Next to the Sherry-Netherland number was Dr. Fisher’s phone number. I didn’t want to call him and humiliate myself but I was desperate. I called the number, but no one picked up, so I left a sobbing, near-hysterical message on his answering machine. Dr. Fisher never called back. The next morning when I finally reached my mom she said Dr. Fisher’s wife, who was a teacher at Westlake prep school, assumed it was a prank call from one of her students. I felt the hot burn of shame knowing these important professionals in my mom’s life had dismissed my cry for help as a hoax.
After that incident, Dr. Fisher referred us to a child psychologist for my separation anxiety. Thus began my twice-weekly visits to Dr. Murray’s Beverly Hills office. Here I was, at age nine, with my very own “talking doctor.”
I did not “connect” with Dr. Murray. His office was dim, gloomy, and stocked with brown and olive-green 1970s furniture that looked utilitarian and vaguely Soviet. He was over sixty and wore ugly brown polyester suits and thick glasses with big black frames, his few remaining strands of hair stuck to his sweaty, shiny head. He never smiled. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember thinking, How can you help me with my anxiety if you look so uncomfortable in your own clothing? My mom was such an intimate, cozy person who wore soft, pretty clothes and smelled good. Why does Mommie think this guy can help me? I wondered.
My mom sat outside in the waiting room while I sat inside with Dr. Murray. Sometimes he would ask her to come in for a little while so we could all talk together. But for the most part, it was just the two of us. Dr. Murray sat behind his desk. He stared at me, asked questions, and scrawled observations on his notepad. I thought we were there to figure out why I was so worried about my mom all the time, why I felt so unsafe whenever she was away from me. But I don’t recall having one productive or meaningful conversation with him about my mother, her drinking, or anything else. Once, he had me play some sort of game with wooden blocks. I got so annoyed that I threw a block. It struck his forehead and knocked his glasses askew. I was horrified at myself, though he remained silent, his expression blank. He simply adjusted his glasses and continued staring at me.
I probably saw Dr. Murray for a year tops even though it didn’t seem to help. I think my mother simply didn’t know what else to do.
Chapter 6
From left, Courtney, Natalie, Natasha, and Tracey in Chinatown, 1981.
By the time I turned ten, the injustice and hypocrisy of it all really started to bother me. Suddenly the whole setup became crystal clear: my mother could go out in the evenings, work and travel whenever she wanted, but I had to follow her unwavering rules, whether or not she was home.
We started to clash.
As a little girl, I had long, straight, light-brown hair that was fine and tangled easily. I didn’t want to deal with the tangles and I didn’t want anyone else brushing them out either. In fact, I thought the knots were kind of cool, in a West Coast bohemian way. My mom, however, had zero patience for messy hair. She had grown up in the Hollywood studio system of the 1940s and ’50s and was taught to look camera ready at all times, with not a single hair out of place. Her shining tresses always looked perfect and she wanted mine to look perfect too. “Natasha, if you don’t start brushing your hair every day, I’m going to cut it all off,” she threatened.
Did she want my hair straight and shiny and perfect because that was what her hair looked like when she was my age? In her childhood movies and photos, my mother always wore flawlessly braided pigtails that framed her face like two silken ropes. Did she really want me to be exactly like her?
Instead of doing as I was told, I started to try to trick my mom, to see if I could get one over on her. I began taking my bath and wetting my hair, but not using any shampoo. Then I would take a hairbrush and press down on the tangled hair without actually combing out the knots. I would walk into her room and tell her I was ready for bed, waiting to see if she noticed.
“Natasha, did you wash your hair?”
“Yes,” I lied adamantly.
“Well, the knots are still there. Where’s the No More Tangles? I will have to brush it myself.”
At this point, I confessed that I actually hadn’t washed my hair and my mother made her threat to cut it off all over again. Then I pointed out that my friend Tracey didn’t have to wash her hair every day and her tangles looked more like curls—Farrah Fawcett curls. My mom didn’t care about Farrah Fawcett’s curls or Tracey’s tangles.
