Baby Jennifer listens as Daddy slowly demonstrates.
CG: Mouth … eyes … ears … hand … Daddy’s hands … together … apart.
At twenty I embarked on a semester at sea. I ditched two quarters of Stanford to travel around the world on a cruise ship full of adolescent and elderly adventurers. The itinerary was Spain, Turkey, Greece, Egypt, Israel, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, China, and Hong Kong. Not bad. I sent Dad postcards and mini audiotapes from every port. Israel’s Wailing Wall shook me. At eighty-two, Dad was in perfectly good health, but something in me knew him better than surface indicators. It hit me that Dad would die soon. He would leave me, the way his mother left him, the way we all must leave one day. One of those subterranean knowings that you somehow wish could pass by on the breeze, but it nails you, instead. I knew it wasn’t imminent, but it was coming. Overcome, my warning system beeped. Grief’s tide swelled in me.
Shortly thereafter Dad and I had one of our rare fights. Well, Dad was upset with me. I was ashamed. It felt like a fight. The ship docked in Hong Kong, where I was apprised of the magnificent tailors and their quick custom work. Damn! No more spending money. How to buy Dad a hand-tailored coat? Naturally, ask Dad for more money. No way. Dad was mad. Hong Kong was the last port. I hadn’t budgeted properly. No one mentioned the wonderful coats in the itinerary. I’d shot my figurative wad. No time for generosity. When Dad was displeased with me, my head filled with the white noise of shame. If home port sent an unhappy signal, I was rocked to the core. Like Dad, cross words slay me. With Dad on the other side of the globe, at 9966, I could still feel the silent treatment and carried it with me. I walked around glorious Hong Kong feeling shallow, silly, alone. The tone of our argument was unnecessarily and uncharacteristically dark. We were like overexhausted five-year-olds at bedtime. “Stay awake”…“I’m not tired, I’m not tired, I don’t need to go to bed.” If this is possible, I think we were communicating some of our grief beforehand. Somehow we both knew he’d have to go soon, and we were angry about it. I wanted him to stay. He wanted to stay. If I bought him a coat, maybe he’d have to stay and wear it. I was his daughter, he wanted to please me. He’d know not to die. The coat would demand time to be worn.
Mom gave me the money. A gray cashmere coat. I thought the shoulders were a little too round. All he really cared about was the inscription on the inside pocket. “I love you, Dad.” Thanks for bailing me out, Mom.
FREEDOM HAS A BEAUTIFUL STRUCTURE
The last time I saw Dad was at home, at 9966. Thanksgiving break for me. I was a student at Stanford at the time, and because it was just before finals and I was worried about my course load, I almost stayed at school over the holiday. Thankfully, my mother talked me into coming home. She reassured me that I’d do fine, I always had. She said that family time and a little break was what I needed. Thank God for a mother’s intuition. Thank God I listened.
My boyfriend through most of college, Andy Beyer, came home to Los Angeles with me. We planned to stay at Dad’s house for a few days before going to Mom’s. Oddly enough, Mom was married to a man who lived literally right around the corner from Dad, so logistics were easy. The night of November 27, 1986, Dad, Barbara, Andy, and I had a quiet supper in the dining room and then retired to my room for a game of Trivial Pursuit. Dad was miraculous with the infuriating game. He’d always complain that he’d forgotten too many important things to be a contender and then pull virtually every answer out of his hat. Typically, I’d pose a question, Dad would look stymied, my teammate and I would grow excited that we’d finally stumped him, and then, out of nowhere, he’d shoot out the answer. Dad’s disclaimer: “It’s all stored up there somewhere, I guess.” So, while we put up a decent enough fight, Dad and Barbara were the easy victors.
Post game time, Dad and Barbara went to bed in their room, Andy took my bedroom, and I went to sleep in the guest room. The guest room was actually my childhood bedroom. It was closer to the master suite and therefore closer to Dad. When I was thirteen we redid the house and my new room was placed at the other end of the hall. That way as a teenager I had a little more space, as did Dad and Barbara, and I could play my music without bugging Dad. That night, I was back in my old room, no music, closer to Dad and Barbara. When I drifted off to sleep, I had the most powerful dream of my life. That night Dad had been as chipper, vital, sharp, and charming as ever, but some other knowing cued my unconscious to the troubles ahead.
