There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me

by Brooke Shields

  I explained I had worked my whole life and needed to expand my mind and my personal experiences. I was very realistic about how unique my life had been but how much I craved education as well as a conventional scholastic experience. I don’t think I was as articulate as this sounds, but he claimed I was disarmingly “down to earth, and surprisingly unaffected.”

  I explained that I realized my SATs were not stellar but that I had worked hard to improve my GPA and that I was very serious about attending university. Even though this Princeton admissions officer had alluded to the fact that their school really was looking at students as whole entities, rather than just walking SAT scores, I worried that he was just being kind. It was really a very informal interview that stressed the diversity of the university and the commitment to excellence. This last part sounded a gong in my head and I said a prayer in my brain. I made a quiet promise that if I was allowed into this school, I, too, would commit myself fully to the same “excellence.” I went back home and to school to wait for the verdict.

  The next few weeks I felt as if I was waiting for a crush to call. Mom and I kept passing the phone, which hung on the sidewall of the kitchen pantry, a tiny room that was under the stairs, where you had to sit on a small chair so as not to hit your head. We both would randomly lift up the receiver to see if we still had a dial tone.

  These weeks were some of the most excruciating ones of my life. Vassar was getting anxious for a response and I had heard nothing from my real first choice. What made it even worse was that a friend—who had better SATs and was also a legacy—didn’t get accepted. I felt terrible for her and believed that if she had gotten rejected then I obviously had no chance. By this time it was known around high school that I had decided to apply to Princeton.

  Well, the days kept going by and everybody in the high school had heard about colleges except for me. Everyone who had applied to Princeton from my school had gotten rejected and I still had heard nothing. Something had to be wrong.

  I moped, I cried, and I fretted. I still don’t remember if Mom was drinking or not. She seemed pretty present for this drama. It always amazed me the moments she chose to show up and those when she could not. In this case she seemed shockingly cognizant of the importance of this situation. This was my future and consequently hers as well.

  Finally, Mom secretly called the head of admissions and apologized, but said that every single child applying to colleges had heard about their fate except her daughter. Could he shed some light on what was happening?

  She stopped him before he gave her the news and said that she did not want to be the first to know. To this day this remains one of the most important moments in my life. Mom was standing up for me in an important and unselfish way. She was being a mom. She took the determination she had had her whole life to help me, even though it meant that she would eventually have to let me go. She physically and emotionally stepped aside and let me have the big moment for myself. It impressed me that she was willing to sacrifice like this. And it’s interesting that I interpreted it as a sacrifice. Wasn’t that a mom’s job? Mom motioned me over to the phone and said the call was for me.

  The admissions director explained what had happened. This was the last class he was to admit to Princeton because he was retiring, so he was taking everything very seriously. Somebody had leaked to the press that I had applied, and there had been an onslaught of press inquiries and controversy about my application. The school was faced with a complicated situation.

  I was crushed and thought, Oh God . . . they don’t want to deal with me because I’m famous. Why did I apply to only one other school? I don’t want to go to Vassar. But wait. . . . Hang on. . . . He’s still talking. . . .

  He continued to say that he was currently on vacation and had left Princeton with two letters in his hands. (The admissions office had called him on his vacation because my mother had been polite but quite insistent.) To ensure that another leak did not occur, the director had had his secretary print up both a letter of acceptance and a letter of rejection and seal them tight. His plan was to take both on vacation and personally post the one he intended to send by himself. Only he would know which one he sent. This was the reason for the delay, and I would be getting my letter of acceptance in the mail in the next few days. I had just heard the word letter—then he started sounding like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. I struggled to ask, “Oh, so in a few days I’ll find out whether I got in or not?”

  He must have wanted to run to the mailbox and switch the letters. This student didn’t even know what the word acceptance meant!

  “Oh no, you got in, Miss Shields; it’s just that the letter is on its way. I am sorry for the delay, but it was necessary for all of us.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

  I hung up the phone and screamed. I hugged Mom, whose eyes were welling with tears, not because I had gotten into an Ivy League school, but because I was so happy about it. I phoned my dad to tell him the good news and I could hear the pride in his voice.

  The next day at school I didn’t want to tell anybody. I eventually had to, but I played it down. I knew people would think I had just gotten in because I was famous, but I knew that this fact was actually a deterrent for universities for a myriad of reasons. I also knew that I was the right fit for Princeton. I loved every aspect of what the university stood for. They believed in hard work, excellence, and joy. These were things I sought after daily. Princeton did want well-rounded students who showed consistent improvements over the four years of high school and who had many extracurricular activities and varied tastes. Turns out the interview also had a big impact on their decision. One thing I was extremely comfortable doing was being interviewed and being honest.

  I had been accepted to Princeton University, the academic institution of my dreams. I glowed instead of gloated, and for the rest of the year, I had an overwhelming sensation that I was really going to be OK in the world.

