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

by Brooke Shields

  Looking as far back as my first “official” kiss, back in seventh grade at New Lincoln, my memories of it are not only that it was disturbing, but also that the first person I told was my mother. It was with a boy named Chris Serbagi at a friend’s party. He asked me to go to a back room, and when I got there, he had set up the couch with pillows and had drawn the shades. He told me to lie down and he proceeded to slobber all over my face. (Maybe I should have made Keith Carradine my first official kiss after all!) I was so grossed out and sad that this was the first kiss, which I had so eagerly anticipated. Not only was it not romantic or spontaneous as I had hoped it would be; it was tonguey and gross, too. We got busted and sent home by the mom of the house.

  The next day, my mom was driving me to school in our black Jeep, as she often did, and her response after I recounted the horror was only to ask if I planned on doing it again. I told my mom “No!” and that was the end of it. It would have been nice if Mom had explained to me what a first could be like and how I could still have one with the right person. Instead, I then shut myself off to all boy kisses in general.

  Basically my “relationships” had always been orchestrated by my mother in one way or another. She directed my romantic life sometimes subtly and sometimes not. She didn’t focus on romance (never mind love), but instead wanted to associate me with names that connoted fame, money, and power. These were the relationships she supported, also because they were less attainable.

  She loved that I had briefly dated John Travolta, Jimmy McNichol, Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, and John Kennedy. They were all on Teen Beat magazines and stars in their own right. She trusted I’d keep my vow of chastity and like the attention paid to me in these couplings. She genuinely loved Michael Jackson and said I was good for him as a supportive and honest friend.

  My fame, my mother’s choice to support certain romantic relationships more than others, and my increasingly complicated feelings about my virginity led to an enduring insecurity about my sexuality. The book’s release the summer between my freshman and sophomore year didn’t help. My virginity was the only thing anyone could talk about. In my opinion many things were wrong with the book, but the tour was fun. Mom and I went with Gavin and made the most out of every city we visited.

  I had recently gone on The Tonight Show to promote On Your Own and Johnny had asked me with whom I would want to be stranded on a desert island. (Such an original question!) I said I had a crush on George Michael. Mom had decorated a denim shirt of mine with “WHAM” in glitter paint and Bedazzles. She glued pins and little pictures of George and surprised me with it to wear to his concert. I almost wore it on Carson.

  As luck would have it, while in Chicago on the book tour, we discovered we were staying at the same boutique hotel as George. Mom was enamored of the fact that he was famous, and she loved his voice. Mom had contacted George’s publicist to say that I was staying in the same place and hoped to meet him if possible. He said he would love to take me to dinner but because of our being bothered by the press we should probably just arrange dinner at the hotel. I nearly fell on my face.

  George decided to get food delivered to the private dining room on the rooftop. I arrived at the meal in colored jeans and a blouse. The table was beautifully set and all the foods I liked had been ordered. George said he had read some place that I liked to be healthy so he picked accordingly. There were flowers and candles and we talked nonstop. He complimented me on my blouse. When dinner was over, George walked me to my hotel room and said he wanted to see me again. He left without even trying to kiss me. I was so touched by what a real gentleman he was. (I wanted to yell, “Wait, please don’t ‘go go’!”)

  Back in my hotel bedroom Gavin and my mom had put CAUTION: POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS tape all over my bed. There were signs that said THIS MEANS YOU, GEORGE! I guess this was payback for my sign-hanging stunt down the hallway for Mom after her date with Woody Allen.

  George and I managed to go on a few more dates in New York City that involved shopping or meals. He held my hand and even bought me a mauve cashmere sweater from Charivari on the Upper West Side. I thought he was a remarkable, respectful, and patient gentleman who was obviously aware of my hesitance regarding sex. Mom was thrilled. She said he had good taste and was sweetly old-fashioned. Nobody had ever been willing to move so slowly. It must be love.

  On the night before I was to go back to Princeton for my sophomore year, George invited me to a party for Grace Jones. When we arrived at the club, Boy George ran up to us and started screaming about how he had heard the rumor but was happy to see us actually together. Before the evening got too late, my boyfriend George “carelessly” whispered into my ear, “Why don’t we get out of here?”

  We got into the limo and headed back to my home in New Jersey. As we were nearing the house, George put up the partition and turned to me. I thought, Oh my God—I’m going to get to have my first time with George Michael in the back of the limo! Forget Catholicism and the book. Forget my mother. God would understand! I gazed at George with puckered lips. He looked deep into my eyes and said, “I think we need to take a break. I need to concentrate on my career.” WHAM!

  I was devastated. Mom tried to comfort me and promised that I was going to be OK. She obviously didn’t see him as a threat at any step of the way. Mom encouraged friendships with people like George Michael, Michael Jackson, and John Travolta, because I believe she was impressed by their genuinely sweet natures as well as their level of fame. These were the types of more gentle male friends who loved my mom and did not pose a threat to her.

  I went back to my new place just off campus and cried myself to sleep for weeks. But my sophomore year went by and I finally got over George. I began dating, doing theatre, studying even harder, and was adjusting extremely well. I knew Mom was drinking, but I did not have to see it, and as long as I spoke to her before going to bed, I knew she was safe and fine.

