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Authors: Melissa Francis

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

Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir (34 page)

BOOK: Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir
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“I don’t think anyone ever just does it once, and presto! they’re fixed,” I said, trying to manage her expectations.
“Well, we don’t have the money to do this again. Do you?” she said.
“No. That’s a pretty big percentage of my reporter’s salary.”
“And now the wedding bills are all piling up! And she adds this to it. At least I’m done paying for you. Once we pay for the wedding, that’s it.”
I hadn’t called to talk about money. So I tried to change the subject.
“How’s everything else going? What’s new with you?” I asked.
“Nothing. Have you heard more from everyone about how beautiful the wedding was?” she solicited.
“Yes, all my friends thought it was the most beautiful wedding ever,” I replied. Never mind that most of them weren’t married and we didn’t have that much experience to draw on.
“Like who? What did they say? I want details. I worked so hard, I want to hear every word . . .”
I could tell we were going to have a lot of conversations like this over the next few months.
 
 
Tiffany emerged from rehab a month later. I had to call home a number of times to actually get her.
“Hey,” I said when I finally caught up with her.
“Hey. So. How’s married life?” she said in an even tone.
“Good. How about you?” I asked. I wanted to tell her I was proud of her, but that seemed condescending coming from a little sister.
“Good. It was nice to get away from Mom for a month,” she joked.
“I’m sure. But I’m serious. How are you really feeling?”
“Good and awful. It sucks. I don’t know,” she said.
“I’m sorry. But you are doing the right thing,” I tried. “I’m sure it sucks. But I think you’re really brave and tough. Hey, if we survived Mom, we can survive anything, right?”
Tiffany and Dad focused on getting healthy, working out, and eating right. They shopped at the grocery store together and tried to occupy her time and mind with better living.
But then I heard from Dad that she and Mom were at each other’s throats again, with Mom harping on Tiffany about getting a job. Mom was right, it would make her feel better to get some validation in the real world, but she had a spotty track record, which made it hard to land a job. Tiffany admitted finally that she’d been fired more than once for drinking at work or coming back from lunch inebriated.
Only a few months later Mom called me to say she’d found a liquor bottle in the back of Tiffany’s car. So she’d taken her car away, as if Tiffany were an errant teenager. Dad decided to stop drinking and ban alcohol from the house, but that didn’t work either. Mom discovered more bottles under the sink, and Tiffany went back to rehab.
Dad thought he could spend all his time watching her, but Mom started to wonder if her behavior was out of their control. For once, I worried that Mom was right.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 
T
wo months after we returned from our honeymoon, Wray landed a new private equity job at a growing fund outside San Francisco. I had had no intention of moving back to California, ever. But he felt like this was an offer he couldn’t pass up. And my contract with the local CBS station in Connecticut was about to expire, so the stars seemed to be aligning for the move.
There were plenty of reporting jobs in San Francisco. And I rationalized that the Bay Area wasn’t L.A. Moving back west rattled my nerves, but I’d always believed San Francisco was the most magical city in the country. The fog cast a fairy-tale haze over the ornate Victorian homes stacked like stairs up the steep winding streets, the trolley cars rattling along tracks in front of them.
We rented an apartment on Telegraph Hill, in the shadow of Coit Tower, the solid concrete tribute to Art Deco that looms high on the hill overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf. We had an unobstructed view of the icy, deep blue waters that surround Alcatraz, and the red metal and wire engineering feat that is the Golden Gate Bridge.
Our apartment took up the entire top floor of the building. It had a roof deck and skylights that let in the barking of the sea lions below as their calls cut through the crisp morning air.
It was serenity, a postcard-perfect San Francisco home.
So my family drove up for a visit.
“We’re almost there. Tell me again where you are,” Dad said into the phone.
“We’re at the very end of Chestnut Street, right under Coit Tower. Chestnut dead-ends on our block into a hill. There’s a staircase that takes you down to the wharf, but if you find yourself down by the wharf in the car, you’re on the wrong part of Chestnut,” I said.
“Turn here! Are we going back over the bridge?” Mom snapped at Dad in the background.
“Just follow the house numbers, we’re 321. You can park on the street in front of the building or on the left side of the driveway. Or the sidewalk. Everyone parks on the sidewalk here,” I said, adjusting the shutters.
“Okay. See you in a second,” he said, fumbling with the phone.
I adjusted the blue and white throw pillows on the couch one more time and sat down. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to face the whole team at once. I wondered how long the tornado that was my family would swirl through town before moving on. They never set a firm departure date for any visit, especially when they drove. They loved to fly by the seats of their pants.
I could handle each family member individually and find an activity that would pass the time pain-free. Dad wanted to walk around leisurely and look at the city. He’d lived in San Francisco as a bachelor and thought it was the greatest city on earth. He reveled in walking tours of his old haunts. He’d listed half a dozen places he wanted to go back to, and to me, that sounded like a blast.
Mom liked to go out for coffee and cake, or drive around looking at houses, stopping at a store here and there. Marilyn was along for the ride as well. During half my life, Mom and Marilyn had been inseparable. The other half, they hadn’t been speaking because Mom had flown into one of a hundred unpredictable huffs and cut her sister out of our lives on a whim. She’d call Marilyn six months later, as if nothing had happened, and Marilyn would just quietly take her back. Dad told me they were in another joined-at-the-hip phase. I knew that could inadvertently divide the group into teams.
I realized I didn’t know what Tiffany liked to do anymore. She was in a sober phase, but I had warned Dad that cutting alcohol out of her life was probably only the first step in the rehab process. Once that problem had been dealt with, I suspected the real work would need to begin. Some deeper unhappiness or instability kept pushing her to self-medicate.
 
