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

by Brooke Shields

  Plus, I could sleep at night knowing she was closer to me in New York City, and with any luck I would not be getting any more phone calls from the police. In addition I could have my children still spend visits with her, which made her smile.

  As a part of the entrance protocol, Mom had to be taken to a psychiatrist to be analyzed. I took her to a small office on the ground level of a big brick building. The doctor asked Mom simple questions about the weather, the day, and who our president was. It happened to be Presidents’ Day so the question regarding our president was clearly appropriate.

  But when asked the question, Mom couldn’t remember the president’s name. It was a cloudy day, and when asked about the weather, Mom smiled and said it was a great day outside because her daughter was with her. She recalled her birthday and other details about herself with no problem, but it was clear there was some sort of impairment.

  The next part of the test involved her answering some comparison questions. There was clearly one best answer to each comparison. This showed me something so extraordinary and sweet and heartbreaking.

  “How are a boat and a vehicle the same?”

  “They both have motors.”

  “How are a baby and a bud the same?”

  “They both smell really good.”

  She failed.

  This last question killed me, because it was so clear as to the way she thought. She thought with an innocence of a child. Some boats did have motors, and buds and babies did smell pretty delicious. She would not get cognitive credit for being anything but literal. Varied interpretation was not the desired goal. I tried to argue that they were not entirely wrong answers. Yet again I felt the need to stick up for my mother in front of a total stranger. The doctor later explained to me that based on all the tests and the brain scan, Mom was showing signs of developing dementia. All my frustrations, fear, and worry and what little anger I really and rarely possessed melted in abject, gut-wrenching, and profound sadness.

  Of all the things I thought my mother would be dying of, dementia was not one of them. Her brain had so long remained seemingly sharp. Because of her wit and ability to notice details in human behavior, I thought her mind would be the last to go. I was sure it would be her liver that went. She was also from hearty German and Irish stock, and because her mother had lived past ninety, I was sure my mom would outlast all of us, or at least her wretched mother.

  I took her back to the new facility. It still didn’t feel as if Mom really belonged in a place like this. She didn’t seem like the other people, at least from my perch on self-denial hill. She still had the capacity to communicate with the staff in a way that did distinguish her from the others. She still had her wry, sarcastic approach to some things, and the staff got a kick out of her. Mom started going to Saturday Shabbat ceremony with a rabbi who loved to sing. She told him she liked the singing and the music.

  As time went on, she seemed to settle in a bit more and I made my kids visit more often, even if it was only to do their homework or take her for coffee. I went as often as I could but I really hated going. The moment I would see her I would get a sick and sad feeling in the pit of my heart. She reeked of sadness. She cried every time I started to walk to the elevator to leave. I always promised to come back, but she looked like a puppy in the ASPCA commercials or a starving UNICEF orphan with tears in her eyes.

  This might have been the time to talk to her and get some type of closure, but all I could ever do was tell her I loved her and run away. It was too much for me to see. But hearing “I love you” seemed to light up her eyes for a moment and I took it.

  But I needed and wanted more. Please come back, Mom, I thought. Let’s try this again. You can do this.

  Mom was already too far gone to have any real conversation at all and nevermind the dual apology I had imagined.

  • • •

  But back at home, my family was thriving. We had fully moved into the new town house downtown. Both girls asked to have their beds moved to be against the wall. I smiled inside, remembering that first night Mom and I spent in our new apartment on Seventy-Third Street. I thought about the mattress being on the floor and against the wall and wondered if genetics were playing a part. There is something very cozy and seemingly womblike about having a wall to push up against.

  I resisted moving their beds for them for as long as I could because the rooms were not set up that way and moving the beds would mean blocking a window in each room. The thought of the head of a bed right under a window made me nervous, but we don’t live in LA, so earthquakes are not a concern. All my fabulous decorating down the drain. My girls were not concerned with the fact that the house had been featured on the cover and inside Architectural Digest. They wanted beds moved and crap hung up and taped everywhere!

  “OK, fine, I’ll help you move your beds.”

  “You’re the best, Mom!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I have never told my girls about the apartment on East Seventy-Third, but they both wanted to shove their beds against the wall and stack the multitude of stuffed animals all along the side. They wedge their warm little sleepy selves with their backs to the wall and now sleep through the night. My younger daughter comes in my room in the mornings and she asks to cuddle and spoon. I now pull my own little girl into my body and I am the outside spoon this time. I am constantly reminded of the glorious nights’ sleep in the bare apartment and being spooned by my mommy, but my daughter and I differ when I ask her whether my arm is too heavy. She often says, “Yes, a little, Mama.” I would have never told my mother her arm was heavy even if I could not breathe. God forbid she lift it off me. I guess I should feel proud my girls feel secure enough to express their feelings to me.

  I look at my girls when they are asleep and I marvel at how stunning they are. Their smooth, pure faces and tiny features seem to glow. Granted, it is also because they are asleep and not fighting or talking back, but I do understand how every mother’s child is divinely perfect.

