Found Page 15

  As we sat in the idling car, Red noticed that Farrah’s Saint Christopher medal was hanging on the rearview mirror. He asked to put it on.

  Ryan took the necklace off the mirror and handed it to Redmond. I leaned over and fastened it around Red’s neck.

  At last it was time for my father to make his fashionably late entrance. We drove into the parking garage, gave the car to the valet, and came upon a crowd of people waiting to board the elevators up to Soho House, which is in a gorgeous, glass-walled penthouse. My father said, “Tatum, who are all these people?” I wormed my way through to the front of the line, told them we were on the list, and managed to get Ryan past the line.

  Up on the club floor, we entered a private party room where people were having cocktails. I walked in, excited and happy to be there. All the OWN higher-ups were there. It was a great opportunity for me. Lisa, the chief creative officer of OWN, took me by the arm and said, “I want to make sure you’re healthy, well, and cared for through this process. The show is secondary to what you’re going through.” And Rod, the head of programming and development, said, “We believe in you. We love you. Your story is riveting. We’re so excited we can’t stand it.” I glowed in their enthusiasm.

  Eventually all the other guests filtered into the room and filled the chairs. The tables had assigned seating. At ours, in addition to the four of us, were Oprah, Steadman, Dr. Phil, and Dr. Phil’s wife, Robin McGraw. Soon after everyone was seated, Oprah went to the microphone and gave a speech. She talked about Martin Luther King Jr. and how, when he gave his final speech, he had no idea how his legacy would live on. She said that he would be proud of her, a little Negro girl from Mississippi, who now had a platform on which to provide entertainment that was intentional, spiritual, and filled with love. It was truly inspiring. She made the moment of the network’s launch feel historic, and I was proud to be part of it. TVs around the room were tuned in to the New York countdown of the New Year and the launch of the network. At midnight, there were cheers and kisses all around.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I was watching my father. As soon as Oprah sat down next to him, I saw a shift in his attitude. Maybe it was her speech that had affected him, but he seemed to realize the significance of the dinner and the power of this moment. Now Oprah and my father were getting on like a house on fire. He was teasing her. She was laughing. They danced together. He was saying, “Where have you been all my life?” To Oprah!

  Meanwhile, Oprah took an intense interest in Redmond. She asked him where he went to school.

  “Prison,” Redmond said. She asked him where he’d grown up.

  “Betty Ford,” he said. At some point in the middle of this deep conversation, Redmond stopped to place a call to someone on his cell. I was pretty sure Oprah hadn’t had that happen to her in a long time, if ever. But she seemed to respond to the unfiltered young man in front of her.

  Oprah asked, “Did you find God in prison?”

  Redmond said, “No, I found Satan in prison.” It was true that he had come across Satanism in one of his institutional experiences. But then he showed Oprah the Saint Christopher medal he had around his neck and told her that he had grabbed it from our father to wear that night.

  Oprah said, “It looks like you found God after all.”

  Redmond said, “Yes. I found God just now in my dad’s car.” Oprah had overheard my dad talking gruffly to Redmond. But now Red was holding his own and being honest with her. I wanted so much for my brother. If anyone could change the course of a person’s life, a young man who had lost his mother, it would be Oprah.

  Now it was close to midnight. Oprah and I stood next to each other, smiling for some photos. After the flashes went off, she turned to face me. She said, “2011 is going to be your year. I swear to you. I’m so proud of you.” There I was, in the presence of one of the most spiritually powerful people in the world. She had me by the arm and was telling me that I could help people with my story. I started crying. After four or five hours with the Oprah people, it was all love, giving, understanding, growing, and changing the world.

  I felt honored to be part of OWN and all that Oprah was doing. It made me see my time at the beach house in a new light. My eyes were open wider than ever before to the road ahead of me. I saw that my reconnection with Ryan was about more than forgiveness. It was about something bigger. It was letting go of my own past and being grateful for what I had. It was about family, and love, and the ties that bind us forever.

  We rang in the New Year. Everyone had a sparkly hat on their head. I put a strand of fake gold pearls around Steadman’s neck and said, “You need to be wearing these.” There was laughing and hugging. My father was dancing. Things were really looking up.

