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Chapter Fifteen
Wild-goose Chase

THE NEXT MORNING,
I woke up full of doubt. As I thought about our history and the issues that stood between us, I felt proud of myself for continuing this relationship with my father. But the warm, fuzzy feelings of the night before seemed to have sharper edges in the harsh new light of day. Ryan had no real desire to revisit the past and face up to what kind of father he'd been. Hadn't he made that abundantly clear? What could I possibly expect when I saw him at the beach today, and the next time, and the time after that? Why was I trying to pry thoughts, reactions, and emotions from him when they seemingly didn't exist? Wasn't this an exercise in frustration and futility? What was the point?

When I had first called Ryan, after my revelation in the parking lot of Whole Foods, I was open to healing our wounds, but if it didn't happen, I was willing to go on my merry way. Then we put the show together, and it introduced a new factor into the equation. We now had a shared commitment. I needed Ryan to fulfill that commitment. But I didn't want to force us into a relationship just because of that. Nor did I want to force confrontation for the sake of dramatic TV. We were messy enough without cameras. I didn't want to destroy the tentative peace we'd found.

A darkness fell on me. I had lost faith in the reasons I wanted to reunite. I had lost hope in finding something deeper. I couldn't see our future. In my head, we were back at zero, and this would happen again and again.

BY THE TIME
I arrived at the beach house, it was late afternoon. I made dinner for Ryan and me. At my birthday party the night before, Ryan had asked why Sean wasn't there. He was shocked when I said it was because of him. During dinner, Ryan brought up Sean's absence again. He was obviously trying to wrap his head around what had gone so terribly wrong between them.

I said, “What did you do to Sean?”

Ryan said, “I threw him out of the car.”

“Yeah. It upset him,” I said. My father didn't seem to realize his impact on people.

Ryan paused, then he said, “That night, after we left the restaurant, Sean and I were on our way to do karaoke. I had never done karaoke before. But Sean told me he'd decided he wasn't going to be in the show. I was stunned. He said, ‘Monty Clift, Brando—they wouldn't have done this.'

“I said, ‘True, but you're not them and neither am I.'

“I don't really want my life on film—who does?—I did this to please you, Tatum. I'm a grandfather. The old guy. I thought Sean would be the strapping, handsome boy in the show. We could pass him the ball, and he could carry it.”

Ryan continued, “Sean said, ‘I want people to see me playing parts. I don't want them to see me as myself.'

“I said, ‘We have another motive. To support your mother.' But Sean was adamant. The hair on the back of my neck rose. Sean had been living in my house, in Redmond's room. I'd made adjustments for him. Now he'd made this decision. I pulled over to the side of the road and said, ‘Out.'

“Then you called and told me you hated me. I was the guy who was sticking with you, being there for you. If you tell me you hate me, I believe you. I didn't want to work with someone who hates me. But we got past it, and I thought, maybe she doesn't hate me. And here we are.”

Ryan and I hadn't done much of this in our lives—going back over a disagreement and explaining our perspectives. Though I still disagreed with what he had done, it was eye-opening. In his version, the behavior that had seemed so abrupt and cruel to me at the time now seemed to come from a place of love for me.

I said, “I don't hate you, Dad.” I smiled.

LATER, DRIVING HOME,
I thought about what Ryan had said. At last I knew both sides of the story, but my heart was heavy. I wanted Sean to be able to have a relationship with his grandfather.

These two men, my father and my son, were so dear to me. The words, the explanations, were coming too late. All this conflict was for nothing. We were a family, but we had no idea how to make it work. Would we forever be breaking apart and piecing ourselves back together?

Without a doubt, just as my father had his own version of the fight with Sean, he had his own version of my childhood. Surely it, too, was shaped in his memory by love and devotion. I knew that, at some Jurassic level of his conscience, he was aware that all I revealed in
A Paper Life
was true to
my experience
. If he didn't have guilt and regret fossilizing somewhere deep beneath the surface, he wouldn't have showed up at all those meetings for a TV show about our relationship, he wouldn't be inviting me to spend time at the beach house, and we wouldn't be in this awkward situation. If he was capable—on some level—of accepting that my experience was different from his, shouldn't I try to do the same? The core of forgiveness is seeing both sides and, moreover, allowing both versions of an event to coexist. We had to make space for each other. How hard it was, to allow truth to be broad and shadowy and rife with contradictions.

All at once, I saw that there was a reason I'd locked myself into a TV show. Just by nature of spending so much time together, my father and I were having actual, unscripted conflict and resolution. It was uncomfortable for me, but something I realized I needed to do if I wanted to break out of lifelong self-destructive behavioral patterns. When I was young, I was always on the defensive. I felt attacked by everyone. I wasn't reared to challenge my father, as a child or as an adult. And now, I wasn't supposed to bring up the past. I wasn't supposed to tell the truth. On the other hand, to be fair, my father has story after story of how tough it was to raise me on his own. But I wasn't that little girl anymore and he was no longer that man.