  • • •

  I always thought I would be a great mom. I could handle babies and take care of them and was never scared to have them entrusted to me. I could soothe them and make them smile. I could always make them fall asleep in my arms and I could get lost in their skin and delicious smell. I was never disgusted by their diapers or bored with having to attend to them constantly.

  But I never intended for them to grow up!

  I never thought past the baby stage. I assumed I’d be a good mom because I could handle infants, never once considering their being eleven.

  Now, after many years, I realize that my girls could not be further apart in personality from one another. Rowan keeps her emotions deep inside whereas Grier is a walking, ticking emotional time bomb. They eat differently, dress differently, think differently, and react differently. As I write this, Rowan is eleven going on twenty-two and Grier is eight and wants to be back in my womb. In addition, they could not be more starkly different from me, and how they relate to me is nothing like how I related to my own mom.

  It took me a while to realize that just giving birth to them did not mean I knew who they were. It also was a shock for me to find out they weren’t me, either. I assumed that because they were babies that I understood who they were inside.

  I have to ask my girls who they are. They are not me. I am not them. It is easy to want to mold them. There is a difference between teaching and crafting. It is our duty to protect and love and impart what we think are life’s truths, but we really need to support our children in ways that nurture their individual selves. And I remind myself that I’m still the parent anyway.

  For instance, Rowan is very clear about how her friends treat her and what her needs are. Grier once told her that her best friend was not treating her well, but she kept wanting to spend time with her. Rowan said, “Well, she is obviously not your best friend, then, because best friends d
on’t treat each other that way!” Later I found out the reason why Rowan said what she did was that I told Rowan the same thing when her best friend was treating her a certain way. She took what I said, remembered it, and applied it to Grier’s situation. But back when I was a kid and my mother’s daughter, I, like Grier, would have taken the bad treatment just to have people like me. Wow, did I actually teach her that?

  I admire Rowan so much because of how sure she is of herself. When she was a baby, I would watch her at the playground trying to get kids to play with her. She would sometimes get rejected over and over and she remained unfazed. I’d hear her say, “No? . . . No? . . . No? . . . OK,” and she would then simply start to dance and play on her own. She was completely content, and sure enough, in a short amount of time the same little kids would start to gravitate toward her. Before you knew it, she was like the Pied Piper.

  Rowan has always been very straightforward and black-and-white. When she was two years old, she was in her car seat in the back of my SUV and I was pulling out of our driveway in LA. I had just gotten really mad at my mother for something. I can’t remember why I was crying but I was upset and quietly crying in the front seat. I was trying not to be obvious, but sure enough Rowan didn’t miss a beat. She quickly asked, “Mama crying?”

  I had a decision to make. Do I lie and say no, I just had something in my eye? That would send the message that it was shameful to cry in front of others and that her instincts were not correct. I had to quickly think of what my little girl needed. She needed to hear the truth but also needed to know that her world was right and her mom was OK enough to be able to keep her safe.

  “Yes, bug, Mama’s a bit sad, but I’m going to be fine and I love you.”

  “Mmn, Mama’s crying.”

  And with that she put her thumb in her mouth and looked out the window completely satisfied. As she stared at the passing trees I thought, What! That’s all I get? I’m upset here! Come on! Nothing?

  This thought made me chuckle. How different I was from my own mother and what a different childhood Rowan was experiencing. I never was able to stop being concerned about my mother and her emotions. I could understand how she wanted my continual doting. I felt a bit lonely as I sat in the car but ultimately proud that I had not made my problems Rowan’s. I don’t think I ever fully believed my mom was OK or safe herself. I grew to believe it was my responsibility to keep both of us safe. Anxiety became a constant in my life beginning at a very early age, but how I handled it changed over time.

  Rowan actually scared me at times growing up because she seemed so independent that I felt she didn’t need me. All my mom wanted was to be needed and wanted. As Rowan grows older, she fights me on so much that our relationship often causes me confusion, frustration, fear, and pause. But every now and then she surprises me with unsolicited affection or nuanced humor. My mother and I bonded the most through our humor. It was our go-to remedy when we were having problems. I believe that comedy is one of the only ways one can truly live in the moment. I have always used humor as my biggest defense mechanism. I believe I homed in on this part of my personality early on and used it as a way to cope with life. It helped me escape Mom’s alcohol. Mom and I shared a bond in comedy, and if we were laughing, we were temporarily OK. It became my vocation on and off camera.

  Humor has become a point of connection between Rowan and me as well. Instead of its diffusing angst, it is just another way for us to be honest as well as vulnerable. I’ll never forget the first time Rowan launched into a full-on impression of an old lady from the Bronx. She was incredible at it. For a moment I saw my younger self in her and felt emotional and strangely proud. We were with my half sisters over Thanksgiving when Rowan suddenly began asking me questions as if we were two old ladies sitting and gossiping on a stoop in the “old neighborhood.” She shocked me and I jumped into the impromptu improvisation and felt so close to her. We all laughed hysterically. It was oxygen in my veins like it had been with Mom. I flashed back to skits my mom and I used to do just for one another and was very moved by all of it.

