A week later I got in touch with Natasha Gregson Wagner, Natalie Wood’s daughter. I waited for her at a friend’s studio, in West Hollywood, and then there she was, coming through the door: tiny, a little pixie, more waiflike than Kate Moss. But glowing somehow—a depth there.
Of course she was a little uncomfortable; it was our first meeting. And I found myself seducing her with the camera. I was parent, therapist, best friend. I was doing for Natasha what the best photographers had done for me: convincing her she was the Center of the Civilized Universe. And it was working.
Then, good God, she said, “I brought this little dress with me. I don’t know why. I had this crazy urge to bring it, so I did.” And she took the dress out of a paper bag, and I looked at it: a plain white dress—too plain; a little peasant-style nothing. I didn’t know what to say without hurting her feelings. And before I could say anything, she said, “That’s the dress my mother wore in West Side Story.”
Whoa!
In a flash, she’s in her little white dress, looking like an angel, and I’m fluttering, fixing, lighting, arranging, rearranging, nuturing. Janice is in total control, baby. In The Zone. And then I’m behind the camera, and I look at Natasha and think, I can see right through to her soul. And, click! One shot. A perfect shot. And I know I’ve nailed it. I am good, motherfucker. Bad photography is about surface. Good photography—well, it goes to the core, to the source. And I’m there. Natasha and I are there, baby.
That perfect shot ran in Newsweek. And Sygma called again—and this time I signed with them. My pictures began appearing in Esquire, Paris Match, Photo. The work kept me going. And the money kept me in expensive shoes. Then one day I was at Paris Photo, a studio on La Cienega Boulevard, shooting Naomi Campbell—in the nude—when this buff little guy showed up, unannounced, looking for her. I didn’t recognize him, until I took a closer look. It was Sylvester Stallone. I couldn’t believe how short he was. I felt like laughing, but I managed to stifle myself.
“What are you grinning about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“So where’s Naomi?” he asked.
“She’s changing,” I said. “But I’m not done with her yet.”
“Well, can I have a lousy minute?” he barked.
“Sure,” I said. “If you’ll pose for one picture.”
He walked across the room and turned to face me and tucked his hand down the front of his pants.
“Anything interesting down there?” I asked him.
“Something you’d like,” he said. “Bam ham slam.”
“Looks like a dead rat,” I said, and snapped his picture.
“It’s just resting,” he said, and Naomi walked in.
“Who’s resting?” she asked.
Sly crossed the room and took her in his big arms and kissed her.
“Yum,” she said.
A few days later, Naomi came by the house to see the proofs. She looked great. And Mr. Stallone looked great in that one shot.
“What’s he doing with his hand down his pants?” Naomi asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Testing the equipment.”
“Let’s go show him the pictures,” she said.
“What? Now?”
“Sure,” she said.
So we went over to his house and showed him, and in typical actorly fashion he was only interested in the one of him. “Pretty good,” he said.
“Pretty good?” I shot back. “You look awesome.”
Naomi went to find a drink.
“I want to publish it,” I said. “What do you think?”
“We can talk about it over dinner,” he said.
“I’m a married woman,” I said.
“So what?” he said.
“You must have a little French blood in you,” I said.
“Huh?” he said.
“Forget it,” I said.
I went back home and resented Simon. I couldn’t help it. I’d never been much good at letting go of anger.
I filled the growing emptiness within me by having people over. I had parties at the drop of a hat. Everyone came. Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer. Iman. Naomi. Diane Keaton. A lot of people named Peters. Bernadette Peters. Jon Peters. Corinne Peters. And Peter Peters, one of the world’s great dry cleaners.
Sly came to dinner one night, with Naomi. When she was out of earshot he told me the “dead rat” was feeling a little twitchy. I looked hot that night. I was wearing Manolo pumps and a dress that looked like it was spray-painted onto my perfect-again body.
“I thought Naomi was taking care of the rat,” I said.
“You’re the real deal,” he said.
“You’re weird,” I said, and moved off.
A few days later, I got a letter from Pam Adams’s mother, in Florida. Pam was dying of cancer. I took the next flight to Fort Lauderdale and went directly to Hollywood Memorial Hospital, where my mother still worked.
“Pam talked about you often,” Mrs. Adams said. She’d always been distant, and distant she remained. “She told me she wrote you from Paris.”
“That’s right,” I said, remembering that short, mysterious note.
“She was fighting the cancer,” Mrs. Adams explained. “She had gone to Europe looking for a cure. They had some experimental drugs in Europe that weren’t available in the States. But of course they were expensive.”
I felt like dying. I’d been right: Pam had wanted money for drugs, but not the types of drugs I’d imagined. I wondered why Pam hadn’t explained. But what could she have said? “I’m dying. Can you help me?” How do you reach out from such a distant place?
“I wanted to call you while there was still time,” Mrs. Adams said.
PAM ADAMS IN FLORIDA WHEN WE WERE KIDS.
But there wasn’t time. Pam was in a coma. She had developed a particularly aggressive form of melanoma while living in the Caribbean. She’d first noticed it as a little spot on her back, while she was out island-hopping on a sailboat, and she’d ignored it. By the time she went to see a doctor, it was too late.
