Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit

by Catherine James

  I hadn’t seen or heard from my mother in almost two years, not since the day she dropped me off with the old girls in the San Fernando Valley. Meanwhile, she’d remarried and given birth to a new baby. One day, without warning, Diana decided it was time to reclaim me. Most likely she wanted me back because she needed someone to look after her newborn. My Mimi didn’t give me up without a fight. They each grabbed one of my limbs and pulled me like a tug-of-war rope in and out of the front door. In the midst of the jumble, neither of them realized they were about to yank my arms clean out. Mimi finally lost her grip, and my mother dragged me off to the car shouting, “You’re never going to see this child again!”

  In my eyes Mimi was my mother. Living with Diana was lonely, and I was afraid of her. The thought of never seeing Mimi again was shattering, but I got in the car without a peep.

  Diana’s new husband, Jack, was a good-looking twenty-three-year-old kid from a well-to-do family in Beverly Hills. I didn’t know much about him, except that he drove a fancy English sports car called a Doretti and worked as a salesman at his parents’ car dealership in Beverly Hills. I think he also sold marijuana as a sideline. He seemed to be a bit of a beatnik, and just adventurous enough to be attracted to Diana’s dangerous flame. My mother demanded I address her new groom as “Uncle Daddy,” but there was something about that dismal title that stuck in my throat like a soiled mop. I barely knew this man; he wasn’t my uncle or my daddy. I had to close my eyes and make myself invisible just to utter the cryptic words.

  • • •

  I was only seven years on the earth and had already lived in six different extraordinary environments… and had two fathers. First it was bedlam at my real dad’s house on Ozeta Terrace, then the boarding school with the cadaverous Mrs. March. There was my stint with Diana in Hollywood, and on to the old babysitting bats in the valley. MacClaren Hall was most comforting, but Mimi and Al were my first real family. Now all of a sudden I had a new uncle and was responsible for my infant brother.

  In short time I learned to change diapers, sterilize bottles, and feed a baby. Except for the routine care, Diana and Uncle Daddy appeared to love their new son. They coddled, pampered, and cooed over little Scot, and rarely went anywhere without taking him along. As for me, I felt like an apparition from a distant past. My mother barely acknowledged my presence, and rarely fed me. Uncle Daddy was nice enough, but he never stepped in between me and my mother. When she was sleeping I’d feed myself from the sugar bowl, being careful not to have too much, so she would not notice it was gone. She again took to tying me in a chair or locking me in the bedroom before leaving the house. For a bit of company I talked to my doll, who had matted brown curls and an understanding expression. I’d tell her, “When I grow up I’m going to have a baby and treat it really good.” The doll stared back like she was absorbed in every word. I was sure she could hear me, and thought there must be a secret doll pact where they weren’t allowed to speak.

  One night after my parents left the house I heard a light tap on my bedroom window, and a familiar voice whispering outside: “It’s Mimi, love.”

  It was my grandmother… she’d waited down the block till the coast was clear, and risked the wrath of Diana to see me. Mimi was the only human I’d ever felt an attachment to, and the only one who showed me softness. Just the sound of her gentle voice put my confused heart at ease. She brought me peanut butter sandwiches and a package of fluffy pink Hostess snowballs that she passed under the slightly opened window. From then on my grandparents came on a regular basis. Mimi would bring food and talk with me from the bushes while my grandfather kept watch at the driveway. That’s how I got to see my grandparents: secretively, through a crack in the window.

  My mother’s second marriage was not unlike the previous disaster with my real father. In the beginning their marriage looked like a slice of American pie. Diana and Jack were a glamorous couple with a new baby, a new house, a white Chrysler Imperial convertible in the driveway, and Uncle Daddy started a thriving car dealership of his own. My mother could have lived the life of Riley, but as usual there was trouble in paradise. It was the same constant conflict and late-night brawls as at my real father’s house. Diana was never content until she’d dissected and destroyed everything in her reach.