“You are my daughter and my daughter will not walk around with knots in her hair!”
End of conversation.
My mom did not want anything to mar her precious daughter. Once, at Tom Mank’s house in Malibu, I accidentally sat down on an empty wineglass. It cut the back of my leg and, when the cut healed, a little raised scar remained. The scar didn’t bother me in the slightest. I felt like it gave me an edge. But my mom insisted on taking me to a well-known dermatologist in Beverly Hills, who injected some kind of miracle serum into the scar that made it completely flat and nearly invisible. Looking back, I wonder, was her concern over my appearance for me or for herself? I was Natalie Wood’s daughter. I was a reflection of her. Did she worry that I couldn’t be seen to be anything less than perfect?
I was spending more and more time with my friend Tracey at her mid-century house in the Hollywood Hills, becoming increasingly aware of the contrast between her family’s lifestyle and ours. Tracey’s parents were not fussy perfectionists like my mom; quite the contrary, in fact. At their house, you didn’t need a code to enter the house. Tracey and I were allowed to eat cereal on their comfortable green-and-brown plaid sofas. This was life well lived, in my mind. If they were out of milk—or vodka, for that matter—Janis would think nothing of popping down to Rexall at ten at night, with Tracey and me in the back seat, no seat belts, along for the ride. Why are there so many rules at home?
While Tracey loved the structure and organization at my house—our regular mealtimes and bedtimes, and the neat braids my mom would weave in her hair—I loved the lack of a regime and regulations in her house.
Now that we were getting older, Tracey and my other friends were allowed to play outside unsupervised. But my mother wouldn’t even let me walk once around our block in broad daylight. Just as my grandmother had always been terrified of someone harming her precious Natasha, now my mother was terrified of someone harming her precious Natasha. She was convinced that if she gave me even the slightest bit of freedom, something terrible would happen to me. Didn’t I know that the Lindbergh baby had been snatched right out of his crib? That Patty Hearst had been held for ransom only a few years earlier?
Around this time my mom decided to install a cream-of-the-crop security system. She hired a well-known security expert who had installed similar systems in many Hollywood homes. The plan was to create a safe space upstairs so that if an intruder ever entered from downstairs we would all be protected in our second-floor fortress. The upstairs railings on the landing were torn down, and in their place, a floor-to-ceiling bulletproof wall with a bulletproof window and a code-locked metal door were erected. My mother’s bedroom door was also replaced with a thick metal door that clicked in place with a four-number punch on the keypad. This was our safe room where we could hide if needed. We were also taught a safe word and the protocol for hightailing it upstairs and locking ourselves in. The security expert told us that as safe as we were, the best deterrent were dogs, so we added a new large dog to our brood.
Meanwhile, I didn’t care about security; I just wanted to be able to walk a couple of blocks around our neighborhood with my best friends. Tracey and I had started a Save the Whales campaign, which consisted of knocking on people’s doors and asking for money. Why did Kilky have to trail behind? At Tracey’s house, we were able to roam free.
Billy Joel’s “My Life” was popular at that time, and I adopted it as my theme song. When my mom called me at Tracey’s house from France or someplace she was visiting with my dad, grilling me with q
uestions like, “Did you finish your homework?” and “What did you eat for breakfast?” I sang the chorus right into the phone at her, which ended with the lines:
I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone!
Then I hung up the phone defiantly. And immediately I would miss her, longing for her comforting hugs and feeling guilty for pushing her away.
* * *
Tracey and I decided to run away. We built a go-cart using wheels from old roller skates and a flat piece of plywood we found in her backyard. Her mother’s friend Doug drilled holes in the board and attached the wheels, and once we could roll down the hill we were off. I left an ultimatum for my parents in the form of a ransom note that read, “I’m not coming back unless you give Courtney up for adoption.” Tracey wrote a similar note to her parents about her brother Steven. We left the notes at Tracey’s house and go-carted to our friend April’s house, where we planned to hide out. The minute we arrived, April’s phone rang. It was Tracey’s mom, Janis. “Are Tracey and Natasha there?” April instantly caved in and said, “Yes.” So much for our big getaway. Mommie was so angry when she came to pick me up. This was not a joke to her; she took it very seriously and quite personally. In the car, I gingerly ventured to ask, “Is Daddy at the house?” I’ll never forget the fire in her voice when she snapped, “Both daddies are there!”
