Call Girl Confidential (6 page)

I'm sure my grandfather expected Mike to do the right thing and ask me to marry him. I tried to explain in the years that followed why it was better that we never did get married.

A
nd then Mike suddenly left the country on tour. He didn't even tell me. He simply disappeared for months while I was pregnant. It was a harbinger of things to come: he was not going to be around a lot.

One day there was a message on my answering machine. It was him. He was back, he said, and he wanted to meet.

He came over. One of the places he had been to was Japan. He handed me a box. Inside was a little baby-blue kimono. He said, “This is my peace offering. If you will allow me to be part of having this baby, however you would like me to, I would like that to happen.”

Soon it became evident that his contributions would be as tiny as that kimono. He wasn't talking about marrying me, or even living with me.

Our baby would need a crib, a stroller, clothing, and blankets. I'd gotten fired from my job for being pregnant, because I was always sick. Mike wasn't really talking about taking on the financial responsibilities of fatherhood. He was a guy who had been made rich by rock and was living in a penthouse in SoHo. All Mike was really talking about was showing up at a few Lamaze classes.

I was on my own, but then, my sister and I had been fending for ourselves since I was thirteen years old and she was fourteen. I would figure this out.

I got another job right away, at Fox Broadcasting. It paid me only $34,000 a year, but at least it had benefits. I would be covered for prenatal visits and the birth itself, especially if there were any complications during the delivery.

Mike did go to the doctor's appointments when he was in town. He went to the sonograms. But that was it. At thirty-one,
he had not matured. He tried to grow up and act the way he thought a father should, but he was scared to death.

Our beautiful baby daughter was born in early December. On Christmas Eve, three weeks later, Mike came over. While I held our infant in my arms, he presented me with this news:

He said he really didn't know how to handle a child. He said, “I think I'll be a better dad once she can talk.” He said, “I need someone who can have conversations.” He was used to someone cleaning up after him, he said. So how was he going to look after a baby when he couldn't look after himself? He actually described the image of himself holding the baby in one arm and pushing the vacuum in the other and said he just didn't see himself doing that.

But that wasn't all.

“Rebecca,” he said, “you're actually the ‘other girl' in my life. I've been dating somebody else for two and a half years. She lives in Houston. She's a stripper. I'm going to marry her. We are working on moving her up here, and we're looking at houses.”

Merry Christmas.

M
ike actually insisted on taking a paternity test. I said, “Knock yourself out; I know you're Isabella's father.” So did science. The lab results from Mike's DNA test came back 99.999 percent positive that he was her dad. It remained to be seen whether he could be a good one.

She lived with me, and he paid child support, but I supported her by working full-time at Viacom in the Internal Audit department. And I prayed.

Going to a Baptist church four days a week when I was growing up did have an impact on me, and not always a good one. I haven't attended as regularly since I was given freedom.
However, I was and still am a believer. I felt like God and I had a pretty good connection through prayer directly, but there were times when I felt lost and empty, and for some reason going to church with a congregation made me feel better. Now that Isabella was getting older, I sought out a church and found one I liked—but it was Catholic. I had had an aunt and uncle who were Catholic, and when I had stayed with them in Tennessee they brought me to Mass. At this Catholic church in New York, I was given the opportunity to be absolved each week if I truly repented and accepted Christ, instead of being yelled at for my sins when I was asking for forgiveness. I enjoyed Communion. I studied the catechism by going to night classes twice a week and seriously considered converting to become a full practicing Catholic. Living in New York, I thought it would feel so special to have that conversion ceremony take place in St. Patrick's Cathedral. I attended the Church of the Blessed Sacrament regularly, and during the Christmas season I volunteered my time to help with the holiday decorations. It made me feel closer to God, and I also felt it was a way to repent for my sins.

For the first six years of Isabella's life, I raised her almost entirely on my own. I rarely used babysitters, because I felt guilty enough about having to work during the day. My good friend Hana was Isabella's caretaker as a baby when I first went back to work. It was the only reason I felt OK about being away. She loved Isabella even before she was born. My daughter was a mama's girl. At one point we had a garden apartment on the Upper West Side, so we worked in our garden and tended our beautiful hydrangeas with care. She loved it. I got her a pool that was big enough for her to swim around in to cool off in the summer, and we would cook on the grill and sit out under the gazebo that we
put up in the back and wrapped in white Christmas lights. At night it was our private, twinkling oasis. Isabella's favorite thing to do was read, and she would ask me to read stories over and over and over again, never getting tired of them. It was only when she fell fast asleep that we would stop. Before she was taken from my home, when I left work each evening, all I could think about was getting back to my little girl.

One morning a few months shy of Isabella's seventh birthday, Mike called up and said, “My dad's flying in tomorrow morning. I was wondering if I could take Isabella to breakfast with him.” I thought the rare visit with her grandfather would be good for Isabella. “Sure,” I said.

“Also, I got tickets for
Beauty and the Beast
tonight,” he added. “Can I take her to
Beauty and the Beast
? That way I'll have her till tomorrow morning.” I said, “Of course.”

I put Isabella in a beautiful dress and shoes and gave her a little sleepover bag with her pj's and toothbrush in it.

“Have fun, bunny!” I said with a hug as a friend of his picked her up. That's when I should have known something was wrong. He couldn't even face me, knowing what he was about to do.

I was glad for her that night, and after work the next day was anxious to hear how she had enjoyed it. Mike was supposed to bring her back by six o'clock. When I didn't hear from him by seven, I became concerned and called him. I called and called his cell; I called his landline. There was no response.

At first I feared the worst: that a stranger had somehow gotten hold of her and taken her. But Mike's silence was mystifying.

