Me and My Shadows: A Family Memoir (48 page)

It wasn’t long after that night that I got the call. It was Roni Agress, Liza’s longtime secretary, friend, and confidante. Roni was an extraordinary woman, competent and deeply loyal to my sister, way beyond the call of duty. But lately even Roni had been in over her head with Liza. She had put up with Liza’s temper tantrums, the late hours—sometimes staying in Liza’s dressing room with her all night. She’d handled every conceivable problem for my sister by then, but the morning she called me, she was at the end of her
rope. Very calmly, but with deep concern, Roni said, “Lorna, I don’t know what to do anymore. Your sister’s in the hospital.”

Shocked, I said, “What?”

Roni said, “She thinks she has cancer. She’s completely out of control. I’ve already had a car sent to your house to get you. You’re next-of-kin; you’re going to have to deal with this.” She went on to explain that the night before, Liza had given a huge party for a group of Cuban and Brazilian people she barely knew, and Liza had gone out of control. She’d found a mole on her back and become hysterical, thinking she had cancer. One of the party guests, a guy named Barry Landau, had taken Liza to the hospital for the “cancer.” “You’ve got to come now, Lorna,” Roni repeated. “All hell is breaking loose. Get a sitter for the baby and get over here.”

I called Arlene Lazare, told her what little I knew, and asked her to come and take care of Jesse for me while I went to the hospital. Jesse was still very small, only two months old, and I didn’t want to leave him with a stranger. By the time I’d thrown on some clothes and Arlene had arrived, the car Roni had sent was waiting for me downstairs. I jumped in, and we took off. The driver headed straight for a part of downtown New York I’d never been in before, and pulled up at the emergency entrance to a strange hospital in a rundown neighborhood. What was Liza doing there? Why hadn’t she gone to a hospital she knew?

By that time I was a nervous wreck. I had no idea what I’d find when I got inside. What I found was Barry Landau, talking on the phone. I had already had an unpleasant experience with Barry. When I’d first met him at Studio 54, he’d volunteered to work as my road manager on one tour, and I’d wound up with a huge bill for all the people Barry saw fit to wine and dine. He’d also been one of the first to testify against one of his “friends” at the Studio on drug charges when the Feds came in, and he had a reputation as someone with connections to the New York gossip columnists. To say he wasn’t my favorite person is a real understatement. So when I saw him talking rapidly on the pay phone, the first thing
that popped into my mind was, “That son of a bitch! He’s calling the
New York Post!”
It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I literally jumped on him, screaming in rage, “You son of a bitch! I’m going to kill you!”

Roni, who had met me at the entrance, literally had to pull me off Barry. She kept saying, “Let’s not do this now. Come with me. We have to see your sister.”

I was still shaking with rage, but Allen Eichhorn, Liza’s press agent who was there with Roni, stepped between me and Barry and said, “It’s okay. You go to Liza. I’ll take care of this guy.” Between the two of them, they got me away from Barry. Sure enough, the next morning a notice about Liza appeared in the
Post.
I never was able to confirm who placed it, but to say the least, I have my suspicions.

Meanwhile a doctor had come out to see what all the noise was about, and I told him I needed to see my sister. They took me down the hall to an examining room, and when I walked in, Liza was lying there on the table. I was shocked by what I saw. She looked as though she hadn’t been to bed in days, with mascara smeared all over her big eyes, and her face as white as death. She was also out of her mind with whatever she’d taken—pills or coke or liquor—probably all three. But what disturbed me the most was that she didn’t know me. When I walked into that room, she looked at me blankly, with no recognition whatsoever. After a moment she said to me, “Who are you?”

Terrified, I stepped close to her and said, “Liza?”

The sound of my voice seemed to snap her out of her confusion for a moment. Her eyes focused, and she said, “Oh, my God, Lorna,” and she started to cry and cling to me. She kept saying, “I have cancer, Lorna; I have cancer. I think I’m going to die.” She kept holding onto me as tightly as she could, mascara streaming down her face, desperate for reassurance.

I just put my arms around her and kept saying, “No, it’ll be
okay. They don’t think you have cancer. It’ll be okay. We’re going to deal with this. I’m going to make sure everything’s all right.”

