Wildflower Read online

  Everything had fallen away, and yet when I opened my eyes I saw Barbara looking at me in my tiny T-shirt that showed skin as I bowed down. God. I was a nightmare for this woman. And a nightmare to this house of worship. I couldn’t take it. Just when I was feeling at one with the celestial plains, I realized that I was just someone else’s idea of hell.

  We left the mosque and returned to the boat. Mel and I managed many giggles, but I was starting to really get depressed. For weeks this went on: Wake up. Eat together. Get on a bus together. Learn together. No Mel. No break in the steps of the day’s proceedings. And I was too young and stupid to take in the land. Instead I was stewing in the formality of every moment being accounted for. It just wasn’t me! I was a free bird caged! It was coming to a boiling point.

  One day, the boat had docked off the coast and just allowed people to flow freely or simply relax at the pool. I don’t know why, but it was a “snow day” on the Mediterranean for this overly organized group. I walked around, and instead of feeling free, I felt like this boat being stuck out in the water was my final straw. I could see land but not get to it, and promenading around the floating jail was not my idea of leisure.

  As Mel tells it, she and Barb were sunning by the pool when a boatman walked up to her with a pained and nervous face. They looked up from their books. “Um, excuse me, ma’am,” he said to Barb, “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but your friend has jumped off the boat!” She looked at him, confused, as if he was saying the impossible in another language. “Your friend has jumped off the boat and swum out to that little island, I’m afraid.” Clearly this had never happened. Barbara just went red. Mel of course made a hilarious joke—how would they retrieve me? “We will pull down one of the boats and go and get her, I suppose. I am sorry, this is unprecedented.” He looked apologetically at Barb.

  And it was true. I was on the top floor of this giant ocean liner and something took over me. You know when you start to psych yourself up? I was like, I could make that jump, I could. It’s not high enough to kill me. I saw a very small island of just a giant rock out in the distance . . . I could swim that far, right? The height. The distance. The idea was too tempting, and with my heart pounding, double-daring me, it crescendoed into me putting one leg onto the railing, climbing, then the other leg, and then I was at the top of the railing and just said “FUCK IT” and flung myself over a good hundred feet or so and plunged so deep into the water that I struggled to get up to the surface.

  But I did! And with that first gasp I broke through and felt alive! The rebel was back! I immediately started off to the rock in the distance, and after about thirty minutes of swimming I reached it. Panting and gasping, I pulled myself out of the water, and I felt like, as much as I was about to die, I also never had felt so alive!!!!! Hhhhhhaaaaaaaaaahhhahaaaaaaaaa, you old fuckers!!!! Look who’s the bad girl now!

  They all looked at me like I was the jezebel of the ship anyway. The tart that gambles and hangs with the locals and dresses like a whore from 1972! Well, now I have proved you right! Ha!

  After the high wore off, in about five minutes, I realized I could not exactly set up camp and live permanently on this inhospitable rock. These people were my ride home. I slumped in defeat because I would have to return with my tail between my legs, and just then, I saw a dinghy in the distance making its way to me. I was half relieved, half terrified of facing Barbara. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was just a misguided, stupid juvenile jerk who had made a series of mistakes in my life.

  One of the reasons I was eager to join this trip in the first place was that I had just married a guy I was dating, and I was also trying to help him with all his green card business. The whole thing was a bust, and as good as my intentions were, he was a wreck and I was an idiot, and we immediately shook hands and filed for divorce. At nineteen I had ruined the sacred nature of marriage. I had killed my career by twelve. I needed a major reboot and I had ideas, yet not a total grasp on how to do it.

  I was still strangely wearing the cheap band on my finger that was a temporary wedding ring. That night at sunset, as the boat was setting sail once again, I went up to the top deck and looked out at the water. I was a humble ant in the middle of the world, and I had so much to learn. I slipped the ring off my finger and realized and remembered that you can pray anywhere, and so I did.

  As the boat started to reach deeper waters, I told the beautiful, colorful sky that I wanted to learn from its all-knowingness! And that even though I was lost, I vowed to do whatever it took to find my way! I apologized for screwing up marriage already and for everything else I might have botched, but I vowed that I was no lost cause! I was worth it for this powerful Almighty not to give up on! Don’t give up on me! The pink-orange sky sent me a breeze, and I threw the ring out, and it bodysurfed its way into the deep blue sea.

  When I returned to the dining hall that night, much to my surprise, the guests thought it was hilarious that I had jumped ship, and instead of turning up their noses or their backs on me, they asked me many questions about my escapade. All of a sudden, I was being let in rather than rejected. Even if they’re amused more than anything, I’ll take it, I thought, and with that I finally had something to talk about with everyone. My stint AWOL gave us common ground, and it was the best night on the ship.

  I know even Barbara was relieved that I was a hit! I think she unpuckered for five minutes and actually felt good about my presence. Like, “I know! She’s always been a little wild!” and “You know, since she was seven she has always done things in her own way,” etc. We ate dinner, and Mel and I made our way to our cabin. I put on my mellow blues mix, and as the soulful song “In the Pines” by Leadbelly came on, we talked about cutting our losses and leaving early. I loved the idea of leaving on a high note. And the next day was the day we finally got to the pyramids, so as long as I saw that, I was happy to cut bait on this bitch and go home!

