What falls away : a memoir (40 page)

In June we packed up thirty years* worth of Farrow family stuff, and we left: the apartment on Central Park West, When we arrived at Frog Hollow everyone cheered, and we moved our things into the newly renovated eight-bedroom house.

Now, Kaeli-Shea slept in the bassinet beside my bed. She received physical therapy, and I worked in my garden and learned my lines, along with some sign language, for a

movie to be shot that winter m Connecticut. Reckless, written by Craig Lucas, offered me one of the best roles of my career. Its director, Norman Rene, my new friend, made a remarkable film and then died not long after it was finished.

Even before we lefi: New York, soon after Kaeli-Shea's arrival, another adoptive parent called to tell me about a boy in an Indian orphanage. He had been abandoned some years earlier in a Calcutta train station. His age was put at five, six, or seven. He was paraplegic as a result of polio. This very frail child was in urgent need of a home, but in all the years that he had been in the orphanage, no one had come forward for him. I told the children about the little boy in India, and there evolved an extraordinary discussion in which the children suggested ways they could each be of help. Everyone wanted this little brother. They urged me to call the agency and hurry the paperwork along, and could we please have a picture. Then, together, we went out and bought a little red wheelchair.

During that first winter at Frog Hollow, Isaiah started to talk, and little by little, Kaeli-Shea began to use her arms. Tam, while receiving braille lessons and "cane mobility" instruction, was fully integrated at the local school. That winter she read The Diary of Anne Frank in braille. All the kids made friends quickly, and after the restrictions of apartment living, it was wonderful for them to be able to run outside and play, and invite other children over whenever they wanted.

I was just finishing Reckless when Thaddeus arrived from India; they gave me the afternoon off so that the kids and I could meet the plane at JFK. My seventh son was so weak from malnutrition that he spent much of those first months lying down. His legs were like chicken bones and the whites of his large eyes were a dull yellow. His knees, the tops of his feet, and his backside are still scarred from years of dragging himself along the ground.

But we attached ramps to Frog Hollow, and before long Thaddeus, with a dazzling smile, was scooting up and down in his bright red wheelchair. Doctors in the United States don't see much polio these days, so at first they weren't sure how to proceed. Neither leg could support his weight, and one was rigidly bent at the knee, almost at a right angle. There was talk about surgery, and encasing him in a complete body and neck brace because the severe curvature of his spine was causing his ribs to collapse on his organs. But he was just beginning to get used to us and everything else here. He couldn't speak or understand a word of English. We decided to try physical therapy first— maybe we could straighten his leg without surgery. Then he would be able to wear leg braces, and with them he might one day walk with crutches, and there was a chance that his abdominal and back muscles would grow strong enough to support his spine.

Thaddeus won real respect as he endured months of often painful therapy three times a day with plucky good humor and stubborn optimism. It was easy for me to learn how to do the exercises he needed from the therapist who came to our house several times a week, because they were similar to the exercises that had been used for Moses's leg, which he still has to do. We stretched the tendons behind Thaddeus's knee, trying to unlock it; I held his legs while he did his best to walk on his hands wheelbarrow-style. This wasn't easy because he was so weak, and because his left arm has only half strength.

One year after his arrival, braced from his waist through his shoes, Thaddeus pulled himself upright while clinging to a walker, his dark eyes sparkling in triumph. Today, two years later, with the braces and crutches, he can tear around the garden at a good clip, over rocks and through bushes. Although the wheelchair will always be his primary means of getting about, his upper-body muscles are strong, and his

spine has straightened. He speaks English now, with a lovely Indian lilt, and he has lots of friends in the second grade at our village school. In the evening I often find him sharing his new reading skills with his little brother Isaiah. Since Thaddeus's arrival his weight has tripled, and he has enough energy to light up the state of Connecticut.

During the time we were waiting for Thaddeus, another agency called to tell me about Minh, a blind girl about three years old, who had spent all her life m a Vietnamese orphanage. No, I kept saying, "We're waiting for a child from India, and that will be it for us. I hope you find another family for Minh." But once you are aware of a specific child, it's difficult to ignore his or her destiny. Photos arrived in the mail showing a tiny pixie of a girl standing against a wall with her fist in her eye.

