A Complicated Marriage (42 page)

The hospital, airy and bright, more like a country hotel. Her room looked out over a stretch of gardens and trees. How pretty she looked, eyes bright, her hennaed hair shining against the white of the pillow. I had never seen my mother sick or stretched out on a bed, much less a hospital bed. I had come up immediately; Norden flew in the next day. She was so happy we were there, together. Such a small family; such a lousy excuse for a reunion. We put on quite a show. He and I kidded around, unwrapped the old family jokes. Hours passed as we leaped over the elephant. Secrets, always secrets.

The hospital room was easy. Later, back at the house, would be more difficult. Over the last three years, thanks to my sessions with David, my wounds with my mother had begun to heal as I had slowly sopped up
the anger and guilt that had festered so long. But Norden. All it took was two drinks, and the resentments—old, new, real, and alleged—streamed out of me. He didn't react. Much like our father, he had a passivity that almost precluded reaction. He also had an unshakable belief that he was always in the right. Both traits drove me to a fury and to an early end to a long day.

The following afternoon, Norden and I learned the crushing facts about pancreatic cancer: It was swift, relatively painless, and the cancer the doctor would choose for himself. Or did he say that to all his patients? They had opened her up and closed her up. Nothing to be done. How different from protocols today—no Internet searches, alternative treatments, life-prolonging procedures. And no “full disclosure.” We all agreed that she need not know. Never had I heard my mother say the word
cancer
. If pressed, she would whisper, “the Big C.” She had a particular fear of breast cancer and was convinced that if her breasts were ever bruised, she would die of it. Odd, in view of the fact that no one in her family had ever died of breast cancer, or any cancer.

Those were the facts of it. But that was by no means all of it for me. After hearing the doctor's report, I collapsed into a chair. I refused to believe it. She couldn't die. It was impossible. I couldn't listen, all I could do was moan and sob, “No.” Over and over. By the time she was returned to the room, my cheerful face was glued back in place and I was ready to paint pretty pictures for her, just as she had always done for me as she tucked me in at night. She devoutly believed in good thoughts, that everything would be better tomorrow. I thought of the three exquisitely carved ivory monkeys that had always sat on her Chinese desk. Gifts from her father, they had taught her well. Buffeted by whatever travails befell her, and now by the cancer that trespassed inside her, she saw, heard, and spoke of them not at all.

Late that night at her house, the phone awakened me. A moment's hesitation; then a man said, “Is Norden there?” Three words, yet I knew it was my father. Numb, I called upstairs to Norden. He picked up the extension and I hung up. My father's voice. I hadn't heard it in twenty-three years, but I knew it. A bland voice, unweighted by emotion,
bordering on indifference. A not-unpleasant voice delivering, in effect, a harsh message:
I have nothing to say to you
. And his brief hesitation told me that he hadn't even considered the possibility that I, too, might be in my mother's house that night. Yes, indifference. I had already cried too much that day. I watched my hurt, my anger, wash through me. They would find no foothold, at least not then.

Over the next two months, I went to the Cape most weekends and called often. The real angel in the family was my stepsister, Judy, who had always maintained a close relationship with my mother. During those last weeks at home, Judy stayed with her as the disease progressed, bringing jaundice and rashes. More and more, my mother stayed in a hospital bed set up by the window in the living room. Thankfully, the doctor had been right. Her pain was minimal, the bottle of Demerol barely touched. And then, beyond even the ministrations of the angel, she was back in the hospital.

She declined daily. Yet each morning I was taken aback, as if I thought there should be a plateau where she could rest awhile, where we could hang out, have a chat, do what mothers and daughters are supposed to do. But there never was a plateau. Too soon, she retreated into herself, and when she did connect, she was terse and demanding. That mother, who I had never met before, crescendoed one morning when her sister, Elfrida, came to visit and she lashed out, “I don't want you here. Get out.” I wanted to raise a flag. Finally, “Poor Lolly” had stood up for herself in the love-hate sisterhood that had teetered on half-truths for a lifetime. She had finally told it like it was.