  As we pulled into Egypt, I entered the bus practically high-fiving the old-timers, but Mel and I were secretly plotting our escape. We got on the hotel phone and made our reservations to get out of Dodge super early the next day. The boat would be continuing on, but we felt our three weeks was enough.

  After completing what felt like a James Bond mission to get ourselves out of Egypt later that night (after the bus trip to the pyramids), we had time to kill, so we put the television on. We turned the dial on the TV and came across a Richard Pryor movie in Arabic. It wasn’t Stir Crazy or one of the ones I knew well. It seemed to be about him and his family and their “new house.” That was all I could make of it before the phone rang and it was the chipper guide to summon us to the bus. I hung up, grabbed my backpack, and said to Mel, “OK, let’s go see these pyramids we just traveled weeks to see!!!!” She was lying on her back—one arm under her head, lounge lizard position on the bed—and without looking up at me, she said, “I’m gonna stay in the room.” I looked at her with big eyes and mouth agape. “What? It’s the pyramids! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Are you nuts?” I mean, I knew she was, but c’mon!

  She looked at me and pointed her arm and finger. “I can see them out the window.” I shook my head. Indeed you could see them out the window as we were clearly in the adjacent-to-the-Sphinx hotel specifically built for tourists. “Wow. OK. I’m out”—and with that I left Mel to watch her Richard Pryor movie in a language she did not speak.

  Later that night, when I returned from staring at those pyramids and savoring my newfound lease on life, Mel and I made our way to the airport. It was honestly terrifying being two girls traveling through alone, with all the men and their machine guns. At the airport, they were examining my boom box and were convinced it was some type of detonator. I begged and pleaded with them not to confiscate it. After being threatened, I backed down. But eventually they gave it back. We waited as the men with machine guns looked at us like aliens. Our plane finally came in. It was a Lufthansa flight! We ran onto the flight and
sank into our seats, and I immediately downed my complimentary champagne. As the cabin crew watched us once again, I thought, Judge me all you want, just take me home, please.

  The good news is we have all grown up a lot. Barb was there, front and center, when I got married a few years ago. I hope she no longer hates me. One day I will be on a trip with one of Olive and Frankie’s friends, and I can only hope they don’t do to me what I did to Barb.

  First kiss

  DEAR OLIVE

  You are very smart. I know that according to the book NurtureShock I am not supposed to tell you that you are smart, but you are very sharp. Let’s call it that. I have read many books and studied many things because I always have wanted to attack parenting in a very smart way myself. I’m an overachiever in most areas of my life. I take on a lot and I expect perfection in myself. I am hard on myself. And I’m sure some of that comes from fear. And I admit I was scared when you came into the world because I just wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you. It all started with your nursery, which is French magazine ready, and my approach to making sure everything was perfect was very dialed in, from your supplies, to asking my sister-in-law for the right babysitters, to making sure the birth plan was all taken care of, complete with hospital room, the best doctors, and your grandparents there and ready.

  But you didn’t come. You were late. And I waited, day after day. I should have known then that you would be teaching me incredible life lessons from the moment you were born. My birth plan? Not your plan. OK. Got it. You didn’t even want to be the astrological sign you were supposed to be and waited nine days and skipped right on into your Libra nest.

  Those first few days in the hospital, I thought I would die from fear. Your weight was dropping, we were not sleeping, and I was ill. Dizzy and completely spun out. I brought you home (the first drive was cliché-worthy, surreal and fun), and when I brought you into this perfect room I built for you with your father, it was as if no one else in the world was there. It was just you and me and my concern with keeping you alive.

  This did not go away for the first three months. I wanted to control everything. Make every bath the most amazing sound-tracked event that ever existed. (I think you are more musical for it, and you love to dance, so that’s good.) I was up for days on end. Eating and sleeping were just difficult because I was concerned about your sleep training and getting your bottle down and making sure you burped and that your room was dark and don’t get me started on the temperature of the room. I would stand at the thermostat and tinker all day. I became like a bad sketch in a comedy show that wasn’t even funny but more a study in the decline of one’s sanity.

  I showed you everything and explained everything. Red truck. Yellow duck. The cow says moo. You could count to ten by the time you were one and a half. And up to twenty by two years. It was amazing. You could name over thirty animals and spell and write your own name on your second birthday. You know how to communicate what you want. We have incredible conversations too. You are not in turmoil because you can’t truly express yourself. (You flip out because you want more Peppa Pig like every other kid.)

  You have always known what you needed, and funnily enough you didn’t need my worry. In many ways, though not purposely, I took a survivor approach. Not having a model and just wanting to make sure you had consistency and classes and stimulation was important. Most of all I wanted you to feel safe.

  I also tried to make you laugh all the time, and you are a semiserious bird. You like it when you like it. Sometimes “seriously?” is the look on your face, and other times I melt you. You break and crack a smile and say, “Silly Mommy.” Come to think of it, there is almost a semipatronizing quality to it, as if you know I am being a total goof. But I can’t help it. I like to pander for laughs. It was even my job for a while. I am also a silly person when it comes right down to it. You take things very seriously, and again, for being only three years old, I cannot believe the things you say or the capacity of your comprehension of a situation. I am already contending with a developed mind.