  I had no idea of the feelings I would have when I actually went away. But more on that in a minute. On graduation day from Dwight-Englewood my mother and father beamed with pride. I had done it. I had graduated from high school during one of the busiest times of my career. Alex Hayley was the class speaker, thanks to my mother. Mom and I had befriended Alex Haley after he’d expressed his interest in charting my genealogy. He had invited my mother and me to a festival in Tennessee. And we had all truly bonded. I think my mother was actually a bit in love with him. He was a kind and gentle soul who really warmed to my mom. She made him laugh. Mom suggested that I ask him to speak at my graduation and he lovingly obliged.

  Mom was able to stay sober during the ceremony but quickly began drinking at lunch. I remember being relieved that my father left before she got sloppy. I hated the thought of him ever thinking any less of my mom. The idea of Mom embarrassing herself in front of my father killed me, but for the most part, she kept it together, and at least for a moment we were a happy family.

  • • •

  Mom and I had taken a vacation every summer to one new place that I usually chose. In the past we had always had a lot of fun. My inspirations usually came out of a movie I had seen, and it was true that the reality often didn’t match up with my fantasy. I once wanted to go to the isle in Scotland that had a magical red telephone booth. We went to the spot and realized the booth had been a prop, only placed there for the film.

  Another time we went to a remote city in Italy to learn how to marbleize paper. I had seen some movie about a woman leaving her urban life to find her soul in a remote Italian village. Mom and I thought marbleizing paper—like the paper we had seen at specialty stationery stores—would be fun. We arrived at the beautiful villa to learn about paints and oils, only to find out that the class was actually in bookbinding.

  The summer before college, we went to the Greek island where the movie Summer Lovers had been shot. But of course, it looked nothing
like the film in real life. You’d think that we, of all people, would have been able to foresee the fantasy aspect of moviemaking. But I guess we both wanted things to always be like they were in the movies.

  In the past it hadn’t mattered to me, because we always had fun, and kept busy, and laughed like hell at our insistent naïveté. Mom and I loved to travel and shop at local places and meet people and eat interesting foods. But this place, and at this age, it was different. Thankfully, it was only a week.

  I had no idea what I was feeling. I was sad and mopey and bored. I had never actually felt boredom before. Mom remarked that nothing was wrong with me. I was just restless and bored and not used to relaxing. But that wasn’t it. I was on the most romantic trip of my life, and I was holed up with my mother. I should have been on a trip with my girlfriends or on some type of adventure before the grind of college. This did not feel right. This place would have been perfect for a honeymoon, or a recluse, not a mother and daughter.

  • • •

  We finally returned home and the day came for me to go to my orientation week. The car was loaded with clothes and things I thought I might need to make my dorm room cozy, just like a home away from home. The drive was only an hour and a bit. Our driver, Dick, took the wheel, and Mom and I sat in the back and talked about how much fun it was all going to be.

  Dick was a man my mother had hired as a handyman-driver a few years earlier. He often drove me to work appointments in the city and always to events so we would not have to hire a limo. We had a safe black Mercedes that he maintained, and he acted as somewhat of a caretaker for our home in Haworth. He also served as a huge safety net for my mother and was the main reason she wasn’t either dead or arrested. It wouldn’t be possible to count the number of times she was drunk in the backseat and we had to maneuver her to the house. To a certain extent he alleviated a great deal of my stress with regard to her safety. He also was the perfect addition to the enabling plan. She smartly eliminated the risk of being pulled over and I could be under the assumption that she was being responsible.

  For many people, the threat of an impending car accident was enough to tell the person you loved that you wanted them to quit. That factor was eliminated from my arsenal and I just accepted Dick as a safety net for all of us. This was probably just another subconscious way for Mom to justify that her drinking did not have any adverse effects on our life. I was fed, clothed, housed, and would not have to be driven by a drunk driver. This by no means meant that she would never drive drunk. It just meant she was limiting the opportunities to do so.

  Dick drove and when we hit the tree-lined road leading into the town, I felt nervous but excited. I looked up at the canopy of green and flickers of sunlight leaking through and I thought it was truly one of the calmest sights I had ever seen. The path opened at the end and you could see the majesty of ivy-clad buildings waiting to fill young minds.

  I got my dorm-room assignment and went to drop my stuff off. The dorm consisted of three rooms. There were two bedrooms with a bunk bed and two dressers. The common living room had a couch and a big armchair. We would need to get more furniture. For now I brought clothes, linens, and electronics. I opened my room and was the third to arrive. The first two girls were a premed student from Texas and another student who was studying politics or medicine. They both chose their rooms. Both chose bottom bunks. I was next and chose the room closest to the front door. We all politely chatted and I began to get a sick feeling in my stomach. This was slowly becoming real. This was not a summer location where I could pretend to live an entirely new life. This was it. I was here, with these people, and we were going to actually live with each other, for the entire school year. It was actually happening.

  What I had not factored into this new adjustment was the moment of my mother’s departure. I hadn’t really accepted the reality of her leaving me, especially with these strangers.

