Dear Mia,
This is very hard for me to write and will no doubt be hard for you to read. That’s tough luck for both of us…You have done what your old dad never managed to do—you have gutted my heart entirely. And if this makes you feel guilty, well, it should…Claire
My seminar high just ended. The sense of shame and stupidity I feel reading this is so overwhelming that I put it down several times. I’m such a shit. I want to cry but even that seems selfish.
I always assumed my connection with my mom was permanent. She was my mother, mine. It never occurred to me that mothering is voluntary. When I was little, even up to the time I first ran away, any sort of argument with her really upset me. We had a special closeness, and the thought of that changing or being lost terrified me. Then in the past year I shut her out and shredded the cord. But, I just wanted her to back off, not stop caring altogether.
She’ll never forgive me, she shouldn’t, what sort of masochist would want me for a daughter? The worst part, though, is where she wrote that until I take accountability for my actions, “I’m just a dirty kike, not your mother.” This crushes me. I had no idea what Brian and his friends were until it was too late.
Her letter seems to have set the tone for the next two weeks. Coming out of Discovery I was on fire. I felt like Wonder Woman, I was never going to break a single rule, I’d graduate and live happily ever after—a great fantasy for the two days it lasted.
All the seminar did was open Pandora’s box. I had so much shit come to the surface, Sasha and I made a list of my issues, so I could deal with them one at a time and not get overwhelmed. Group has become like a Jeopardy game for me, I’ll take incest for 400, Alex, no, make that self-mutilation for 1,000.
The whole dynamic in the family’s changed, too. We’ve all pretty much realized we’re full of it and it’s not only uncomfortable to be in our own skin, but embarrassing to be around everyone else who saw you pre-Discovery in all your shit and glory.
It’s been almost a month now and she hasn’t written a word since that awful letter. I must have apologized and begged for a response in a dozen letters by now, but still nothing. We have ten minutes before shutdown. I pull it out and read it again.
I hope that somewhere still inside of you is Mia—it is to that indescribably wonderful person that I send all of my love. I can’t wait to see her again.
Even after being so badly hurt, she ended the letter by saying she loves me. She should have signed it fuck you. That, I could understand.
Growing up, one of my favorite films was The Adventures of Natty Gan, about a girl who travels across country by herself with her wolf dog. I used to stay up in bed at night pretending to be her. I was Natty racing to hop a train, I was Natty looking around to make sure that soup can was safe to steal, I was Natty grabbed from behind when out of nowhere my wolf dog flies at my attacker. I was captivated by her freedom and independence, by the adventure.
I didn’t think about the fact that she was traveling in search of her father. I guess we always want what we don’t have. She traveled cross-country solo to find a parent, I did the same thing to leave one.
A friend of mine, a beautiful Polish producer, has arranged a meeting with director Tony Kaye. Lena’s been trying for a while to set up a script I’d written, and he likes it.
I don’t particularly care to go, I don’t particularly care to do much of anything now, especially writing, which is too internal an endeavor. I’m finding apathy oddly relaxing. On the way to the studio, she fills me in on the film he’s cutting:
American History X.
Of all the directors I take a meeting with, it has to be the guy who’s just directed Hollywood’s first major film about Neo-Nazis, about a skinhead?
Her tiny Mercedes suddenly feels suffocating; my armpits have started itching. She’s going on about what an important film it is, how gorgeous the footage is. Yes, I mumble, pretending to stare out my window while I work on getting my features back in order.
We meet Kaye at a lunch table outside a cutting room on the studio lot. I feel floaty and dull-witted as the sun beats on my face and the top of his shaved head. He’s quick-witted and gracious. Unfortunately, he also wants to talk about the controversy surrounding his film. The few English words I remember from Latin mass, Lord Deliver Me, are practically spelling themselves out across his bald pate.
“Claire, darling, you weren’t yourself,” Lena says on the way home. “You’re always so high energy and creative in meetings. Is it Mia?”
Yes, probably, I say absently, apologizing.
“It must be hard to have her so far away. You must be dying to see her.”
It’s not far enough, and the only thing I’m dying to do is crawl in a hole.
Tonight, I dream of Mia. She’s sitting in the pink velvet chair I had when she was little. She’s shrunken and the whites of her eyes are solid red, like old depictions of the devil. I’m talking to her and she’s high and belligerent; she mocks me. This makes me so mad, I lean down and grab her arms. I squeeze them so hard my fingers start to hurt and I know I’m hurting her. She tries to get away but I squeeze those little arms until I hear her bones cracking in my hands.
The sound of her bones breaking is so horrible it wakes me up with my hands clenched so tight that when I go to the kitchen I see nail marks in my palms. This feeling of her bones crunching haunts me for days. My own child’s bones.
I’m ashamed of this anger. She’s written me a dozen letters begging me to forgive her, but I can’t; my heart feels as rigid and cold as steel, and as unforgiving.
