Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  “I’m your niece! I’ve been alive all this time!” she said, starting toward me.

  A bead of sweat trickled down my back, chilling me on its way. “Rosie, stop it. Sharon’s baby died with her. It was a boy, and he’s buried with her.”

  The smile disappeared. “Well, for once you’re wrong, Miss Smarty Pants,” she said, turning back to the task of packing. “Sharon is my mother, and that’s all there is to it.” She slammed another dish into the box.

  “You’re confused or mistaken or—”

  Hostility flared in her nostrils, her lips curled. “If you don’t believe me, I want you out of my apartment!”

  A butcher knife was within her reach. I edged toward the door, feeling like a caged rat. “Okay, I’ll leave, but I don’t want you to contact anyone in my family again. I’m having my number changed—”

  “Get out, get out, get out!”

  The severed relationship lasted about two months, and then a fax came through with her real intention. The first page was the 1969 court order transfer of Sharon’s estate from Roman to Dad. The pages following summarized her claim that since Rosie was Sharon’s daughter, she was part of Sharon’s estate; an estate that Dad had inherited. Since Rosie was, to her mind, Roman’s child, she believed she was entitled to his childcare and given name. The fragmented document ran another four pages, but the long story made short is that she wanted money.

  Somewhere along the line, Rosie ended up in Ohio, with Garretson. In the course of their relationship, she convinced him that he’d seen her in 1969 at the crime scene before they whisked her away. “Someone should take this young lady seriously,” Garretson said of Rosie. “There’s a strong possibility that she is Sharon Tate’s baby.”

  The rest of Garretson’s testimonial on the E! channel was equally troublesome. “I lied to the police [in 1969] and told them that I’d been listening to music all night and heard nothing,” Garretson said. “I was in a state of shock. They wanted answers that I couldn’t give them. I did hear a scream that night. The scream sounded like someone was about to be thrown in the pool or something. I looked through the window and there was a girl chasing a girl. I wondered what was going on, but I didn’t want to look like I was spying from the window. Then I heard someone screaming, ‘Stop, stop. I’m already dead.’ After that, I closed the window and went to sleep.”

  The odd thing about his memory is that the quote, “Stop, I’m already dead,” came from Patricia Krenwinkel’s parole hearing—she was quoting Leno LaBianca screaming “Stop stabbing me, I’m already dead.” I hope that Mr. Garretson’s fresh recollection is merely an attempt to catch his fifteen minutes of fame, for that is much more acceptable an act than closing a window and ignoring screams for help.

  If I’d been part of the show . . . I stopped midthought, frustrated by my forced silence, and finally understanding Mom’s insistence on doing every interview that came her way. Had I done the show, no one would have heard Greg King’s interpretation of my family. I could have balanced fact and fiction.

  The show had rustled old memories like fallen leaves on a windy day, memories that brought first joy, and then another bout of depression as I fretted over the possibility of my cancer terminally silencing my opinion.

  21

  AND THEN SOME

  If someone participates in a particularly heinous, nightmarish murder the way that Leslie Van Houten did, it seems to me that there must be something in the deepest recesses of that person’s soul that enables them to do what they did. Something that fortunately you and I do not have, because we would never do what she did. And therefore, it seems to me, that to release this type of person on a vulnerable society is to take a risk that we probably shouldn’t take.

  VINCENT BUGLIOSI

  Brie

  I watched the Larry King Show, impatient to see my mother’s segment. The precursor to the live discussion was an interview between King and Leslie Van Houten. What disturbed me was the demure, straightforward sincerity with which Van Houten answered King’s questions. I liked her. And a likable killer is a dangerous combination that could spring the confining lock.

  Van Houten is a pawn to my family. With just two murder convictions under her belt (for Mr. and Mrs. LaBianca), her chances for parole are the greatest of all the Manson Family; therefore, she is a pawn with a strategic position on the board. If she walked through society’s pardoning doors, they were unlikely to close until Watson, Atkins, Krenwinkel, and even Manson followed her trail.