I jumped into a taxi and went over to his building. He didn't have a doorman, so I buzzed his apartment for what seemed like hours. Again no response. That's when I realized it was Mike
who had taken my daughter. I started sobbing right there in the lobby.

It was all premeditated. Mike had planned the kidnapping days in advance, creating the ruse of a visit with her grandfather and a Broadway show.

I went back to my apartment and called the police. I reported that my daughter had been kidnapped by her father. I wanted them to go over and just get her. But they said the only thing they could do was to file a warrant for his arrest and an order for him to produce Isabella in court.

I wasn't certain where my child was for eleven days. Mike wouldn't answer me. The police couldn't help me. Was she with him? Was she distraught and begging to go home? How would she sleep without her favorite things? Without me reading to her from her children's Bible? How would she fall asleep without our lullaby that we sang together each night?

I felt as if I was going absolutely out of my mind. Mike was ten steps ahead of me. He'd gotten lawyered up and had filed in family court for temporary full custody of the child to whom he'd only occasionally paid attention for six years.

In New York, if a person tells the court they believe it is in the best interest of the child, the court gives the child to them, whether the claim is true or false, until a hearing can be held. I simply had no choice but to wait for my day in court. The court informed me that at some point I would be served papers detailing the accusations Mike had made to win that temporary order. Again I waited for those papers so I could know what I was up against. Why was I such a terrible mother that he tore Isabella away from me?

Mike kept Isabella for weeks without letting me see her.
The only thing he would tell me was that she was physically safe.

I continued to go work in the Financial District every day, going through the motions like an automaton, and each night I would go into Isabella's room and lie on her bed and pray. I prayed that God would somehow send her my love and that she would be able to feel it, wherever she was. I thought about all of those people out there who had missing loved ones; I honestly do not know how they get through an entire hour, much less a day. I was devastated. How could it be? How could this possibly be real? I was so worried about Isabella. I was worried about what she was thinking and how she was feeling. Was she scared? What was he telling her? How was he explaining to her that she could not see the one person on whom she had most counted in her life: her mother?

I showed up to the family court building on Lafayette Street. It was the first time I had seen Mike since he took Isabella. I don't think there will ever be words to describe the emotion I felt that day. I felt so small, yet my rage was bigger than that building. I thought for sure, as soon as we got in front of a judge, Mike's claim would all be dismissed. The judge told me that Mike was taking Isabella away from me. Just like that. Mike told me, “You will never have her again.”

Oh, yes I will,
I thought.
You don't know who you're messing with.
I realized I had to get a new lawyer—the best in the business—but how was I going to pay for it?

Mike had his wife's best friend testify that I popped Vicodin and left pills around the house while the friend babysat for me once. I was speechless: How was I supposed to defend myself in front of a person who would say these things in court despite hardly knowing me?

Mike also maintained that an old friend I had in the house was a danger to Isabella. The judge told me that she wouldn't entertain my request for custody “until you are no longer in a position where your current paramour is living with you.”

That “current paramour” wasn't a lover at all. When the custody hearing began in August 2005, I had an old friend—I'll call him Bruce—who had been convicted of and served time for a terrible assault on a woman. He'd served his time and now had nowhere to go. I pitied him. He told me he hadn't committed the crime, and I believed him. I let him stay with us till he got on his feet. Clearly, this was not my smartest move in life. And I do regret it.

Later, one of Mike's exes confided to me that what he really wanted was to stop having to pay me child support. It would be easier on his wallet if his new wife looked after Isabella, supplemented by a cheap nanny who ultimately ended up watching Isabella most of the time, as he was always out nights or away on tour. I do in fact believe that not having to pay child support was Mike's real motivation for going to court, because I did immediately oust Bruce from my house—he was out of there within forty-eight hours—yet Mike still pursued full custody.

One day, in among the bills in my mailbox was a square envelope with a child's lettering on the front: it was Isabella's writing. Inside was a picture she drew of herself crying. Across the top were the words “Mommy, come get me!” There would be more; somehow, the nanny was willing to secretly mail them to me.

Even Mike had to see how miserable she was. He decided I could see her, but what he did next—or what his lawyer
convinced the judge to do—was incredibly cruel. They allowed me to see Isabella, but only on supervised visits. I actually had to pay someone to chaperone me as I spent time with my own daughter. She sat near us and listened to every word. This would happen in our own home or in the park—I had to get her permission to take my own daughter to the park! It was ridiculous and demeaning. Isabella was so young; she didn't know why this third person was there. She just knew she was coming home to be with her mother and her beloved dog, Sally.

They would allow me only two-hour visits twice a week. Isabella and I had to make every single second count. Even getting to and from her dad's place took time. So we'd sing in the cab. We'd do a lot of baking. I gave her a lot of books. Reading was still one of her favorite things to do. She was just happy to curl up with a book and Sally at her feet.

But then it would be time for her to go, and the supervisor would take her from me. These were heartbreaking moments, but I tried to be strong and cheerful for Isabella.

Eventually, Mike decided it was in Isabella's interest to give me more time with her. I got to have her every other weekend and on Wednesdays for dinner.

Even then, the visits had to be overseen by someone we knew. If I took Isabella to a restaurant, her father would have to be sitting at a table nearby—not with us but with his wife or a friend, listening in on our conversations. It was absolutely humiliating, and all about control.

Mike was always claiming that I was being too emotional with Isabella. How could I not be emotional when I missed her so much? After a while I learned to become stoic. I would then go
home and hyperventilate, trying in vain to quell my anxiety. I'd breathe in and out of a paper bag. It just hurt so badly. I began to wonder if this was what my life—what Isabella's life—was going to be like until she was grown. I understand that children are resilient, but she was deeply unhappy.