Dear Cary

by Dyan Cannon

  If Cary hoped for me to come home transformed—which, clearly, he did—he was sorely disappointed. I was still the same old knob-jamming, crooked-parking wreck he’d packed off to New York, except noticeably worse for wear. I tuned him out even more. I dealt with it by going ever more numb on the inside. The more his lips moved, the less I heard.

  One night, in desperation, when Cary was in the den watching television, I went into the bedroom and called my mother. “I’ve tried absolutely everything and now I don’t know what to do,” I said, and spilled my guts. “He hardly touches me anymore. He’s gone all day and when he comes home, it’s silent. The atmosphere in the house is like a tomb. Everything he tells me to do or not to do is supposed to be for Jennifer’s benefit, but he spends as much time away as possible. I’ve tried everything I can think of and nothing changes things between us. Mom, I’m worried about raising our daughter in this atmosphere.”

  “She’s only a baby.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You know that, Mom. Kids feel those things.”

  “Have you tried telling him all this?” Mom asked.

  “He doesn’t hear me. And I’ve started tuning him out too, because I can’t take any more criticism. I’m having trouble eating, I can’t sleep. He’s not the same man I married.”

  I went on for at least fifteen minutes, lying on the bed on my stomach, hanging my head over the edge with the phone. When I took a breath and rolled over on my side, there was Cary standing next to the bedroom door. I could tell by the look on his face that he’d heard every word.

  “I’ve got to go, Mom,” I said abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Cary and I looked at each other for an unbearably long time. Finally, he broke the silence. “You need help,” he said.

  “Cary, we need help.”

  “I don’t feel the same about you anymore, either.”

  “You mean you don’t love me anymore?”

  No answer. Finally, he said, “You’ve changed.”

  Something in me died. “But that’s what you wanted. You wanted me to change. So I tried. Now you don’t want the change anymore. So now what do I do?”

  “I’ve told you so many times how I did it. It’s up to you.”

  “Do you mean LSD, Cary?”

  There was another long silence. “It’s up to you,” he repeated. “I can’t do it for you.”

  “LSD didn’t work for me, Cary. And I don’t think it works for you either. I think you just think it does.”

  It was like I’d stepped out of a heated room and into a freezer.

  “We have it all,” I said. “Why are you throwing it away? You finally have the family you’ve always wanted. But it has to be a two-way street here, Cary. You can’t govern with an iron hand. It’s hard to bend under that.”

  “It’s up to you.”

  Up to me. I lay awake that night thinking it over. If I went along with Cary and tried LSD again . . . really, what choice did I have? If that’s what it took to bring peace to the family, how could I refuse? He said he didn’t feel the same way about me anymore. For Jennifer’s sake, we couldn’t go on like this much longer. Every day, she was becoming more aware, and the dreadful cloud of unhappiness that hung over us would, sooner or later, start to affect her, too. There was only one way to turn it around. I’d give it my all. Again.

  That Saturday, Cary and I began the first of a dozen or so stay-at-home space odysseys. “The family that trips together zips together,” I said, raising my water glass in a toast and swallowing my microdot.

  “It’s good to keep your sense of humor, but you’ve got to be open to the experience,” Cary counseled me. We were wildcatting—that is, taking LSD, the two of us, without the dubious “monitoring” of Cary’s “wise mahatma.” On the days of our trips, the nanny would take Jennifer to the park for playtime and then bring her back for her nap. I would spend the morning with her before she’d go and then hopefully be in shape to look after her by dinner. I was trying to have a good attitude about this experiment. I was truly feeling desperate, and I really hoped that some kind of light would go on and dispel the infernal darkness that was swallowing me and my marriage. My mind was a tangle of contradictory thoughts about the whole thing. I tried to have faith that the wisdom of the ages that Cary insisted was surging through those silvered temples of his was real. I wanted to believe it possible to emerge from a mind-blowing, ego-shattering, soul-freeing trip as a shiny new and reconstituted Dyan Grant. A new version of me that would effortlessly meld into one with my husband—one that he would love again.