  Since Mama couldn’t attend Van Houten’s parole hearing, she indirectly sent her message to the board in a venue that was open to her—television. Leslie’s father, Paul Van Houten, didn’t take kindly to Mama’s venture. They were both panelists on Larry King’s show, along with Vincent Bugliosi.

  “Paul, this had to be an incredible shock to you when this arrest occurred. Can you remember back to that time?” King asked.

  “I’m not interested. That’s history. I’ve never asked Leslie about the murders, we’ve never talked about the murders. I have not let this case run my life. I’ve accepted it, I live my life. I don’t go to bed every night thinking about it.”

  “Patti, how do you feel about Leslie?” King asked.

  “The state commuted her death sentence to life in prison, that’s her second chance, not freedom. As far as rehabilitation, that shouldn’t be a consideration for her or any first-degree murderer. You take a life; you pay for it the rest of your life, in prison.”

  “Now, Paul, what would you say to Patti?” King asked.

  “Leslie had nothing to do with Patti Tate’s sister. If the LaBiancas want to talk about it, they have the right.”. . .

  “Paul, was there anything in Leslie’s childhood that could have told you this was coming?”

  “No. If Leslie had never smoked her first marijuana cigarette, this never would have happened.”

  “You’re blaming it on marijuana?” King asked.

  “Marijuana put her with the group and Manson was able to maneuver these people with drugs.”

  “But millions have smoked marijuana and didn’t go kill people,” King said.

  At a later point in the interview, Bugliosi would emphasize Van Houten’s accountability when he said, “Larry, during the penalty trial, psychologist Joel Hochman examined Leslie. She told him how much she loved the world and the people inside of it, whereupon he said to her, ‘Leslie, if you love people, how could you do what you did?’ And she responded, ‘Well, that’s something inside me, too.’ At the time, I sensed that of the three female defendants, Leslie was the least committed to Manson. And lo and behold, Dr. Hochman came to the same opinion. That increases her personal responsibility and her moral culpability.”

  Toward the end of the show, King said, “Patti, you must have some sympathy for Paul and his daughter.”

  “I have sympathy for her victim’s families. The ones that are really left with nothing, nothing but memories. Mr. Van Houten has his daughter; she has her life. I think that’s more than enough.”

  I pressed the PAUSE button and stared longingly at my mother on the screen.

  I’d tightly drawn the shades to block the daylight glare in the family room. It was the same family room in which my mother had scrambled her way out of adolescence. The same family room where Nana had hugged me, smothering my tiny body against her ample bosom, where it was smooshy and safe. The same family room where Papa cradled me with one hand and stoked his cigar with the other. The same family room where I will soon cuddle with my first baby.

  They’re all gone now, and daily, as I ramble through our home, I’m taken back in time to hear the voices of my past. Mama’s ritual morning call, “Briezzy, get up. You’re going to be late for school.” Or her quiet “boo” against my ear as she snuck up behind me. Or Nana’s high-pitched Texas twang announcing our visits, “Comp-any!”

  Though I can’t free-float in the pool as well as Nana, or look as dashing as she did wearing a bowl over her head
to make oatmeal enticing, I have inherited many of her qualities. Some are physical, like her pudgy nose, thinning hair, and bladder infections. Others I acquired, like her enthusiasm for Christmas. She decorated the house with the glitz of a Vegas casino and the warmth of a jigger of Southern Comfort; all surrounding a towering tree stacked knee-high with gifts. Along the line, I picked up her penchant to cuss; not the nasty words, but shit and hell were her favorites—usually followed by “P.J.” as she scrapped with Papa.

  My grandparents had a unique relationship—they constantly bickered, but that never shadowed the love and commitment of their fifty years of marriage. They were polar opposites. She loved unconditionally; he suspected everyone. She countered his inhibited nature with exuberant nurturing. Both were as set in their ways as a grape stain to white pants and equally as stubborn. Despite it all, their love was as preserved and age-worn as a pressed rose hidden in a Bible. Happily, I have inherited the best qualities of both of them.