In the dream, Barbara, Dad, and I were on a cruise. Dad and I were involved in a painting class. We were painting clowns on velvet. A young, lean, bearded man approached me and bid me ask my father to return to his cabin. I complied. When I got to Dad’s room, that same bearded man was with Dad. The man had his hands on my father’s shoulders, and my father was kneeling. I was instantly afraid. Dad said I mustn’t worry, beckoned me in from the door, and told me that everything was going to be fine. The man never took his hands off of Dad’s shoulders. Dad arched his head over and began to vomit blood. Instantly, I awakened from the dream and sat straight up in bed. Something in me knew that he was dying. I quietly ran down to Andy’s room and awakened him. Sobbing, I recounted the dream to him.
The young man in the dream had a countenance much like Jesus’, and a sweetness that I imagine of him. My mother’s side of the family is deeply religious. My father was agnostic. Still, though my father claimed he didn’t believe in God, or an afterlife, some actions belied his credo. He generally wore the gifts of a St. Christopher charm and a star of David on a necklace, alongside a charm made from my real, Lucite-encased baby tooth. Dad was neither Jewish nor Christian, but he appreciated the presents as symbols of hope and faith. Another friend gave him the spiritual booklet, “The Daily Word,” and thereafter he kept a subscription. He often read me the daily passages. Kind words. Also, he and my mother sent me to a couple of Catholic schools, most notably an all-girl Catholic boarding school. We had mandatory chapel singing and mass each week. One could argue it was for the education, or the strictness of the school’s tenets, but I don’t think Dad minded the spiritual messages being sent. My father wasn’t one to just go along with what he didn’t approve of, and he never sanctioned anything as important as my schooling without deep thought. So, while my parents never enforced any prescribed religion, they appreciated the beneficial role spirituality could play for me. Dad seemed to admire the good in all religions without subscribing to one. I’ve always been spiritually curious. Until the dream, though, I never realized the level of connected feeling I had with Jesus. In the dream, Jesus was the one conducting my father out of this life, and Dad was at peace. It was beautiful.
Remarkably, my father’s death, two nights later, bore a startling resemblance to my dream. Dad and Barbara had flown to Davenport, Iowa, where he was to do an “Evening with Cary Grant.” Barbara was by his side, and when I asked, she told me the details. The prescient dream helped me. Perhaps we are all infinite, soulful seers, digesting things the way we must to lure us to the next level of understanding.
The morning after the dream, following breakfast together, I gave Dad a huge hug at the back door and said good-bye. I still remember that hug. His hugs were the type that made me feel safe and loved. He had a deep warmth and he fully enveloped me in it. Lovely big bear of a dad. He waved good-bye from the back door, until our car was out of sight.
THE BEASTLY ROAR
On the night of his death, Mom; her husband, Stan; my boyfriend, Andy, and I were all out to dinner. Dad was in Davenport, Iowa. On the way back from dinner, someone called Mom’s husband. Stan notified me that I was to call Stanley Fox as soon as we returned to the house. Something in me must have known then. Stanley had never called me before. Why would I need to call Stanley? I said nothing. As soon as we got home I went into the den, alone, and dialed Stanley. I don’t remember the words Stanley used … all I remember was the otherworldly roar of a cry that erupted from my core. My mother ran into the room. “Thank God she let it out.”
Mom and S
tan warmed some brandy with honey to help me sleep. They pushed the couches in the living room together so that Andy and I could rest side by side. I slept. Andy watched over me. I remember awakening to his sweet face perched above me. The next morning, bright and early, my dear friend Jonathon Komack appeared to hug me. The men in my life were still there, as Dad would have appreciated, to show me that men could be counted on.