  After midnight, all the guests began to leave. It had been a long night. We came out of the elevator, and Ryan turned to Redmond for the valet ticket. Redmond couldn’t find it. Ryan wondered how Redmond could have lost the ticket.

  Somehow we managed to convince the valet to give us Ryan’s car without the ticket. We crowded into the Porsche, Marketa with a huge gold balloon that bobbled around like an extra head in the car. This was my family! (Well, all except the gold balloon.)

  Five minutes later, I was home. My dad said, “Pretty good night, guys. Good job, Tatum.” He was proud; I could tell.

  First thing in the morning I went to a meeting with my friend Tony. My father texted me: “Guess who had the valet ticket? I had the ticket. Stupid Ryan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Christmas Rain Date

  RIGHT AFTER THE New Year, I was planning to move into a new house. Pickle, Wally, my stuff, and I were heading to a four-bedroom Spanish colonial in the Pacific Palisades, right near where my grandparents used to live—and me, too. The house was about a five-minute drive from the beach house. Ryan had joked about that on New Year’s Eve, saying, “I’m going to ask my analyst why, if Tatum hates me so much, she is moving so close to me.” It was a big house and a nice change. I was excited. And the best feature of the house was that it was on Haverford Street, right down the road from one of the best AA meetings in all of Los Angeles.

  Before I moved, there was one last moment I wanted to have at my apartment. Kevin and I were finally going to have a belated Christmas celebration together.

  I went down to the lobby to meet him. I grabbed him, held him, and didn’t let him go for a good long time. Kevin had never been to this apartment before—I had been to New York to see him, but he hadn’t been to L.A. to see me—so I was glad to be able to show it to him, this place that had been so important to me. As soon as he walked in, he said, “I love it. It’s just where I’d imagine you living. It has all your stuff, all your smells. My mama.”

  In the living room, Kevin sank into a chair and stretched. He had been in Carmel with his girlfriend, and it had taken seven hours to drive to my place.

  We sipped ginger ale, and I gave Kevin the few presents I hadn’t sent to his New York apartment. A fountain pen and a notebook. Some socks. I told him about getting sick, ending up at my dad’s, and how it had gone downhill from there. I also talked about gratitude. He’d made it to see me. Here we were. That was what was important.

  Kevin asked me to visit New York. He told me that he felt my absence and wanted me to come back more frequently. This was the first time Kevin had mentioned how my departure from New York had affected him. I looked at his long body, stretched out full in the chair. I was so proud of him. He was working while he attended grad school; he was writing a novel; he had a wonderful relationship with his girlfriend. But he still needed me. Had I lost track of Kevin by moving across the country? Kevin was my oldest, my first child. When he was born, I was so in love with him I’d stare and stare and stare at this perfect baby in his crib.

  It was with Kevin that I had begun the process of defining myself as a mother and finding my way as a parent. Given the trouble my parents and I had, I knew I wanted to do things different, but that’s easy to say. Only on t
he job did I really figure out what I meant. There were several particular moments I remember as setting me on the path I eventually carved. The first was when Kevin was four, and he had a tooth abscess. We were on the road—in Cincinnati? or was it Toronto?—and the dentist told us the tooth needed to be extracted. When we entered the dentist’s office, Kevin was wearing a makeshift cape and carrying a spatula for a sword. Before I knew it they were telling me, “We’re taking him in . . . We gotta get this tooth out.” Kevin resisted, and they wrapped him in a straitjacket (truly—it was barbaric), while he cried, “Mom, Mom, you can’t let them take me away.”

  I was beside myself. My son had come into the dentist’s office a warrior. Adults had reduced him from his powerful self to a crying little child. I had been a wild child—I used to hit the dentist—but Kevin was my golden boy. How could this happen to him? The world seemed so cruel. It was clear to me that I had to put my own emotions aside. My job was to negotiate on his behalf, to get him the medical treatment he needed, of course, but also to make sure he was treated with dignity throughout the process.

