cheeseburgers and enormous seagulls that swooped down from the sky like ancient pterodactyls with their enormous claws threatening to snatch unguarded food, and perhaps a few small children while they were at it. The menacing birds and whipping winds made eating on the deck at Sam’s an adrenaline-fueled adventure.
“So she wanted me to buy her a bed and breakfast, so that she could move up here with me and run it,” I said between bites, knowing this particular audience would feast on the madness of my predicament.
“Wow, if you run a bed and breakfast, don’t you have to make breakfast?” Tiffany asked. “Isn’t she allergic to making breakfast? I know she doesn’t know how to work a stove.”
“There are so many questions.” I laughed.
“People would expect food. How would that work?” Tiffany said, on a roll. “Who would do the laundry?”
“Maybe Marilyn?” I offered.
“So she’s taking all the things she didn’t do for us growing up, and turning that ball of wax into a career? Those would be some disappointed and confused guests,” she joked.
Dad stopped laughing and set his burger down, risking an airborne attack. He suddenly looked serious. “She wanted you to put up the down payment?” he asked, wiping his mouth.
“In theory, yes. I guess. I didn’t get that far. She definitely wanted me and Wray to invest, whatever that means.”
“Did she mention she took all the money?” he said, looking hard into my eyes.
“What?” I asked, sure that I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“Did she mention, when she was asking you to buy her a hotel, that she took every dollar from the sale of the house?” he said.
In spite of everything I knew Mom had ever done, I was floored by this accusation. All of a sudden, this conversation wasn’t funny anymore.
Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter Page 25