The days after his death were … what? Light seemed nonsensical. Words were muted. It was as if I’d slipped into a walking, talking coma. I do remember people coming to the house, but I couldn’t tell you who they were. The man who was always there to tell me it was a glorious morning was gone. Could it ever be a glorious morning without him? The one person I remember seeing was Aunt Marje. She brought a truckload of provisions. My body was there, but my spirit was beneath the sea. Somewhere only God knew. Dear Barbara couldn’t eat. She lost seemingly half her weight. When others became concerned she’d sit and nibble a bite or two, just to appease.
Dad’s death was the biggest shock of my life, one that forever altered my world. As anyone who loses a parent he or she loves knows, my heart was catapulted into new dimensions of sadness, compassion, longing, pain, and bewilderment. It was the end of college for me and the beginning of the real world. Harsh coincidence. The “real world” without Dad. What could that possibly mean? On 9/11, living in downtown Manhattan, I experienced a similar level of shock and heart-opening grief. I’m not comparing the two events themselves—only their earth-shattering effect on me. 9/11 was war in my backyard. As Americans we are blessedly isolated from the brutality that much of the world lives in. As Dad’s child, his love shielded me. Dad’s death was war on my heart the way 9/11 brought war to my doorstep.
THE HAWK
Nearly six years after Dad died I was married on the front lawn at 9966 Beverly Grove. My then husband and I had a marvelous photographer by the name of Beth Herzhaft. In the midst of our postceremonial family photos, without saying a word, I drifted off from the group. I was attracted by a hawk, and had gently followed it away from my new family. Prior to the ceremony, my father’s close friend Quincy Jones had pulled me aside to alert me to the beautiful creature, who was circling the front of the house, just above our heads. Quincy glanced up at the bird and sweetly said, “You see that, he’s here … with you.” Of course, Quincy meant Dad. In Beth’s picture I am standing alone, looking up, a bright shaft of light illuminating the air in front of me. There are certain things that are perfectly inexplicable. Sort of wonderfully baffling. Whether you attribute them to God, miracles, “the light,” coincidence, science, chemistry, or … chocolate, matters not. If you’re awake and you notice things, we are constantly surrounded by the sublime. Maybe we all do return home. Or maybe it’s just nice to see it that way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Live with Death
Parts of me are still in denial. November 29, 2007. Twenty-one years after Dad’s death. Earlier in November, my brilliant, effervescent, ninety-nine-year-old grandpa died. I recognized that it was quite near the date of Dad’s death, but for the life of me I couldn’t have told you the date Dad died. I remember the phone number at 9966 when I was twelve. I remember his birthday. I remember my dog’s birthday. But, oh damn it, that day has a way of sneaking up on me. The night of November 28, 2007, I was sad and couldn’t figure out why. Just quietly sad. The morning of his death’s anniversary an e-mail alerted me to the fact. So that’s it. A few more tears … a few more tears … still. What’s the principle at work here? Perhaps we must remember loved ones’ deaths with the same gentle grace with which we remember their lives?
On my trips through the letters, one everyday “I love you” note sent to Dad in October 1986 pulled at me. So close to his passing. A letter I’d written blissfully unaware of his imminent departure. My heart cried out.… Did I say what I needed to say? Did he know how much I loved him? Would he have stayed longer if I’d called more? What did I miss? If you can hear me, Dad, I’m sorry! If I could’ve done something, many things, anything … if there’s anything you want me to do now … and I swear to you, I can hear him say, “Be happy, darling.”
What would life have been like if Dad had lived longer? Pointless question? Is there a parallel universe? A sliding door picture of the world—is that version of me communicating with this one? Sometimes I still dream of Dad. Most often it’s when things are weighing on me, and I need his guidance. Maybe he really visits. Heartwarming to think so. What would he think of this damn war we’re in? Dad was a Republican. What would he say about our environment? What would he think of his single daughter choosing to mother a child? Dad was a very open-minded man. A Republican with an open mind. My internalized dad says, “Are you happy? You seem to be happy. You’re not hurting anyone, so, okay.”
FEBRUARY 28, 1968 · 9966 BEVERLY GROVE DRIVE
Dad and Jennifer drawing babies.
CG: Are you going to have lots of babies when you grow up? Oh I do hope so.
JG: I say.
CG: “I say.” That sounds like me, I say.
