By Myself and Then Some

by Lauren Bacall

  Steve came home from Boston University, to which he’d transferred, with the announcement that he was in love. Her name was Dale, and she was from Connecticut. He had to be with her – he wanted to spend the summer in her parents’ home – he’d get a job. He was very emotional about her, desperate to be with her. I hadn’t met her, but I’d never seen him like this. He wasn’t working at school again. In his emotional outpouring came the extraordinary information that he’d been trying drugs in Pennsylvania – grass, acid – but that since meeting Dale he’d been off it all. I’d known nothing about his drug scene and was deeply shocked. Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to me that drugs had been part of his period of no communication at Penn. Naïve was I about this child of the Sixties. It was going on everywhere, why should Steve be unaffected? But there was no damage done, thank God. And if Dale had got him to stop, he must love her a lot. He seemed so young to me – he was so young: twenty. Came the awakening that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. I didn’t really know how he’d been spending his days, weeks, and months in college these last two years.

  Neither college had been successful for him. He couldn’t find his way, he didn’t know what to do with his life. At that moment the only thing that mattered was to be with Dale. He lashed out at me with a resentment he’d been harboring for God knows how long. ‘You’ve never been what I thought a mother should be. Never in the kitchen, cooking dinner – always working!’ I’d thought he understood about my work. Some mothers stay home, keep house; some work. That is not what makes a mother. He was very immature. Was it all pouring out of him because he felt this emotional need? Did he really mean it, or was he just angry that I was there and Dale wasn’t? Did he truly feel I’d been a rotten mother? I was faced with a young man who apparently had never understood what I was about at all – nor I him. He hadn’t seen beyond his own needs and desires, but do children ever? I suppose I hadn’t either with my mother It takes a lifetime to understand a parent. I thought, ‘Later, when he’s not in such an emotional state, we can talk – I can find out more.’ I knew his basic instincts were good, and I also knew he’d had a rough go, being his father’s son. He never asked questions about Bogie, never wanted to know details. I tried – casually on the surface, knotted up inside – to give him pertinent facts as the opportunity arose. He accepted the facts, but didn’t care to delve deeper, and I had the good sense not to push. ‘Eventually,’ I thought. Now I don’t know if there will be an eventually. The one thing Steve has been consistent about is that African Queen is his favorite movie, and that he wants Bogie’s Oscar. So, though he may have blocked out his father from childhood on, turned his back on his pain, he did really care about some identification.

  Mother returned to the hated hospital on June 26, this time with an irregular heartbeat. I saw her every day. She thought she’d be out by July 1, but as that date approached, it was clear she wouldn’t be. I had no intention of leaving for Europe before she was home, so I put off our departure to the fifth. Every day they said she’d be out the next – I didn’t know what to do. She seemed perky, so I decided to go, but I’d put it off yet again. I drove Sam and Leslie out to the hospital so they could wave to her from the street. Children weren’t allowed to visit, but as she had a room facing the front of the building we did the next best thing.

  Finally came the date of departure. Mother went home that morning. I finished packing, got the children organized, and went to spend a few hours with her. We sat on her terrace. She wanted to make me tea – couldn’t stand being waited on herself – but this time I made it. I wanted her to promise no exertion. I gave her my itinerary – told her I’d find the lovely cotton nightgowns she preferred – promised to write regularly. She said, ‘No phone calls – I don’t want you spending your money.’ I hugged and kissed her goodbye and said I’d be back before she knew it. As I waited for the elevator, her front door opened. I was startled by that unfamiliar gesture. She said she just wanted to see me again – say goodbye again. I walked back, put my arms around her again, asked her if she was okay. Yes, of course, she just wanted to have another look at my silly face. The truth, I realize now, is that she didn’t want me to go, but would never ask me to stay. I gave her a smile, a squeeze, and walked into the elevator.

  Paris was as beautiful as ever, and after about a week we took the train to Cap Ferrat. The Nivens were waiting for us. It was marvelous to see them – I had missed my two good friends. And their villa was unbelievably beautiful, with a pool filled with sea water, and a garden and gazebo on the edge of the Mediterranean. I subjected David and Hjordis to my vocalizing – played them my tape of the score, sat every day on the pool deck facing the sea while barking my exercises and trying to sing my songs. Poor Mediterranean. Innocent couples riding their pedalos or lazing in the sun, private planes trailing advertising streamers, water-skiers – all were subjected to my sounds. But I was not intimidated. Nothing could stop me! It was a perfect visit – easy, full of laughter and health. And how good to know people you loved were alive and well in their own part of the world.

  We went back to Paris for a few days. At Chanel one afternoon I was told Katie Hepburn was there. I let out a yell – ran into her dressing room, where we laughed and hugged each other. She was fitting her clothes for Coco, her first musical, which was to open in November. We decided we were both crazy doing musicals, but enjoyed the fact that we were doing them at almost the same time. And I’d be able to be at her opening.