  During my junior year I met and fell madly in love with my first real love. I met Dean Cain, who was a football player at Princeton. He was a year behind me and we were instantly crazy about each other. I saw all his football games and he saw all my dance and theatre performances. We were a golden couple and everybody loved us together. I loved his family. His dad was a director and his mom was also somewhat of a blond bombshell who loved to laugh and hang out with the kids. She was an ex-model and always wore the current beach-babe fashion.

  We got along wonderfully and she made me feel extremely accepted and like one of her children. He had a slightly older brother and an adorable little sister and they all lived in Malibu. Dean’s parents were very California liberal and I was always a bit shocked whenever they had Dean and me stay in the same bedroom when I came to visit them, sometimes even giving us the best room in the house. This was such a contrast to how my mother always insisted Dean stay in a guest room. His family took me in as one of theirs and I fit in.

  Dean’s mom was always also a bit larger than life and a bit dramatic. She was never inappropriate but just loved to have a good time. Even though his dad was working hard and was very present, Dean was like the little man of the house from the time he was a baby. Maybe Dean just simply knew how to handle beautiful, flamboyant women who needed attention. But he was always very patient with my mom. Mom loved Dean at the start but began negating our relationship the longer it went on. She started to act disdainful and she would often blurt out or whisper under her breath, “Oh, it’s just physical with you two!” I tried to overlook her comments because I really was in love and of course it was not physical. I was too bound to my virginity and to her!

  Being with Dean was the best thing that could have happened to me. It made such sense for us in so many ways. We shared the same sense of humor. He understood Hollywood from a personal perspective but was not yet an actor. He was not intimidated by my success or my fame, and he was a great dancer and fit in anywhere I took him. Everybody loved Dean and he
was incredibly and painfully patient with me regarding sex. But it felt as if Mom was always lording over us, and I was self-conscious because the world assumed we were sleeping together. In truth, though, I was even more scared and shy with him because I was so in love. I had this fear that if I slept with him, I would want to run away.

  Even when Mom wasn’t around, I felt as if she was watching. We were in love and so incredibly attracted to one another in every way, that it would make sense that we were having sex. We were always holding hands and trying to find ways to be alone and kiss. But, poor guy, I made him wait and wait, and my mom kept track. She knew we were not sleeping together because she could pretty much guarantee that (like my first French kiss) I would tell her if we were. Still, I think Mom was actually threatened for the first time. But even though I really felt scared about sex and paranoid I was being watched by Mom and the world, Dean remained loving and patient.

  We were almost the couple who got married after being college sweethearts. We did everything together and were well-known on campus. He was the first man (and the only one for a very long time) who really knew me and loved me. He even knew me better than my mother did because we had deep personal talks and he asked questions. He was witness to my struggles with my mom and he respected how much I loved her. I was honestly, truly, and purely in love. It made me the happiest person I had been in forever. And he loved me even more. He would have married me right out of college. He said he knew that I was it. He didn’t need to keep looking. But he was a year behind me, and when I graduated, I was scared about our next year apart.

  Even though being with Dean felt so right, I couldn’t completely give myself to him—in any way—without my mother’s approval. Her approval opened my world for me. I remember calling her to ask if I could drive up to Sierra Summit with Dean to go ski after I had graduated. She granted me permission and therefore I felt liberated.

  First of all, I was twenty-one and still calling home for permission! But the second point, and the bigger one, is that I would have gone even if she had said no. But my enjoyment would have been dampened. I would have felt distanced from the ability to be free and have fun. But in this case, since Mom said I could go and have fun, I was liberated and free to enjoy myself.

  It is fascinating how my mom’s laugh could make me smile on the inside or how her being joyous could ease my mind and relax my hesitance immediately. And not just in person. Even from afar, I needed her to be accepting and condoning to let myself feel the same way.

  • • •

  When I was twenty-two, I finally lost my virginity. Dean and I had been together for what seemed like a lifetime. He was incredibly tolerant and admittedly long-suffering. I confess that I wish I had not made him wait as long as he did—for his sake and mine. I did not need him to prove anything to me, but I was still so bound and guilt-ridden by my mother. In retrospect, it was not fair to any of us, and all of this is still a regret of mine. Dean’s and my relationship was exactly the kind that any parent would hope for. It was based on love and respect and should have been allowed the freedom to unfold.

  Mom was unjustly judgmental of our romantic relationship and she feared it on a deeper level. I don’t know if she would ever admit to it but this threat went beyond Catholicism. I believe she wanted me to stay hers alone. She believed in an absolute hold she had on me. And she prayed that I would never ever want to breach that bond in any way. And growing up, and having sex, would mean that I was leaving her. If I loved (and gave of myself to) another, I was no longer in her control. To her, losing control meant I did not love her.

  When it finally happened, we were in Sun Valley, Idaho. Dean and I were in a bedroom upstairs and my mother was downstairs, drunk. In a strange way, it was her being drunk that freed me up. If she had not been drinking, I would have found it more difficult to follow through. But even though I knew she was totally out of it, the potential threat that she would hear us or walk in and shame me was crippling to me. Her drunkenness emboldened me, but it wasn’t an act of rebellion as much as it was one of my own temporary autonomy.

