by Robert Evans
My guest just shook his head. “Every time your name came up, Sid got hot. Didn’t want to hear it.”
Finally, I jumped up in rage. “Cut it, will ya? I don’t need to hear this shit. I said it at the chapel: It was the worst single mistake I made in my life! Now, I don’t care who you are—get out of my house!”
He shrugged. “Don’t feel comfortable being here, anyway. Never liked ya, and I really never liked what you did to Sid. When I heard about the tough times you were havin’, I got my nuts off.”
Then, instead of leaving, he seemed to think twice, and took two steps toward me. Instinct told me I was about to get whacked. Instead, he put both his hands on my shoulders. “I look at you different now, Kid. Standin’ up this morning, speakin’ the way you did. Not cheatin’ with the truth. Gotta hurt like hell.”
“It didn’t. It felt good!”
Our eyes locked. “Know how you feel. I miss him, too. My hat’s off to ya, Kid.” Then, shocking: a kiss on the cheek. “He heard ya, Kid. Just wanted you to know.”
He left. I sat. Minutes turned to hours. Silently, I faced a blank wall. Thinkin’, thinkin’, thinkin’, until darkness prevailed over a once-sunlit room. In sixteen years, I hadn’t made it from one full moon to the next without jumpin’ up from bed in a cold sweat, my heart drummin’ through my chest, from the same continuing real-life nightmare: having my family dictate my future, denying me my constitutional right of counsel, not allowing me to call my godfather when I needed him most.
Worse, I let ’em!
Forgive me, Sidney, for cheatin’!
13
Stop! Stop! I can’t take it!” I slurred out with all my strength. “Stop!”
It was my third week of rehab, and not a day passed when I wasn’t discovering a new form of pain. Them doctors and so-called specialists walked through my doors each day, more than a brothel could handle.
The karma that surrounded my ICU boudoir made a graveyard seem like Disneyland. Without exception, the specialists prognosticated a future that scared the shit out of me, but it only made my resolve stronger. The more they kept telling me about my somber future, the stronger my will and the more I kept telling myself, Fuck ’em. The Kid’s gettin’ outta here, and it ain’t gonna be in a black bag. I’m blowing this joint for good! Got it, motherfucker?
At least I was half right. I did get the fuck out of Cedars, and sooner than anyone thought. I couldn’t walk it, but I wheeled it out. And it wasn’t in a black bag.
Behind me was an entourage of three headed by Tamara Sosnick, a professor of physical therapy at Mount St. Mary’s College in Los Angeles, and who is considered to be among the top rehabilitation honchos in the country. Her specialty was using an integrated approach of physical, cognitive, psychological, and functional rehabilitation. Bottom-lining those fancy words, she was a masochist’s ultimate fantasy. With her were her two sidekicks: Maria, whose specialty was occupational therapy, and Sarah, a speech therapist. When half of your tongue is paralyzed, you sure in hell pray for the best!
The thrill of arriving home was short-lived. Now that I was out of the hospital, I realized, the Three Musketeers would have me all to themselves. I was on full-time therapy. Pain therapy, that is. My limbs, fingers, toes, tongue, and lips were all twisted and stretched as if I were a piece of clay. Every part of my body was being personally manipulated by one of the Three Angels of Pain.
One morning, Tamara was stretching my atrophied right leg. The pain was such that it touched off a hysteria. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop crying. Tamara stood by watching impassively. Then, suddenly, she grabbed me by my shoulders—not to comfort me, but to shake me into the truth.
“Now cut it!” She held me firmly until my hysteria settled and my crying stopped.
Then, without a smile, she gave it to me straight. “If you’ve got a chance at all to recover to normalcy, we’re working against a mean clock. It’s a very small window, six to eight months at best. After that, the improvement becomes more and more minimal by the day. And that’s for people half your age.” She shrugged. “Truthfully, the pain may not be worth the possible results. I can’t guarantee anything—except that if we don’t continue our efforts, or for that matter if we fail in our efforts, your life will be altered permanently. You’ll be no more than a dysfunctional three-stroke victim. I wish I could promise you success. I can’t. Your age does not work in your favor. That’s where we are now. It’s your choice.”
“You’re telling me I’ve only got six months to have a shot at being half-assed normal?”
“No—I’m telling you that you may have a shot. And I don’t care what a big shot you are, or think you are, Mr. Evans. The only person who can give you that shot is me.”
She could probably tell what was going on in my mind, because I saw her eyes zeroing icily in on mine. “Make up your mind, because I don’t like wasting my time. You’re as complicated and difficult a case as I’ve handled in ten years. Frankly, you exhaust me. I’m breaking for a half hour to have a bite of lunch. That gives you half an hour to figure out which way you want to go.
“Oh, and by the way, we need to knock off the self-pity shit. It’s as difficult for me to administer as it is for you to take it.”
Was I a coward? Let’s just say I was no hero. The thought of eight hours a day of physical, occupational, and speech therapy—learning how to walk heel-toe, heel-toe, the pain of getting my wooden fingers to metamorphose into human movement to pick up a fork, a knife, tie a shoelace, walk without falling—swirled around in my mind. One thing I knew, I did not want to be the Tin Man walking down the new millennium’s Yellow Brick Road.