Daddy Gregson and Daddy Wagner were waiting in the living room when we got back home. Both of them seemed rather calm and slightly entertained. My mother turned to Daddy Gregson. “Richard, what are we going to do about this? Natasha needs to be grounded!” He looked at me and started laughing. So I started laughing. Then Daddy Wagner joined in. The only person who was not laughing was my mom. “This is not funny!” my mom said. “This is very, very serious.” My dads tried to diffuse my mom’s rage by explaining that this was not a major transgression. Together they reached a sort of compromise punishment: I was forbidden to see Tracey for a week.
The following Monday, Liz came to work and found me sitting at the top of the stairs with a wild grin on my face.
“Why do you look so pleased?” she asked.
“I ran away from home with Tracey,” I whispered proudly. “I’m grounded from Tracey’s for a week!”
I was over the moon with my mini-rebellion and the impact it had had on my mom. My mother had power over me but I had power over her too!
Clearly my mother and I were transitioning into a new phase in our relationship. My mother wanted me to become less anxious and obsessive when she was out in the evenings or away on trips. But she didn’t necessarily want me to spread my wings and start doing things independently of her. I wanted my freedom, while at the same time, I struggled with being apart from her.
A few months later, I asked to go to a sleep-away camp in Malibu where I would take care of horses and live with other kids for five days. Daddy Gregson championed the cause, but in my mother’s eyes, the very idea was scandalous. Her little Natasha sleeping away from home for almost a week? But I begged and pleaded. Somehow, my dad talked her into it.
“Are you okay?” she asked on the phone every evening, having gotten special permission to call. “Do you need me to come and get you?”
“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured her. Then when I got into the shower each night, I let the tears stream down my face. I missed her so much. I tried hard to be like all the other kids, who seemed just fine—happy, in fact—to be away from their parents, but then the hard truth would hit me: I couldn’t manage without my mother for longer than a day.
This may have been a natural, healthy phase of our relationship, but it bothered us both because we had always been so close. “Natasha wears her heart on her sleeve,” I used to overhear my mom telling her friends. “I always know how she’s feeling.”
But I wanted a degree of distance from her. I didn’t want her to know all my thoughts and feelings.
When my mother was annoyed with me, she tried hard not to show it, but I could always tell because she assumed a pleasant yet professional tone, a veneer of calm and control. “Well, Natasha,” she would enunciate in her best on-camera voice, proceeding to explain to me why things must be done her way. On the rare occasions when she got really angry, I could practically sense the electricity in the air. Her whole body vibrated with feeling.
One Saturday afternoon, Courtney and I desperately wanted to go see the movie The Blue Lagoon, but she wouldn’t take us. Though it was a story about two kids, it was not a movie for children, as indicated by its R rating. We wouldn’t take no for an answer. We poked and pestered and drove her crazy until she finally snapped and said, “Fine! We will go see The Blue Lagoon! Get ready now!” We followed sheepishly behind her as she stalked out the front door shouting, “R.J., we’re going to see The Blue Lagoon!” Courtney and I knew by her voice that she was seriously unhappy with us. The car ride to Westwood Village was a silent affair. We weren’t sure if getting to see the movie was a victory or a defeat.
I knew my mom didn’t enjoy having to get angry or discipline us. She would much rather laugh and have fun with her girls. She preferred to keep the mood upbeat, to call me “Natooshie” or her “little petunia.” Or Courtney “little Court.” She didn’t like having to say, “Well, Natasha,” in that affected tone any more than I liked hearing it. Despite our increasing clashes and my new desire to kick down the boundaries she set, the deep emotional bond we shared was unshakable. I complained to my friends, my dads—anyone who would listen—that she kept me on a tight leash, and yet I continued to sink into sadness whenever we were separated.