My father was older. The loss of Farrah had a profound, life-changing effect on him. Death has a way of putting everything in perspective. He was tired of being angry all the time. He was the same Ryan in many ways, but a softer, kinder vintage. I was a little more brave, and he was more open. Added to those changes, the docuseries had a real purpose. When it came to facing the past, the show forced my hand. Through its lens, I would give him the second chance I believed we both wanted and deserved.

When I got back to my apartment, I called my producer, Greg, and said, “Let's go back.” I told him I wanted to return to the beach house to see my father as soon as possible. I felt it was important to keep the momentum going.

Greg said, “Are you suggesting this as a producer or as a daughter? We want you to think like a daughter. How do you, as a daughter, feel about going back there? Are you inspired?”

I thought for a long moment, and said yes. The simplest reason was that Ryan was happy to see me. But the bigger reason was that I had turned a corner. I was ready to dig deeper. If it was at all possible, I wanted to help my father take responsibility for his life. My father thought that life just happened to him. He never felt like he was calling the shots. His children happened to him. My mother fell apart; that happened to him. The ups and downs of his career happened to him. Our show was happening to him. In his mind, all of his behavior was a response to the bad things that happened to him. Consequently, he didn't feel responsible for any of his actions. I understood his fear of exposure in the course of making the show, but I was determined to be gentle and respectful, while urging him to take ownership of his past, present, and future. I had come a long way in the month since Sean's birthday, when I thought my attempt to find a new relationship with Ryan was over. I wanted to go back to the beach house. I wanted to talk. Complacency—acceptance of the status quo—wasn't enough for me.

I texted Ryan and made plans to come, with the cameras, and stay for the whole weekend.

Part II
Regret and Hope

Chapter Sixteen
The Man Behind the Curtain

THE NEXT SATURDAY
morning at the beach house, the film crew arrived at ten o'clock. I had been awake for a while, but there was no sign of Ryan. An hour passed. I left the cameras behind and went for a walk on the beach, past the actor Stephen Dorff doing push-ups on his deck, all the way to an outcropping of rocks. The beach was as glorious as ever.

It has always been hard for me to have a broad perspective on my life. I was trained to survive the moment. Now I was my own master. I made my own choices. But I still had to wait for my oversleeping father on this windy Malibu morning. When would my life truly be my own? I turned around and headed back to the house, thinking these thoughts.

At the house, Ryan finally emerged from his bedroom. He gestured from the top landing of the stairs for me to come up. I did, and I changed into sweat clothes so I could ride the exercise bike while we talked and the cameras ran.

Today, Ryan was in the mood to read to me from one of his journals. He has journals dating back to the seventies. The part that he read didn't go deep and was his story, not mine. So I cycled in place, going nowhere, listening to Ryan read from his journal and its description of the rosy world that he chose to preserve. We sure remembered things differently—that was clear. When I couldn't take it anymore, I got off the bike and went to get ready for an event that evening. It was a dinner for people who'd donated to Hollywood Arts, an arts academy for at-risk young people. I was scheduled to present an award to Howard Samuels, a friend who is a cofounder and director of the Wonderland Center—a rehab for the stars.

PATTY WAS GOING
to the event with me. She came over beforehand and we watched a beautiful sunset over the beach, then headed to Hollywood. The event was being held at Raleigh Studios.

It was a great evening. I felt good in my black dress and makeup. I ran into some old friends, including Farrah's best friend, Alana Stewart. The speech I gave to commend Howard went smoothly. Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine played. Patty and I had a nice time together—she said I was the best date she'd ever had. Afterward, I dropped Patty off at her house and headed back to Malibu. I was in a great mood now, happy and proud. I liked my friends. I liked my life. And when I got back to the beach house, Ryan and I had plans to watch Manny Pacquiao face off against Antonio Margarito in the World Super Welterweight Championship. My dad is a major boxing fan and has had me watching fights since I was a little kid. This was a big one, and I was looking forward to it.

I walked in, put my stuff down, and headed up to my father's room. He was lying on the bed. Without a hello, he said, “Have you really thought about this therapy thing, Tatum?” I was taken off-guard. Where was he going with this? And now that he was venturing into somewhat rocky terrain, where, oh where, were the cameras?

I said, “I do think we should do therapy, yeah.”

He said, “Have you thought about what might come up?” His tone was foreboding, and the implication was that I had deep, dark secrets that would be exposed during our televised therapy sessions.

I said, “I want us to get better, Dad. I'm not afraid of what it's going to bring up for me.”

“What about me? There are things I don't want to bring up, Tatum.”

