Michael's Secrets (3 page)

“I did,” Florence answered, while looking up at Rona.

Doreen, standing as tall as Florence and on her right, wearing a peach silk shift, her then-brown hair cut in a page boy, and wearing her mink coat, looked at Florence and said with a frown, “And, she got here alive?”

“You girls. I’ve been driving for almost twenty years!” Florence shouted to the three of them.

Arlene, standing directly in front of Florence and whose figure at the time was more fifties buxom than sixties svelte, wearing a navy blue dress with white buttons and a matching coat and hat, said, “You call what you do driving?” As the owner of Feld’s Department Store along with her husband William, Arlene was always the best dressed of the bunch. She was also the oldest.

Rona pulled out a cigarette and started to light it, and Florence, ignoring all their comments, told Rona she could only smoke in the waiting room as she broke the semicircle and made her way down the hall. The other three girls caught up with her. Walking side-by-side, the four of them, all experienced in the pain of childbirth – Florence, Rona and Doreen with three children and Arlene with two – sympathized with their friend, Hannah, who would spend Thanksgiving Day pushing another Jew into the world.

In the delivery room, Hannah looked down at the pink gown they had her wear, and shook her head, imagining how she looked with no make-up and wearing her least flattering color. She wanted the delivery to be over with as quickly as possible.

Dr. Bernstein was crouched at her feet and asked, “Hannah, you ready?”

“Yes, let’s get this over with,” Hannah answered.

Two nuns stood beside Hannah, holding her hands as two others were at the doctor’s side.

“OK, Hannah, I can see the baby’s head, so you’re going to have to give me one good push,” Dr. Bernstein instructed.

Hannah closed her eyes and tried to push with all her strength, but the baby would not budge. The doctor tried to reach in, but his eyes opened wide as he noticed the baby had very broad shoulders.

“Hannah, the baby has a big head and broad shoulders, so I am going to have to perform an episiotomy.”

“Will it hurt?” Hannah asked.

“You’ll feel a pinch,” he assured her as he was handed a scalpel.

He began the incision, and his eyes opened wider. He then asked Hannah to push one more time. She closed her eyes and did as instructed, and the baby started to come out. And, it continued to come out, and continued to come out, and continued to come out.

The nuns gasped as the baby finally arrived, and Hannah was alarmed at their reaction.

“He’s huge!” one of the nuns exclaimed as she put her hands up to her mask.

Dr. Bernstein’s eyes were still wide open.

“And, we are going to have a
Bris
!” another of the nun’s exclaimed, clapping her hands, knowing of all the good food that would be served in the hospital during that time when mothers remained for ten days after giving birth. The nuns loved a good
Bris –
and a good white fish.

Hannah was not quite sure what comment to register. “Is he all right?” she asked and then heard a loud cry like none she had ever heard before, as it sounded like a scream for help.

“It’s a boy, Hannah, and a big boy at that!” Dr. Billy Bernstein exclaimed in the excitement of his first full-term delivery and his precise prediction of the baby being born on Thanksgiving Day. After Hannah expelled the placenta, the doctor sewed up the episiotomy with seventeen stitches.

“Do you want to see him?” one of the nuns asked as she swaddled the baby boy and walked toward Hannah.

“Thirty inches, eleven-point-six pounds,” one of the other nuns announced to everyone in the delivery room. Gasps could be heard all over the room again. Her baby boy was brought over to her and placed on Hannah’s chest. He looked at her with the greenest eyes she had ever seen and fell immediately to sleep. Hannah looked down at her first born not knowing how to react to finally holding the baby who had caused her to lose her figure, albeit temporarily, and left her with seventeen stitches.

“What will you name him?” one of the nuns asked, standing next to her with a clipboard.

“Michael … Michael Adam Bern,” Hannah answered as she looked at her son.

The nun then wrote the name down on a clipboard along with hair and eye color – black and green. Michael was then taken away from Hannah, but she didn’t care. She was exhausted and just wanted a cigarette and her make-up bag.