Dad cooed over my pageboy haircut: “Oh darling, that’s your best look. It suits you magnificently. If I were you I would always have one.” On the steps leading to the lawn at 9966.
In the continuing odyssey of my dreams, just before learning of my pregnancy, I had another delightful vision. I dreamed I was hovering over Benjamin Friesen, my mother’s recently departed father, my recently departed grandfather. In life, Grandpa Ben was everyone’s favorite family member. He had energy enough for five men and a sunny, generous warmth mixed with integrity and candor. He passed away just weeks shy of his one hundredth birthday. Grandpa Ben was reminiscent of Dad. Mom liked to say that she married someone older than her own father, which, oddly enough, made my grandfather younger than my father. In the dream, Grandpa Ben’s body rose, and as he turned toward me he “became” my father. Only, in the inimitable language of dreams, Dad didn’t exactly look like Dad. His eyes were filled with star light, and, gazing intently at me, Dad was communicating something. What was he saying? Two radiant stars shone out at me. What did it mean? The next night I dreamed of a single cell, surrounded by the black sky of space, moving about in its gel-like way, with the same two stars inside it. It was moving, growing, and shifting. What did it mean? Two days after that second dream I discovered I was pregnant. The stars in the cell were growing inside me. Was this my signal from the dad in me that it’s all alright? My future baby is part of the same ether, part of the same magical structure that made my grandfather and my father and the stars and you and me and everything? Perhaps there’s a piece of him in all this, too.
Dad’s sensible, kind tutoring in economics started early. I was seven when he wrote this card.
DOUBLE LIVING
Gramercy Park, a private oasis in the middle of Manhattan. A safe haven where you can sit and read a book surrounded by art and lovingly tended gardens. It reminds me of Dad.
Kirk, Barbara, and I scattered his ashes over the sea, near where I used to live in Santa Monica. Is that why I chose the particular residence? To remain near him? His ashes are mixed in all, but he’d forged such a singular form. His dark skin, the smell of that tanned skin, his aching, heart-bursting smile, his sideways half-vaudevillian toe-heel dance into the cupboard with a mimed “ouch” dances, his pink shirts, his beautiful hands, his engulfing hugs, his long spindly legs … his being may never be repeated, but life’s grace and my dreams remind me.
Perhaps there’s also a responsibility that comes with the loss. As Dad’s On Man and Nature tells us, “On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friends’ life also, in our own, to the world.”
What must we do to fulfill Dad’s promise? What place in us did he awaken and how may we share that place? What stone was left unturned? The consciousness of fulfilling that promise is one way
to live with death.
Until one night a few years ago Dad’s gray cashmere coat sat in my closet. My dog, Ollie, and I were on our nightly beach stroll when we passed a homeless man curled up near a wall, shielding himself from the cold. Immediate flash to my blanketed beds and fridge full of food. Then the coat. Dad would have wanted me to give it away. Better off warming a live body than sitting in my closet or sold at some auction. Perhaps it kept the man warm. Perhaps there was a better choice?
I do miss the beautiful coat.
Dad in one of his signature camel-colored cashmere sweaters. I love how gently he regarded my seriousness at Malibu’s “shrimp show” horse show. Circa 1978 or 1979.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1971 · 9966 BEVERLY GROVE DRIVE, DADDY’S BEDROOM
Daddy and Jennifer solve word puzzles and riddles out of Wee Wisdom magazine.
CG: I’ll read a little poem to you and you guess what it is…
It makes a picture in your mind
Tells where to seek things hard to find
It makes one sad, or mad or glad
It tells of people good or bad
It pleases on a rainy day
JG: Oh! Santa Claus!
CG: No, “It.” Santa would be “he.”
It interests when bored with play.
It teaches, informs, entertains
Holds everything from work to games
It transports to exotic places
Tells of all the earth’s strange races
It guides, encourages, fills with hope
And helps man realize his scope
JG [interjecting]: It’s God! [At same time]…CG: What is it?
CG [laughing with delight]: Oh that’s a wonderful answer but that’s not the answer I have here. Oh … it should be.… What do you think the answer is? It makes a picture in the mind.
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