  Two years later, we found ourselves in the doctor’s office. Again, we were on the road, this time in Hawaii for the Davis Cup. Kevin was gravely ill. His intestines were cramping and he had blood in his urine. Red bruising emerged from under his skin. He was in terrible pain. In the island hospital they took an X-ray and found that his spleen was enlarged. They thought he might have leukemia. John was playing a tournament and didn’t realize the seriousness of the situation.

  Getting Kevin back to New York was scary and horrible. In Children’s Hospital my little kindergartner had to undergo several blood tests. John and I handled the situation differently, and it reminded me that in my youth I had experienced a father’s inability to handle sickness, trauma—that kind of thing. Suddenly, I saw what I wanted Kevin’s experience to be. I didn’t want him to see me upset or scared, even when I was. I didn’t want him to feel as if he’d done anything wrong, or that he was a burden. I wanted him to feel safe, reassured, and confident that whatever had to be done, I would take care of it and him. It was an approach that hadn’t been modeled for me, so I was winging it. When he cried and screamed during blood tests, I focused on calming him down. I was there for him. He would be fine, and we would make it through anything together. It was that simple, but for me it was a turning point as a parent. I made sure my children always knew they were safe, that their feelings mattered, and that I was their advocate.

  It turned out that Kevin had an inflammation of the blood vessels called Henoch-Schönlein purpura, an immune reaction triggered by an infection. There were some serious potential side effects, but he came through it like a little warrior.

  The second thing I started to do—in between and in spite of having my own problems—was to try to give my children unconditional love. This was in direct response to how my mother handled the issue of her alcoholism with me. My mother lived in the trauma of losing her own parents. She denied the drinking, even when we both knew it was happening. On top of feeling sad and upset that my mother was altered, I was frustrated that she wasn’t honest with me. My mother didn’t have an addict as a parent, so she didn’t know what it felt like. I did, and I didn’t want my children’s experiences to replicate mine. I told them that if they ever had the sense that something was wrong and believed I had been drinking, they should trust their instincts. It was important to me that my kids feel empowered. Their feelings were legitimate. I was honest. They knew how hard I was trying, and they could trust that it would take time, but ultimately I would be sober for them.

  I brought the good and the bad of my life to my children and hoped they could learn from both. They could learn what to do and what not to do. When I look at all three of my children, I feel like it is working. They call me. They include me in their lives. We have a loving rapport. I’ve done something very right.

  My children and I comprised a small family, and I had no husband or boyfriend. I gave a lot of attention to my children, sometimes too much. But as Kevin and I talked, I realized that leaving the East Coast had changed things for Kevin; I was less available to him, less present in his life. Then and there, I decided that I wouldn’t sell my apartment in New York while Kevin was there, not unless I absolutely had to.

  I told Kevin, “No mother could be prouder of a child than I am of you. I don’t know what I did or didn’t do, or if I’m at all responsible for anything you’ve accomplished, but to know you is a gift and to say I’m your mother is the proudest thing I can say in my life. Good job, Kevin.”

  Kevin said, “You’re my mama. I turned out as well as I have because of you. It’s all you, Mom.” I sometimes need to hear that.

  Before he left, I asked Kevin to use his new fountain pen to write me a note. I handed him a yellow pad. At the top he put the date, and it was just a funny series of vertical lines: “1/1/11.” Then he wrote, “Dear Mama, I love you and I need you and I’m here for you forever. Kevin.” How lucky am I?

  I escorted Kevin downstairs, showing him the building’s old elevator from the twenties, which Charlie Chaplin had once ridden. Then Pickle and I sat with him and his little terrier, Nate, in the rental car for a minute. I just wanted to be with him for one more moment. I hate good-byes. The visit had been far too short. I resolved to get to New York more often.

  THE NEXT DAY I moved to the new house. This big house on a quiet street was a real life-change. The first night I slept in my room, I was a little haunted by the curtainless windows. It was eerily silent without the West Hollywood traffic. But Pickle kept me warm.

  That night I got a good night’s sleep and dreamed about riding off into the sunset with a famous Hollywood movie star.