  Grier and I have a very different relationship. She rarely challenges me and is incredibly affectionate with me. She had the most fun with Toots because Mom was regressing by the time she was born and could play with blocks and toys with Grier for long stretches at a time. Grier is also a mini-hoarder in training. Like my mom, who was the queen of collecting, she loved all the little dust-collecting tchotchkes my mom would give to her. Grier loves to put a coin in her “maybe need pocket” of her jeans, and it’s the same kind of minipocket in her own jeans that Mom had pulled a nickel from when she was in the holding cell in New Orleans.

  Grier is extremely emotional and once said, “You are everything that’s wrong with my life!” She was mad at me for putting her sister in a time-out and crying and hated me for it. Not long after this outburst she added, “You know, Mom, the minute I say something mean to you, I wish I did not say it, but I can’t stop it before it comes out of my lips.” I love when my girls express such raw emotions so honestly. It hurts my feelings at times but I have to admit I am relieved that they can be so honest with their emotions and possess the freedom to express everything they feel. I think I was always way too concerned with my mom’s feelings to even notice my own. The same drama that Grier embodies when she is mad is the same she shows when she is happy.

  “Wow, I can’t believe you love me, Mom! I don’t know why I just said that!” she’d say. Or “I just love you so much it horts.” Or “Mama, you are my heaven!”

  As beautifully layered as my relationship is with my daughters, I do believe it is a much healthier one than mine was with my mom. Mine was deep and wonderful at times but extreme. It was not founded on security but on a sometimes irrational love mixed with intense codependence.

  There was never any lack of love, but that’s what made it hard. There was also a good deal of fear from both sides. She always feared I would leave her. I always feared something would happen to my mother or that I was not good enough for her. I never doubted her love for me but I was perpetually worried about her well-being and self-esteem—the things mothers usually worry about for their children.

  My girls don’t doubt my love for them, either, but they are also quite secure being away from me. They rarely feel they need to check on my state of mind or my whereabouts. I had to work on not being threatened by their autonomy because I grew up thinking that real love had to be based on codependence. Independence equaled abandonment.

  • • •

  In late 2011 my mother began to fade further. She was very settled into the Eightieth Street residence and I had settled into a new routine with my life and her care. I was doing The Addams Family on Broadway. One night after the show I was walking into one of my favorite little pubs that sold my favorite Belgian beer, Duvel. As I sat and ordered, Carmine, my bodyguard and driver on all Broadway shows, got a phone call from the facility.

  Mom had complained of shortness of breath and heart palpitations. She was being taken to the emergency room. I had not yet taken off my Morticia makeup but was just going to have a quick beer before going home. I had to come straight away because she was asking for me. I chugged my beer, and Carmine and I ran out.

  When I arrived at the hospital I went in to visit Mom, and an aide from the residence was feeding her bits of a ham sandwich like you would to a baby. She seemed very content being hand-fed. But Mom took one look at me, bolted up, and started to move to get dressed.

  “I’m ready to go home now. I am ready to go.”

  She thought I had come to take her away, like Calgon, and I am sure some place deep in her consciousness, she knew if she had any emergency I would show up. I settled her a bit and told her I needed to talk to the doctor to get some information.

  I stepped outside to speak to the doctor on rounds. He explained that she was checking out fine but that he was a bit concerned about her blood pres
sure and how disoriented and scared she seemed. He said he could not say she had to stay overnight, but he did suggest that it wouldn’t hurt. It was late and maybe she should sleep.

  That was music to my ears. I wanted her watched and accounted for through the night. And I needed to sleep. At one point in this discussion, I glanced through the small window into Mom’s room and she saw me and started to sit up again, except this time she began ripping the IV and tubes out of her veins. I burst into the room and there was blood spurting around like spin art. Here I was, with my white Morticia face and bloodstained red lips and dark kohl-lined eyes, trying to control Mom and the whipping-around tubes. It looked like a scene from Tales from the Crypt.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, please calm down and relax. You need those IVs to stay in for a bit.”

  “But I want to go home. With you.”

  She had not yet ripped her heart-rate monitor off and I could clearly hear the beeps of the machine. It became like a cartoon, because every time she heard something she wanted to hear, the beeps slowed and became steady, but every time I told her something she did not like or want to hear, it sped up.

  “Mom, calm down, I am here.” . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep.

  “You can’t come home with me right now.” . . . Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

  “I will come back in the morning, which is only in a few hours, to get you.” . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep.

  “But, Mom, you have to stay here tonight to rest and have the doctors make sure you are OK.” . . . Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

  “But I’ll be back.” . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep.

  I finally settled her and they gave her something to help her relax. Carmine and I belly-laughed hysterically about the heart-monitor symphony the whole ride home. You could not make this stuff up.