I said, “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stop it. What about Farrah, shouldn't we protect Farrah?”

I said, “What about me?”

Then, at the top of his lungs, he yelled, “I love you!”

I felt dizzy with fear and anxiety.
This
was the father I had grown up with, the mercurial father who mixed love and anger. My father yelling “I love you” while I sat frozen. That was us in a nutshell. He loved me, but he didn't know how to say it. I was afraid of him, even when he was doing his best to communicate. We were trapped in the pattern we'd developed years ago. We could do better. As an adult, I believed I was capable of breaking my side of the pattern, but it would take some work. Same with my father—I knew he wanted a different dynamic, but he wasn't going to putz around the kitchen and suddenly launch into the reality of what happened.

We needed therapy, the very therapy that had triggered this outburst.

I did feel conflicted about pushing Ryan toward what had the potential to be enlightening but would definitely be painful. I didn't want to hurt him in the twilight of his life. But the worst pain we were talking about facing in therapy was also the truth. As hard as it may be to face, I believe that the truth never does damage. It only heals. But I had no idea whether my father could or would ever see it that way.

Chapter Seventeen
Better Late Than Never

NO MATTER HOW
old we are, growing up and growing away from a parent takes a major emotional toll. It reverberates throughout our lives. I think that part of why my son Sean first turned to Ryan as a father figure and why he was now leaning on me was that he was going through post-adolescent separation issues with his dad. And, of course, now that he was on the West Coast, where Ryan and I were, and John and Patty lived in New York, it only made sense that Sean would transfer some of his emotional dependence to the nearest adult authority figures—Ryan and me.

Sean is twenty-three. He's a grown-up, but in some ways, still a child. I want him to learn to stand on his own two feet and to be an independent adult, but even so, he needs a parent and, given my absences in years past, I'm grateful to be there for him.

Through a friend, I had helped Sean get a job at a restaurant. At twenty-three, this was to be Sean's first real job. He was going to be a waiter. To me, having a job signified young adulthood, responsibility, and the ordinary experiences of growing up and trying to make a living, which I'd never had. Sean was going to take people's money and give them their change. Radical.

Sean went to the restaurant for a few training sessions. But a couple of weeks later, he said, “I can't do that job. It's not working for me. I am not a restaurant person. I don't care about food. I'm not good with the service industry. I have to find something else to do.” He stopped working. He wanted to sing, play music, audition, and look for a job that would work for him. This was his decision, and I let him make it.

As a parent, I don't scream or force opinions on my children. I don't think conflict gets me anywhere. Instead, I try to get to the heart of the matter, all the while thinking about how what I say sounds from my child's perspective. I told Sean, “For me to continue to support you, I need you to have a job and to make some money of your own.”

Then I got an angry e-mail from the friend who had helped arrange the job. Sean had still been in training when he left the restaurant, and I had assumed that he left on good terms. According to this e-mail, that was not the case. He had just taken off without notice, leaving the restaurant high and dry. I was shocked and disappointed.

Here I was, trying to see my son through that tough first year after college. I was trying to help him get on his own two feet, so I'd found him a job. Now, it seemed, he hadn't acted responsibly. So much for my efforts.

I said to Sean, “Are you kidding? This is how you leave the job after my hard work? What's up, kid? You tryin' to embarrass me?”

Sean said, “I know, I'm so sorry.” I told him to apologize to my friend and to the restaurant manager, explaining why he felt the need to leave, and why he did so without giving proper notice.

Like most mothers, I worry about all of my children pretty consistently. Sean, as the one who wasn't in school or working, was top of the list at the time. It had been more than two years since my arrest, and my children had recognized the change in me. I was solid, and it made them feel safe in a way they never had before. This is a feeling all children should have, and I had wanted to give it to them for years, but it had come a little on the late side. The response was different with each of my children. Sean, in my opinion, was acting out now because, at long last, he didn't have to worry that I'd go back to using. Maybe since I was stable, he was free to take risks.

Sean, as I've said, is a sensitive kid. I was careful with how I parented him. In becoming a parent, I thought often about how I was parented, and I did my best to understand and forgive my mother and father.

There are good reasons my mother, who was a warm, loving soul, ended up the way she did. My mother's parents and sister were killed in a car crash when she was six, leaving her an orphan. She was first adopted by one side of the family, who couldn't afford her. Then she was adopted by the other, wealthier side, but there was no salvation to be found there. Rumors spread that a member of the adoptive family molested her. Still, my mother's beauty and dramatic flair were irrepressible. From a young age, she could sing, dance, and play the piano. She was the life of the party, even before pills and alcohol controlled her. She went to a good college, where she was discovered and brought to Hollywood. In Hollywood, the studio executives introduced her to speed, the de rigueur method of keeping young ingénues slender. Like Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, and so many others, my mother became addicted. My mother never talked about the horrors of her childhood. If rumors are true, which they too often are, she, like me, was rescued but ruined by her hero. I understand and forgive her—how could I not? Her heart was true—that shone through. If she hadn't lost her own parents, everything would have been different. Maybe she wouldn't have lost me.