I couldn’t get over the sight of her. She looked beautiful. She was hooked up to all these monitoring devices—her heartbeat was slow and steady—and she was done up beautifully. Every hair on her head was lovingly combed, perfectly arranged against the bright white hospital-issue pillow. She was wearing makeup. Her fingernails were perfect. Her hands were laid out flat on either side of her body, looking pale and pink against the bedspread. I cried—I couldn’t help it—and Mrs. Adams left the room. I pulled the chair closer to the bed and told Pam I was sorry. I was sorry we’d lost touch. I was sorry I’d never answered her letter. I was sorry she was sick.
“Please don’t die,” I said. “I want you to meet my little boy, Nathan. He’s wonderful. You’ll love him. Maybe you could be his godmother.” I just talked and talked. About my love life, such as it was; about the ups and downs of my career. I told her about L.A., that Simon and I had plenty of room for her, and that as soon as she was up and about I wanted her to pack her things and fly out. “I’ll pick you up at the airport,” I said. “You’ll move in. It’ll be like old times. We’ll be kids again.”
I sang her a James Taylor song, fighting the tears. We used to love listening to James Taylor. A nurse entered the room as I finished. She said I had to go, visiting hours were over. I could come back the following morning.
But there was no following morning. The following morning she was dead.
RETURN OF THE RAT BASTARD
I was in a funk for weeks. Paralyzed by depression. At first, Simon didn’t know what to do with me, but suddenly he was too busy to worry about it. He got a green light to produce his first feature: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. We would be shooting in Wilmington, North Carolina, so he sent someone down to find us a home for the duration.
It was hot in Wilmington. Early summer and already the mosquitoes were out in full force. Simon was stressed and Nathan was a little colicky and we’d bought a lit
tle puppy that peed everywhere. You’d look at him and he’d pee. Call his name and he’d pee. “Here boy!” and he’d pee double.
My mother phoned. She wanted to visit. She had never been on a real live movie set. I told her real live movie sets were arguably the most boring places on earth. Nothing happens. People sit around for hours, most of them with their thumbs up their asses, getting ready for a shot. Then they do the shot. And they do it again. And again. From every conceivable angle. And before long you know the lines better than the actors. And you can’t get them out of your head.
“A mutant ninja turtle ate my baby!”
I sent her a ticket and went to the airport to get her. She got off the plane. Ray was with her. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe she’d brought him. I’d only sent one ticket.
“Hi, honey,” she said. She was all excited. She had a new crucifix. It was huge. It reminded me of the nurse at St. Mary’s. The crucifix was like a weapon. I noticed an ugly bruise on her neck, below her ear, but I didn’t say anything. “Say hello to your daddy,” she said.
I looked at the rat bastard, and he looked at me. But there was nothing in his eyes. He was a zombie, a shell of his former self. It was still Ray, of course, but he shuffled along as if he’d been lobotomized. He didn’t know who I was. He didn’t even say hello. There was no one home.
We got to the car. “Give me the keys,” Ray said, the first words out of his mouth. I froze. Even his voice had changed. It was flat, but still venomous and angry. “I want to drive.”
My mother looked at me and shook her head no.
MY FATHER WITH DEBBIE IN THE BATHROOM OF OUR CHILDHOOD HOME.
Ray looked furious, like he was going to come at her, but suddenly he went red in the face and stumbled against the car. She reached into her purse and pulled out a little vial of pills and he grabbed for it like a starving man and swallowed one without water. They were for his heart.
Calmer now, frightened, Ray got into the backseat. Mom got in front with me.
“So how have you been, dear?” she asked me.
“Great,” I said. “You?”
“Wonderful,” she said.
With the scare over, Ray began grumbling and cursing under his breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but he was not a happy camper.
It was late by the time we got to the house. Mom wanted to see Nathan but he was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him. He’d been having trouble sleeping lately. I told her she’d see him in the morning.
I offered them something to eat, but Mom said they’d had dinner on the plane and thank you but they were fine. Maybe a glass of milk for Dad’s stomach. “Give me the keys,” Ray croaked. “I want to drive.”
The fucking guy was gone. Mom tried to drag him into the guest room and he punched her right in the face. My mouth fell open. Mom acted like it had never happened and smiled at me and scurried off down the hallway, dragging him along. She shut the guest room door behind them.
Still trying to process what I’d just seen, I went to look in on Nathan. My little towhead was asleep. The nanny had fallen asleep, too. Simon was still on the set. They were on a tight schedule, and it was going later and later every night. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of chardonnay. The fucking rat bastard was sleeping under my roof. I couldn’t believe it. I walked into the living room and the puppy scurried away, peeing itself.
I heard a noise in the corridor. Mom came out. She’d removed her makeup. She was still a beautiful woman, but I could see the dark circles under her eyes, and bruises on her face and neck.
“I’m sorry about your father,” she said.
“You’re sorry?” I said. “How much longer are you going to take this? He should be locked up.”
“He’s just having a bad day.”
