Both of Us (24 page)

By April 2009, Redmond is in prison, having exhausted the court’s willingness to give him another chance. Though it was heavily covered in the press, by then Farrah was too weak to read the papers herself, and so I would cut out the articles I thought she’d enjoy and read them to her. I made
sure she never saw a word about Redmond’s incarceration. I told her the reason he wasn’t able to visit was because he was in rehab.

It was during this period that Farrah would see her son for the last time. If you’ve seen the documentary, it’s not easy to forget the scene in which Redmond, his feet in shackles, is led into his mother’s bedroom, where he lays his head on her
chest, telling her how much she means to him. As I watched him clinging to his dying mother, a thousand and one snapshots flicked across my memory: Farrah tickling her red-headed toddler as he giggled with glee; little Redmond and his mom snuggled under the covers singing “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf”; Farrah running with her son on the beach, Davey Dog barking and wagging his tail behind them; a long, lean adolescent Redmond shooting hoops with Farrah in the driveway on Antelo. I ached for them both, but especially for Redmond. That final visit with his mom had to have been hard for him in ways you or I can’t imagine.

On May 15 of 2009,
Farrah’s Story
aired on NBC. It will be nominated for an Emmy. We watched it together that night. Farrah couldn’t sit up on her own anymore, so I sat beside her and she leaned on me for support. She compliments the Van Morrison score, teases me by asking who supervised the brilliant editing. Her body is dying while her hydrangea-blue eyes are alight with fierce satisfaction. I will ask her to marry me again and she’ll accept. I’ll buy the ring. The priest at St. John’s Hospital will come to marry us and administer last rights instead.

After the priest leaves, I move the cot I’d been sleeping on these past days away from the bed, lie down next to her, wrap my body around her to keep her warm, and then take her hand. I can feel a steady pulse. Her oncologist Dr. Piro comes into the room and says, “I had hoped I would never have to say this, but I think we should let her go.”

“We need some time,” I say. And Dr. Piro leaves us alone. I caress her hand for hours. Her heart refuses to quit. I feel someone patting my shoulder. Dr. Piro’s whisper tells me, “It’s time to remove the IV; the nourishment is just feeding the cancer. There is no possibility of recovery anymore.” I watch a nurse take the needle out of Farrah’s arm, and she’s careful to put a Band-Aid over the puncture just as she would with a healthy patient. I can hear the wheels of the IV stand being rolled out of the room. Dr. Piro says to me, “It may take some time and I know you want to stay with her.” I’m left alone with my love. I take her hand. I can still feel her pulse, but now it is fluttering. She’s trying to let go. Her heartbeat slows, then disappears. On the morning of June 25, Farrah slips into eternal sleep.

I don’t remember that long walk down the corridor as I made my way out of the hospital. All I recall is being accosted by media the moment I stepped outside. I can still hear the clicking of flashbulbs, and a hundred questions being hurled at me from all sides. I push my way through and get into my car. I’m in a daze. I can’t think. I go to her condo on Wilshire. I walk into the bedroom and lie on the cool, crisp sheets. Draped across a chair are a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, probably her outfit for a next morning that never came. Her hairbrush is sitting on the dresser, strands of her exquisite golden locks reflecting from the sunlight streaming in through the window. It’s as if she’s still there and will be breezing in at any moment. I close my eyes and
gather my courage for the phone call that I’m so terribly reluctant to make but know I must. I dial the prison where Redmond is incarcerated. I ask for the chaplain, who then brings Red to the phone. I tell him that his mom is gone. He’s silent for a moment, and then I hear a sob. I ache that I’m not there with him, but visiting day is on Sunday and by then Farrah’s passing will have been all over the media and I didn’t want our son to learn of his mother’s death from a radio broadcast or a television news show, or a guard.

I
n the days and weeks following Farrah’s death, some of the journalists who had been cruel to my family in the past crossed the line into the perverse.
Vanity Fair
suggested the unthinkable, that I had come on to my own daughter. It was an innocent private joke between Tatum and me. The only people in the world who understood its
context were the two of us. Ever since she was a little girl, Tatum and I would play this game pretending we’d just met. It was silly and sweet. So at the funeral I greeted her with my line from our little act to let her know how much I loved her and that I still remembered, despite the difficulties between us. I was worried she’d feel uncomfortable at the funeral and I wanted to try to make her smile, if only for a moment. Someone apparently overheard me and said I didn’t recognize my own daughter.
Vanity Fair
twisted the incident to enhance an already scathing story. And when the press asked Tatum about it, instead of contradicting the magazine’s version, she fed the fire. It was humiliating, but what hurt most was that my daughter would let the media turn something cherished between us into a tawdry headline without a second thought. I considered trying to set the record straight myself, but I didn’t think anyone would believe me.