  Too cantankerous to find it himself, new love instead found Papa after Nana died. When he moved out of our house to live with his girlfriend, he failed to take the aroma of his constantly burning pipe or cigar tobacco. I despised the smoky atmosphere when he lived here. In his absence, I sniff the upholstery to bring him home.

  In the 1950s Papa went AWOL twice from the army. Once to see Sharon right after birth, the second to bring Nana home after she left him (the reason for which neither of them could—or chose to—remember). When he died of congestive heart failure in 2005, I believe he went AWOL from life to recapture all his girls and heal his heart.

  Nana’s bedroom is now mine, and though it’s changed, I can still close my eyes to see it as it was during her lifetime. Soft flower patterns covered the curtains and bed linens; family pictures fought for prominence in the rest of the room, including the surface of her nightstands, which she stuffed with caramels and mint chocolates.

  Nana didn’t sleep with underwear, but she did sleep with a gun—either of which, if flashed, she assured me, would scare away any intruder. She wasn’t the only one to sleep with a gun—so did Papa, and so did Mama. On my tenth birthday, I discovered their need for security.

  Standing tiptoe atop a chair, I rummaged through my mother’s dresser drawer looking for a scarf. What I found instead was a plastic baggie filled with pictures. I recognized the top photo. It was Aunt Sharon’s house. I glanced over my shoulder to be sure I was still alone. The next picture was Sharon, curled up on the floor, distorted by blood, unrecognizable except for her pregnant belly. The third picture was more unnerving than the last. Sharon on a morgue table, hair pulled back to unveil her face, eerily alive with open eyes, and mouth curved to a smile as if her last instant of life had revealed something to cause joy. Her face possessed a ghostly resemblance to Mama.

  “What are you doing?”

  I dropped the forbidden fruit and whirled to find the Boy (Papa’s nickname for Bryce, the sole male born into his family in two generations). “Nothing,” I said, slamming the drawer closed.

  My brother looked at me curiously. “Why are you crying?”

  I wiped at my eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. What did you drop into the drawer?”

  “Pictures of Aunt Sharon.”

  “I wanna see.” He started toward the dresser.

  I grabbed his arm. “No. Let’s go.”

  Bryce was a smart kid for seven. He studied me, deducing the situation with squinted eyes. “They’re the bad pictures, aren’t they?”

  “Shut up,” I said, closing us into the hallway.

  “I’m telling Mama. You are in so much trouble.”

  “No shit.” I slammed my bedroom door in his face. I was in trouble, but from a self-induced punishment.

  Tears splashed on my pillow. For as long as my memory allows, Mama and Nana made Aunt Sharon an active part of my life. She’s never dead in my mind, never a victim, never a movie star. She is simply someone who is very real to me, someone I admire, and someone I love. It broke my heart to see a picture that preserved her in such an appalling representation.

  Uncovering those police photos was a watershed in my childhood. From that point forward, I knew what a murder victim looked like; therefore, I understood why adults slept near guns. After viewing the pictures, I sympathized with my grandparents’ and my mother’s loss of Sharon, even felt their pain, even felt their terror that such horrible acts were committed, not by werewolves, vampires, or zombies, but by human beings. The pictures clarified Nana’s refusal to look at them; she had the age and wisdom that I lacked. Most of all, the pictures gave reason to Mama’s smothering overprotectiveness and inexplicable, saddened pain.

  I’ve only seen Mama break down on a couple of occasions. The first time, she was driving us home from my grandparents’ house. I was sandwiched between my brother and sister in the backseat, bickering, oblivious that it was August 9. I can’t remember what the argument was about, but I’ll never forget Mama’s reaction. She pulled the car to the curb. When she turned, it was shocking to see her with gushing tears. “Stop it! My sister is dead! She’s gone! Isn’t that enough? Appreciate that you have each other right now because it may not last.”

  The second instance came the day she attended her first parole hearing. Uncontrollable tears ran all morning. Before she left, she hugged me as if she’d never see me again.

  A knock on my door hushed my tears. I hesitated to answer, scared of the punishment if it was my mother. The morgue photo flashed again. I didn’t care what I had coming. Smiling or frowning, I needed to see Mom’s face. “Come in,” I managed.

