Found Page 8

  In 2005, Sean’s eighteenth birthday came around. He was staying on the couch of my room at the Mercer, and I came home drunk. He said, “How dare you do this to me on my birthday?”

  And now he was asking me that question again. Hearing those same words five years later, I was taken aback. I didn’t know what I’d done, but I knew I hadn’t violated his trust this time. In fact, ever since his eighteenth birthday, I had tried to make every one of his birthdays as loving and wonderful as possible. It’s one of the ways I make my living amends to Sean.

  On the bench outside Matsuhisa, Sean told me that he felt like I was scrutinizing him. Later he would explain to me that it was because things were tense at the beach house with my father. But in the moment, I just apologized for probing and coaxed him back into the restaurant.

  Eventually, my father paid the check and we all said good-bye. The night hadn’t gone smoothly—the unresolved issues among us were bubbling just beneath the surface—but we’d gotten through it without disaster. Or so I thought.

  My apartment was pretty near the restaurant. Within minutes of my arrival home, my phone was ringing. It was Sean. He said, “Grandpa kicked me out of the car. Can you come get me?” Sean was stranded on La Cienega Boulevard, not far from the restaurant. I ran downstairs to get my car.

  I was livid. The last thing I wanted, especially on Sean’s birthday, was for him to experience anything like I had experienced as a child. I wasn’t going to hold my tongue just because we had some TV deal. I called my father and said, “You promised. You promised you would not attack or hurt my son! You are a monster and I hate you!” The past slammed into the present, and out spilled years of pent-up rage. He couldn’t get away with this. Not anymore.

  “I hate you,” I screamed. “You and your fucking gross problems.”

  Before he could respond, I hung up the phone, so angry I couldn’t stop shaking. Ryan had already threatened to quit the show over much smaller issues. I knew he would quit for real this time. Well, so be it. No TV show was worth the destruction to my family and me. I’d come to him—and to the project—determined to love him until he could love himself, but as it turned out, that was easier said than done. It was over. We were over. All that work and effort—it had been thrown out on La Cienega with his grandson.

  Twenty minutes later, Sean and I arrived back at my apartment and talked about what had happened. Sean and my father have plenty in common. Sean is careful and methodical. He keeps his stuff neat, just like Ryan. They both like sports. They were a good roommate match for a while. But the moodiness I had witnessed in my father had gotten worse since I had left the beach house. There wasn’t anything Sean could do right. Sean felt as though he was trying to stay out of Ryan’s way, but no matter what, he was still underfoot. Perhaps this was why I sensed they were both edgy when they arrived at the restaurant.

  According to Sean, the fight was triggered by a discussion Sean, his stepsister Ruby, and I had at dinner about the fact that Sean didn’t want to appear on the upcoming TV show. Sean felt that the show should be about me and my father; it was, after all, subtitled “Ryan and Tatum.” It was our business, our relationship, not his. I understood that and had no need to bring him into it. But, for whatever reason, Ryan seemed to take Sean’s decision as a rejection. At the time, this was the only explanation I could come up with. In any case, Ryan had overheard Ruby, Sean, and me talking. He waited until Sean got in the car, then turned around and said, “Tell me right now you’re not going to be in the show.”

  Sean said, “I’m not going to be in the show, Grandpa.”

  Ryan said, “Get out of my car.” This baffled me. Why did Ryan need Sean to participate? What did it mean to him that Sean chose not to? Why had Ryan thrown Sean out of the car? As far as I was concerned, people don’t leave their grandchildren in the middle of La Cienega Boulevard. Period.

  As predicted, soon after I yelled at him on the phone, Ryan sent me a text saying to tell the people at Endemol that he had quit the show. I texted back, “If you want to quit, please do it yourself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cause and Effect

  WITHIN A FEW days I found Sean an apartment a couple of blocks from mine. I was relieved that he was finally out of Ryan’s house, but devastated that everything we’d worked for had fallen apart. We hadn’t even begun filming, and the show had already changed everything. This wasn’t Paper Moon—we weren’t a movie star in his prime and an eight-year-old girl who hung on his every word. The show was about us, as flawed adults, and it forced all of our issues to the surface in an unnatural way. It made Ryan tense and uncertain, so he lashed out at Sean. It weakened me, because now we shared a commitment. The show was a documentary but was already affecting how we lived. Was it all a huge mistake?

  Was Ryan capable of being the father I longed for? Did he even want that role? Was it just another role? Was the problem the TV show, or was it us? Which was damaging the other? Which mattered more? It was tough to separate the two. In a way, I wanted the cameras to bear witness to our behavior. I wanted a connection with Ryan. I wasn’t ready to let go of any of my goals. But there was nothing I could do now. It appeared to be over. I wasn’t ready to contact Ryan, and all was silent from his end.

  In the past, a situation like this—my father and son fighting, my father and I not talking, the show we’d worked on close to collapse—would have given me a reason to check out. I didn’t like feeling helpless. I didn’t like waiting for people to come through for me. Being able to trust—it’s a work in progress.

