A Not-So-Simple Life (3 page)

But all that aside, he’s pretty caught up in his recently revived singing career. It’s all he thinks about. Even when he e-mails me, which is seldom, he only tells me about how great it is being onstage again. I know it was tough being a has-been all these years. Sure, he’d play an occasional nightclub and a gig here and there in some of the second-rate Las Vegas casino hotels. But as someone who was a big pop star in the eighties and pretty much a nobody in the nineties, he’s more than a little excited to be booking real concerts now. Consequently, he’s busy. Too busy to be bugged by his gloomy teenage daughter complaining about her miserable little life. Although I suppose I could e-mail him and remind him to send money. At least that might make Shannon happy.

For some reason I think of my cousin again, remembering the time Kim asked me, “Why do you call your mom ‘Shannon’?”

I think I sort of shrugged and probably rolled my eyes, like, Why not? But she wasn’t satisfied with that response.

“Don’t you ever call her Mom?” she persisted.

“Not since my dad left.”

“When was that?”

I explained that I’d been around seven and that there’d been a big fight and that Shannon had been the instigator and that she’d probably been high or drunk or something. “So you couldn’t really blame him for leaving. She might’ve killed him.”

“Wow, that must’ve been rough.”

“Pretty much.” I pretended to be mesmerized by an article about recycling during this conversation. Playing my familiar role of “earth girl,” I was reading some green magazine that I’d picked up at the mall.

“Do you see him very often?”

I set my magazine down and gave Kim my best impatient look. “He’s busy.” I spoke to her like I was explaining something to a five-year-old. “His career is taking off again, and he has his hands full right now.” Well, that pretty much shut her up, at least for the time being. It wasn’t very nice, but it was the best I could do, considering that I wanted to tear into her. I wanted to yell and cry and carry on like a toddler,
pointing out that not all parents are like her parents and that maybe she should just keep her mouth shut about me and my mixed-up family, thank you very much! But at least I knew better. I was, after all, a guest in their home.

Speaking of their home, it was like something out of an old family sitcom. I mean, the rooms screamed “middle-class America” like nothing I’d ever seen before in real life. At first I wanted to make fun of it, but then I actually started to like it. The frumpy and slightly worn furniture started to feel homey and rather comforting—kind of like a pair of broken—in Earth Shoes or a much—laundered pair of well—worn jeans. Shannon thought it was a silly little house—and she even said as much in front of Kim and her dad—but the place really grew on me. And I was touched to see that my aunt had been a gardener too. I felt a real connection with Patricia—something I never told anyone and probably never will…except for right here in the pages of this journal.

And when it was time to return to California, I felt very sad. Not that I let on. Over the years I have become quite a pro at concealing my feelings. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could be an actress. Not that I’d ever want to. Seriously, I can’t think of anything more revolting. I would rather clean public toilets or sell faux designer purses on the sidewalk or, God forbid, flip hamburgers at McDonald’s!

But as I sit here in my stuffy little attic room, I can’t help but wish I were someone else…living somewhere else…with
a different set of parents…and perhaps a friend or two. Unfortunately, I just don’t think that’s going to happen.

On another note, or perhaps simply as a distraction to my never-ending troubles, how about another earth-friendly suggestion for my someday green column. Sometimes I feel that caring about the planet is the only positive force in my entire life. Anyway, for what it’s worth…

S
hannon is gone again. This time she’s been gone for three days. For all I know she could be dead. Now some people might think that I’d be glad if she was aead, but the truth is I wouldn’t. I actually love my mom. I guess I just wish she loved me. And okay, I know she does…in her own dysfunctional way.

I’m sitting in her bedroom right now, perched on the worn cushion of the window seat, and writing in my journal. Shannon would be furious if she knew I was in here. Her bedroom is the one place in our house that is strictly off-limits to everyone, including me.