  We arrived in London with all friends at the ready. Plans for Sam to see everything in London – the palace, changing of the guard, the Thames, the zoo, Piccadilly Circus, the parks. Leslie’s first beau, Tom Logan – son of Josh and Nedda – was in London, so she was in heaven. She was a smart sixteen when they met and they became instantly attached. At once she became noticeably more self-assertive with me. The old identity crisis – daughters trying to find out who they are, divorcing themselves completely from their mothers. It was the beginning of abrasive times between us. She wanted to spend her seventeenth birthday in London with Tom, which would mean staying a good week longer than I’d planned. But I had always loved London – had many friends to catch up with, and there was never enough time. It would be at least a year and a half before I could return.

  I wrote more often to Mother than ever before. Long, newsy letters. She always wrote back. I remember one night wanting to phone her. Then I thought she’d spend half the time telling me how ridiculous I was to spend money I didn’t have. One of her letters, in response to my decision to stay for Leslie’s birthday, had much to say about why I was staying on – I’d been away long enough. Her handwriting sloped off toward the end, and I thought she must have been tired when she wrote it. She was in my thoughts constantly. I shopped for her everywhere, wanted to be in communication with her in some way daily – a letter, a postcard, a gift.

  So I was glad to board the plane late in August to be with her again. Upon arrival home, my housekeeper said, ‘Your mother’s in the hospital.’ Oh, not again, I thought. I dialed that ghastly number and reached her before lights out. She had gone in that day, sounded a bit tired, but was happy to hear my voice. The children spoke to her and I told her I’d come in the morning to spend the day with her. Later, Lee brought me up to date. She had gone into the hospital late in July – two and a half weeks after I left – and stayed for more than three weeks. Home just eleven days ago, now in again. He said he had almost called me to come home. ‘Why didn’t you?’ She was adamant, he said; warned him not to dare call me. So he was afraid to – afraid she would be too upset. But I should have known. Not his fault – if I had called that night in London, I would have found out. Lee had planned to go upstate for golf on the Labor Day weekend, but he would cancel. I told him not to, that I would be with her every day. I was sure he needed to get away.

  The next morning I gathered all the goodies I had bought her in Europe and headed for Brooklyn and the hospital. She was sitting up in bed waitin
g for me. Thin. I hugged and kissed her, showed her all her new lovelies, and helped her into a Paris nightie. She was scheduled for some new heart-scan test that morning, and when the nurse came in to take her down for the test, she said she wanted me to accompany her. In the room housing the special machine she was put on an angled table. There is a needle that moves on a graph, as in an electrocardiogram. I hated to see her on that steel slab, but she accepted what had to be done. No complaints. But this was her fifth trip to the hospital in six months.

  Her doctor came to see her in the afternoon. I didn’t much care for him. While a nurse was ministering to her, I walked down the hall with him. He said her heart had been steadily weakening, that the hospital would be short-staffed over this weekend and it might be better for her to be in intensive care. I said, ‘Let’s do anything but that – she hates it.’ He said he’d try to avoid it, but was making no promises.

  I stayed with her. She said the food was disgusting – how she would love to taste tunafish again! I was worried, I didn’t want to leave her, but she needed rest and the children were home alone. I’d see her tomorrow. I hugged and kissed her again, but tried not to overdo it – she never liked one to be too demonstrative.

  The next morning she seemed much the same. The ever-pervading atmosphere of gloom that exists in all hospitals was in full bloom. Mother had had her terrible lunch before my arrival – the tuna I brought would wait until tomorrow. I told her Sam was in good hands, so there was no problem about my staying with her. She was always worried about something – Sam’s being alone; Leslie; Steve – what was he doing in Connecticut, what kind of girl was Dale; what was I doing – was I eating enough, was I sure I wanted the divorce from Jason. Endless worries. I was always uppermost on her mind – she was proud of me despite my being wanting in so many areas. I was always sure of love with her, yet always wanting her approval.

  The doctor came again in the afternoon, and told me she’d definitely have to go into intensive care for the weekend. I told him I’d be there all day – go home for an hour, and come back in the evening. I’d go with her to intensive care at the end of the afternoon. He’d definitely check her. Her heartbeat was irregular and the day was hot; she might need oxygen to ease her breathing. She’d be better off in intensive care – there was no choice.

  Lee came in the afternoon, hesitant about going away. She insisted that he go. I’d be there, nothing to worry about. He’d been living under such tension – never a full night’s sleep, every time she stirred he’d waken, and every crisis had been in the middle of the night.

  It was time to face intensive care. One could already feel the absence of staff on the floor – the feeling of a long weekend.

