The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (31 page)

CHAPTER 58
               

I was told explicitly to expect flu-like symptoms, particularly on the three days of the week that I’d stick a needle full of potent medication into my tummy. The most pressing fear was that I would be unable to take care of Tia.

I began the injections in October and was surprised that my physical responses to the drug were fairly mild considering what I’d been told. This is where my willfulness comes into play, according to my friends. “You just don’t allow yourself to get sick,” Dale said. And Cronin concurred: “Honey, you got laid two days after your hernia operation, remember?” I did remember.

I tried to maintain my focus on Tia and succeeded far more often than not.

Christmas 2004: Tia pointed out the black Santa Claus as we stood on the porch of Miss Coleman’s, waiting for someone to answer the door.

“Is that Tia?” a voice asked, incredulously, from behind the screen. “Oh, she’s beautiful,” she said, opening the door to get a better look. It was Tia’s maternal grandmother and this marked their first meeting. She is also beautiful and the resemblance to her granddaughter is evident.

Sandra was in town from Atlanta, staying at her Aunt Marjorie’s and visiting her four other grandchildren (most of whom she had raised at various times).

It was out of character for Marjorie Coleman to still be in her pajamas at nearly noon. Even though the flannel jammies had a stylish holiday pattern, she was looking bedraggled and frail. Instead of her trademark wig, her graying hair was carelessly hanging in pigtails askew.

In addition to nine-year-old Donovan, Miss Coleman had been taking care of her ailing son, in his fifties, during the past few months. She was eighty and on this day, she looked it.

The house was full of family members, doing what families do on Christmas morning: compulsively eating last night’s leftover sugar treats, taking photos, lounging on the couch, which was strewn with red and green ribbons and wrapping paper.

Donovan was stationed at the computer with his teenage half brothers, Joseph and Robert, close by. My daughter joined her half siblings without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, in spite of the fact that they barely knew one another.

Sandy and I sat at the dining room table. In spite of her buoyant voice, there was a perceptible undercurrent of sadness in her eyes, as well as some frustration and cynicism. I hungered for family history and Sandra delivered.

“We didn’t even know she was pregnant,” she said, referring to August of 1994, when her daughter gave birth to Tia. “We got a call from the hospital. It was news to us.

“They would not release the baby to her mother because of the drugs, so they tried to get a family member to commit to taking her. I’d come to the rescue many times with the other kids, but my mother had just died and I couldn’t handle a newborn.

“Marjorie had just lost her husband and then her sister—my mother—who she cared for during the last months of her life,” Sandra explained. “She couldn’t do it either.”

I wanted to know what, according to Sandra, motivated Victoria’s quest to keep Tia away from me.

“I’ll never forget Victoria telling me, ‘
And
he’s gay.’” Sandra said, “It was as if she found out you were a mass murderer.” Sandra confirmed that my whiteness also factored into my undesirability.

I explained to Sandra how my relationship with the family had soured and that I was most distressed by the estrangement from Marjorie Coleman. Even though she had behaved badly, I knew all along that Victoria was bullying her. “Even the judge strongly suggested that I keep all of them at arm’s length,” I told Tia’s grandmother, “and advised that I keep visits at a minimum or not at all.”

We’d had very little contact during the first few years. Then Marjorie began making moves to bring us into the family loop, assuring me that she was completely supportive of my relationship with Tia. I initially resisted, but my concern for Tia’s well-being in terms of her knowing her blood relatives kicked in and we began slowly reestablishing trust.

Little did I realize what was in store for the Kearns family as we swerved into a New Year.

CHAPTER 59
               

About four car lengths in front of me on the freeway, I saw a red car hit a less conspicuously colored car. Nothing too dramatic, but then, in what can only be described as a scene from a B action-adventure movie, the scarlet demon began spinning, around and around, convulsively, and where she’d stop nobody knew.

I began to brake, uncertain what was going on but knowing that I didn’t want to be in on the festivities. I checked my rearview mirror to see if the lane to my right was clear. I double-checked by looking over my right shoulder and experienced a nanosecond of relief, figuring that I’d outsmart disaster by simply gliding off the freeway. When my eyes returned to the windshield, what did I see?