“It’s my private oasis,” she told me one day when I was very little and had wandered in. At the time I probably didn’t know what that meant, but I heard it enough later to put two and two together. That was back when I had a full-time nanny, a sweet older woman named Jane. And as I recall, her skin was the same color as my dad’s and just a few shades darker than my own. I had somehow escaped Nanny Jane’s watchful eye that day, making it up the curving
staircase and into my parents’ bedroom. Correction—Shannon’s bedroom. My dad had another room at the other end of the hallway, but I don’t think I was aware of that yet. Back then my bedroom was downstairs, connected to Nanny Jane’s room. And until that day, the first floor had been my entire world. Well, that and going outside for walks or playing in the yard. Going up the stairs was a whole new experience. But when I found I was unwelcome, I didn’t go up again. Not for a few years anyway.

Now, as I look around my mom’s “private oasis,” I am surprised at how shabby and dirty it has become. The first time I saw this room, it seemed to sparkle with glistening gilt-framed mirrors and the shining glass-topped surfaces of polished antique furnishings, delicately arrayed with cut-crystal bottles of what I assume was perfume—or perhaps liquor. The room might’ve belonged to a fairy princess. Those were the days when we not only had a nanny but a housekeeper and a cook as well. The cook’s name was Francesca, and the housekeeper was Rosa. I loved them all. And I actually thought they were part of our family. Probably because I saw them more than my parents.

But by the time I was five, the money was running out. Dad’s records weren’t selling, and no one was calling for gigs. This led to lots of fights between my parents, and one by one, Francesca, Rosa, and Nanny Jane all disappeared. I’m not sure if they quit or were fired. I just know that they
all left within a very short period of time…and that I missed them desperately. Especially Nanny Jane. She was the only one who actually told me good-bye. And even when she did, I couldn’t believe she was never coming back.

“You’re too old for a nanny,” my mom had told me. Then when my dad questioned this, along with her ability to care for her own child, it resulted in a huge fight. I didn’t stick around to listen to the accusations tossed back and forth, but I heard them enough times over the next couple of years to learn them by heart. She would tell him he was a “washed-up, has-been blankity-blank,” and he would point out that she was a “blanking useless blank.” Nice things like that. The only thing I could count on between those two was that things would get worse.

I find it ironic that Shannon still keeps photos of my dad, although they are only displayed in her room. It does seem a bit odd, considering how she claims to hate his guts. In fact, she even keeps a handgun in here somewhere, and I’ve heard her say she might use it on him someday. To be fair, she only makes this claim when she’s intoxicated or coming down from a bad high…or when he’s extra late sending money. Over the years I’ve learned not to take her threats too seriously.

My favorite photo in here was taken when I was six. And although life at home was pretty messed up by then, you wouldn’t know it to look at this picture. It was taken at the
studio where my dad always had his album covers shot, and for some unknown reason, Shannon wanted a family photo. I think it was because she was about to turn forty, or so she claimed. Anyway, she insisted we dress up. Although the glass covering the photo is coated with dust, I can see that Dad had on a dark gray suit with a pale blue shirt and a striped tie. And he looks incredibly handsome. But it’s his smile that gets me. It looks so genuine, and his eyes are so bright and clear, like he was really happy. It’s the same expression I used to see when he’d pick me up and lift me high over his head and fly me around the yard like Peter Pan.

Shannon looks surprisingly happy too. She was wearing a gauzy, pale pink dress with what I think were real diamonds, long gone by now. She seems so dainty and delicate—pale blond hair as fluffy as cotton candy and her wide blue eyes with several coats of mascara to make the lashes appear thick and long. Or maybe she had on false eyelashes. She does that sometimes. But the general effect reminds me of a fairy princess, the type of person who might have once inhabited this room, back when it looked magical too.

And there I am, sitting in front of them, right in the middle of the photo. I was also wearing a pink dress. And I’m the only one in the photo not smiling. Not that I am frowning exactly. It’s more a look of wonderment—or perhaps I was feeling hopeful, as if I thought that getting this happy family photo taken was a good omen for us. If so, I was wrong.
I study my dress, trying to remember how the fabric felt. It was soft cotton with rosebuds embroidered along the hem, probably a Laura Ashley. And although the dress was sweet, it wasn’t nearly as pretty or as pale a pink as Shannon’s. And of course, my hair, eyes, and skin were not as pale as hers either. I know I am a combination of my parents—part Caucasian and part African American-yet it’s my dad’s black heritage that I’ve related to most over the years. In many ways Shannon feels like a stranger to me.