  “Briezzy, what’s the matter, hon?” she said sliding my head onto her lap.

  Assured by her touch, I locked my arms around her waist. “I saw the pictures in your dresser.”

  I felt her sag with disappointment. “Oh, Briezzy, why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I was looking for a scarf. There’s one picture that looks just like you.” The morgue photo slammed another punch at my gut. I double-checked that it was Mama’s hug shushing the slugger. I expected to see anger, but she looked as sad as I felt. I buried my face in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, baby,” she said, as she ran her soft, cool fingertips over my forehead, down my cheeks, and through my hair until my tears dried.

  A thief in the night, cancer stole that unconditional loving solace that radiated from my mother and brightened my life.

  Long past midnight, I went to sleep the same as I had for the past twelve months, uncertain of the future. After a two-year remission, Mama’s cancer returned as ravenous as a cougar returning to finish off its hidden prey. The cancer spread into her lungs as quickly as cotton candy builds on a stick. I watched it suck the life from her; I felt it suck the life from me. Still, I was young enough to believe she’d live forever, and she reinforced that faith by being so damned optimistic.

  In my presence, Mama veiled her depressive fear behind a smile. A trachea tube attached to a breathing machine paralyzed her melodic voice, but it could not silence her smile. It said I love you. It told me I was her world. It lied with reassurance. In hindsight, it said I’ll miss you.

  In her last days, she fell into a comalike state, completely unresponsive save one gesture. “Mama, can you give me a kiss?” I’d ask, with my lips resting on hers. Without fail, they ever so slightly puckered.

  At 5:53 A.M. on June 3, 2000, my bedroom door opened. Mama’s friend Lisa leaned against the threshold, silhouetted by the hall light. “Brie, wake up, hon. Your mom’s gone.”

  I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “What?”

  “Mama’s gone.”

  I dashed past her to Mama’s bedroom, positive that she was mistaken.

  A single lamp glowed on the nightstand. The breathing machine whished then whooshed without benefit. I glanced around the room at all the angel figurines and pictures that surrounded Mama and knew she’d left me to be with them. Neither cancer nor
death had stolen her riveting beauty. Once unplugged, the ventilator also took its final breath and fell quiet.

  I got into bed with her for one last snuggle. This time when I rested my lips to hers, I felt a devastatingly still response. Regret is a waste of energy, yet its voice overcame mine. I should have spent more time with you. I’m sure that my brother and sister joined me, but I didn’t see them, my eyes locked to Mama’s face, unable to say good-bye.

  The mortuary attendants were quick to arrive—too quick for my needs. The two men wore appropriately black suits. They were courteous and quietly respectful; nevertheless, they irritated the hell out of me. From the white van they arrived in, to the gloves they snapped on, down to the rattling stretcher they wheeled to the bedroom, they were the enemy who planned to steal my mother.

  Safely transporting her to a stretcher, the black suits then followed the ritual of lifting the sheet to cover her face. “Stop!” I yelled. They must have thought I was a loon, but I remembered Mama trembling in the hospital ICU each time a patient died. Orderlies wheeled the newly deceased past her room on puce, square gurneys. At the sight of the gurney’s coordinating cover, stamped “morgue,” she would say, “Don’t let them take me out in one of those dead beds, okay? Just a bed.”

  I grabbed his black sleeve. “Fold the sheet at her chest, like you’re tucking her into bed.”

  The stretcher legs buckled as the black suits slid it into the van. Before Mama vanished from sight, I looked at the men of darkness and echoed her words of wisdom to anyone taking me for a drive, “Be careful. You’ve got precious cargo in there.” I leaned in for a kiss good-bye while repeating her parting comment to my friends and me as we’d back down the driveway, “Have fun, but be careful. I love you tons.”

  We managed to keep my mother’s passing from the press for three days. The day of her funeral, CNN broke the story: “Patricia Tate, sister of slain actress Sharon Tate, victims’ rights advocate, Manson Family opponent, loses her battle with breast cancer.” But there are significantly more important attributes of my mother that are worth sharing.