Please, please, God, soften my heart. Who else will be her mother?
Hollywood is divided into two kinds of people: those who practice yoga and those who practice Zanax. I hate taking drugs, and yoga’s right up there with chanting and feathered Dreamcatchers. But, after two weeks of incapacitating panic attacks, I’m learning to chattarunga with the best of them. Monday/Wednesday/Fridays, I inhale a column of red energy up from mother earth’s core. Tuesday/Thursdays I suck calming blue breaths into my cranial cavity and down my spine. In between, I surround myself with purifying white light.
And I am still seized with a racing heart and pinched lungs. I recall an article about something called neurofeedback for anxiety and track down the information.
Two days later, I’m in a darkened room with three electrodes attached to my head, staring at a slowly turning star on a video screen. Every time my brain does the good thing, whatever that is, the star glows and I’m rewarded with a little beep! After so many beeps, a burst of twinkly sparks shoots out and showers the spinning star with happiness. A harplike interlude accompanies the twinkles.
Maybe I’ve become the cheapest date in town, but I begin to await those twinkles and sparks like a junkie. I practically start sucking my thumb the minute they hook me up and give me a lap blanket. Each half-hour of brain training is like a month in the country. I walk out of there feeling like Buddha.
It’s almost enough to make me forget the rest of my life.
“Side—put your booty back—side—front!”
Five girls’ backsides come swinging around toward me. We have a new exercise video, MTV’s The Grind, and we’re loving it. Sunny looks like somebody oiled her hips.
“Mädchen! Die Post ist hier!” Tyna comes in with a stack of mail. We stop dancing and wait for our name to be called. Except Sunny, who’s oblivious, swinging her arms and shaking her hips, shouting in German and English.
“ Jah, booty back, auf und ab, turn it around, yeow!”
“Sunny!” Tyna yells.
She stops, surprised to see Tyna holding out a letter with an exasperated look.
Sunny starts reading it immediately and shouts without permission, “Mein God! Meine mutter hat Discovery ge-passed!”
Fan-fucking-tastic, her mom just went through seminar and mine won’t even write. I hate mail time. I’ve given up on them ever writing and am beginning not to care.
As we line up for class, I notice Sunny break into a smile, then quickly cover it with her hand. Sunny got permission earlier to borrow a tampon from Lara and she’s staring at it like it’s a magic wand. I sneak a glance over her shoulder and notice the tiny writing: “A little something from me to go inside of you.”
Normally, I’d laugh, we joke around like that all the time, but this is different. Sunny’s really blushing. And then it hits me. Sunny’s gay!
Everyone stands quietly behind their chairs in the cafeteria. Miss Zuza nods and we take a seat. Lupe raises her hand, “Darf ich musik putten on, Frau Zuza?”
“Jah, Lupe.”
Lupe shuffles out of the dining room and returns smiling demurely. We begin eating in silence, save the clinks and tinks of eighteen girls’ cutlery. A classical song begins to play, a sweet melody I recognize but can’t name. Just as I begin to drift along to the song, a man’s vibrato voice starts crooning, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy,” and I suppress a laugh. Soon the whole table recognizes “Bohemian Rhapsody” and is waiting for Miss Zuza to as well.
By “doesn’t really matter to me—to meee…,” we’re all at the edge of our seats.
And then the rock part breaks out and we all bang our heads up and down in unison. Ruza, the cook, starts conducting with her wooden spoon and even little Jenka plays air guitar with a big spatula. Miss Zuza starts laughing when the door swings open and a worried-looking Peter rushes in. He stares for a second at the dancing cooks and headbanging girls and, seeing Miss Zuza unconcerned, shakes his head and retreats back to the boys. I guess his intrusion was enough for Miss Zuza, because she waves her arm, yelling, “ Das reicht, Mädchen, das reicht (that’s enough)!” But she’s still smiling.
It’s moments like this that make it bearable here.
I haven’t gone on the Link in a while, but I do tonight and find a post from Sasha’s mother.
We both have had periods of great difficulty in coming to terms with the anger and pain that continues to creep in when we think of how she treated us…This evening I pulled out a book of my favorite poetry…sticking out between two of the pages was a photograph of our then-six-month-old Sasha in our arms, a look of radiant happiness on all three of our faces…
I commit this day to relinquish my anger…to forgive my daughter…When she looks into my eyes I want her to see nothing but love, support, and pride…which is precisely what she deserves.
It’s the first cool night in a while and before taking a walk, I dig out the big, black writing sweater my mother knit for me. It’s oversize with a big shawl collar, burnished leather buttons, and deep pockets. I haven’t worn it since last winter.
When I look down to button it, I see it—a long, wavy strand of Mia’s hair, a part of her still golden, unblackened. The part of her I stopped seeing. My little monkey.