  But now I had an army of support. I went to meetings frequently and regularly. People would notice if I missed them. My sponsor, Patty, is my fortress of strength. She has the empathy of a saint, and the insight to pinpoint what kind of support I need and when I need it. She is a constant in my life.

  Although Patty’s sobriety is natural for her now, after twenty-five years, she sometimes has her own issues—the problems that arise in a sober life—that we talk about. She had a breakup that we went through together. Her stepfather had recently died. While she had stayed with him in the hospice, the tables had been turned, and I was grateful for the opportunity to be there for her. I listened to her and what she was going through. I loved to remind her how good she is to people, how she is a strong influence with real purpose in the world. I didn’t need to talk about myself all the time. Sure, I was fighting a bit with Ryan, but I was okay. Above all, I never stopped appreciating the commitment Patty had made to me. Despite her full-time job, she always found time for me. I relished any chance to pay her back.

  I was driving home from a meeting when I told Patty about the fight on Sean’s birthday. I was frustrated at the situation. I couldn’t bear not knowing what would happen with the show. I said, “I don’t like the way it is. I don’t want it to be like this. I want life to be different. I don’t want to always be fighting.”

  Patty said, “Take a deep breath and know that you are supposed to be here. Go home and pray for your dad.”

  I said, “I don’t want to fucking pray. I’m trying to do everything right.” I hung up the phone.

  As soon as I hung up, I regretted it. I was still upset, but at the same time I was terrified at how Patty might respond. What if she was angry, what if she stopped speaking to me, what if I lost her? I called her back right away—five seconds after I hung up. “I apologize,” I said. “I was being petulant and difficult and a total brat.”

  She said, “It’s fine, Little T.” That’s what she calls me—her Little T. I knew we were cool.

  Patty and I talked through the fight, and, with her help, I saw that my reaction had been overblown for the circumstances. I thought my anger was noble: I wouldn’t let Ryan mistreat my son. But the more Patty and I talked about what had happened, the more ambiguous it seemed. I didn’t understand kicking a kid out of a car and I’d gone into Mama Bear mode to protect my son. I lashed out defensively. On the other hand, come to think of it, I had once on a t
rip to Montauk pulled the car over to the side of the road and told then-sixteen-year-old Sean to get out and walk. I guess grandpas can get mad, too. (Of course, I picked Sean up after he’d walked a little bit. That’s where my father and I differ.) I’d said hurtful things to Ryan without ever giving him a chance to say his piece. I told him I hated him. Why would he want to do a TV show with me if I really hated him? I regretted saying that to Ryan. I had lost control, just like he had. I did to him exactly what I had been asking him for years not to do to me. So no one wins. Instead of the thoughtful, measured, adult approach that I wanted to bring to my relationship with Ryan, I had brought my fury about the past to the present situation, a big bundle of pent-up anger that wasn’t going anywhere fast.

  This was a revelation for me. If Ryan and I were ever to truly reconcile, I had to stop playing my role in the unproductive drama we’d enacted over and over for so many years. I had to break my part in the patterns of behavior that had misguided us most of our lives. I decided to make the first move toward peace.

  I sent Ryan a message saying that even if we didn’t do a show, I would still be his daughter and I loved him. He texted back the next day. It was brief: “Tate I am going to see Oprah with Ali and we’ll talk next week.” He and Ali McGraw were due to appear on Oprah in honor of the fortieth anniversary of their movie, Love Story.

  Then, a few days later, another text came from Ryan. In it, he mentioned that he had sent a text to Sean. He continued in his standard, well-suited ALL CAPS: “WALLY [that’s my cat who was still at Ryan’s] IS NEXT TO ME, BUT SEAN HAS DISAPPEARED BUT NOT SO MUCH AS A GOODBYE GRANDPA. OH WELL EASY COME EASY GO.” He signed off with “LOVE YOU.” It broke my heart to read that message, which spoke volumes to me. He clearly missed Sean but had no idea how to fix what had happened. There was love between them, I believed that, but it was stifled by the barrier they themselves had made. And so the sad history of Ryan and Tatum was repeating itself with the next generation.

  My dad may have truly believed that he didn’t do anything wrong or hurtful, but like it or not, Ryan is a parental figure for Sean. My dad doesn’t process feelings like most people. Instead, he gets aggressive and, when I was a kid, that led to some scary moments. I never stopped worrying about how it might play out with Sean. I had hoped Ryan had turned over a new leaf, but there was no guarantee.

  Sean didn’t reply to Ryan’s text. He probably understood my father well enough to know there wouldn’t be an easy or thoughtful resolution. Time would tell.

  UNLIKE FOR SEAN, it never took much from Ryan to soften me. We both wanted to put the fight behind us. It belonged in the past. I wrote him back: “I will watch Oprah. Love you.” I didn’t mention Sean. That was between them. But I felt his sadness and hoped that Ryan could redeem himself. I knew he had it in him. His warmth is a greater force than his temper. A little of his love goes a long way. All the light that I have today came from a few critical years of his affection.