  Princeton is divided into what they call “colleges.” I was assigned to Mathey College, which contained Blair Arch. Blair was where I had heard the singing group perform. The architecture was all beautiful and the grounds richly green. I walked Mom to the entrance to the Matthey College archway and went with her to the car. I kissed both cheeks and hugged her good-bye. I planned on going home on the weekends, so I knew I would see her Friday. Mom was not crying and remained upbeat. This idea of going away to college was an entirely foreign concept for her, and my not living with her was borderline alien for both of us. I had spent vacations with my father and his family, and there was time during rehab when we were separated, but Mom and I had never honestly lived apart from one another. Remember, she was the one who nightly slept with me strapped to her chest.

  I watched the black Mercedes getting smaller and smaller, and exhaled. Within an hour and a half I was on the phone with her, sobbing and asking her to come back and take me home. Our dorm phone’s cord stretched just enough to make it to the floor of the entrance to my room. The other girls had all gone to the dining hall to check out dinner. They probably thought I was a snob or anorexic because I said I wasn’t hungry.

  I had waited till they were out of earshot and, like a husband sneaking a call to his mistress, quickly dialed my mother. She was just coming in the door when I explained to her that I had made a terrible mistake and wanted to come home immediately. I wasn’t kidding.

  “Oh, honey . . . you’ll be fine. I promise. Try to get involved and go have some dinner, settle your things, and let’s talk in the morning.”

  Sniff, sniff. “OK.”

  I never realized what a safety net my mother provided for me. And I use the term safety net fully aware of the irony. Even though in many ways I primarily took care of her, she was still there. Just knowing she was near was enough. It had gotten to the point that I almost didn’t care that she was drunk, as long as she was near and alive. She still held the proverbial lifeline that I guess I had never intended on having cut.

  For years, people attacked my mother for holding me down and for not allowing me my freedom. The press painted me as frustrated and bound. But the truth was, I didn’t want freedom. Being bound was just fine. It was all I’d ever known, and it felt safe. I was not trying to escape.

  It wasn’t as if I wanted to return to the comforts and routines of a tranquil home life or a mom who baked and cleaned for me and held me softly underwing. I wanted to return to my mommy. I may have felt lonely when she drank, but a window of sobriety was never far away, and at least we were together.

  I realized that this new situation—this whim I had to go to college—was not going to work for me. This pit in my gut was just not going away until everything returned to normal. Fine, I’d give it a fair amount of time to make it look as if I really gave it the old “college try” (the language seemed perfect for this scenario), and then this silliness could stop. The regular pattern of my life could peacefully resume.

  I am shocked that it never occurred to me that I might feel homesick. I had dealt with scarier, more adult situations and had powered through much more dramatic scenes in life. I had suffered but survived. I had seen more, and was more adult, than any of these fresh young ones. I was mature. Or so I thought.

  • • •

  As the weeks went on, I realized how sheltered and immature I was in many ways. I wasn’t mature enough to deal with passing the boys’ dorms on the way to a bathroom consisting of communal sinks and multistalled showers. Everybody had these square garden buckets filled with their stuff and shower slippers and terry cloth robes. But it was all totally foreign to me. It wasn’t as if I expected the Ritz or wanted an en suite toilet, but I had never even gone to sleepaway camp. A raft trip with a movie crew down the Colorado River did not constitute roughing it. To be fair, neither did this, but somehow I felt more uncomfortable and exposed here.

  I managed to learn to deal with the living and showering arrangements, but I couldn’t shake the sadness. My classes wer
e great and I started to find a bit of a routine, but my life mostly revolved around studying and planning on seeing my mom. I did not extend myself much farther than the library and my dorm room.

  The room itself began to be war zone as well. My roommates would stay up incredibly late every night. It seemed that I was the only one who wasn’t a vampire and who wasn’t afraid to roam outside while it was daylight. I also decided to rent a small refrigerator, only to repeatedly find experiments growing inside and peanut butter–covered knives with stuck-on M&M’s plastered on the top of the minifridge. This was not what I was used to, that’s for sure.

  In the beginning I had a very tough time finding a niche. The students were all being respectful about giving me my space, just like my first months of high school, but it meant I felt even more solitary. I thought nobody wanted to bother being my friend because I came with enough baggage to fill a cart. I believe the students thought they were doing the right thing. I don’t think they realized that I did not want space or respect. I was terrified of space, and because I had never really had respect, I did not even know how to regard it as freedom. It felt irresponsible and unproductive. It was unfamiliar to me and grossly uncomfortable.

  The paparazzi tried to sneak onto campus, dressed like what they thought college students looked like, and follow me around. The students were great and they alerted the school and me if anyone saw anybody suspicious. One photographer hid in a vent to photograph me walk to a glass; another attempted to bribe a Mathey College freshman to take a camera into the showers and snap me in the nude. They would have been in for a surprise if they tried, because I had taken to showering in a one-piece bathing suit! My roommates asked whether I was on the swim team and I just said yes. I was pretty sure they were not fans of water sports and the secret would be safe.

  Not one student took the bribes for information, and I established a rapport with campus security. I gave them my class schedule so they could be cognizant of my whereabouts without being obtrusive. I felt protected by the student body the most. It was not just about my safely, but also about my integrity, my freedom, and my personal growth. I was delighted. Who would have imagined that there were people out there who didn’t wish to profit off of me?