That Tennessee Williams–esque history, the tragic loss of her family, being adopted twice, still being mad at and in love with my father—it all added up to an adulthood of drug and alcohol abuse. I understood this as I got older, but when I was a child, I just wanted her to be my mother. I wanted her to be alive and awake. And, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, I was angry with her for not having a beach house, a Mercedes, and my dad's effortless coolness. I wanted a life where everything was rosy, and I was furious at her for failing me. We fought, often because I would accuse her of being drunk and she would say, “What are you talking about? How dare you, Tatum? You're lying. Goddammit, you're always making up stories about me.” Her denial of her alcoholism was almost worse than the alcoholism itself. I smelled it on her breath and knew that she was lying. And, oh, I was so mean. “Pull yourself together,” I'd scream at her, at seven years old.

It was always important to me as a parent to draw certain boundaries for my children, no matter what was going on with me. I made sure to look them in the eye and say, “Yes, I have problems. Don't ever think you are a part of them. You're not. This is me. This is not your fault.” I always wanted them to know that they didn't cause my problems. It was in my upbringing, my family, my blood.

At the same time as I took responsibility for my struggles, I insisted that the children treat me with the respect that I wish I'd always given my own mother. I would often say, “I hear some resentment in your voice. What's the issue? Let's talk about it.”

In contrast to my mother's youth, to all appearances, my father had a golden childhood. His parents—my grandparents—were, to my young eyes, a beautiful, loving couple. My grandmother had long strawberry-blond hair that she always kept in a bun, a smooth face powdered to be pale and perfect, full red-lipsticked lips, and dark eyebrows. She was always elegant, wearing nice pantsuits, white or beige gloves, and Rive Gauche perfume. She had a British accent—we're not exactly sure where it came from—and was always saying “Dahling Tatum.” My paternal grandmother was the only woman who was a constant in my life and who, at times, bathed me, fed me, and nurtured me. How I miss my “Mummy” now—her softness and warmth. I loved her so.

Ryan was always handsome and charming. Once, when I asked him, “How come you're so funny?” he said something like, “Because I never thought I was very smart. I had to rely on something else to get the girl. I thought being funny would do the trick.” My father has always wanted the girl, and he has always gotten her!

My grandma was an actress, my grandpa a successful screenwriter. They produced two actor sons, of whom Ryan was the perfect, golden boy. My grandmother wanted him to be an actor and nothing else. Sure enough, at twenty-three years old, he landed a leading role on the soap opera
Peyton Place,
and the life my grandparents envisioned for him fell right into his lap. He never knew anything different. But sometimes perfection and great success carry their own burden. In his parents' eyes, Ryan could do no wrong. Somehow in that mix, which bred such early and massive success, maybe my father never learned to cope with sadness or disappointment. I turn mine inward, where it becomes self-destruction. I wonder if Ryan's sadness or disappointment turns to anger.

I TRIED TO
give my children outlets for their emotions. Above all, I wanted Kevin, Sean, and Emily to be happy in my home. Sean remembers walking into my apartment as a teenager and immediately knowing that he was in a safe place. The smell of the apartment, the tone of my voice. My home, wherever it was, was always a loving safety zone. It was a place in which they could escape whatever stress they encountered in the outside world.

It's hard to be the bad guy with your kids (and when I say “bad guy,” I just mean the one who lays down the law, says no, and generally breaks kids' hearts in small ways that prepare them for the bigger heartbreaks that are sure to come). I wasn't a pushover, but I tried to teach my children how to regulate themselves. When they were young, I spent a lot of time talking to them, finding out what was going on in their lives, letting their needs and desires drive our time together. I had fought for time with my children; I maximized every moment we had. We have always talked a lot. That's it, plain and simple.

SEAN'S FIRST JOB
was over and done. It was great that he was working on his singing and taking all his lessons, but I believe that, at a certain point, everyone has to support himself. You need to learn the value of money, how to take responsibility for yourself, and how to deal with people in the world. I wasn't sure if, in leaving the job, Sean was dodging work, or if he was sincerely trying to figure out his next steps. Either way, I didn't plan on cleaning up his mess for him.

Sean sent an apologetic letter to my friend. When I read it, I felt that Sean had listened to me. But if he didn't find himself a job soon, I didn't know what my next step should be. I realized that by providing Sean financial and emotional support, I was making up for the times I had not been there for him. I hoped he wasn't taking advantage of me, that he was working through issues he hadn't been able to deal with when I was unavailable. Only time would tell.