  SEAN WAS STILL in Arkansas, where he’d spent Christmas. When he came home, we met for coffee at Greenblatt’s on Crescent Heights, my favorite deli. I gave him his Christmas presents, and we talked.

  For a while, at least, 2011 was going to be a challenge for me and Sean. I understood the comfort Sean found in coming back to his mother during a challenging time, but we had to be careful about how far we let it go. I didn’t want the desire I had to make up for lost time and the guilt at the core of it to influence my parenting. He had a key to my apartment. I was cooking for him several nights a week, which was fine. But I was also doing his laundry, paying his bills, and paying for his acting and singing classes. I paid his rent. I let it go when he said he didn’t want to work. My devotion to him wasn’t helping him start a career. It was making him less ambitious. I realized I had to pull back a bit.

  I was determined to parent him properly going forward. I wanted him to have a work ethic, whatever that meant. I needed to be a mother who told him, “You must step out into the world and give it a try.” I can’t guilt-trip my kid into doing something. That’s not my parenting style. But now, for once, his father and I agreed on what Sean needed. I had to stop supporting him.

  It was time for the gravy train to end. If he needed help to deal with his childhood, I would pay for a therapist. He could join a program (Al-Anon) to help children of people with addictions. But we both needed to separate my problems from his growth as a man. My health was not an excuse for postponing the steps he had to make to build a grown-up life. No matter what I’d put him through, it was time for me to set some parental boundaries with Sean.

  At Greenblatt’s, I told Sean he needed to get a job. He looked at me with his big blue Irish eyes and said, “I’m always working, Mom. I’m an artist.” True, he wasn’t lazy. But that argument only went so far. I told him that he had to start supporting himself. He reluctantly agreed. It was tough love, and we were at a crossroads, but I was ready and so was he.

  SEEING MY SONS inspired me to bring some of what we’d built together to my reconciliation with my father. I vowed to focus on the bigger picture. Taking the high road of unconditional love and support came easily to me as a parent. I needed to find the same road as a daughter. I’d spent two weeks at the b
each house. I’d come home, and now I was in my own new, huge, empty house. I felt energized and reborn by the shining new year and ready to have my best year ever.

  Afterword

  Found

  RYAN AND I had arranged to start joint therapy soon after the New Year. It would be the two of us in a room with two therapists, one who was “his” and one who was “mine.” I was apprehensive. I heard from Greg that Ryan was nervous, too, and my father sent me a text saying, “Please be nice to me Tatum.”

  I didn’t respond to my dad’s text—not because I was planning on being mean!—but because I didn’t know exactly what to say. I wanted to be tough and hold true to myself. My only plan was to try to have a conversation without letting his fear of the past override my need for open, honest communication.

  Then, unexpectedly, my dear friend Perry died of an overdose in New York. I dropped everything and headed east for the funeral.

  From the airport, I took a cab to Kyle’s place. Kyle greeted me warmly. His hair, which changes frequently, was short and dark, a handsome contrast to his blue eyes. He was buff as ever, nattily dressed in tight pants and a leather jacket.

  Kyle has a beautiful duplex in SoHo, which he shares with his boyfriend, Tim, whom I also love. The first time I returned to New York, I stayed in the spare room, and now it was starting to feel like my home away from home.

  As darkness fell, we ordered massive quantities of Chinese food and ate it as we caught up. Kyle was taking a writing class. He let me read some of his work. Afterward, Kyle sat on the floor and listened to me talk about the show and that I felt good about it and about myself. I told him that working on a docuseries was much harder than shooting scripted material. I was used to escaping into a character. Being myself constantly, always miked, without any escape, was mentally exhausting, especially the testimonials, where I sat alone with the cameraman, reflecting on what had just happened. I was constantly delving into my personal life, and not just the life I had chosen and made for myself, but parts of my past that I lived and know about, but, frankly, have chosen not to think about so often anymore. After I wrote A Paper Life, I tried to let it all go. Dredging it up again was taking its toll on me as well as on my father. We just handled it in very different ways. But right now Kyle and Chinese food were doing a good job of restoring my soul.