My mind was racing. I was quite sure Liza didn’t have cancer, but I was equally sure it was a life-or-death situation nonetheless. I told Liza I needed to leave for just a few minutes to talk to the doctor, and I walked back down the hall to where Roni was waiting. I had already made a decision; it was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever had to make, and one of the fastest. There was no time to wait.

I found Roni in the waiting room and said, “Get me Chen Sam’s number.” Chen was Elizabeth Taylor’s longtime press agent, personal assistant, manager, and gatekeeper. She was a lovely South African woman who died of cancer at Elizabeth’s house not long ago. Elizabeth was in the Betty Ford Center at that very time, so I knew Chen would know what to do. Roni got me the number, and I got Chen on the phone. By then it was ten A.M. in New York, but still early in California, where Chen was. When Chen answered the phone, I said, “Chen, this is Lorna. I’m really in trouble, and I don’t know what to do. I need to find out who got Elizabeth into Betty Ford, the name of the doctor, or who to talk to.”

Chen said, “What’s going on?”

I said, “It’s Liza. I’m here at the hospital with her right now. I’m playing Beat the Clock. I’ve got to keep Liza here, and I have the press on my tail. I need help.”

Chen said the doctor’s name was Dr. Bill Skinner. It might take a while because it was still early, she said, but she’d track him down for me and get back to Roni or me at the hospital right away. And she did. Bless her heart, it must have taken considerable legwork on her part.

While I waited for Chen to call back, I still had Liza and the doctors to deal with. They were pressing me to admit Liza to the hospital for a psychiatric evaluation, but I knew that would be disastrous. I told them no, I would have Liza transferred to New York Hospital, where we knew some of the doctors on staff, and
then I called New York Hospital. But they told me the same thing; if I wanted to admit Liza, I would have to have her admitted to the psychiatric ward, a locked ward, for a temporary hold and evaluation. They kept telling me Liza was exhibiting psychotic behavior and that legally, they had no choice.

Once again I refused. I knew the psych ward would terrify Liza, and if the press got ahold of it, there would be hell to pay. My mind was racing; I told Roni to give me the name of a doctor, any doctor, that Liza had seen in the last six months. She managed to come up with a name from one of Liza’s prescription bottles, and I called the doctor up and told him, “You’ve got to get Liza admitted onto a floor, any floor, just not the psych ward. Please.” Thank God, he agreed and made the arrangements.

Meanwhile, Chen had called back with Dr. Skinner’s number, and I called him immediately and said, “You have to come to New York, immediately.”

He said, “But I can’t. I have patients. Maybe in a few days . . .”

I told him, “No, now. You don’t understand. This is a life and death situation. If she gets out of here now, she’ll die. Elizabeth trusted you, and now I’m appealing to you. Help my sister. Please.” He finally agreed to take a plane out the next morning, and he told me he wanted to bring an interventionist with him. Not having the faintest idea what an interventionist was, I said, “Okay.”

By that time the press was breathing down our necks. Allen Eichhorn warned me, “The
Post
knows. They’re already on their way.”

I said, “Just keep them out of the way until we can get Liza out of here.” We were all running around at warp speed by then, making complicated arrangements, fielding calls. The ambulance arrived to take Liza to New York Hospital, and we managed to get her out the back way, literally just as the press was coming in the other way. We made it by a hair’s breadth. I pulled the covers over Liza’s head as she lay on the stretcher and ducked out the back way
into the ambulance with her. It was like the great escape. Once in the ambulance, the situation became truly absurd. I was trying to keep Liza covered up, but she kept thrashing around restlessly, throwing the sheet off her face. There was an attendant in the back with me, and I kept trying to make light conversation, but he kept looking at Liza.

About halfway to the other hospital, he said, “You know who your sister looks like?”

I said, “No, who?”

He said, “She looks like Liza, you know, Minnelli.”

I just said, “Oh, yeah, people are always saying that. Of course, half the drag queens in the city look like Liza.”

He just laughed, and we went on chatting. The first chance I got, I pulled the sheet back over Liza’s face.

When we got to the hospital, we took her inside, got her admitted under a false name, and had her taken upstairs. Once there, I handed the doctor Liza’s purse, with its cache of assorted pills, and said, “Here. I don’t know what they are. I imagine she’s had some other stuff, too.” We got Liza settled, and then it was back to the phones.