The puppy came over and nuzzled my hand. There was another noise in the corridor. Ray came out in his boxer shorts. “What are you doing out here?” he hissed at Mom. Then he looked at me. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Ray, dear, please go back to bed,” my mother said.
Ray saw the dog. He kicked it hard and it scampered away, whimpering.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” I shouted.
The nanny came out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I told her to please go back to Nathan’s room and to stay with Nathan and not to come out under any circumstances.
“I want the keys to the car and I want them now!” Ray bellowed.
I went to the phone and called the set, but nobody could find Simon.
“Give me the fucking keys or I’ll kill you!” Ray was shouting. “I want to drive.”
I called the police. I told them my father was beating my mother.
“Is he beating her now?” the cop asked.
“No,” I said. I was trying to be honest.
“Then we can’t come,” the officer said.
There was a vase next to the phone. I picked it up and threw it against the wall and it smashed. The cop heard it.
“How’s that?” I said.
“Is he hitting her?” he asked again.
“He’s having a fucking heart attack!” I lied.
An ambulance was there within minutes. They sent two cops along as back up, expecting trouble, I guess. I got the front door for the paramedics, and when Ray saw them he began cursing at the top of his voice. Then one of the cops walked in and he turned into a meek little mouse.
“How’re you feeling, sir?” one of the paramedics asked.
Fear got the better of him. “Leave me alone! There’s nothing wrong with me!”
They could see they weren’t dealing with a well man. They tried to talk him into going to the hospital with them, but eventually had to remove him bodily. When they got him into the ambulance, they had to use restraints to keep him in place.
I called Simon and left word that there was an emergency, and that we were on our way to the hospital. I told Mom to stay in the house; I would deal with this. She gave me his pills and told me not to forget them—his life depended on them.
I followed the ambulance in the car. I remember looking down at the vial of pills…then suddenly found myself rolling down the window and tossing them onto the highway. We got to the hospital in Wilmington, but there was no sign of Simon. They wheeled my father in, strapped to the gurney. His eyes were wide and frightened. I loved it.
The doctor asked me what was wrong with him. “He’s insane,” I said.
“What do you want me to do with him?” he asked.
“Ice him,” I said. I was out of my head by this time. It was all coming back. All the years of pain and abuse.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I want this motherfucker dead. Finish him off.”
Simon arrived. I didn’t see him come in. I leaned over the gurney and looked into Ray’s eyes. And here’s what I said: “Die, motherfucker! Die, you fucking pig! I hate you!”
Two orderlies restrained me. A third wheeled the gurney out of sight. “I hate you, you motherfucker! Do the world a favor and die!”
Simon was at my side now. I’ve never seen him more alarmed. One of the orderlies gave me a tranquilizer, which I took without protest. I calmed down a bit. Simon held both my hands in his, then another nurse came over.
“Does your father have any medical condition we should know about?” she asked.
I looked her in the eye. “Well, you know, he’s demented.” I said. “And not just from the Alzheimer’s.”
“He has Alzheimer’s?” she asked.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” I said. The tranquilizer was beginning to kick in.
“Anything else?”
“No,” I lied. “He’s healthy as a horse.”
Simon drove me back to the house. I was asleep before we got back. He carried me to bed.
It was almost noon when I woke up. My mother was in the kitchen with Simon. They were having coffee. I said good morning and poured myself a cup. We just sat there, not knowing w
hat to say. Then the phone rang. Simon reached for it. It was the hospital. He listened. He said, “Uh huh, uh huh” a few times, followed by “I understand, certainly,” then “Thank you. I’ll call you right back.” He hung up and had trouble meeting my eyes.
“What?” I said.
“I have some bad news,” he said. “Ray passed away a few minutes ago. He had a heart attack.”
I thought I would feel like cheering, but I didn’t. I didn’t cheer. I didn’t say anything. Mom buried her face in her hands and wept.
Debbie and Alexis flew down. We had him cremated right there in Wilmington; it was easier than shipping him back to Florida. I didn’t go to the service. Debbie and Alexis and Mom hired a small boat and scattered his ashes at sea.
“It’s what your father always wanted,” Mom told me when they got back. They were all sitting around looking bereaved. I thought I was in the middle of a nightmare.
“Are you guys out of your fucking minds?” I said. “We should be celebrating. I can’t believe you’re acting like he was this great guy, like we had this great normal life or something.”
Debbie got really pissed. She thought I was way out of line. Then I realized she didn’t really know what had gone on in that house of horrors. Alexis knew, but she was a new person now. She had been transformed by self-help. She had worked through it. She’d met a wonderful new man who taught grade school in Long Island, and they were talking about having children. She was moving on with her life.
“I’ve forgiven him,” she said.
“Well, good for you,” I said. I stormed out of the house and walked around till long after everyone had gone to bed. I kept hoping a wave of relief would wash over me, but there was no relief. I began to wonder if there ever would be.
BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY
When we got back to L.A., I decided to get serious about therapy. I went to see a shrink in Los Angeles. He told me I’d never processed what had happened to me as a child, and that until I did so I’d just keep looking for men with whom I could reenact the early abuse.
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