How to Cook Your Daughter (23 page)

We had planned to take the girls to the Metropolitan Museum of Art that afternoon. I thought it was unfair for them to sit at home waiting for a phone call. So we made our way to the number 6 train and headed to Eighty-sixth Street. Just as we crossed Fifth Avenue and walked toward the main entrance of the museum, my cell phone rang. The number came up as 1111111111. Could it be my father?

“Hello?” I answered reluctantly. The voice on the other end said his name was Sonny Kleinfield and that he was from the
Times
. He sounded so unassuming that I feared I'd been passed on to someone junior. I had no idea that he was one of the
Times
' best, most experienced investigative reporters, and that he would turn out to be, as one of his colleagues later noted, “the instrument of providence.”

“When could we talk, Jessica? I can meet you somewhere, or you can come here. Whatever you prefer.”

“What about tomorrow morning? That would be the best time for me.”

“I was hoping we could meet today.”

“It's just that I am on my way to the museum with my daughters….”

I saw my mother making gestures at me.

“I'm sorry. Can you hold on one second?”

“Sure,” Sonny said.

I put my hand over the phone and turned toward my mother. “What?”

“Jessica, I'll take the girls to the Met. Go and meet this guy if he wants to meet now. You need to get this over with.”

“But look what I'm wearing!” I had on shorts and a tank top.

“Just say you will meet him. No one in New York dresses in the summer.”

“But I don't have my notes or anything.” I had been trying to anticipate the interview by writing down some thoughts.

“You don't need notes.”

“But I'm not prepared!”

“Jessica….” My mother looked straight into my eyes. “You have been preparing for this your whole life. Just tell the guy the truth.”

I took my hand off the phone.

“I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. I can come now. My mother is going to take my girls.”

“Okay. Where would you like to meet?”

For a second I had an image from some 1940s movie. “Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Kleinfield,” I would say in a deep, raspy voice. The reality was I had no idea where to meet. At that moment I felt incapable of remembering a single diner or coffee shop in the entire city.

“I'll come to the
Times
building. It's easier.”

“Great. Call from downstairs when you get here. I'll come and get you.”

We hung up, and I turned to my mom. “I'm going to meet him at his office.”

“Good,” she said.

“I just worry that I look like a complete flake coming to the
New York Times
building in shorts!” I looked myself over. “And a tank top! Mom, what if he thinks I'm not credible?”

My mother took off the Ann Taylor cardigan she had slung over her shoulder, drew my arms into it, and buttoned the sweater over my tank top. It was like she was dressing me for the first day of school.

“Here. Now go.”

I was nervous as I kissed her and the girls good-bye and took the steps into the subway.

As I emerged twenty minutes later on Forty-second Street, I imagined meeting my father coming out of the news buildings around Times Square, having just given an interview about
Father Joe
. Or perhaps he would be coming from a leisurely lunch with his agent during which they discussed the size of the checks they would both be receiving if
Father Joe
stayed on the bestseller lists. I felt like a traitor to him.

I walked in the lobby of the
Times
building, and the security guard, large and gruff with a big mustache, greeted me. I called up to Sonny in the newsroom. He said he'd be right down to get me.

I paced in the lobby and tugged at the legs of my shorts, trying to make them seem longer. I wished I was wearing a nice pants suit (I didn't even
own
one, but never mind). Finally, a fair, slight man came out of the elevator wearing jeans and discreetly holding a notepad and pen.

“I'm Sonny Kleinfield,” he said, extending his hand.

“I'm Jessica Hendra,” I said, shaking it.

“Do you want to go and talk in the cafeteria here or out somewhere?”

“I don't know,” I said somewhat sheepishly. I mean, what was the best spot for denouncing your father?

“Let's just go to the cafeteria.”

“Fine.”

Sonny signed me in, and I followed him to the elevators.

“I'm sorry I'm so casually dressed. I was expecting to be taking two small children around the hot city today.” I sounded a bit shaky.

“Don't worry about that,” he said. “No one in New York dresses in the summer.” Mom was right.

Sonny and I took the elevator to the cafeteria and chitchatted about the security in the building since September 11. When we got there, I excused myself and went into the ladies room to splash some cold water on my face and pull myself together. Sonny waited patiently, and when we walked into the cafeteria together, we stopped for coffee.

Do I pay or does he pay?
I felt I should offer, but strangely, I didn't want him to think I was buying him off. Sonny paid. Then he asked me where I wanted to sit. I chose a table at the very back of the cafeteria. Even though I was about to tell more than a million readers of the
New York Times
what my father had done, on that day I didn't want anyone but Sonny to hear my story. It was as though I had blocked out the reality of what I was doing and still treasured the illusion of privacy. I took one sip of the coffee, gagged slightly, and left the rest to get cold on the table.

I wish I could remember all the questions Sonny asked me or even how he began his interview. I only recall how nervous I felt and how skillfully Sonny drew the story out of me. He didn't push me into saying anything, and he was considerate of the difficult details of my past. I don't even remember when I realized he was taking furious notes. I just remember telling him my story, as clearly as I could. And objec
tively, even. Despite all that had happened, I felt I needed to be fair-minded. The truth, after all, was on my side.

“I have the piece you sent to the Op-Ed page,” he told me. “You talk about what happened with your dad in great detail in it. I'm not going to ask you to recount all that again right now. But is it okay for me to just quote from what you have already written?”

“Yes. That would be much easier for me.” I felt relieved. “Thank you.”

We talked for more than three hours, and Sonny sympathetically scrutinized everything I said. It seemed as though he believed me but needed to be sure. And who could blame him for being skeptical? I had come to the paper on my own volition. I had initiated this. And I was increasingly aware that I was taking a huge risk. Sonny might believe me. Or he might not.

