Right then and there I knew I had to speak up for myself. That night, I called down to the front desk and requested they gather all the reporters hanging around in the lobby to meet me for a press conference in the morning. Next day, I told my story, describing exactly what had happened on the massage table, and vowing that I would return to Israel for the trial to clear my name and fight for the rights of women for as long as it took.
My heartfelt, though possibly ill-advised, press conference reached all the local papers the next day, and just like that public opinion turned in my favor. Within twenty-four hours the police had returned my passport to me and Georges received all his money back from my bail. The rest of filming proceeded problem free, but the story wasn’t over just yet. Drama or no drama, working with the likes of William Holden and Michael Caine was truly one of the high points of my career, particularly since this was one of Holden’s last films before his death in 1981.
After I returned home to New York, “Jiminy” found his way to the States and sued both Danny and me for emotional distress. We were advised by our lawyers to pay him off so he would just go away, and we did so. I’ll never know if Danny did or didn’t plan that horrible event, but if it was a twisted joke on his part, that little masseur certainly got the last laugh.
With that mess finally put to rest, I could focus on the final months of my pregnancy in the comfort of my own home. I was also putting the finishing touches on the record that I had grown more and more excited about while I was away filming. I could really feel the groove of the disco singles I was recording, and could see the songs finding fans in the clubs.
Maybe because he felt some guilt, Danny arranged for me to record the title song on the soundtrack for Ashanti, which meant I would have twice as much exposure when the film was released. That also meant twice as much work, which worried my family. My mother wasn’t pleased at all with the long hours I was putting into my career with modeling, an album, a movie, and all the other things Danny was adding to my plate, and all with a baby due any day. “He’s a modern-day slave driver, if you ask me,” my mother would say.
Another new wrinkle in our already-less-than-happy marriage was the arrival of an FBI probe, which Danny assured me meant absolutely nothing. I still remember clearly the first day the feds stopped by our apartment. I nearly lost my mind when I saw them at the door. Why would FBI agents be at our door? Why would they need to come to our home to talk to Danny about anything? He, on the other hand, didn’t seem a bit concerned about them nosing around, telling me to invite them in and offer them some coffee or a cool drink. He chatted with the agents for what seemed like hours and never once bothered to tell me what they talked about, which was more than OK with me—I didn’t want to know. I had a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that the less I knew about my husband’s life, the better. But I would learn the true nature of the FBI agents’ visits sooner rather than later.
As my baby’s arrival approached, I have to give credit to Danny for helping me adjust to a healthier way of living. He taught me to eat and drink more natural juices and grains for nourishment. On a much less pleasant note, my husband was also obsessed with clean bowels—mine, his, Bob Marley’s, and everyone else’s. This borderline-sick obsession led him to install a colonic machine in our home. This was a decade or so before most people had come to understand the importance of cleaning out the fecal matter that can accumulate and harden in the colon. My brilliant husband was eons ahead of his time in many ways, but he still had no answer for how to mask the foul odor that flowed constantly through our ten-room apartment as long as that machine was in use.
Funk aside, we also decided on a natural birth without the aid of pain medicine. On the one hand, I did love how much of a health nut Danny was and that he believed so much in natural this and that. On the other hand, he thought nothing of snorting cocaine or indulging in some other harmful drug whenever the feeling hit him. And that was often.
Since I never knew what I was getting with Danny, I finally gathered the nerve from somewhere to tell him that I’d slept with my previous husband nearly nine months before. Translation: This baby could very well be Billy’s.
You could never predict what Danny was going to do in any particular situation, and this was another example. Upon hearing my admission, he simply nodded his head and went back to reading his book. (I, on the other hand, breathed a deep sigh of relief.)
About three weeks before the baby was due, I decided to throw myself a yellow-themed baby shower—yellow, since we had no idea if we were having a girl or a boy. I had been so overwhelmed with filming the movie, recording my album, and writing my book that both sisters and my best friend in the world, Dada, had pretty much given up on trying to figure out the best time to give me a shower. So I decided to throw my own!
Ivana Trump gifted me with her fabulous corner suite at the Plaza Hotel overlooking Central Park, and for my special day I wore a delicious indigo-blue pantsuit that accented my golden, motherly glow.
Before all the critics start in on me, let’s get this out of the way right now: During the seventies, not all doctors warned you of the dangers of drinking, smoking, or doing drugs during pregnancy as they all do now. So it wasn’t uncommon to see women drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, or smoking a joint while pregnant, and yes, my baby shower had a little bit of all of the above.
My guests had a marvelous time that day, and so did I. I was showered with the most lavish gifts for my baby—I spent the afternoon opening gift boxes filled with cashmere onesies, Gucci infant towels, Missoni baby blankets, Tiffany piggy banks, Cartier sterling silver combs and brushes, fourteen-karat gold rattles, satin baby gowns, and Louis Vuitton diaper bags.