I was trying to figure out how I was different from her. It was already clear to me how much we were alike.
* * *
Another wedge between my mother and me soon appeared in the form of a new figure in my life: my stepmother, Julia. Although Daddy Gregson had a home in England, he was spending more time at his apartment on the beach in Malibu. He had fallen in love with his new girlfriend Julia, who I thought was the most glorious lady in the world, second only to my mom. I fell for her instantly.
I remember the first time I saw Julia. I was lying in bed at night at my father’s place in Malibu. I heard soft footsteps on the wooden pathway leading to my dad’s front door, so I crept out of bed and peered through the window. There she was—tall with long, curly red hair, full lips, and clear blue eyes. She wore flowing skirts and silver and brass bangles stacked up and down her arms, her bracelets ringing like bells as she walked. She looked like a model, so different from my tiny, dark-haired, dark-eyed mom with her tight jeans and high heels. I knew right then I was going to love Julia. I crawled back into bed and fell asleep, dreaming of when we would meet face-to-face.
When I did meet Julia the following weekend she was everything I had imagined that night and more. Along with her beauty, she had one of the loveliest English accents I had ever heard. I discovered that she was a journalist and a former model. Later she became a successful novelist.
Julia loved dogs, horses, cooking delicious food, and telling stories. I loved dogs, horses, eating delicious food, and listening to her stories. She told me about growing up in the wilds of Australia, breaking horses, foraging for berries with her sister, Caroline. Julia had the kind of childhood I dreamed about, with endless freedom to roam, discover, create. I could tell that my mom was slightly annoyed by my love affair with Julia and so I used this awareness to needle her. I told her how beautiful and young Julia was. That she was a true bohemian and that she had bouncy curls, “just like Farrah Fawcett.” I said I may want to live with Daddy Gregson and Julia in England when I got a bit older but that I definitely wanted to spend “all my weekends” at their apartment in Malibu until then. Mommie was not happy about my new infatuation with my dad’s girlfriend. Maybe she felt hurt and left out. There was something about my life at the beach with my British dad and Julia that threatened her.
At my dad’s place, J
ulia and I hung out in the kitchen while she prepared shepherd’s pie, rhubarb crumble, leg of lamb, and rich English trifles for dessert. On hot summer evenings, the three of us went for long walks on the beach in Malibu. Along the way we collected stones and driftwood, sometimes building fires or stone sculptures. On Sundays we went horseback riding in the hills of Calabasas, setting off down the 101 freeway in my dad’s Mercedes convertible, my long brown hair and Julia’s red curls blowing like streamers in the wind. My friend Tracey often joined us. Although the horses were pretty tame and mostly just trudged up the hills good-naturedly, once Tracey’s horse actually took off on a canter over the mountain, with Tracey screaming into the wind, “JULIA, DOOO SOMETHING!!” Julia immediately set off galloping behind Tracey, speaking some kind of horse language that not only stopped the horse in his tracks but silenced Tracey’s hysterics too. Nothing worried Julia. She never lost her cool. This was new for me. She was the first female figure in my life who taught me that scary things can happen and you don’t need to panic.
When we stopped at Denny’s for lunch on the way back, my dad and Julia let Tracey and me sit at our own separate table. We pretended we were on our own—maybe we were runaways or orphans, or we worked at the stables and were taking our lunch break. Daddy and Julia gave us just the right amount of distance between tables. They could watch to make sure we were safe while allowing us to feel separate and grown-up. I wasn’t used to having this kind of space, this much room to breathe. At my dad’s place, I could roam up and down the beach with a friend for hours, talking, dipping my toes in the sand and surf, playing with dogs, whatever. It was no big deal. Daddy and Julia called me in when it was time for dinner. This was a radically different environment than our gated, bulletproof house on Canon Drive.
More Than Love: An Intimate Portrait of My Mother, Natalie Wood Page 10