Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir (35 page)

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Authors: Melissa Francis

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #Entertainment & Performing Arts

BOOK: Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir
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“So this happened before?” I asked Dad as we walked out onto the roof deck.
Tiffany had gone into the guest bedroom to lie down. Mom was watching television in the living room with Marilyn. They were whispering to each other and shaking their heads. Dad and I had decided to go up on the roof deck so Dad could smoke.
There was no railing around the perimeter of the deck, which made me feel like the slightest breeze could push me over the edge to my death. From where we stood, we had a staggering 360-degree view of one of the most gorgeous scenes in America, from the swarms of tourists buzzing through the shops of Fisherman’s Wharf straight in front of us, to the Golden Gate Bridge slicing through the clouds to the northwest, to the high-priced homes that perched in judgment atop Russian Hill behind us.
Dad took a drag from his cigarette as his eyes slowly moved across the landscape.
“God, I think I could live up on this roof. It’s so peaceful,” he said wistfully.
I felt for him. I knew it cut through his heart to watch Tiffany struggle like this. He saw himself as a man who could solve problems, though he tended to wait until the house had almost burned to the ground before he went looking for a bucket.
“This happened in rehab at New House, in Ventura. They called and told us afterward. They said it was pretty normal when your body is used to a steady diet of alcohol and you suddenly stop drinking. She’s got other problems too. With her pancreas. She’s done a lot of damage to her body,” he said, taking another drag.
This news was a lot to take in. I knew plenty of people who seemed to drink gallons of vodka or liquor or whatever and lived long lives. How could my sister have done such serious damage to her body when she was barely thirty? Even if she had, I still wondered if the real problem was in her head, not her body. I felt like the older she got, the more volatile her moods had become.
“But have they looked at anything else?” I asked.
“What do you mean? Besides her pancreas?” he said.
“No. I mean . . . I was looking at stuff online, and on WebMD. Do you think she’s bipolar?” I ventured.
“What does that mean?” he asked, flicking the ashes of his cigarette away from me, where they fluttered through the air before landing on the rooftop, blending in with the tarpaper beyond the edge of the deck.
I had been thinking about this since Tiffany had gone into rehab, and wondered how to bring it up with either of my parents.
“Well, it means she has sort of pronounced highs and lows. Lots of energy, and then none,” I explained.
“That’s the alcohol,” Dad said.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I thought about that. But when I think about the way she acts, the way she’s
always
acted. Really happy, or really agitated, like wired, frantic. Then other times, so depressed. Totally drained.”
“That doesn’t sound like Tiffany,” he said quickly.
“Seriously?” I replied. I took a breath and eased back before continuing. “Didn’t you tell me she got up in the middle of the night? You heard all these pots and pans crashing because she was cleaning out the kitchen and cooking all this food at like three in the morning? Turned the entire place upside down? One night, not too long before the wedding,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem like she goes from jumping out of her skin to lifelessly depressed?”
“I don’t know. Most of her problems have to do with Mom riding her all the time. If Mom could lay off, Tiffany could relax. I could relax. Hell, you escaped. Ran away.” He laughed.
I smiled, accepting the jab.
“I think I need to get her away from Mom,” he said, staring off into the distance.
“Yes, Mom makes it worse for sure. They are like oil and water. But I’m not sure Mom’s the root of the problem. I think Tiffany needs therapy and medication to beat a chemical imbalance. I’m talking about the kind of thing that’s genetic. Chemical. It’s no one’s fault. If you started there, she might still have a chance at a normal life.”
“I’m not sure your theory is right . . .” He protested.
“Neither am I. Obviously. You’re right. I’m playing amateur therapist because I read too much. So ask a professional. I’m sure there are tests or evaluations that can help.”
He didn’t respond.
“What if a medication could do half the work for her? How great would that be?” I pressed.
He raised his eyebrows and nodded, dragging on the cigarette until it was all but gone. Then he flicked it over the edge of the roof and thrust both his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.
“There’s more going on though,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. You had so much on your plate with you and Wray pulling up stakes and moving out west. And it’s hard to really talk on the phone,” he said, meeting my eye for a second and then returning his eyes to the water line.
“We’re broke,” he said shaking his head. “Mom spent everything. On the house, on the furniture, on silly pillows and fancy dishes, stupid fucking tchotchkes, on the wedding . . . on whatever!” He rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in disbelief.
“I’m making money,” he continued, “but I had no idea of the size of the bills she was racking up. I mean, it’s a mountain. Now there are medical bills for Tiffany piling up on top of everything.” He paused, letting it sink in.
I had heard him talk like this a few times while I was growing up, but he was always ready with a solution.
“I don’t see any way to get ahead of it. We can’t use the house as a piggy bank like we did when this happened before, refinancing and taking equity out to pay the bills. The math on that doesn’t work now because the new house is worth too damn much, and we already owe a lot. Even if we qualify for another loan, we can’t make a bigger payment,” he explained.
“So what’s the answer? What does that mean?” I asked. My mind was racing to a solution, and I could only see one.
“We have to sell the house, cash out. Pay off the loan, pay off the other debt, downsize. Take what’s left, find another place to live, and live within our means. For once!” he said, nostrils flaring.
“It’s hard to imagine Mom doing that,” I said, rubbing my forehead and temples.
The news of my parents’ financial straits coupled with Tiffany’s seizure was too much crisis for me to handle in one day. A migraine was blooming quickly and I could see the spots starting to form in my line of vision.
“Ha! What do you think Mom said?” Dad asked scornfully. “It’s my fault. I’m not working hard enough, I should be making more money. Tiffany should be working. Everyone but her, right? Have you ever noticed that Mom has never had a job in your lifetime?” he cracked.
“Yes, in fact, I have noticed that. She always said she would scrub floors to take care of us if need be, but I don’t think I ever saw her clean a floor, or much of anything else, the whole time I was growing up. She’d call the housekeeper,” I replied with a laugh.
Dad laughed too, welcoming a break in the continuing flow of bad news. “Right, well, to be fair, she drove you to all those auditions. Sat on the set and taught you your lines. She’s not qualified to do anything now. She didn’t go to college. Who would hire her?”
“So she can’t work as a receptionist at a doctor’s office? She can’t work in retail? She can’t work at Nordstrom’s? She can’t file at some office? I don’t buy it,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I’ve worked my whole entire life,” I drilled on. “From day one. In commercials, at restaurants. I worked in the kitchen at my dorm when she said she wouldn’t give me money so I could be a summer intern for the
Today
show. I was tech support for Harvard Business School for three years to save money so I could afford to take a crappy job producing local news after graduation. I have never
not
worked. In my whole, entire life.”
Dad nodded, fishing for another cigarette.
I wasn’t done. “Everyone can work. It’s liberating. If you are willing to work hard, there’s a restaurant, there’s a store. It may not be the job you want or the wage you want . . .”
I was angry now. My rage at the stew of helplessness and inaction that saturated our family bubbled to the surface as our problems finally came to a boil.
“Well, she can’t earn enough doing anything to make a difference, or to pay the mortgage, or to make a dent in the debt,” he resolved.
I wanted to say that if Mom were working, she wouldn’t be spending, and she might feel better about herself and not dig so deep into me and now Tiffany, but we were heading into the weeds now, and settling nothing.
So I stopped.
And we both just looked quietly into the abyss.
 