The red car’s blinding headlights glared at me as the out-of-control vehicle careened toward mine while I desperately swerved to avoid the inevitable. Evel Knievel I ain’t.

The dervish of a car, obviously on a rampage, won this battle, smashing into me head-on and then proceeded to somersault down an embankment.

Did I mention that Tia, the love of my life, was in the backseat?

As I watched the car flip over and over again on its way to wreak havoc on the city streets below, my daughter and I made inexplicable sounds, not forming any words, all at once anguished, relieved and terrified. Words eventually came. “Are you okay, Daddy?” Tia asked in a cracked voice that I will never forget.

“I’m okay, Dad,” she said.

“Honey, get out of the car,” I instructed, noticing that steam was shooting out of the hood. “Be careful.”

I had just done a photo shoot and I knew that Zo (who had taken the photos) was behind us on the freeway and would discover us momentarily. By the time Zo pulled over and began to approach, I was out of the car and wondering why she was meandering up to us as if she was leisurely strolling through Central Park on a Sunday afternoon.

“Call the police,” I said. Or did I shout? Looking at me like I was the one acting strange, she turned around—albeit without a noticeable surge of energy—and returned to her car, where she would, I hoped, call for help.

Tia’s shoulder hurt, directly on the spot where the seatbelt protected her, but she was otherwise ostensibly okay. No bruises, no swelling. Alert, clear eyes.

Within minutes there were fire trucks and CHP officers, most of whom appeared to have been sent by Central Casting. The fireman and paramedics looked like buffed-up male models and the female CHP officer could have given Barbara Stanwyck a run for her money with her butch, no-nonsense approach.

Thank God for Zo, who had returned and assessed the Big Picture; I had mistakenly assumed she had witnessed the whole thing. “I thought you had a flat tire,” she said. I realize I’m a tad on the dramatic side, but did she really think I’d demand she call the police because I had a flat?

Zo investigated the scene, snapped photos, and reported that the homicidal car had, after its manic fall from grace down the hill, hit two more cars, one of which wound up slamming into an apartment; the other was wrapped around a pole.

Memories remain blurry. One of the firemen asked if I was on any medication. “For HIV,” I said. “That’s good,” he said, and then apologized with real sincerity. “I don’t mean it’s good you have HIV. It’s good you’re so honest.” Sweet. I was sure he’d be calling me for a date any minute. Carless, HIV-positive, with a ten-year-old kid: unquestionably marriage material.

Zo offered to spend the night and we accepted her generosity. I called my friend/sidekick Cronin, who immediately offered to take us to a downtown hotel the following day (Friday) for rest and relaxation.

No matter what I was doing or whom I was talking to, the accident simultaneously replayed in my head. The recurring question I compulsively wanted someone to answer: What could I have done differently? Feeling guilty (often without cause) is a parental stereotype, particularly when your kid experiences any kind of discomfort that could remotely be construed as your fault. The little darling stubbed her toe? How could I not have seen that coming? Guilt, guilt, and more guilt.

When I told Zo that I had entered a shame zone, she said, “Tia told me that you did everything right.” I was comforted to know that she hadn’t blamed me. One of the reasons that parents are perpetually guilty is that our kids blame us—either with a subtle glance or an over-the-top tantrum—for everything in the world that makes them unhappy (but rarely thank us for the things that make them radiate with glee).

Zo slept in Tia’s room and Tia snuggled next to me in my bed. Even though I knew it was what I needed to do, I determinedly held off crying until I was certain that she had fallen asleep—not because I’m a macho noncrying dad but because I didn’t want to worry her.

She looked so beautiful, the cocoa-colored planes of her face in profile, angelically serene. Uninvited details of the crash began replaying in my head. The jolt of the crash. The primal sounds that Tia and I had made before we found our voices. Wondering what that light blue fabric was on the dashboard. Oh, right, air bags. The sound of approaching sirens drowning out other approaching sirens, symphonically.