Forty minutes later, Tamara walked into the room and stood there beside me. “Well, at least now you know the deck you’re holding. Which way do you want to play it?”
“I’m yours. No complaints.” I looked into her eyes. “Pull off a miracle, will ya? Torture me good but get them limbs movin’, my tongue waggin’.” My eyes swelled. “Please.”
Being kind, let’s call the next six weeks blackout time. I kept saying to myself, Move slow if you must, but don’t stop. And I didn’t.
The Guy Upstairs must have been looking out for me.
By the end of the month, dexterous again was my tongue, deft my clarity, and an octave deeper my reborn voice. I couldn’t make a fist yet, but my fingers were movin’. I couldn’t bend my toes, but I could move them. Most important of all, my atrophied right limb was slowly getting into the rhythm of heel-toe, heel-toe, allowing me at least to fake a walk, with only a slight limp. I was on my way.
Then it happened. One day, while I was practicing heel-toeing it down my winding driveway, with Nurse Sosnick constantly critiquing my stride, I passed the tennis court. Something caught my eye, and I did a quick Evans double take. It completely disrupted my rhythm and landed me flat on my ass—and all the while, I was still looking at what had distracted me: the beautiful specimen out taking lessons from my old friend, tennis pro Darryl Goldman.
Something was stirring. I must be getting better!
Unable to take my eyes off her, I heel-toed it back to the court as she racketed her strokes with the grace and power of a pro, and the looks of an angel. As she lifted her head to serve, her eyes caught me watching. Without missing a beat, she dropped her racket and ran toward me.
It was Catherine Oxenberg. Strange: I had known her for some fifteen years, but we had hardly shared more than a hello during all that time. Though she was a total winner on every count, I had never given her a second thought. Always assumed she’d be too tough a challenge.
With the charm and thoughtfulness of an Audrey Hepburn, she embraced me as if we were long-lost lovers. Not only was she in touch with my illness, but she seemed genuinely concerned with my present health and future healing. An actress, yes, but my ego told me this was no performance. She exuded an intoxicating air, and a genuine desire to be there and help me in whatever way she could to ensure my road back to health.
That afternoon, I visited Dr. Charles Kivowitz in his office, and I told him what happened. The good doctor got up from his chair and walked me into his private office. Was he smiling? No. He was concerned—deeply concerned.
“Bob, sit down and listen. You are not just a sick man. You are a very sick man. It was only six weeks ago that you were all but a dead man. If you’d been through successful open-heart surgery, you could well be on your way to a normal, healthy life. But that’s not the case. You had a brain attack. Reoccurrence of a brain attack is not an uncommon thing. One minor jolt and you’re out—I mean out! It’s not like the heart. You’re not in condition physically, emotionally, or medically to even think about getting involved in any kind of a relationship. You’re allowing your brain to act irrationally.”
“Charlie,” I interrupted, “I came down to tell you this, thinking you’d be pleased to see me high on life for the first time.”
“You’re not ready to feel high on life, Bob. You still don’t understand this. Don’t talk yourself into a quick fix. It could have disastrous implications. This is not an exaggeration. I’d much rather have seen you come in somber than hyper. Think of your brain as a roller coaster—the higher it gets, the more speedy and scary the fall. Take what I say seriously. I’m not asking you, Bob. I’m telling you as your doctor. It’s a must. That quick fix could cost you a quick death.”
He took me by the shoulders, turned me around so that our eyes met.
“Please, Bob. I beg of you, take the slow road this time. It’s the difference between life and death.”
Did I listen? Yes—for an hour.
When I got home, my first call was to Catherine. She was elated to hear from me.
“Your voice is pure velvet, Evans.”
“You make an old man feel mighty good.”
“Old! Uh-uh. Age is only numbers!”
“Come over Friday. We’ll watch The Mask of Zorro.”
“How wonderful!” she purred. “I’m having some girlfriends over for dinner. Can I invite them, too?”
“Of course.” I would have said yes if she’d told me she was having twenty mutes.
That Friday evening, we sat next to each other with about eight or ten guests. Suddenly, I’m entertaining! Suddenly I’m telling stories! Suddenly I don’t feel like going to bed! Suddenly I’m in love! Suddenly I’m on high.
Suddenly I’m doing everything Dr. Kivowitz said was wrong.
The week that followed was a mix of painful therapy and extraordinary therapy, Catherine being the latter. As we sat around, having a quiet dinner for two in the projection room, she opened her mouth and shocked the hell out of me.
“When I walked to the door that day and saw you standing there, my only thought was of death. You seemed to be dying. As you know, I’m into Eastern philosophy. I found my calling. I’m going to save you, heal you, bring you back to health.”
“Dying? Did I look that bad?”
“No. I sensed death in the room.”
How do you answer an offer like that? You don’t! Instead, words came out of my mouth that would have given Dr. Kivowitz cardiac arrest.
“Marry me. Heal me. Save me.”