  One night Uncle Daddy awoke from a deep sleep and found that Diana was not in their bed, or anywhere else in the house. The next night he lay in wait and discovered that his dauntless young bride had actually been dosing his Merlot with knockout pills, then slipping out for the night. As bewitching and beautiful as she appeared, Jack was no match for my untamed mother. Their ill-fated union lasted less than four years.

  We made a hasty retreat from prestigious Brentwood back to Hollywood, and the three of us settled into a two-story Craftsman house on Harriet Street, a block below Sunset.

  Our mother still slept till the crack of noon or later, and kept the phone off the hook. It was my post to keep our house clean, and to make sure my four-year-old brother didn’t make a peep. If Scot made the slightest sound that woke her I’d be in double trouble.

  At eleven years old I was already a gangly five-foot-six inches, with long blond hair and no perception of my blossoming allure. My mother regularly reproached me: “Just look at yourself! How could you have come from me?”

  I was sorry to be such an unsatisfactory burden to her, but unfortunately that was something neither of us had the power to change.

  Diana was a fascinating dichotomy. Besides her obvious outward beauty and reckless charm, she was a gifted writer, a sultry singer, and she played an array of instruments. She even recorded a bluegrass album for Elektra Records. She was also a talented artist who could meticulously copy any piece of art to the letter. She would have made a brilliant forger. Everything she attempted seemed to come effortlessly and turn out flawless. She was also shockingly selfish and rarely spoke without mean-spirited sarcasm.

  My mother was a true narcissist and often almost psychotic. Her drug addiction didn’t help matters. She downed hefty doses of upper, downers, and any kind of painkillers she could get her hands on. I don’t think I ever saw her when she wasn’t under the influence of some nerve-deadening narcotic. She called her poison “vitamins,” and kept her stash in an orderly antique black doctor’s bag.

  Along with my mother’s other numerous talents, she was also an industrious cat burglar who believed anything and everything was hers for the taking. She would peruse the obituaries, then case the addresses of the deceased. In the late night Miss Diana would take me and my little brother along as accomplices. She’d look for unlocked windows and boost me or Scot up into the casements of strange houses so we could get in and unlock the doors. While our mother pillaged the residences for antiques and other items of value, one of us kept a lookout. She even carried off the glass doorknobs and lighting fixtures. She would have taken the crown molding if she could have got to it. When she got what she had come for we would help her load her car with the spoils. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that what we were doing was wrong, but it was out of the question to question my mother. While touring the 160-room historic Winchester House in San Jose, she actually lifted the lace Victorian linens clean off the bed. She also pillaged any unsecured garage, and had no ethics when she had access to someone’s medicine cabinet. My mother was a brazen bandit.

  Aside from her lawless ways, I was mystified by Diana’s attractiveness and accomplishments. I thought she was the all-knowing goddess, and was both in awe and afraid of her. Perhaps I wasn’t as pretty or as clever as she, but she did her best to make sure I wouldn’t catch up. She dressed me in ungainly, oversized hand-me-downs, and my only pair of shoes looked like prewar issue. Each week Diana would check the lumpish heels to make sure they were wearing exactly in the middle. If the rear of the heel showed the least bit of wear to the side, she’d say I walked like “the low class,” and threatened to give the ugly clown-toed oxfords to a girl who was more appreciative, a girl who knew h
ow to walk like a young lady. Besides the shoe ordinance, there was to be no sweating, audible breathing, or speaking unless spoken to allowed in her presence. I was now also to address her as “ma’am.”

  There were frequent all night parties at our house on Harriet, and you could just about suffocate in the clouds of marijuana. Sometimes my mother and her arriving passengers would brew up a musty-smelling, deep kettle of psychedelic peyote buttons, and they’d all trip out till dawn. In the morning our living room looked like the aftermath of the Civil War, with bodies crashed out wherever they fell.

  Occasionally one of the party suspects would stumble into my bedroom for a late night chat. I’d awake to some would-be pervert trying to stroke my hair in the dark while whispering sexual indecencies close to my ear. The notion of oral copulation gave me the creeps; surely no one actually did anything as wicked as that. There was one wanton maniac who was most persistent, and professed his insane love for me, vowing to wait till I was ready. Ready for what? I had no idea what anyone was talking about, and thankfully managed to fend off their twisted desires.