  Maybe it helped that I went into it prepared for the worst, because the first experiment in our series wasn’t so bad. I don’t know if the images this time were actually less scary than they’d been before, but I followed Cary’s advice and just let them happen without reacting. For example, I felt myself growing roots from my arms and legs that penetrated brown, rich earth that was warm and moist, almost like chocolate pudding. I saw faces in the unlit fireplace. One of them lingered for a while, abiding there with a benign and reassuring smile. I stayed focused on it—I felt safe with the smiling face. After four or five hours, I started feeling squeezy and Cary gave me a Valium. When Cary took a Valium, he just mellowed out and relaxed. But Valium hit me like chloroform. It was only half past five in the afternoon when I took it, but I slept until late morning.

  So we had several trips through successive Saturdays. The hallucinations were sort of like snowflakes: each one unique, all of it snow. I would close my eyes and see a child’s finger-painted flowers on the inside of my eyelids. When I blinked, the colors would change. I would hear things: something unseen going boing, boing, boing or dry leaves rattling in the wind. I would look at Cary and his face would turn into the sun, or the moon—or, once, a broccoli crown. But what did any of it amount to? That big light I was waiting for did not come on. Midway through those weeks, I stopped believing in their existence.

  “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be getting out of this,” I told him.

  “Dyan, don’t try to interpret it. Just experience it!” Cary steered me to a chair, took my hand, and actually got on his knees. He was acting more like he was proposing marriage than when he actually did propose marriage. “Please trust me,” he whispered. He was smiling very serenely, very reassuringly. “We’re all trapped in one tiny little identity or another, and that goes for me at least as much as anyone. It’s an identity that was imposed on us, Dyan, and the only way to find freedom is to be free of it. If you just go with it, I promise you that you’ll feel that false identity peel away like old paint. You’ll expand into a place where there are no fences, no limitations, nothing to close you in. You can call it ‘God,’ or you can call it ‘the universe,’ but you’ll realize that you are one with all of creation.”

  “Cary, this is really powerful stuff and it scares me. I’m worried about the long-term effects.”

  “But, dear girl, that’s what I’m talking about. That fear. Nothing will shut you off from the universe like fear,” he said. “I’ve taken at least a hundred trips by now. It can take quite a few before you really have the breakthrough.”

  “But what am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “If you decide what you’re looking for, you’ll just be creating a false expectation. But when you do break through that barrier, you’ll find an inner peace that you never even have dreamed about. Finally, you’ll understand what I’ve been saying. And everything that stands between the two of us, you and me, will fall away like an old fence. That, I promise.”

  I did not know what to do. I was taking acid trips to find what I had always been looking for. The problem was, nobody would let me in on the secret of what I had always been looking for. Everyone else knew, but not me. Everyone—well, Cary and Dr. Martin—seemed to think I needed to change, to discover some cosmic truth, and that it was right there in front of me. It was like a package in the mailbox, already delivered, and I was just too stubborn to rea
ch in and take it.

  So far the trips had not been particularly terrifying, but they definitely were affecting my nerves. They killed what little appetite I had, disrupted my sleep even more, and made it hard for me to focus. The Valium hung over me for two days after I took it, and I was simultaneously as nervous as a cat and drowsy. I kept slipping more and more often into that place where I could see Cary’s lips move without hearing any words. But through it all, I kept telling myself I was fine. Somewhere down in that cave was the voice that kept telling me I was anything but fine, but the voice was so deeply buried it was easy enough to shut out. The only thing that kept me glued together was my love for Jennifer. Caring for her, holding her, feeding her—I at least had that unquestionable reason for being in the world.

  Addie dropped by one weekday afternoon for a visit. We sat by the pool together, with Addie rocking Jennifer in her lap. We kept the conversation focused on the baby for a while, each knowing the other was building up to the real subject.

  “Dyan, are you okay?”

  “Why do you ask?” The question was sincere, as far as it went. I was fine, I told myself, and if I told myself that, then I should tell Addie that too.