At the
Bris
, while holding baby Michael, Florence decided she wanted another baby. On November 26, 1963, she gave birth to Scott. At Scott’s
Bris
, Rona, while holding Florence’s baby, decided she wanted another child, and on November 28, 1964, she gave birth to Neil. At Neil’s
Bris
, Doreen, while holding Rona’s baby, decided she wanted another child, and on November 5, 1965, she gave birth to Marci. At all three
Brisses
–
and one baby naming, Arlene never gave a second thought to having another child.

On November 23, 1963, Michael’s first birthday, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, and Michael’s birthdays went downhill from there.

Chapter Two

Michael sat in the waiting room of his therapist Dr. Andrew Mikowsky’s office, having arrived fifteen minutes early as usual. He was thumbing through a magazine when the door to the doctor’s office opened and he said, “Come in, Michael.”

Michael stood up, put the magazine away exactly as he found it and walked past the doctor, who closed the door behind them as Michael settled himself on the couch. He sat there with his hands clasped in his lap while Dr. Mikowsky picked up a legal pad and a pencil from his desk and sat opposite Michael in his leather chair. He was nerdy in a sexy kind of way, with dark brown hair and eyes and obvious Semitic features. He was around five-ten with a slender build and an engaging smile as well.

“So, Michael, how are you holding up since the show was cancelled?”

“I’m doing all right,” Michael said. “I have the opening of
Birthright
to worry about now.”

“Why are you worried?” the doctor asked.

“Well, I’m not exactly worried,” Michael said. “I call Stanley King, the director, every week, and he says everything is on schedule. He also told me not to worry as the writer has little to do with the film once it’s in the can and ready for release. It’s the actors who have to make all the appearances to promote it. I just feel kind of weird as if I have no control over it.”

“Do you need to have control?” Dr. Mikowsky asked as he wrote on the pad without taking his eyes off Michael.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m used to television where I was there from beginning to end. In film, once you write the script, you pretty much fade into the background once it goes into editing,” Michael said as he leaned back. “But, no need to talk about that.”

“OK, what do you want to talk about?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

Michael shook his head, “I don’t know.”

“Well, are you seeing anyone?”

“You know I don’t date anymore,” Michael said as if the answer was obvious.

The doctor put the pencil to his chin and said, “Michael, how long has it been since you had a boyfriend?”

Michael stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at Sepulveda Boulevard. He turned around and leaned back on the sill and said, “I think about six years, ever since I broke up with Philip, but we’ve talked about all that.”

“To be honest, Michael, we never really talked about that. You avoid the subject of relationships,” he said as he gave him a knowing look.

Michael returned to the couch, straightened the pillows and sat down.

“Michael, what are you afraid of? Why do you not want to date?” he asked, knowing that his patient would either change the subject or avoid the question altogether, but he always hoped for a moment when Michael would open up. After all, it took almost two months for Michael to open up when he first came to therapy exactly one year before, right after his godmother, Florence, died, which he also failed to mention in the beginning.

Michael took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and said, “Because whenever I meet anyone, I lose my identity and end up miserable.”

Dr. Mikowsky was surprised that he gave a reason. He then flipped the page on his legal pad and started sketching. “Michael, I want to show you something.” He then held up what he had drawn – a large circle with a small circle in its center. “This is what you describe as a relationship. You are the small circle in the big circle.” He then pointed to the other drawing, which was two identical circles that were intertwined like a figure eight. “This is a healthy relationship. Each partner retains his identity while maintaining a healthy balance.”

Michael looked at the drawings and said, “Yes, well that’s all interesting, but the guys I meet are big circles, and I’m always the little circle.” He then raised an eyebrow as if there was no further discussion needed.

“Michael, it’s not the guys you meet, it’s the guys you prefer to date.” Michael was silent. “You have probably met men who are capable of healthy relationships, but you choose not to be with them, and what we need to understand is why,” Dr. Mikowsky said. “Do you have any theories as to why?”