 
My family returned to L.A. after only a few days. Tiffany was spent and exhausted and wanted to get back to her own bed.
 
 
I settled in to a new reporting job in San Francisco. An Internet company hired me to report on tech and financial news for their website. It was the height of the dot-com craze, and everyone at the company was under thirty and sure they’d be able to retire on their options within a few years. Some of the older employees who’d been in news for a while saw the stock as a gift from Jesus and quickly cashed out.
At the same time, Wray worked from before dawn until late into the night trying to manage a portfolio of assets. I didn’t see that much of him.
I had a hard time getting Tiffany to come to the phone when I called my family, but I talked to Mom and Dad separately every few days and their account of current events varied wildly. The only common theme was the descent into chaos.
 
 
“Hey, how are you guys,” I asked Mom. I’d called from my desk during lunch. I thought I’d get the day’s update out of the way while I ate a sandwich.
“I guess we’re selling the house. We got an offer that was way too low,” she moaned.
“What do you mean too low?” I asked.
“Well, it was barely above the asking price,” she said dismissively, but not without a hint of pride. Another phenomenon of the dot-com economy: offers that exceeded the asking price.
“Above the ask? That sounds good to me. How much?”
“It’s almost double what we paid! Once again, I’ve made a brilliant real estate investment for this family, and I made us a lot of money,” she said with a sigh.
I didn’t point out the fact that she’d pre-spent that profit on porcelain knickknacks.
“That’s great. Are you going to accept it?” I asked.
“Then where will we go?” she said.
“You have to find another place. Downsize,” I said.
“Oh, that’s easy for you to say. You’re married to Wray. I’m married to your father,” she sniped.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, disgusted by her self-pity over a situation of her own making.
“If I sell this, and take the profit, it’s just gone. We pay our bills, then what? Soon we’ll have nothing left,” she said, blurting out the obvious. “We should hang on to the house and watch it go up further. Or buy another house and do it again.”
“But I think it’s going to be a challenge to make the payments going forward, right?” I pointed out.
“That’s your father’s job,” she said.
“Why don’t you manage kids? You’ve always been great at show business,” I suggested. “You could make some real money. I never understood why you didn’t do that.”
“Because I only ever wanted to make
you
a star. Both of you. I don’t want to do that for some stranger. Share that magic with someone outside the family,” she said.
That was her standard answer, whenever this idea had been suggested.
“I don’t know what else to tell you. You can buy something smaller and make it beautiful. You already have all the stuff,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
“How’s Tiffany?” I continued.
“Hopeless,” she said.
“Come on. How is she feeling? Is she around? Can I talk to her?” I asked.
“She’s not here. She’s polluted her body with God knows what all these years. Everything she could get her hands on, I guess. My baby. She was such a beautiful little girl. What happened? The doctor says her pancreas is shot. They are going to try some medications. She never feels well.” She trailed off. “She’s at the doctor with your father now.”
“You didn’t go with them?” I asked.
“No. I don’t feel well either. I’m losing my house,” she said.
Click.
 
 
A few days later, I called home and got Dad.
“Hey,” I said when he answered.
“Hi, baby. How are you?” he said.
“Pretty good. How are you guys? How’s Tiffany?” I asked.
“She’s not so good. She spent last night in the hospital. She’s home now resting. She was in a lot of pain, so we took her to Dr. Lewis and they admitted her for some tests. I didn’t want to call you late and worry you. I know you and Wray have a lot going on.”

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