Then she, who had never taken an aspirin, was given IV drugs and she went further away. One afternoon, drifting on her drugs, she was rapturously happy. I asked her why. “I am dancing,” she said, “dancing with my David.” I could see my parents in their late teens: he the boy next door, she with the secret crush, both so beautiful, dancing on the cusp of love.

And then the day was there. It was very early, the Thursday before Labor Day. I kissed her on that narrow bed, her face a dark yellow and raised slightly as if to drink in the light she couldn't see, her shrunken
body barely there beneath the sheet. Quiet, alone. I held her hand and told her I was sorry for the pain I had caused her. I told her I loved her. My sweet, loving, soft mommy. I told her all would be well. I searched for her inside the face I didn't know. Was she still there? It didn't matter. Did she hear? It didn't matter. I hoped she was happy.

The epilogue of her life was written over the next four days. Norden and I composed the obituary, arranged the funeral, buried her, and had a small gathering at the house. We packed up her life in boxes color-coded to my brother, to me, to sell, to a yard sale, to trash. We spoke to the lawyer about her will, to her cousin who lived nearby to oversee the sale of the house, and to a used-furniture dealer. Throughout, I was hot, I was cold, my eyes ran, my nose ran, until I didn't know if I was distraught or sick.

Seven rooms, an attic, and a basement. So much stuff. And nothing came easily. Norden and I had not been brought up to share. No need to, when the boy is entitled and the other is just a girl. I had lost my mother, and now I lost my equilibrium. I was a successful forty-four-year-old woman. I was a hardscrabble kid desperate to grab her marbles. Nothing would erase the sordid scavenging, the chill dampness of the basement, the heat of the attic, the musty excavation of closets and drawers that hadn't been opened in years. All as the clock ticked. Endings should fade away at their own pace, but I didn't know that then. So that was not the way it was. After all, Norden and I had lives.

Overwhelming events have a way of piling up, or so it seemed in the wake of my mother's death. That winter, almost three years into my analysis, David had a heart attack and decided to move to Los Angeles. The timing couldn't have been worse. He was the most insightful, effective analyst I could have hoped for, and I had become increasingly dependent on him for guidance. Who would I talk to about things like the phone call I got at the office a few weeks after Ma died?

Midmorning, while I was knee deep in the magazine, Elfrida called me. Always one to have the last word, she wasted no time: “You killed your mother.” There were a few other words, but that was the message. I don't know what I said, if anything, or who hung up first, and it doesn't matter. But I heard the message. Guilt, rage, hatred, self-pity, and more
guilt. Nothing new, except the messenger. I went back to editing my magazine.

The loss of David even more difficult to bear. And then, within a few months, another loss. Charlie abruptly left the magazine. Restless Charlie—the monthly routine had slowly ground him down. He had always said that if it wasn't fun, it wasn't worth doing. And, true to his word, just like that, he was gone. After four years of partnership, I was flying solo.

Well, not exactly solo. The silent partner, Walter Wiedenbaum, who until then I had met only in passing, stepped out of the shadows and became publisher. Tall, patrician, he ran a tight ship. Gone was the spontaneous informality of the office. Walter ruled from the top down with a steady stream of memos that replaced discussion and any semblance of autonomy. Worse, from the onset we were oil and water. As a boss, he had an icy authority that brought out my own icy defensiveness. I began to notice that whenever our paths crossed his jaw muscles would clench, a sure sign that this wasn't just dislike, this was barely concealed anger. This was someone who would have liked to take a swing at me. I kept my distance.

Compounding the personal differences, I realized that I had been stretched too thin for some time. The magazine had grown from 34 pages to 142. As thrilled as I was by its success, in some respects, I hadn't grown with it. Although the staff had increased commensurately, I had never learned how to delegate and still ran the magazine as the small operation it had once been. I was convinced that my hands-on attention to the day-to-day minutiae was vital to maintaining the style and tone that set the magazine apart from other trade publications. But how could I motivate the staff if I didn't trust them? I was tired.