  I can’t wait for you to get into school. I want you to go all the way. I will do whatever I can to foster your journey, and I am glad to say that being an overachiever will serve you well. I know you like having so much knowledge at your disposal and you use it well.

  You are still a kid and love to watch Cinderella five times over, and you love a playdate, but even your art you take very seriously. It’s great to watch, and we give you your supplies and watch you go. It’s wonderful. It’s also great to watch you read so much and say each page out loud and recite the books front to back and even say the authors’ names! It kind of freaks me out.

  But then again, I have no reference. I have no siblings and no real idea what the normal child-development rate is. You just seem strong to me. Even when you get hurt, you don’t want anyone to console you, and you don’t want to be held. You want to fix it all by yourself. But of course I want to take care of you. I try to follow your rhythms too. You are very self-aware. And at the end of the day you need my strength and not my worry. You like it when I am very capable and know exactly what to do (this took me a while, but I’m feeling much better now).

  I work with Seedlings Group and Safe Kids, both of whom have taught me so much. And I found a book called Raising Lions, which helped me find my strength as well. I am the parent. Period. I know I will have to keep researching and learning and experiencing things to be prepared for each new phase. But I feel ahead of it now instead of behind it. I look forward to it, actually. I got this one, and you can always count on me. I promise.

  I love being your mom and figuring out what you need. Even if what you need is your independence sometimes and for me not to dance around the room. But I will not stop. I will just have my instincts sharp and ready to know what the moment requires and have a large arsenal from which to pull.

  I am so relieved that you are big and strong now. You’re not a tiny fragile baby. But you are still my cub, and I will protect you like a fierce bear. We are both growing together in very different ways. And I am so proud of you. You have aced a lot of milestones already, and we are just swimming upstream together, holding hands—well, holding hands when you want to, because sometimes you just want to do it by yourself without my constant hugs and kisses all over you. I can’t help it.

  I love you in the way where you discover the most selfless true love that one can experience. You are the keeper of my heart. The love of my life. You are trying to just figure it all out right now, but the truth is, I can’t wait till you will just collapse in my arms and stay for a while. Like forever.

  Poinsettia Place, 1980

  THE SEAGULL

  I am the Seagull. That’s my nickname. I stare at other people’s plates with jealousy and curiosity. My eyes are like lasers on a target to everyone’s food and this is why: When I was at grade school, at about seven years old, my mother kind of forgot to pack my lunches sometimes because she didn’t realize that she needed to. I was fed at work too, so this was just an honest mistake and oversight. Someone else usually took care of it. Like when I was in preschool through second grade, at Fountain Day School, they provided meals. Hot and cold. They had macaroni and cheese, canned beets, and black olives you could put on each finger and then make funny hand gestures with and then eat them one by one off your fingers. Lunch was a happy time where each kid got food and we sat at long lunch tables. It was in a shaded area under a roof, and there was a cool breeze. It was so pleasant. There was harmony and order. And everyone got the same thing, so there was no coveting or competition. We wore uniforms too, so again, even playing field for everyone.

  Fountain Day School was a very quaint little school in West Hollywood, and was owned by a nice woman who lived above the property. I liked it there. I felt safe. It was my first experience in school, so I didn’t have anything to compare it to. They had a little swi
mming pool, and little swim meets. They would pick one girl and one boy to be the king and queen every year, which was weird. They would ride up and down the length of the pool on blow-up swans. It definitely was a taste in jealousy for girls. It not only hit the Pavlovian princess fetish, but you got to ride a swan! I don’t know what it did for boys, but I do know that our school environment affects so much of how we develop. It provides our first social experiences in life, and they are more than formative. Some are everlasting.

  Cut to the new format at the Country School in Sherman Oaks in the valley. This was a dog-eat-dog world. Older kids. No uniforms, and kids were defined by their clothes. They were ruthless toward each other. This was the beginning of cliques too, so you knew your place on the food chain very fast.

  Speaking of food, the lunch area was like the Chicago Stock Exchange. When the bell rang, the insanity began. Lunches were commodities packed by parents, so there was a total hierarchy on who had a nicer presentation or who had better content. Peter has a Ding Dong, and Rachel has a Capri Sun. Let the bidding begin.

  It was total chaos as each kid sized each other’s lunch up, and it became important if someone had a lunch box or a brown bag. (Brown bag was amateur and spit on; a lunch box was like driving up in a Ferrari.) Some parents put their kids’ lunches together with care. And some parents threw shit together like their hair was on fire.

  But it was all blood sport at these lunch tables, and the major game was “trade.” For example, Jacob would turn to Peter and say, “Peter, I’ll give you my peanut butter sandwich and some chips in a Ziploc for your Ding Dong?” Peter would look at the kid as if to say, “In your dreams, you Ziploc-toting piece of shit. If you had a brand-name bag of chips we might have a deal, but as for today, keep drooling.”