And as I notice my reflection in one of the many mirrors in this room, I realize that I look like a stranger in here too. I stand out against the pale blue walls, and my overalls look dark and out of place against the faded blue and white fabric of the window seat. Everything, from my curly, dark brown hair to my almost-black eyes to my “almond-colored complexion,” as Shannon calls it, does not belong in my mother’s bedroom. I am too dark. I don’t look a bit like my mother’s daughter.

I wonder if that’s part of the reason she sometimes seems to despise me. Yet it was her choice to marry my father. Although occasionally I wonder if she married his fame and fortune as much as she married him. Because once that was gone, or appeared to be gone, she seemed to despise him as well. Or maybe she simply despises herself.

I wonder where she is right now…and if she’s okay. Although I seriously doubt she is “okay.” Not in the real sense
of the word. I guess the most I can hope for is that she’s alive. I’m tempted to e-mail my dad again. This time I would tell him the truth—that Shannon is a mess, that she’s doing drugs again, that she’s been gone for three days, and that I’m almost out of money (from my secret stash I keep hidden from her). But I’m afraid it will upset him to hear these things. And it’s important for him to stay focused just now. He’s mentioned several times how vital it is for him to invest all of himself and all of his energy and talent into his career right now. I don’t want to be the reason he fails; that would ruin everything for all of us.

I look at an old photo of my dad. It’s on Shannon’s bedside table, partially buried amid the clutter piled around it—old dusty magazines, empty prescription bottles, a Jack Daniel’s bottle on its side, and a couple of dirty glasses next to it, along with a lacy black bra that’s seen better days. I’m tempted to do some cleaning in here, but that would only create more trouble when Shannon comes home. If she comes home, that is.

Anyway, I study Dad’s picture. It must’ve been a publicity photo because it’s a head-and-shoulders shot with his chin tilted slightly down. He has a partial smile, and those sparkling dark eyes seem to be holding a little something back—a secret perhaps. I’m sure this was taken when Nick Stark was at the height of his career, when his name was a household word and his albums were selling like hot cakes.
Probably before I was born, back when my parents thought the money would never stop pouring in.

As I look at this shot, I can see why Shannon might’ve truly fallen in love with my dad. It could’ve had as much to do with his looks and charm and wit and generosity as his fame and fortune. Anyway, I’d like to think that.

It’s hard to believe that so much was lost—and over a relatively short time too, although it seemed longer back when I was little. But after the final fight and my dad moving out, our standard of living plunged steadily. I realize that both my parents are to blame for this. My dad, depressed and angry over the breakup of his marriage, became increasingly reckless and irresponsible with his finances. According to Shannon, he squandered millions. But I think that’s an exaggeration—and probably her way of getting the spotlight off her and all the money she wasted on cocaine. For all I know, that could’ve been millions too.

Shannon used to blame Dad for her addiction problems, and I suppose that’s partially true since he admitted to me that it was one of his music connections who originally brought cocaine into our home. But the truth of the matter is, Nick Stark has always avoided drugs, even marijuana—a habit Shannon didn’t attempt to hide from anyone. Whether it was in our backyard or the living room, my mom wasn’t afraid to just light up when the mood hit her. “It soothes my
shattered nerves,” she would say to anyone who questioned her. As if her lifestyle was so very stressful.

Of course, this aggravated my dad. His father was also a musician—and a heroin addict, who died young. I believe that put a genuine fear into Dad’s heart, because to this day he abhors all drugs. I guess my only question is, why does he knowingly allow me to remain with a woman who uses and abuses substances like cocaine and amphetamines? But I know the answer, and it’s threefold: (1) there’s a lot of denial going on, (2) my dad does not like to engage in any unnecessary conflict with Shannon, and (3) he’s just too busy.