I knew I was seriously off track when I experienced a meltdown during a trip to Kansas City to do a Midwest-markets issue. The trip proceeded smoothly: good interviews, VIP treatment from Hallmark, an enthusiastic panel of agency people, superb hotel, and my regular sidekick, David Gunn, with me. But my second night there, I started crying and pacing. I couldn't quiet my mind or body. I had never felt so lost. I called Clem. No answer. I called David in Los Angeles, my now ex-analyst. He was
there, but not in the way I needed him. He was almost indifferent to my state of mind. He had switched hats. He talked not as an analyst but as a friend, more than a friend.

About a year into my analysis I had begun to feel that David was coming on to me. I well understood the power of the patient-analyst attachment, and, like a good patient, I had shared those feelings. He had said that my perception was a natural part of my transference. However, shortly after that, he had initiated a conversation about countertransference. Oh, the jargon of it all. It seemed my feelings had been spot on, and indeed he had feelings for me that went beyond the patient-analyst boundaries. I hated what I heard, while at the same time I felt relief that I hadn't been imagining it. I was also scared that it was one of those “things will never be the same again” moments. But, as I have said, David was a good analyst and the incident was smoothed over.

In Kansas City, what I thought had been smoothed over had merely been sidelined. I asked him if I was having a panic attack. I knew that I was. Instead of advice, he suggested we meet somewhere, perhaps a resort. Or he would come to New York for a visit. Could he stay with me? I told him I didn't need a lover, I needed an analyst, and hung up.

Technically, there was no unethical behavior on David's part; the analysis had been terminated. To my way of thinking, that still didn't make it right. But I needed him, and, after several subsequent phone calls over the next few months, we began a sporadic sexual relationship. Two or three times he stayed with me in New York, and I with him in Los Angeles. The problem was, I did not find him attractive and did not want to have sex with him, yet I continued the relationship. That was a first, and I was angry at him and at myself. And ashamed. I couldn't ascribe my complicity to the thrall of analysis. That was gone. Though I often thought that perhaps there was no time limit on transference. Sadly, the person who could have helped me sort out my feelings was the cause of them. And I didn't feel free to talk to others about the situation. The abuse of power analysts wielded over their patients was still a taboo subject and protected by secrecy. That would soon change, and experiences such as mine would become almost commonplace. But meanwhile, I kept my story to myself and tried to focus on how grateful
I was to him for understanding what it had felt like to be “orphaned.” And for shepherding me through my years at the magazine and through my reconciliation with my mother.

By the time I returned from Kansas City I knew my departure from
Madison Avenue
was imminent. Walter had methodically chipped away at my editorial standards. There would be no meeting of the minds, and grinding out perfunctory fodder to feed the bottom line was not my idea of fun. I lasted a year under the new regime, and in May of '79 I left. During my final weeks, Walter revealed a hearty geniality. I preferred his anger; at least it was sincere. With the help of a lawyer, I reached a satisfactory buyout of my shares. For five years the magazine had been my world, and I left with pride and self-confidence.

So many changes, so fast. I had no plan, only vague ideas of what I might do next. I would write. But what? I would have the time to fall in love. With whom? Instead, I took intensive French at the Alliance Française—that refuge for women at loose ends—read a book a day, scrubbed and polished, tackled Julia Child when the spirit moved, succumbed to TV dinners when it didn't, and obsessed. I basked in Sarah, teeming with vitality and the pleasures of her final years at Trinity. I liked to think she didn't notice my aimlessness. But Clem did, and we spent more time together than we had in recent years.

As with sex and drugs, I was also a late bloomer when it came to the women's movement. I now had time to catch up on what other women had been reading—Germaine Greer, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Simone de Beauvoir—and to rally around congresswoman Bela Abzug and the ERA. Previously, I had remained on the sidelines, a sympathetic witness of women's inequality and the demands for change.

Hell, I was an old hand at men's worlds. I had almost suffocated in the art world. But I was on the fringes, and had come to take it for granted. It was different for women artists in the fifties, when those who were taken seriously by the guys could be counted on one hand. By the seventies, the situation had moderately improved, but . . . As for the boy's club of the advertising agency world, that had remained as immutable as Stonehenge.