More than a year had gone by, during which Thaddeus had arrived and become a joy to aU of us, when the agency called to say they still had not located a family for Minh. We said yes. The kids were thrilled: Dylan even begged me to ask the agency for a second little girl who would be exactly her age. But I told her that Minh would be the last of the brothers and sisters.

The journey to an orphanage to claim a daughter or son is every bit as extraordinary an experience as giving birth. A year later, in late 1995, when the papers were finally completed, Dylan and I set out with our knapsacks full of presents from the children to their new sister, plus extra treats for the other kids at the orphanage—candy, crayons, baseball hats, and so forth. We flew to Vietnam, stopping in Los Angeles, Seoul, and Bangkok, where we spent the night at an airport hotel before continuing on to Ho Chi Mmh City, formerly Saigon.

That evening, as I picked at my dinner, Dylan raced around the rooftop restaurant with two children of a family

friend who lives in Vietnam. In bustling downtown Ho Chi Minh City, under a warm, star-filled sky, I thought of the rest of my children just waking in their beds on the other side of this earth, and I thought of little Minh, who by this time tomorrow would be with Dylan and me.

The next day we were taken to the orphanage, a car trip of roughly three hours. As Ho Chi Minh City's crowded suburbs fell away and we sped past the rice fields, I held one momentous thought: I was about to meet a child who is my daughter, and whom I will stand by for the rest of my life. Today she will not understand a word I say, nor will I know scarcely a word of hers, but I will take her in this car away from the orphanage, the only place she has ever known, and I will bring her to the other side of the earth, where her sisters and brothers are waiting in a Connecticut farmhouse. Minh is coming home, home to her family.

There is a brand-new doll and a brown Steiff teddy bear waiting on the spare bed that will be Minh's, in the large corner bedroom where Dylan and Tam sleep. From her windows Minh won't see the views of the lake, the field, and the woods beyond. But Tam has filled a shelf with books for blind children, Dylan has written a beautiful poem, and Satchel and Thaddeus have gone through their things and chosen the toys they feel their sister will like best. Isaiah has wrapped his favorite steam shovel in toilet paper and placed it under Minh's pillow. Lark and I have hung small dresses in the closet and the drawers are filled with size-five clothes—we don't know how big she is, but we guess she is very small. Tam has reminded me to stock up on Asian rice and nuk-mam, the Vietnamese fish sauce. Isaiah says, Better get hot dogs. Trang, an invaluable translator and friend during Tam's first months with us, is standing by. Lark, Daisy, Matthew, Sascha, and Carrie will be waiting at the house when we return, and of course Moses. Fletcher is at school in Germany. At the village school, the kindergarten teacher has already rearranged the

furniture so that Minh won't bump into anything, and her new classmates are eager to meet her. Like Tarn and Thad-deus, she will have an aide during school hours.

What I had been searching for, since the very beginning, since my childhood ended with polio, through my years in convent school and my time with Frank Sinatra and in India, and really every single day, was a life that would be meaningful. Now, in a car outside Ho Chi Minh City, I held Dylan's hand and silently prayed to be better than I am—to be the person Minh and each of my children needs and deserves—and to be worthy of the life I had chosen and the responsibilities that lay ahead.

At the orphanage I hugged my new daughter, and with her mouth overflowing with M&M's, tiny Minh announced that she would sleep next to me on the floor, and she hoped I would give her plenty of candy, a knapsack like my own, and an electric fan.

I named her Frankie-Minh, after Frank Sinatra. He had once told me he had met a little girl who was blind. Hair was blowing across her face, and when he bent over to move it out of her eyes, the child asked, "Mr. Sinatra, what color is the wind?"

And Frank said his own eyes filled so he couldn't see. "Sweetheart," he answered, "the wind moves so fast that none of us have ever seen it."

Frankie-Minh has now been with our family for more than a year. She is six years old, and a single sunbeam, a pure delight to everyone who meets her. In no time she became fluent in English, and already she is learning to read in braille. Tam is able to help her in so many ways, but really all of the kids help one another.