He asked if he could talk to Kurt, my friends, and two therapists—Dr. Shaffer and the woman I was currently seeing in Los Angeles, Dr. Tracy Studdard. And also to my mother. I promised to call him with a list of numbers from my phone book after I got back to Mom's apartment. I also said I'd ask my mother if she would consent to an interview. But I cautioned him that Kathy “wasn't going to want to get involved.”

Sonny also wanted to see the e-mails my father and I had exchanged after
Father Joe
came out. And as I had over and over again since that day, he bemoaned the fact that I had destroyed the letters my father had sent me ten years ago, when I was in therapy for my anorexia.

“Does your dad know you're talking to me?” I knew Sonny would ask. I felt awkward about my dad not knowing and answered, simply, “No.”

“You know that I will have to contact your father later in the process.” Sonny seemed so matter-of-fact about it, so clinical.

“Of course you will,” I said. “You should. You have to.” I'm sure he didn't need to be reminded. “I understand that.”

“What do you think he will say?”

I had asked myself that very question since I thought about doing this. “I don't know,” and I didn't. “I can't imagine he could deny it….” Not exactly true; I could
imagine
it. Vividly. “But I guess he will.”

“Yes,” Sonny answered, “I guess he will.”

We exchanged e-mails and phone numbers and agreed to talk soon.

I walked from the
Times
building and onto Forty-third Street. The late afternoon sun still blazed but with a tad less intensity. I even felt a very slight breeze. I called my mother on my cell phone. She had arranged for us to have dinner at a friend's apartment that evening. I didn't ask what excuse she had given our hostess for me being so late.

“How was it?” she asked quietly.

“It was fine. Hard. Very hard. But fine.”

I told her I'd make my way to the Upper East Side to meet her. “It may take me awhile. I really need a walk.”

I ducked into a Starbucks for a decent cup of coffee and spotted a stack of the
New York Times
at the counter.
In a few days, my story might be sitting there, for sale in this very Starbucks.
I wasn't sure what to think about that. It just felt…strange.

I walked to East Eighty-second Street—wandered, really, past buildings and stores that seemed familiar.
I guess this made sense
, I thought.
To come back to New York to tell my story
.

My mother buzzed me into her friend's apartment building, and when I came out of the elevator, we had a muffled conference about how we “would talk about it later.” I stepped into the living room where the girls were playing Sorry! with the daughter of our hostess, and I worked hard to set aside the day's events, even for a while.

That night, I told Mom about my talk with Sonny. She seemed proud of what I'd done, and she said she would be willing to go to the
Times
the next day. I checked my messages. My father had called twice. I spent the night tossing on the air mattress.

Sonny and I talked in the morning, and I asked him if I could call my friends and doctors before I gave him their numbers. I wanted to let them know why they might be receiving phone calls from the
Times
. That's fine, he said, but he wanted the go-ahead to start calling people as soon as possible.

That afternoon, my mom went to Forty-third Street while I roamed around Manhattan with Julia and Charlotte. She returned late in the afternoon, after she and Sonny had spent almost two hours discussing what I had told him. My mom corroborated dates and places. She gave details about her life with my father and what my childhood had been like. And she said she made at least one thing very clear to Sonny: She believed me.

I left messages for everyone on my list, none of whom I managed to reach on the first try. The day was as sweltering as the day before, so I took Julia and Charlotte to the park on East Thirty-fourth and Second Avenue to cool off. I knew there were sprinklers there, and the girls loved to run through them. My phone rang just as I was trying to find Charlotte's sandals to walk back to the apartment. Before answering, I made sure it wasn't my father.

Dr. Shaffer was returning my call. In a muddled narrative, hindered
by the fact that I had to crawl under a bench to retrieve the lost sandals, I explained what was going on. I was in New York, I told him. I had gone to the press. And the
Times
was working on the story. “I was wondering,” I asked…. “Could I give the reporter your number? I know it's a lot to ask, but it would be so helpful if you could talk to him.”

“Jessica, the hospital has very strict rules about this sort of thing,” he told me. “There is a whole public relations process that has to be gone through for me to allow them to publish my name and the name of the hospital.”

Dammit! Now Sonny will never believe me.
I would have to call him and tell him that my psychiatrist couldn't talk to him. My voice was full of disappointment.

“I understand,” I said, and part of me did. “But if you don't talk to him it makes me seem…not credible.” I must've sounded pathetic. I was pleading. I knew that. “That's the thing. I want him to know that I'm not making this up.”

Shaffer paused. “Jessica, listen. I know you are credible. But I can only talk to this reporter anonymously. I cannot give permission for him to publish my name or use the hospital's name in the story. But if it helps you, I will talk to him.”

Then: “You can give him my number.”

I thanked him profusely, and about ten minutes later, repeated the conversation with my other therapist, Dr. Studdard. Like Dr. Shaffer, she would agree to talk to Sonny, but only if her name wasn't published.

That night, I reached two very old friends. The first was Gage, who was at home in Philadelphia. Gage once had a theater company in Philadelphia and had directed me in at least six or seven shows. We hadn't worked together since we started having babies. But we were
still close, and I had told her years ago something about what had happened with my dad.

“Jessica, I have been thinking about you!” she said the moment she heard my voice. “The other day I was listening to
Fresh Air
on NPR, and I heard the most nauseating interview with your father.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” I groaned, remembering that day at Charlotte's preschool.

“I was storming around the house at every word out of that man's mouth. And Terri Gross was practically crawling into his lap. ‘Oh Tony,' she kept saying.” Gage spoke in falsetto, and I couldn't help but laugh. “It was revolting. How could he dare to write a book like that! You must be going insane.”

And then I grew serious. “Actually, Gage, that's why I'm calling….”