Death has relentlessly informed my relationship with Tia, hovering over our life together from our first meeting. Not a day goes by that I don’t imagine the unavoidable moment of being separated from my daughter.

It doesn’t matter. Tia and I are a match made in adoption heaven. I needed to take care of someone who wasn’t dying of AIDS and she needed a parent who would attempt to feed her, clothe her, send her to appropriate schools and keep her safe.

Lying in bed, listening to her breathing, a sure indicator of life, I finally cried. Considering what could have happened to us, our family experienced a miracle. We were alive. Perhaps ignited by that initial rush of adrenaline that pumps through your body when something so shocking happens, there’s also a resultant overlay of euphoria that accompanies the painful reality of being backstage, in the wings, waiting for your cue to get out there and die. Gratitude can often eclipse any feelings of fear or frustration. Maybe contradictory, those were tears of joy.

On Saturday morning, after a fairly peaceful night at the hotel, including time frolicking in the pool and Jacuzzi, Tia took a turn. Her downward spiral happened without warning. The pain in her shoulder had gotten worse, she said, “much worse”; it had indeed swollen up during the night.

She barely let me look at the injury. “Don’t touch me,” she growled, her eyes glazed. Cronin had gone back to the upstairs pool area, while I was afraid that I might need the number of the closest exorcist.

“Get away from me,” she yelled. And I could see that she was clearly in heightened pain and appeared to be experiencing symptoms of delayed shock.

Wanna talk guilty? Why didn’t we go to the hospital as a precaution even though she was ostensibly okay? What kind of an idiot dad was I?

Helpless, scared and angry, my little girl had plopped herself on the floor of our hotel room and was adamantly uninterested in Daddy’s reassurance.

As I gauged whether or not to call 911, I thought,
You are a complete fuck-up of a father.
Meanwhile, I had visions of Cronin re-creating scenes from a Sixties beach movie with the poolside hotel guests.

Tia was inconsolable. I called down to the desk and asked them to call 911.

CHAPTER 60
               

By the time Esther Williams returned to the room, dripping, the 911 studs had arrived and were headed in the direction of our room. Cronin must have thought that I’d had a heart attack. Or a particularly bad hangnail.

We spent the day at the hospital, where, after hours of waiting for X-rays, we eventually found out that Tia had fractured her clavicle, a fairly common seatbelt injury. There was not much they could do, according to the doctor (who would be played by Christine Lahti in the movie). Keep it in a sling for four to six weeks and it would heal itself. But the good doctor warned that the pain could be excruciating.

For the next four or five days, it was as if I was caring for an infant. Tia was totally dependent upon me. Everything required assistance—eating, changing clothes, bathing, brushing teeth, going to the bathroom.

Intimacy between father and daughter is a truly tricky thing, but I believe that I have waded through those waters with the right amount of caution without allowing unwarranted fear to jeopardize our closeness. During the past couple of years, as Tia became more independent, the level of physical intimacy has (as it should) decreased.

I must say that part of me was thrilled to be needed again, alleviating a bit of the gnawing guilt. Another part of me realized that caring for a helpless child of ten requires the same stamina and patience that new parents are required to muster. I became exhausted after a day or two and had to refrain from saying, à la Joan Crawford, “For Chrissakes, Tia, get up and get it yourself.”

Less than a week after the collision, she returned to school. A veritable fan club of her peers assembled to greet her, gently showering her with tender hugs and kisses. She improved each day, even though she still went into the suffering tragedienne role if she thought she could work it.

I, on the other hand, suddenly became acutely aware of the pain that I must have been denying while I took care of my kid (another parental stereotype at play). I began physical therapy and attempted to glue life’s puzzle pieces back together into some kind of form that made some sense. I clung to the glad-to-be-alive consciousness, determined not to forget what that felt like.

And I looked at my kid, the love of my life, through a new lens. I appreciated her more—her humor, her beauty, her intelligence and even her diva-ness.

Experiences like these are what define family. It’s not just the rambunctious trips to Disneyland that cement familial bonds; it’s facing challenges together, challenges that make you rapturously aware of the depth of your love for each other.