That afternoon was also filled with more valuable tips on motherhood than I was ready or able to take in. Claudia, the woman who introduced me to Danny, gave me the most controversial mothering tip of the afternoon. Honestly, her advice still haunts me. Claudia suggested I join her in the hotel suite’s bathroom to do a one and one in the bathroom. She said that would help encourage the baby to make an earlier appearance. My shower was the week before Christmas, and my due date wasn’t until January 12. I still had a ways to go, and Claudia—a mother of three—wasn’t convinced I could make it without some help. I was huffing and puffing a bit at this point, what with the swollen feet and ankles. Claudia was also more accustomed to seeing me at my comfortable modeling weight of 107 pounds. (I was 163 pounds at this point, and having a tough time moving around.)
Claudia assured me that she had done a one and one before the birth of each of her three children and had experienced absolutely no problems or side effects. I had been around Claudia’s kids, and they all seemed perfectly fine to me. So trusting Claudia’s motherly wisdom—and my own experience with handling cocaine—I did indeed do a one and one that day in the bathroom of the hotel suite, all while my baby shower was going on outside. And I thought nothing of it.
Looking back after all these years, I thank God each day that my actions didn’t cause any harm to my unborn child.
Just as Claudia predicted, a few days later, on Christmas Day, my contractions began. I was in so much pain that I called my mother for advice on what to do because my mind just drew a blank. She told me to get my husband to take me to the hospital immediately. Danny seemed less than convinced it was time for the baby’s arrival, and proved it by refusing to allow our doorman to secure a cab for us. Instead, he decided we should walk to the hospital even though it was freezing outside. Mount Sinai Hospital was six or seven blocks from where we lived, and the silver fur coat I wore could barely cover my huge stomach.
Danny, who was well over six feet, walked very fast and left me in the dust. I tried to keep pace as the wind blew me back and forth. For six blocks he never once looked back to see if I was keeping up or had just plain fainted in the street from the sidesplitting pain. As we walked, I remember imagining all the ways one could kill a husband and dispose of his body where no one
could find him. That’s what walking for blocks on end in the freezing cold while going into labor can do to your mind.
When we arrived at Mount Sinai, the doctors decided my labor wasn’t far enough along and sent us back home. The next day I was in agony again, and this time my mother instructed me to return to the hospital and demand to be admitted. And once again, my husband insisted on repeating the same routine. No cab—we walked the six blocks again to the hospital with Danny walking ahead of me while I struggled to fight the brutal wind whipping across my face as I wobbled down the street.
This time, I found some peace and comfort at the hospital after finally being admitted. I’d been suffering from crazy pain after a two-day labor, so my ob-gyn came in and announced that he would be administering an epidural. Danny hit the roof. It was a good thing we were in the hospital because I was convinced he was about to have a stroke as he began to rant and rave about our decision not to use painkillers and how important it was we stick to that plan.
As for me, I’d let go of the notion of a drug-free birth by the first contraction. My doctor and I were clearly on the same page, and he could sense the tremendous amount of stress and strain I was under. As Danny continued to rant, my doctor calmly told him that his presence was no longer necessary and sent Danny home to wait for a call about when he should return. Danny was dumbfounded, and for once had no response. He eventually asked the doctor if he could at least remain in the hallway outside my door, to which my doctor replied, “No!” My doctor was quite “gangsta,” and I loved him for it. He wanted Danny out of the hospital, and he wanted me to have peace.
And with that, Danny, dejected, turned around and left my hospital room without a word.
Danny arrived back in time for the debut of Anansa Sims, named after my character in Ashanti, on December 27, 1978, at 5:00 a.m. While I know most mothers feel that any one of their offspring is the most gorgeous, perfect, and amazingly beautiful child in the world, my baby girl actually was.
Anansa was the most beautiful and angelic infant I had ever laid eyes on, and I was floating on a cloud from the moment she was born. Danny took her right out of the doctor’s hands the second she showed up and held her so long that the doctor had to say to him, “I think the mother should hold her baby now, don’t you?”
My doctor really didn’t like my husband.
The month that followed Anansa’s birth was without a doubt the happiest and most magical of my life and of my marriage to Danny. Holding that sweet little baby girl in my arms was such sheer joy every day. I’m not sure if I’d ever imagined the elation and delight that would come with the birth of a child. The feeling I got from just watching her sleep, or coo, or smile back at me, is still so hard to put into words. Danny was on top of the world right along with me, and stayed in the kitchen cooking meals and mixing up all kinds of concoctions for me to drink. Our house belonged to just the three of us those four weeks as people gave us space and time to bond with our beautiful new angel. If I could have scooped up and saved that magical time in a bottle I certainly would have. Life wouldn’t get any better than it was during that little slice of heaven back in late 1978 and early 1979.
CHAPTER 14
Bob Marley, the Devil, and Me
Home life with my baby girl was so wonderful that I could imagine retiring from the modeling game at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. I had never dreamed of such a thing before Anansa came into my world. That month away from work was the first time I ever had four weeks completely free since I was a teenager working at the YMCA in Buffalo.
The fire, passion, and trust in my marriage with Danny had been rekindled by the arrival of our little ladybug. For a time, all seemed right with the world, with our world.