In 1996, after Matthew graduated cum laude from law

school, we returned, as we have every year, to Ireland—this time so I could make An^la Mooney Dies Again in Connemara, directed by Tommy McCartle and beautifully written by John McCartle. Matthew joined us in the west of Ireland, in the place where he had been conceived one blissful summer more than a quarter of a century before. To the delight of all the kids large and small, I have bought a thatched cottage in the Wicklow Mountains where the river bends.

As 1997 approaches, Matthew is a lawyer, clerking for a federal court judge, and Sascha is a computer analyst, happily wedded to Carrie, whom I love as my daughter. Lark and Daisy married brothers, and they too are happy; thanks to them, I have three glorious grandchildren. Fletcher and Moses are in college and doing great, while Kaeli-Shea must be the most talkative three-year-old at the Benjamin Bunny Nursery School. Every weekend one or another of the older kids comes to Frog Hollow for a visit.

Tam has made up for her lost school years—today she wins top marks in the eighth grade. She's a whiz at math, and along with Satchel, she is a passionate gardener by touch, Tam can identify any plant or weed. She and Dylan are close sisters who share a bedroom and confidences. Dylan, at eleven, is a quiet little girl who loves to read, write, and draw. She sings with the school chorus and performs in the town's drama group. Satchel, at nine, is the family philosopher, a voracious reader, and impressively agile in the world of ideas. He is passionate about animals and is a member of the 4-H club.

Outside my window at this moment Thaddeus is sitting with his cat in the red wagon, steering, while Frankie pushes him at top speed. Isaiah and Satchel, totally absorbed, are following the flights of various insects and butterflies. Kaeli-Shea is heading out with a bucket of potato chips. Dylan and her best friend are over on the jungle gym.

I grew up in a family of seven children, I have raised

seven children, now grown up, and again today there are seven children living at home. It feels absolutely right. We have chickens and roosters, two cows, five cats, a dog, rabbits, hamsters, birds, lizards, and tropical fish. We are looking for the right pony.

APPENDIX

/ have reproduced the state supreme court decision in its entirety, which perhaps is an unusual document in a memoir. My purpose, however, in doing so is to reassure the reader that extracts from it have not distorted what was decided hy the Court. This decision was upheld in appeals to the Appellate Division, First Department, and the New York Court of Appeals. Furthermore, incidents reported prior to the custody trial were included in the testimony at that trial.

SUPREME COURT: NEW YORK COUNTY INDIVIDUAL ASSIGNMENT PART 6

WOODY ALLEN,

Petitioner,

against

SU24A

Index No. 68738/92

MARIA VILLIERS FARROW, also known as NflA FARROW,

Respondent.

X

ELLIOTT WILK, j."":

INTRODUCTION

On August 13, 1992, seven days after he learned that his seven-year-old daughter Dylan had accused him of sexual abuse, Woody Allen began this action against Mia Farrow to obtain custody of Dylan, their five-year-old son Satchel, and their fifteen-vear-old son Moses.

As mandated by law, Dr. V. Kavirajan, the Connecticut pediatrician to whom Dylan repeated her accusation, reported the charge to the Connecticut State Police. In furtherance of their investigation to determine if a criminal prosecution should be pursued against Mr. Allen, the Connecticut State Police referred Dylan to the Child Sexual Abuse Clinic of Yale-New Haven Hospital. According to Yale-New Haven, the two major questions posed to them were: "Is Dylan telling the truth, and did we think that she was sexually abused?" On March 17, 1993, Yale-New Haven issued a report which concluded that Mr. Allen had not sexually abused Dylan.

This trial began on March 19, 1993. Among the witnesses called by petitioner were Mr. Allen; Ms. Farrow; Dr. Susan Coates, a clinical psychologist who treated Satchel; Dr. Nancy Schultz, a clinical psychologist who treated Dylan; and Dr. David Brodzinsky, a clinical psychologist who spoke with Dylan and Moses pursuant to his assignment in a related Surrogate's Court proceeding. Dr. John Leventhal, a pediatrician who was part of the three-member Yale-New Haven team, testified by deposition. Ms. Farrow called Dr. Stephen Herman, a clinical psychiatrist, who commented on the Yale-New Haven report.

What follows are my findings of fact. Where statements or observations are attributed to witnesses, they are adopted by me as findings of fact.