  Although my mother never once said she loved me or touched me without rage, I wasn’t deterred. I never stopped trying to win her affection. I kept our house immaculate, washed and ironed her clothes, and had her coffee ready when she woke up in the afternoon. Still, no matter how hard I tried to please her, she either shunned or scorned me.

  I had a glimmer of hope when she admired an extravagant inkwell at a ritzy antique shop on Melrose Avenue. Each day while she was sleeping, I’d take little Scot and canvass our neighborhood. I’d ask the neighbors if I might wash their dishes, polish their cars, or rake their leaves, anything I could do to earn forty dollars and procure that inkwell. I thought giving her something so grand would surely soften her bitterness and magically make her love me. I saved the whole summer long, hiding the singles and multitude of silver change in a cigar box under my bed. I was joyous just imagining how impressed she might be with her industrious daughter.

  I finally earned the ransom, and wrapped the bronze cast in white stationery paper and tied it with a single strand of pink ribbon.

  Usually when Diana woke up I’d shudder with dread. She’d shout “Catherine!” at the top of her lungs like Satan had risen and I’d rush up the stairs with a peace offering cup of coffee. She liked her brew extra sweet, laden with cream, and I’d deliver it to her bed while she interrogated me like a provoked drill sergeant.

  ”What have you been doing, where is your brother, have you cleaned the house?”

  Today she’d have a special surprise. I set the tray with her coffee, and my devoted offering, on the edge of her bed and waited with hopeful anticipation. Diana unwrapped my package like it was drenched in cooties.

  “How did you get this?”

  I explained how I’d worked all summer while she was sleeping, and earned the money for it. There was a silent pause, and then her words of wisdom hit me like a crashing wave.

  “That’s nice Catherine, but here’s a lesson for you: Love cannot be bought.”

  My mother was relentless. I had tried everything I knew to get her attention and win her love. But she was right: I’d resorted to bribery.

  Another of Diana’s odd eccentricities was that she’d go on mysterious little trips. I never knew when she was leaving or when she was coming home. I’d wake up in the morning and she’d be long gone. No note, no nothing but some leftover food in the fridge. She’d often be gone for an entire week, leaving us alone…and me to take care of my three-year-old brother. I’d become accustomed to the unpredictable, but not knowing where she was or if she was ever coming back was unsettling. I was use to taking care of Scot and looking after our house, but during one of her jaunts I had a scary accident. I was making Scot’s breakfast and used the iron skillet that Diana stored bacon fat in on the stove. The fat got too hot and was beginning to smoke, so I pushed the pan to the back burner. As I moved it the grease took on a life of its own and jumped out of the pan in one big surge. The smoking fat hit me plumb in the face, and I heard my flesh sizzling like fresh bacon. I covered my face with a dishcloth, but when I took the towel away half of my skin went with it. The next day my whole face had puffed up like charred marshmallows. It blistered into alarming crispy black puffs all over my face, and there was no way to hide it. I wasn’t as worried about myself as I was about what Diana would do when she saw me. I looked like a serious burn victim, but when she got home she barely noticed. All she said was, “I want to know why God punished you.” This was my mother.

  We lived just a block away from the West Hollywood elementary school. My mother was never up early enough to register me, so I took it upon myself to enroll in fifth grade. One afternoon during recess I fell on the playground and felt a painful snap at my wrist. The school nurse thought my arm might be broken and sent me home with a note recommending I be taken to see a doctor. My mother was infuriated by the letter.

  “How dare you complain at school! God is punishing you because you don’t deserve to go to school.”

  Diana was hardly a religious woman, but she used God to disguise her unwavering meanness. Whenever I was sick or got hurt she’d tell me to think about why God was punishing me. I didn’t believe God was punishing me; I knew it was her.

  I’d been blessed with vivid spiritual dreams since I was old enough to remember. I once dreamed I was sitting by a river talking with Jesus. He held my hand and gently placed something in my palm. It was a simple golden key. Jesus didn’t say what it was for, but I intrinsically sensed he was entrusting me with something powerful. It was my sacred dreams that gave me an inner peace, and the strength to deflect Diana’s caustic daggers. I continue to carry the golden key, and it’s never let me down.