But there were still flashbacks to days gone by, though I tried to dismiss them as figments of my imagination. For instance, Danny suggested we hire that African actress from the set of Ashanti as our babysitter, and I later found the beads from her braids under our bed. When I asked him about the beads, he told me that she had lost a few of them while searching under our bed for the baby’s bottle or while searching for an extra diaper. No way she lost those beads while actually being in the bed with him. “How silly it was to even think such a thing,” was his response to me when I asked if he were up to his old tricks.
His flimsy denials kept the family afloat for a while, but soon other issues would derail my happily-ever-after-ever scenario.
Promotion of my movie, Ashanti, was set to go into high gear near the end of January 1979. As a part of my contract with Warner Bros., I had agreed to spend six weeks traveling around the world doing press junkets and interviews. But when I signed that contract, I’d had no idea the press tour would come right on the heels of the birth of my first child. And I honestly believed that after Anansa was born, Danny would work his mojo behind the scenes to get me out of my agreement in light of our special circumstances, or at least get it down to three weeks from six. Did the movie studio really expect me to leave my newborn in the middle of breast-feeding to fulfill that kind of a demanding schedule? Could they be that heartless? Apparently they could.
So I was off, away from New York, my husband, and my sweet baby girl.
Fortunately, my darling Mother Dear, my maternal grandmother, agreed to move into our apartment to take care of my little angel, which was the only way I got a little bit of peace of mind as I boarded a plane to travel to the other side of the world. She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known, and I knew she would give the same love and care to my baby that I would.
As hard as it was being so far from home, I did my best to don a happy face as we traveled across Europe. But feelings of gloom and doom became too difficult to mask after the first two weeks or so. Postpartum depression wasn’t recognized as a debilitating condition at all in those days. I cried all the time and I had no idea what I was feeling or what to do about it, either. Being so far away from my month-old baby was just unbearable, and my heart ached for her.
On my nightly calls back home to New York, my sweet Mother Dear would put the phone near Anansa’s mouth so I could hear her breathing and making those adorable cooing sounds. Once those phone calls ended, I would roll my body into a tight ball on the hotel bed and cry myself to sleep.
Despite those torturous six weeks on the road doing press, the movie ended up flopping at the box office in the US anyway. All my traveling had meant pretty much nothing at all. Even worse, by the time that press tour ended, the quiet life I’d fallen asleep dreaming about so many nights while abroad had become nothing more than a nightmare. Instead of just the three of us, my home was once again filled to the brim with nameless people from the music industry, all looking for a place to lay their heads for the night—or several nights. My husband was more than happy to oblige them as always.
What was worse, Danny’s partying ways had stressed Mother Dear out so much that she’d ended up in the hospital. When I went to visit her the day after I got back to New York, she told me point-blank, “You have to leave that man. You can’t stay with him.” I could tell my grandmother had been through an ordeal so I didn’t raise her blood pressure any higher by asking a host of questions.
Danny was dancing with the devil, and enjoying every moment of it. The new father of a two-month-old baby girl saw absolutely nothing wrong with having endless numbers of strange people streaming in and out of our home at all hours. People were smoking, drinking, participating in orgies, or inhaling endless narcotics, all while our daughter slept in the next room. One night I raced down the hall from my bedroom to Danny’s office with Anansa wrapped tightly in my arms. I was pissed about a particularly loud voice and loud music that had been booming in the house for hours. I had a colicky baby who needed to sleep and I had an 8:00 a.m. photo shoot the next morning. (Somebody in the house needed to go to work.)
When I went to ask Danny to keep it down, I noticed that R&B singer Teddy Pendergrass was in the corner of the room. Now it all made sense—it had be
en Teddy’s big and booming voice spreading throughout the apartment all night.
I remembered Teddy well from his days as the lead singer of Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes. By 1977, he was at the top of his game, starring in his infamous women-only concerts. At those sold-out shows, Pendergrass would belt out his top-selling tunes—“Turn Off the Lights” and “Close the Door”—to a sea of swooning women. My girlfriends and I agreed—Teddy was the man.
I loved Teddy’s music, but I certainly wasn’t happy with Teddy that night, and as if he could read my mind, the gorgeous soul singer moved toward me, took my hand, and apologized for all the noise he’d made. Then he complimented me on having such a beautiful baby. He also promised I wouldn’t hear another peep from him that night. Teddy began sending me a dozen red roses on my birthday after that night, and did so every year until his death in 2010. What a class act and a beautiful man.
The same couldn’t be said of the man I married. The fabric of our union was beginning to unravel. The closeness I had felt with Danny just a few months before, after Anansa’s birth, had now been replaced by varying degrees of disdain and anger. I couldn’t believe the blatant disregard he had for me and for the health and welfare of our baby.
What a difference a year can make. I’d grown up a lot in the months since I’d gotten married, and now I was finally seeing clearly. It wasn’t a very pretty picture, and making matters worse I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about it. For better or worse, I loved Danny very much, and he was Anansa’s father. Goodness knows I didn’t want to walk away from yet another marriage, feeling as if I had failed again. But I didn’t want to be miserable, either.
The Face That Changed It All Page 16