 
Mom, Dad, Tiffany and Marilyn stumbled into the apartment, refugees from the long car ride.
“It took us six and a half hours, because Mom and Marilyn insisted on stopping at that cattle ranch for lunch,” Dad muttered after crossing the threshold. He walked directly to the window and stared out into the endless blue waters. “Wow! That’s some view.”
He smiled with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his Levi’s, K-Swiss sneakers white as ever, blue and white button-down shirt pressed but untucked after the long journey.
Tiffany schlepped up next. She had a harder time getting up the stairs, breathing heavily once she entered. She ran her hand nervously through the top of her hair, which was longer than ever.
Mom and Marilyn lagged behind her by a mile, entering like bookends in black slacks and cardigan sweaters, sunglasses pushed up on top of their heads. Marilyn was carrying her trademark black leather shoulder bag, stuffed to the gills with everything you would possibly need if you thought you might never go home again.
“I’m sorry it’s so many stairs. But look! It’s worth it,” I made a sweeping gesture toward the 180-degree view, like Vanna White.
“Have a seat on the couch. Do you guys want some water?” I asked.
Tiffany and Mom collapsed on the couch. Marilyn took the armchair facing the windows.
“This is quite a place, Miss Melissa,” Marilyn said.
“God, I’m carsick. Between your father’s driving and the streets,” Mom complained.
“Dad’s driving is fine,” Tiffany said.
Dad stood at the window, lost in the view.
“Where’s my boyfriend, Wray?” Mom said.
“He’s at work. I was able to get the day off. But he’ll join us for dinner. I hope. You never know with this job,” I said.
“Your furniture looks nice here. Is this all from New York? What’s new?” Marilyn asked.
I explained that the big, floor-to-ceiling mirror hanging behind the dining table came from a little frame shop on Union Street. I was describing the vintage shop so it took a few moments for me to realize that Tiffany wasn’t playing around.
Her arm had shot up to her chest at an angle, her fingers extended, rigid as steel. Her face froze in a pained expression, her mouth caught in a frown, as she slid off the couch and convulsed.
I watched, paralyzed, as Mom screamed for Dad to help, and Dad moved quickly to Tiffany’s side on the floor.
After several long seconds, the convulsions just stopped, and she quieted. Her eyelids fluttered as if she were waking from a spell, but she wasn’t getting up from the floor.
“Stay there! Just lie there. Can you hear me?” Dad said, trying to sound calm. “Call 9-1-1!”
He hovered over Tiffany on the floor. Mom panted with fear, as Marilyn began to cry. I scrambled to my phone and dialed.
We hardly moved, all of us gathered around Tiffany in stunned silence. Tears rolled down her cheeks but she lay quietly on floor.
The paramedics arrived within minutes. I heard the sirens outside the window and ran down the four flights to show them where to go.
“Over here, up the stairs!” I shouted, before darting back up the stairs ahead of the two muscle-bound men in blue uniforms. They charged up the stairs, carrying either end of a gurney.
When we reached the top, I led them into the living room.
“What happened?” the paramedic in front asked.
“She had a seizure,” Dad responded.
I had no idea what name to put to the terrifying event I’d just witnessed. But my father did.
“Do you take any medication?” the paramedic asked Tiffany.
“No,” Dad answered.
The paramedics didn’t look at him, wanting to hear from my sister. “Can you hear me?” one paramedic said to her.
“Yes,” she responded softly, tears still running down the side of her face.
I ran into the guest bedroom near the living room and got a small pillow, which the second paramedic took from my hands.
“Do you feel like I can lift your head a little? This will make you more comfortable.” She mumbled assent as he slipped the pillow under her head.
“Are you on any medications?” the first paramedic asked again.
“No,” she said.
“Have you been drinking any alcohol?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Any illegal drugs?” he continued.
“No,” she said.
“Are you prone to seizures?” he asked.
“No. This happened once before though,” Dad said.
They checked her vital signs and eventually helped her move up to the couch. Mom and I stepped back, hovering but trying to give them more space to work. Dad stayed by Tiffany’s side.
The paramedics checked her vital signs, asked more questions, and found nothing alarming. Eventually they offered to take her to the hospital for observation, but Tiffany declined, since the trauma seemed to have passed.
The paramedics gathered their equipment. I followed them to the door to show them out.
“Thank you,” I said.
“This is pretty normal for someone who is detoxing. She said she’s been in rehab recently. Just keep a close eye on her. Take it slow,” the first paramedic advised.
I closed the door behind them, heaving a sigh of relief. I looked over at Tiffany, who still looked shaky but was sitting up. What might have started out as a run-of-the-mill rebellion for Tiffany had now done real physical damage.
BOOK: Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir
13.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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