  By nightfall my limb and fingers had swollen into an aching shade of blue and throbbed to the rhythm of my heart. Still she refused to even look, maintaining there was nothing wrong with my arm. I asked her permission to soak it in water.

  “Yes you may, after you’ve finished doing the ironing.”

  A week later, when I hadn’t returned to school, two policemen and a gent from the health department came banging on our front door. I peeked out and whispered, “My mother’s sleeping.”

  “Well then, we’ll go wake her up,” they said pushing past me.

  The idea of uniformed policemen tromping up to my mother’s bedroom just couldn’t happen. I quietly spoke, “No, wait here, I’ll get her.”

  I tiptoed up the old staircase that always creaked when I was trying to be quiet, and stood close to her creamy, tucked-satin headboard. She was as still as death, with her heavy black eyeliner smudged and caked from the night before. She looked mean even in her sleep. I got up my courage: “Mother, the police are here.”

  I thanked Jesus that she hadn’t heard me, and stood like a trapped mouse trying to think of an escape. The police were downstairs in our living room because of me; my life was definitely about to be over. I couldn’t bring myself to wake the rage, so I crept back down the stairs, deciding to tell the cops she wasn’t home. As luck would have it, a friend of my mother’s and one of my midnight suitors, Richard, had stopped by, and was chatting with the sheriffs. I don’t know what he said, but the officials left without further ado.

  Her friend Richard was a nightclub owner. I’m guessing he was in his twenties, or maybe early thirties. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, skinny as a beanpole with curly brown hair, and pleasant enough. He lived in Hollywood not far from our house, and tooled around town in a silver Austin Healy. Aside from his ill fetish for schoolgirls he seemed genuinely concerned about my arm. I disregarded his prior late-night indiscretions and was thankful to be going to a doctor. He packed m into his two-seater and, at his own expense, took me to his personal physician.

  Dr. Pobiers in Beverly Hills took some X-rays, and sure enough it was broken to the bone and already beginning to mend. It was too swollen to put in a cast and would have to be kept on ice overnight, till th
e swelling came down. It was clearly something Diana wasn’t about to do, so it was Richard’s lucky day; he was free to take his jailbait back to his bachelor pad, no questions asked. He made up a bed for me on his couch and gently wrapped my arm in ice compresses throughout the night.

  The next day the doctor patched my arm in fresh white plaster. I was proud of my chalky white cast. It reinforced that I wasn’t delusional, as my mother had maintained. My wrist had definitely been broken, and if it hadn’t been for the luck of Richard, my hand would have mended with a permanent crook.

  I continue to stay with my new benefactor, and my mother never even called or questioned where I was.

  Richard delighted in taking me shopping for fancy new school dresses, and we exchanged my bumbling brown oxfords for a more stylish pair of pink, feminine flats. We’d go to the movies, cruise the arcade in Santa Monica, play skee-ball…and do anything else an eleven-year-old girl with a cast on her arm wanted to do. He’d drive me to school in the mornings and give me lunch money, a whole dollar, even though the cafeteria meal was only thirty-five cents. At the three o’clock bell Richard would be in front of West Hollywood Elementary, hunkered in his sports car waiting to take me back to his lair. I referred to Richard as my stepfather and thought it was all on the up-and-up. There weren’t any more sexual overtones, at least none I couldn’t avert or make light of. Later, as a grown woman, I recognized that the relationship was hot off the steamy pages of Lolita.

  Richard was obsessed with the ocean and owned a forty-seven-foot sailboat that he docked in Marina Del Rey. One day he took me out sailing. He was going to teach me the ropes of high-sea adventure. After a long day of surf and sun, on the way back to Hollywood, I fell fast asleep in the two-seater. I awoke to find a disturbing, rough hand inching its way up my cotton summer dress and getting way too close to my panties. I pushed his hand away. Richard blurted, “Don’t you understand, I’m in love with you!”