  The whole experience was beautiful. It was what you would wish for your daughter. It should have been what I had wished for myself, but in an instant, guilt slapped me in the face. Instead of giving in to what was a loving, and emotionally safe, relationship, and escaping into the most intimate and deserved moment, I began to cry deeply and silently. I didn’t regret sharing this with Dean and felt so secure with him. But I deeply regretted being preoccupied and fearful and not allowing myself to enjoy how much we loved one another and how long we had been together.

  I got so overwhelmed that I jumped out of my bed, which was a handmade pale-wood bed made from local trees and faced a window and a fireplace. It was very high and I actually kind of tumbled off it and started running. Out the window the moon and the stars burned so bright that you could practically read a book, but I saw none of the beauty. Instead I ran from the room and down a long hall as if I were being chased. I have no idea where I was going but it was probably to go sleep in another bed so my mother wouldn’t find out.

  I was buck naked, streaking down a hallway and running as if I had just stolen someone’s wallet. What a sight! Dean leapt up and ran after me with the comforter in his arms. He threw it around me, grabbed me around my shoulders, and stopped me from running. He hugged me tight and quietly asked me where I was going. He then said the most amazing thing. He said, “Hey, stop running. Why are you running? Where are you going? I am not going anywhere. I am not going to leave you.”

  I was the one running and he was the one trying to take the responsibility. I was worried that once I slept with him I would become too vulnerable and would no longer own myself. I was afraid I was leaving my mother. As long as I kept that part of me untapped, I could remain emotionally closed. Being that exposed would destroy my escape route. I had always seen myself as alone, but with Mom. This meant I was possibly not alone. This meant I was attached to Dean and I feared that responsibility.

  Even though I knew I had taken such a big step in committing to stay at Princeton, I remained entangled with my mother and our life. I didn’t know where I began and where my mother ended, and that meant I didn’t know how to fit Dean in.

  I wish I had been more in touch with my own feelings about all of it, but I had my mother’s voice in my head, the public’s voice all around me in the press, and the shame of Catholicism in my heart. It wasn’t so much about being a good Catholic as it was a promise I had made. I couldn’t become a liar. And because the whole world knew I was a virgin, the whole world would know when I was not.

  What should have been the beginning of a wonderful phase in my relationship with Dean turned out to be the beginning of the end. I regret the way I handled it. Without school and without virginity, I really was floating in a strange limbo. I suddenly did not know who or how to be around him. It all generated from a twisted sense of self. Dean never put pressure on me for anything, and he respected me in every way. I panicked. I was much better at arm’s-length relationships. I was better with an exit-route strategy. I could not handle loving somebody more than my mom.

  My fears had much more to do with my mother than they did with religion or public opinion. I knew Mom felt that if she protected my virginity, I could still remain her baby. She probably didn’t have the confidence to not be threatened by someone I loved.

  The moment I slept with Dean was the moment I left my mother. I chose him. I felt this and I am sure she did as well. I couldn’t handle having made this symbolic decision. There really is no such thing as choosing between a parent and a love—but there kind of is. In a moment this intimate, you are choosing your partner over anybody else. It is a rite of passage, and this molting is terrifying and uncomfortable. It needs desire and commitment. I had buried my desire and I had misdirected my commitment.

  Yes, Mom would always be my mother, and yes, it was natural and right.
But this was a severing of a cord that had become brittle. I would exert efforts at trying to reattach said cord for many years to come.

  I feel sad for these two young lovers. I feel sad for myself, and for him, and for us. I wish I had had the strength to revel in our relationship more, even from the very start. I gave it what I could, but I remained tethered. The leap was too much for me to handle.

  Going to college was, in a way, an ending to the first major era of my career, and it was a closure to the first and longest chapter of my mom’s and my relationship.

  Chapter Twelve

  I Wish I Only Knew You in the Mornings, Mama

  Even before my relationship with Dean became intimate—and before the life-changing trip to our mountain home—Mom remained in the swing of excessive drinking. By the beginning of my senior year she had progressively increased the amount she was drinking and began to mix the vodka, wine, and the rum and Diet Cokes. I was home less, and when I was, I was buried in homework and my thesis work. That and having fun with my now best friends as well as Dean. I loved him.

  I begged her to stop. I’d say things such as “Can you at least try not getting drunk on the day of graduation?”

  “I promise.”

  She had gotten so used to lying to me and to believing her own lies that the pattern just kept being repeated. I gave her one last request not to drink at my graduation. I should have specified all day and also at the party.

  She managed to not drink before the actual ceremony. She was sober as I was walking up to the podium to accept my diploma: “cum laude, for French literature.”

  The honors were a nice surprise and might have been higher if I had gotten an A instead of an A-minus on part of my junior paper. Anyway, I walked up and hoped Mom was proud. I knew my dad was. I believe he just felt I earned and deserved it because of all my hard work. Dad left after lunch.