  “You’re wasting away to nothing,” Addie said. “Dyan, you don’t look well. What’s happening with you and Cary?”

  “The family that trips together zips together,” I said. Ha ha. I liked that line. I thought it was funny.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, Cary wants me to take LSD. So we take LSD together.”

  “Dyan, this has gone far enough. I’m very worried about you.”

  Addie suggested I come and stay with her for a few days, but I wouldn’t have any of it. Cary wouldn’t like that, I told her. And besides, I was fine. I was really sure I was fine.

  After a few weeks of our weekend day-tripping, Johnny and Connie invited us to spend the weekend aboard their yacht. They knew, of course, that Cary and I were having trouble, and they probably thought a change of scene—in their happily married presence—would do us good, shake us out of our despondency. I think even Cary had had enough LSD for a while, so we accepted. Even though it was the nanny’s weekend off, Addie thought it was a good idea for us to have a couples’ weekend, and she encouraged me to go. She also volunteered to stay with Jennifer.

  The weather was clear, the water was fine, the bar was open. Connie and Johnny were so warm and accepting, I felt like I could finally let my guard down. I had a gin and tonic, then another one, and felt the tension of the past weeks drain away. I found myself appreciating alcohol. It didn’t make me turn into a glass of milk or a mighty oak. Alcohol was simple. It lifted my worries. And so I had a few more, losing sight of the fact that my tolerance for booze was about on par with a four-pound Chihuahua’s.

  “Let’s dance!” I yelled at some point in the day when the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love” came on the radio. For that song, we all danced like we didn’t have a care in the world.

  The weekend went by in a haze of Bloody Marys, medium-rare burgers, and boozy merriment. Cary drank a lot too, and it was one of the rare times when I saw him hovering somewhere between tipsy and drunk. That was fine with me. He was pleasant when he drank, and I didn’t object to anything that made him lighten up.

  A few days later, Cary came home with photographs from our festive evening on Johnny and Connie’s yacht. Apparently, I had a really good time. I looked at the photos and saw a slender, twentysomething gal in a bikini living it up with her good-looking husband on a gorgeous yacht. I sent some of the pictures to my mom.

  “You look way too thin,” she told me when she called. “And sad.”

  “You got the pictures?”

  “Yes, I got the pictures. And I want to know what’s going on.”

  Then Dad got on the extension. “Sweetheart, we’re very concerned about you.”

  “I’m fine, really,” I said. “Just very busy.”

  “Addie doesn’t think you’re all that fine,” my mother said.

  So. Addie had spoken to them.

  “I’m coming down to see you,” Dad said. “I’m flying down tomorrow morning. I’ll call you as soon as I get to my hotel.”

  It wasn’t a suggestion and it wasn’t negotiable. It was my dad in action, and I couldn’t have stopped him if I’d wanted to. I didn’t want to. The idea that I was in free fall was starting to bubble up, and I welcomed his steadying presence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Standoff

  Dad called from the airport the next morning as soon as he arrived. Cary had already left for the studio. By then, I’d pulled myself together, more or less, but I dissolved into tears as soon as I laid eyes on him.

  He didn’t say anything, but his eyes flashed with shock when he saw me. He wrapped me up in his arms and held me for several minutes. When he let go, the shoulder of his jacket was damp with tears. We sat down on the couch.

  “What’s going on, sweetheart?” Dad asked me firmly. “Tell me.”

  It came out in drips and drops, then splatters, then torrents. I’m not sure I was really even aware of what I was telling him, but he knew it was bad. I finally wound down. Dad looked at me and asked, “Is that all, Dyan?”

  “Yes.” I sighed.

  He looked at me. “Dyan, Addie told us you’ve been taking LSD. Is that true?”

  Well, Addie and I were certainly going to have a little talk, too.

  “Yes,” I replied weakly.

  Dad was now on red alert. I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he tried to swallow his alarm.