Michael looked at the ceiling and thought for a moment. He then looked at the doctor and said, “Probably because I never saw a healthy relationship when I was growing up. How Freudian is that?”

* * * * *

It was October 1969, Michael’s mother, Hannah, and her new boyfriend, Bart Shimmer, went away for the weekend and left Michael with his Grandma Rose, his late-father Adam’s mother. That Monday, after school, he was given strict instructions to go home from school, put on his football uniform and return to football practice at South Morrison Elementary School. But, when he arrived home to an empty house, he did not feel well and missed his mother, so he decided to stay and wait for her to come home.

They pulled up to the house around six o’clock, and he ran out to greet them. His mother opened the passenger side door and yelled at him, “What the hell are you doing home? Why aren’t you at football practice?”

“I had a stomach ache, and I missed you,” he said, upset with his mother’s reaction after she had not seen him for three days.

“If you’re so goddamn sick, go upstairs instead of prancing out here like some queer sissy telling me you missed me. NOW!” Hannah yelled as she stepped out of the car.

Michael went back into the house and into his bedroom, closing the door. He lay there on the bed, staring at the ceiling. An hour later, he was called down to dinner by Bart.

“Do you still have a sissy stomach ache or can you eat? We got some Chinese,” his mother said as she put the food on the table.

Michael sat at the table and looked at Bart. He was a tall man with brown hair and a mustache. Michael never liked him, and Bart, who was no charmer, never liked Michael, either.

“Maybe he missed football practice because he would rather be a girl,” Bart said laughing, and his mother sat down laughing at Bart’s remark.

Michael started to cry, and his mother slapped him.

“We will have none of that. You hear me!” she said, staring at him with her cold eyes and holding his chin. Michael shook his head yes between sobs.

They ate silently for most of the meal. When they were done, Hannah told him to look at her as she had something to tell him.

“Michael, Bart is going to live here now. We were married this weekend. He’s your new father,” she told him as if she were discussing the weather.

“But, I don’t want a new father,” he replied.

“Get out of my sight! Go to your room and think about what you just said you selfish little brat!” Hannah yelled at Michael as he left the table and returned to his bedroom for the night.

* * * * *

“Michael, what are you thinking about?” Dr. Mikowsky asked, breaking his silence.

“Oh nothing,” he replied. “So, Doc, you think I choose to be in lousy relationships?”

“To be frank, Michael, yes,” he replied. “We cannot be forced into a relationship. We choose whether to be in one, and I think you choose to be in relationships with distant men who use you and treat you poorly.”

“How do I stop doing that?” Michael asked raising his eyebrows to the doctor.

Chapter Three

Two weeks later, Michael attended a birthday party in Beverly Hills for his good friend, Dr. Sylvia Rose. She had arranged for valet parking, and Michael always enjoyed the look on the valets’ faces when he pulled up in his car. They spent most of their time parking Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and Mercedes, and the occasional Lincoln or Cadillac. He always worried they could not drive a stick shift and would always instruct them before handing over the keys.

As he pulled up to the front of Sylvia’s home, one of the valets opened the car door as Michael shifted into neutral and pulled the parking lever located under the left-side of the dash of his 1965 Corvair.

“Welcome, sir, leave the keys in and the engine running, please,” a rather handsome young man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties said to Michael. He was around six-feet tall, with dark hair, thick eyebrows, piercing dark brown eyes and full lips. Michael guessed him to be of Mediterranean descent and was positive the valet had at least a dozen headshots on his person waiting to hand them out to the first guest who looked like a producer.

He stepped out of his car and gave him a knowing look, wondering when he would be done for the night, but as he figured the valet was around ten years younger than he, Michael toned down his usual flirtiness. The valet handed Michael a ticket stub and sat down behind the wheel, closing the door with the window still rolled down. He eyed the floor shift and the dash and gave the usual look of confusion Michael encountered with young valets, as no shift pattern was etched on the knob.

“Do you know how to drive a stick shift?” Michael asked as he leaned on the door frame and smiled, bringing on the charm after all, as if the valet were a potential trick he met at a bar.