She didn’t say no, but she did say, “Isn’t it a bit soon? Besides, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I’ve been living with a man for the last four and a half years. He’s terribly jealous; he’s probably wondering where I am right now. And even if you were perfectly well, and I wasn’t living with a man, I’ve never been married before. You’d be my first husband—and I’d be your fifth wife.”
Both of us laughed, but I was on super-high—persuasive to the tens.
“Would we match up as the perfect couple on a computer dating service?” I asked. “Of course not. Just the thought of the two of us together would break the machine.”
She quick-giggled.
“Funny? Yeah, but that’s just the reason it works,” I went on. “Are we conformists? You know and I know, both of us get off on breaking the rules. Is it impulsive? You bet your ass it is. But it’s exciting. Look at you. You’re as extraordinary and as beautiful as they make ’em, and you’ve been with this guy for four and a half years—and you’re no further ahead in your life than you were the first day you met him.
“You’re not happy, you can’t be. I know it and you know it.” She looked up at me without saying a word. “If you were, you’d have stopped me already.”
She was listenin’. Mesmerized? Possibly. Shocked that I’d bull’s-eyed her hidden frustrations? You bet your ass she was. Me? I was on an Evans roll.
“I’m also much too old for you. And, yes, you would be my fifth wife. Does it sound right? No way! Yeah, but it’s just the reason it will work. If you really believe in Eastern philosophy the way you say you do, you have to embrace the fact that I’m really only nine weeks old. It was nine weeks ago, to the day, that I heard the fat lady sing. And here I am today, reborn.”
A long silence.
“Lunch tomorrow.” I half whispered.
She nodded her head yes.
14
Did I lie to Catherine? No! Quite the opposite. Every thought I spoke was genuine and totally true. Since I’ve been a kid, I’ve learned always to tell the truth. It has little to do with morality, but much to do with making one’s bumpy road an easier one to drive.
Telling the truth gives you the luxury of never having to remember what you’ve said. At times it can cause a bit of friction, but that’s a cheap price to pay for never having to wonder what you said in past encounters. The more complicated your life, the more important role truth plays. From body language to the spoken language, you’re just more at ease with yourself, and it shows. I know.
Ah, but I ain’t no saint. There’s an asterisk to all this moral behavior.
Omission ain’t lying.
Call it a rationalization if you wish, but sometimes silence brings more to the table than words.
What I failed to tell dear Catherine was that I was on more drugs than I’d ever been on in my entire life. All legal, but all lethal. All with side effects when taken on their own. When you’re cocktailing them with other legal lethals, the results are impossible to fathom.
Forget cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, acid. They’re all illegal. With rare exception, they are all taken singularly. Dangerous, damaging, punishable? Certainly. But to compare any of the above to pharmaceutical cocktails is like comparing beer to tequila. Those medicinal cocktails have the potential to damage your every emotion, organ, and ounce of equilibrium. Their dangers can be more ruinous than the injury they’re supposed to cure. It can take just one wrong ingredient in the mix to make Chinese torture feel like Shiatsu massage. The wrong combination can cause your rationality to go awry, your behavior to become incomprehensible, your bodily functions and movements to discombobulate.
Am I exaggerating its power? If anything, I’m underplaying it—unless you enjoy feeling like a time bomb.
At that moment, I’m thinking, This cocktail must be working. I’m flying high. Ideas of all kinds were bursting from my cerebellum: visions of films to make, books to write. And women to marry! Whether she realized it or not, Catherine was going to be my bride, sharing my adventures, creating our dreams.
Those drug cocktails were turning me into one dangerously delusional junkie.
Over grilled Chilean sea bass, corn on the cob, endive and tomato salad, and a feathery, balloon-shaped hot lemon soufflé, Catherine began to feel mighty comfortable behind them Woodland gates. I can’t remember the things I spouted, but I had never in my entire life been more on my game at seducing another’s mind.
When my major domo, Alan, brought in the lemon soufflé, I took a large spoon, scooped up the top, and put it to her mouth for her to taste.
; “This reminds me of being in France,” she purred.
With that, I took her hand. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“But the soufflé . . .”
“That’s just for openers.”
“Where are we going?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
My custom Jag convertible was awaiting us outside. “You drive, I’ll direct.”
“Why not?” She wide-smiled.
As we drove out she said, “How did you know this was my favorite car?”
“I didn’t.”
“It seems different from the others, though.”
“It is. It was made for me, as a gift.”
“You get nice gifts,” she said.
Turning right on Lexington, I told her to make a left on Rodeo until we got to the north 300 block.
“It must have been custom-made,” she said. “It drives like no other Jag I’ve ever been in.”
“It’s yours.”
She started laughing. “Don’t tease me, Bob. I couldn’t take this from you. We hardly know each other.”
“We know each other far better than you may think. This ain’t no gift, Catherine. If you buy something for another, it’s a gift. When you take something you cherish and give it to another, it’s called sharing. Sharing is what love is all about.”
“This is all too much, Bob. I don’t know what to say.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve just underrated yourself for too long.”
Hitting the 300 block on Rexford, I pointed to an open parking space. “Park your car over there.”
Somewhat dazed, she parked the car. “Where to now, Mr. Evans?”