  Once again, I found myself defending Cary. I tried to explain to Dad that LSD wasn’t for fun, that it was part of Cary’s spiritual exploration, that he was such a believer in the drug as a force for good . . . that Cary believed it had brought him closer to God.

  “Dyan, I can’t speak for Cary, but as far as I can see, the only thing it’s bringing you closer to is misery. Honey, listen. I’ve been reading up on this stuff, and there’s only one conclusion to come to: it is extremely dangerous. You know they’re talking about outlawing it, and they should. It’s insane that it’s not already against the law.” Dad put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “You’re playing with fire, and your mother and I are extremely concerned.”

  There was nothing I could say. I buried myself in my father’s arms and I wept.

  Cary came home in the early afternoon. The four of us—Cary, my dad, Jennifer, and I—spent some polite time together. Cary went on as if nothing was amiss, but there was an unsettling glint in his eye. On the outside, he was low-key and friendly, but underneath the mask, he was like a cat in a crouch, waiting to pounce. The forced civility was driving me nuts. Right about when I didn’t think I could stand it any longer, it was Jennifer’s feeding time. It was a relief to escape to the nursery, where I gave her a bottle and I sat rocking her, taking refuge from the tension in the living room.

  After a while, I heard Cary and Dad talking in the hallway. They were speaking softly. But there was an edge to the conversation that made me uncomfortable. I tucked Jennifer into her crib and stepped out of the bedroom and literally into the middle of that conversation.

  “Why are you giving her drugs, Cary? What do you think it’ll accomplish?”

  “LSD saved my life, Ben. And it can save hers too.”

  “From what, Cary? Is her life in jeopardy? Because if it is, I want to know about it!”

  “Anyone who hasn’t faced the truth about themselves is in jeopardy.”

  “She doesn’t need drugs, Cary. She needs love. Your love. And it doesn’t look to me like she’s getting a lot of that.”

  “How would you know about that, Ben?”

  “She’s my daughter. And I know her better than anyone.”

  “Well, she’s my wife, Ben. She lives under my roof. That means she’s under my jurisdiction now.”

  Jurisdiction. The word stopped me cold. I wasn’t under his wing
. I wasn’t under his roof. I was under his “jurisdiction.”

  They were both tall men, and I stood between them, my head at the level of their chests as they battled over my well-being, eye to eye. They were so absorbed in the subject of me that I don’t think they even realized I was there.

  And maybe I wasn’t, I thought. I felt more and more like I was turning into a ghost, invisible to the two men I loved most in my life, watching voicelessly as they argued with the deeply swallowed anger that is peculiar to gentlemen, which they both were. I thought of the night in the desert when they plunged into the cold pool and yelped like coyotes as if they were two lost brothers who’d finally found each other. And I started to feel as if I were watching them through a thick pane of glass, as if I were standing in front of an aquarium, close enough to touch the life inside the tank, yet unable to.

  I had gone numb to my core. I couldn’t feel, couldn’t talk, couldn’t hurt, couldn’t love. Maybe this is what death is, I thought. No, not just death. This was hell: I was gone but my power of observation remained, and I wanted to shut it off but I couldn’t. Somewhere in my soul, a light had gone out.

  I turned and went back into the nursery.

  Late that night, alone in the kitchen, I wrote:

  Do you know what I mean when you swallow a scream

  And pretend it’s not there yet it’s filling the air

  All around me I see the pain I can’t feel

  All around me I feel the pain I can’t see

  How it hurts to be me

  How it hurts to be me

  The next day, I drove Dad to the airport. The showdown between Cary and him had ended in the only way possible: Cary was the sheriff in the town where I now lived, and Dad had to go back to his own territory. For practical purposes, I was inanimate as a sack of flour. In the car, Dad didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say. So we didn’t say much of anything until we got to the airport and I pulled up to Dad’s terminal. We sat in the car for a moment, both of us looking straight ahead. Then Dad put his hand over mine and, still looking through the windshield, said, “Dyan, why don’t you get on the plane and come home with me?”