I had to call Mickey Rudin, Liza’s attorney, and have him make financial arrangements for the treatment at the Ford Center. He wasn’t too pleased, but he went along with me. Then Roni and I talked about transportation. We couldn’t very well put Liza on a commercial flight to Palm Springs, where the Ford Center is located. We finally decided to call the Sinatras; I knew Frank had a private jet that could make the trip, and I knew he would be discreet. Roni got him on the phone, and he was truly wonderful. He agreed immediately, no questions asked, and said he’d have his manager, Eliot Weisman, make the arrangements. Eliot was wonderful, a real champion, and the plane was ready the next day. One thing I can say for the Sinatras: they’ve always been there for me and my family; always helpful and gracious.

By that time Liza was sound asleep, so I left her at the hospital
and went home to finish my calls. Arlene was still with Jesse. By then it was mid-afternoon, but it seemed as though weeks had passed since I’d left the house that morning. I gave Arlene a brief explanation, sent her home, nursed Jesse, and got back on the phone to Dr. Skinner.

I really didn’t know what I had gotten myself or my sister into; I only knew that the Ford Center handled problems like Liza’s, and that they were used to dealing with celebrities. I also trusted Elizabeth Taylor’s judgment, and I knew Liza did, too—or would, if she were thinking clearly. Dr. Skinner tried to explain to me that we couldn’t force Liza to go, that she had to go willingly, and that was why he would need to bring the interventionist with him. I still didn’t understand; I understood nothing of my sister’s disease, and I’d never heard of an intervention. Baffled, I had no choice but to trust Dr. Skinner and agree. While I tried to deal with him, Roni and Allen continued to scramble around making arrangements for money, for the press, for Liza’s understudy to take over in
The Rink,
and a thousand other details.

Fortunately, we had an ally we could trust staying a Liza’s house, an old friend from high school named Pam Reinhardt. Pam and Liza had been friends since they were kids. Pam was as square as you can be, in the nicest possible way, and she truly loved my sister. I knew I could trust her absolutely. Liza had called Pam the week before and asked her to come and stay awhile because Liza was depressed over her problems with Mark. Pam, always the staunch friend, had flown out from California and was still staying at Liza’s house. I’d called her to come to New York Hospital and “babysit” Liza while I went home to make calls. Pam had been with Liza all afternoon, watching over her while she slept, and about nine P.M. Pam called me to say Liza was awake. Pam and I already agreed that Pam wasn’t to tell Liza anything about the plans. By that time Jake had come home, so I handed him the baby and told him I had to go back to the hospital. He didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t want to get into it right then.

Once at the hospital, I decided it was time to start preparing Liza for what was about to happen. Pam and Roni were both there with her, so I said, “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if they ran some more tests or something? You might need some, you know . . .”

“Need some what?” Liza asked suspiciously. Her head was beginning to clear.

“Well, look at Elizabeth,” I said. “Amazing. She went to the Betty Ford Center, and they say it’s really quite an amazing place.”

Liza immediately said, “Well, I don’t need to do anything like that!” She was starting to feel better, and now she wanted to go home and pretend nothing had happened.

“Fine,” I said. “But you know, Elizabeth’s coming out soon, and I hear she’s looking really great.” I looked over Liza’s head at Pam and Roni. Pam’s eyes were crossing, and Roni mouthed, “Oh, my God!” at me. They couldn’t believe I was saying it. But somebody had to say it. I was just planting the seeds, giving Liza something to think about.

By the time I got home that night, I was so exhausted, I just fell into bed and went right to sleep. Early the next morning Roni called to say that she was sending a car; Dr. Skinner had arrived, and we were going to meet him at his hotel. He had given orders for me, Roni, and Pam to meet him there immediately. We were all to bring yellow legal pads and pencils with us. I turned Jesse over to our Jamaican housekeeper, threw on some clothes, and climbed into the car with Roni and Pam when it got there. The next thing I knew, the three of us were sitting in a hotel room with Dr. Skinner, taking notes on our legal pads like three schoolgirls.

As we took notes, Dr. Skinner and the interventionist, a conservative-looking woman in her mid-forties, explained what an intervention was. “You are going to confront Liza,” she told us.