  The nurse helped Mother into a wheelchair and we started down the hall toward the intensive-care room. As she saw it, she put her hands up. ‘Oh, no!’ Almost a wail. I put my arm around her. ‘It means nothing, darling. Don’t be frightened – it’s only for a couple of days because there aren’t enough nurses. They’re off for the weekend. Only to be certain there’s someone always there to attend to you.’ My heart was pounding, I was so nervous for her. We got her into bed with the usual screen on each side, to give her some privacy and so she wouldn’t have to see the other patients. Intensive care is frightening. When she’d been there years before, at night the beds would be full, the next morning one or two would be empty. Death in the night. They allowed me to sit with her more often than the usual five minutes every hour, so it all seemed less critical. And she accepted it. I hung around, sitting on the broken-down sofa in the hall, waiting to be told I could sit with her again. It was grim. She’d said, ‘Why don’t you put on a dress – why do you always come here in pants? You look so much better in dresses.’ She always wanted me to look my best. Tomorrow – I’d wear a dress tomorrow. When I kissed her good night, I said, ‘See you tomorrow.’ ‘Don’t forget,’ she said, ‘be here early.’ I spoke to the intensive-care nurses – one a young man. She had wanted something, he hadn’t been quick to give it to her. I was furious and I told him off – not to make a scene, but nurses in that unit were supposed to jump for the patients. That was the point of it. He seemed slow, casual. Can hospitals only get the dregs to work on holiday weekends? When I got home I called the doctor and asked him to check without fail so Mother would have what she wanted. I suppose he thought me hysterical, needlessly demanding. I couldn’t have cared less. I’d had enough experience with doctors, nurses, and hospitals to take nothing for granted. The good were fewer than the bad, and the damn hospitals charge enough – anyone who paid those bills was entitled to demand anything.

  The next day was hot – typical of New York at the end of August. I put on a dress, kissed my children – I’d hardly seen them the last two days – and took off. Mother was sitting up in bed, reading the morning paper. When she saw me she smiled and said, ‘That’s better, that’s the way you should always look.’ The dress. I sat on the side of her bed, the disconcerting monitor – that small screen with the thin white line moving up and down, recording her heartbeat – hanging overhead.

  I spent the next hours in and out of that room. The doctor came at around six to examine her. I had to wait outside. He came out and told me her heart was very weak. They were putting an oxygen tube in her nose so she’d have no effort breathing. I said, ‘Can I stay?’ He said yes, but that it wasn’t necessary, she was being cared for and should have total rest. Back in the room, Mother was arranging herself in bed, sitting up with that hideous green tube in her nose. She gave me a look I knew well – a do-as-I-say, don’t-give-me-an-argument look. ‘I’m going to rest – you go home.’ ‘I’d like to stay a little while.’ ‘I want you to go home to be with the children – I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I nodded assent, kissed her, hugged her, tube and all, and left with the doctor. As we went down the elevator and walked toward my car, I started with my usual assault of questions. He gave his usual answers. He did say she was weaker, and he couldn’t say that she would get better. He said, ‘I’m doing everything there is to be done. I’m available any time of the night or day – I live two minutes from here.’ I said, ‘Do you think I should stay?’ He said, ‘No, she wants you to be with your children. She’ll sleep. Better to do what she wants.’

  On the drive home I started to cry – and to talk. ‘Oh, please let her be all right – please don’t let anything happen.’ I should have remembered my tears and talk those twelve years earlier on the eve of Bogie’s death.

  I got home and sat at the kitchen table, where Sam and Leslie were having their dinner. Sam, aged seven, came over, sat in my lap, put his arm around me, looked into my eyes. ‘Why are you so sad, Mommy? I’ve never seen your eyes look so sad.’ Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, ‘I’m just worried about Granny, darling. She is very sick.’ I had told Leslie what the situation seemed to be, but had spared Sam. He knew anyway.

  I took off my dress – it was a hot night – and put Sam into bed. Around nine o’clock the phone rang. Leslie called me: ‘It’s the doctor.’ I rushed for the phone. He said, ‘I’m at the hospital – your mother has had another attack – you’d better come over right away. Come in the ambulance entrance on the side, they’ll let you right up.’ I was frantic. I had to call Lee. Leslie got the number as I threw on my dress. I grabbed the phone, told Lee what the doctor had said. I was on my way to the hospital – thought he’d better come back. He said he hadn’t unpacked, was planning to come back anyway, he’d leave immediately. I rushed out of the house, got a taxi. I was shaking like a leaf. At the hospital, I ran in. They were waiting for me – for once no questions asked. I ran to the door of the intensive-care room. All was dark except for the light over Mother’s bed. She was lying there – still had the oxygen tube, and there was a cloth on her forehead, some kind of metal plates on each arm and leg – electrocardiogram I guess. The doctor and nurse were on one side and I rushed to the other. I was so frightened. I picked up her warm hand and held it in mine. She was unconscious
– a coma? Shock? I don’t know. The monitor was still flashing its white line up and down. I never took my eyes off her – I just held her hand. But then I darted a look at the monitor. The line was straight now – it had stopped moving up and down. I looked at the doctor, who shook his head. ‘She’s gone.’ That couldn’t be. I leaned over and kissed her on the side of her neck – I heard the sound of a breath coming from her mouth. I said, ‘She made a sound – what was that sound?’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘she didn’t – that’s normal.’ I held her hand again, kissed her again, but I was terrified. Was this really death? Wasn’t there some mistake? I didn’t want to leave her, but I was afraid to put my arms around her – afraid of that unknown. I just stood there – shaking – numb. A nurse led me out of the room. There was a small desk just outside. I sat on the chair and started to cry, leaning against a nurse whose face I never saw.