Then Griffin would appear on
Larry King Live
for a final bravado performance, the same old lies, just different names and dates. He can no longer make me angry, only sad.

As the months passed and the tide of media coverage began to recede, I just wanted to hide away at the beach house and mourn in peace. But I had Redmond, who needed me desperately, and I was under contract for
Bones
. And Farrah would be furious with me if I let the ache of losing her dilute my spirit. I had let her down too often when she was alive. I couldn’t again now that she was gone. I decided
to write this book both as a tribute to Farrah and to honor our life together. I didn’t expect I’d open up the way that I have in these pages, but the further I got into the research and writing, the more I realized I needed to tell the full story, not some fairy-tale version that wouldn’t have the richness of the truth.

Red and I, trying to hold it together in the wake of the greatest loss of our lives.

That’s why I’ve included the document below. I didn’t come across it until I was more than halfway through the book. It’s in Farrah’s handwriting, scribbled across the margins of one of my journal entries, which I wrote before going to sleep on the night that she caught me with Leslie. She must have written it only days later when she was at the beach house packing up her things or maybe picking up Redmond.

She was so upset that she got the date wrong. It was
February 18.

Maybe if I had seen her note the day she wrote it, maybe if I had never gotten involved with Leslie, if, if, if … I lament the years we wasted because this note remained hidden. Why couldn’t I have found it before she died so I could have told her that if I had to do it all over again, I would do everything differently!

I
’m sitting in my bedroom in Malibu, watching a movie I last saw twenty-five years ago. The moon’s light reflects off the ocean and through my windows. I’m rapt, sometimes shaking my head, amused, other times saluting the actors for a scene that is fully convincing. I’m not blind to the obvious ironies, the occasional triteness, but the depth of meaning is inescapable. There is good reason all those girls and women cried before their jaded friends told them they had been manipulated. There is a reason
Love Story
remains one of the most popular movies ever: while premature death may be a dramatic cliché, it is also half of all human unhappiness. That is why a generation wept, and why after losing my mate too soon, I will not go into that long good night without a fight.

My dazzling girl. This shot, used in the program at her memorial, captures her love of life.

Before Farrah died, she created the Farrah Fawcett Foundation, currently administered by Alana Stewart, her longtime friend and colleague. The Farrah Fawcett Foundation’s mission is to provide funding for alternative methods of cancer research.

Tatum and I continue to struggle toward the light.

Redmond lives his life one day at a time.

Patrick is entering his twelfth year as a sportscaster with Fox Sports West and Prime Ticket.

I wish Griffin well.

This book would never have been possible without the care, support, and faith of the following people:

David Pinsky, Keith Sunde, Alexandra Ferick, Stephanie Lynn, Mela Murphy, Alana Stewart, Dr. Annie Harvilicz, Bernie Francis, Kim Swartz and his wife, Megan Blake, Sylvia and Tommy Dorsey, Marcia Packard, Patrick O’Neal, the staff at the Malibu Beach Inn, Dee Salinas, Melissa Skolek, Dr. Lawrence Piro, Arnold Robinson—and Mozart.

And special thanks to Nan Talese.

And also Suzanne O’Neill and Tina Constable, my editor and my publisher at Crown Archetype.

Also thanks to the rest of the Archetype team: Anna Thompson, Campbell Wharton, Tammy Blake, Meredith McGinnis, Cindy Berman, Laura Duffy, Kevin Garcia, and Barbara Sturman.

And, of course, my coauthors, Jodee Blanco and Kent Carroll.

This photo was taken around 1950 when Farrah was three years old. You could see that legendary beauty in her even then.

My brother and I in our birthday best with Mom and Dad.

Griffin, Farrah, and I in happier times, at the Pierre Hotel in New York for the premiere of Griffin’s movie,
The Escape Artist.
This photo was taken in 1982.

Patrick and I when he was a teen. The handsome kid has become a handsome man.

Yours truly with Farrah and my “ma” and “da.” What I remember most about my parents is their wonderful marriage, how deeply they loved each other.

One of my favorite photos of Tatum and me. She was about ten here. I was in my early thirties.

Tatum and Griffin. Brother and sister remain close to this day. This shot would have been taken when they were middle-school age.

My brood and I at Farrah’s house on Antelo on my forty-second birthday. From left to right, Tatum, me, Griffin, and Patrick.

Adoring mom and baby in their pajamas.

The proud grandfather Jimbo, his daughter Farrah, new grandson Redmond, and grandmother Pauline. This shot was taken in April 1985.

Farrah, our son, and Tatum.

One of my favorite photos of the two sisters together.