  Later, when I congratulated Ryan on his Oprah appearance, he forwarded me the text message he had sent to Sean. In it he apologized and said he was sad, and he wished Sean luck. I was moved and impressed to see that Ryan had expressed his regret. It was a big step for him to take, and it was a step in the direction I hoped everything would go—with him and Sean, with him and me. It gave me real hope for our family. At the same time, I wanted to set clear boundaries. I wasn’t going to get in the middle of Ryan and Sean’s relationship. I wrote to Ryan, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  He wrote back: “T, I just thought you should know that he blew me off. He never responded. Be good to each other.” There were a few ways I could read that, but the simplest interpretation was that he wanted a relationship with Sean, he felt he had tried, and now he was giving up. I felt sad to think that both of them would let go so quickly, but only the two of them knew exactly what had happened between them, and each of them knew how much it was worth to himself.

  Meanwhile, as the third point of this dysfunctional triangle, I still had no idea whether Ryan was back on the show, or if he’d even officially quit to anybody but me. Time passed, and I tried to be patient. I tried to observe my impatience. I tried to be patient with my impatience. Patty told me that I was powerless and this was God’s plan. She reminded me that rejection is God’s protection. But all the 12-step rhetoric still wasn’t sitting well with me. I just wanted to hear, “Don’t worry. If you stay sober, everything you want will happen for you.” And even more than wanting to hear it, I wanted to live it.

  Eventually I came around to Patty’s way of seeing things. I’d gone through enough and come so far. I trusted in God, and believed that He didn’t let me take those meetings, pitch and sell the show, get so far with Ryan, just to have it all disappear. Every daughter needs her father. I had faith that it would work out, and I held on to that rather than despair.

  Originally, Ryan had invited me to move in with him. We thought spending time in close quarters would help us connect. With the help of Patty and other friends, I decided that no matter what happened with the show, I would not move into the beach house. Not with my anger ready to explode at any provocation. The nonexistent, tenuous show was changing before it had even begun.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two Nights

  WHILE I WAS nervously waiting to hear what was happening with the show, I was invited to a party at Sue Mengers’s house. The last time I’d gone to a party at Sue’s, I’d been underdressed. L.A. is the land of jeans. Dress ’em up. Dress ’em down. You can get away with the right jeans anywhere from Spago to a premiere. So I had walked into Sue’s wearing my usual: skinny jeans, boots, and a leather jacket. The way the memory plays in my brain, the entire room turned to look at me, thinking, She’s in fucking jeans? Among the guests were Lorne Michaels, Jon Hamm, Tom Cruise, Brad Grey, Jennifer Lopez. On second thought, they probably weren’t too worried about my jeans or anything about me. Anyway, Sue was always looking out for me and she must have been remembering that over-casual night when, before the party, she said, “Look as good as you always do, but don’t forget it’s for John Clark.” (“John” is not his real name, but John was a major Hollywood mogul, and this party was in his honor.) I got the point. No jeans this time.

  Sue Mengers is widely known as the first female super-agent, and she was my agent from when I was a child through age seventeen. She throws the quintessential Hollywood party in her fabulous Bel Air house. I’ve been attending her parties since I was nine, and met everyone there at one time or another. At one of Sue’s parties when I was twelve, I fell in love with Dustin Hoffman and wrote a song for him. I’ve met Woody Allen, Robert De Niro, Michael Caine, Elizabeth Taylor, Gore Vidal, Warren Beatty, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Candice Bergen, Ali McGraw, Diane von Furstenberg, Barry Diller, and every other star of the seventies and the eighties.

  Sue’s parties were always an exciting prospect, and I was looking forward to this one, but I have general discomfort at Hollywood parties. Plus, I had almost always gone to Sue’s parties with my father, but my dad and Sue had had a falling-out, so now it was just me. I may be on some “Hollywood Royalty” party lists, but I still feel like Little Tatum from the ranch.

  The night before the party, I tried on outfits in front of Pickle. I settled on black shorts, black tights, a black jacket, a black T-shirt, and heels. It looked like my usual uniform, minus the jeans.

  I parked in Sue’s circular driveway, and the butler opened the gigantic door. Sue was holding court in a stylish French chair. She was wearing a long, loose dress, with her beautiful hair cascading down. Sue is as maternal toward me as a take-no-prisoners woman like Sue can be. When I arrived a little after eight o’clock, I found out that Sue, as usual, had asked me to arrive at eight and everyone else to come at seven thirty. I guess Sue likes me to make an entrance.

  That night, in Sue’s grand living room, there were a variety of powerful, interesting people assembled, including Eva Mendes, who had big hair, big ri
ngs, a dress that looked like it was Yves Saint Laurent, a fur-trimmed jacket, and the most awesome huge boots with twelve-inch heels and zippers up the sides. Fabulous.

  Food was eaten. Jokes were made. To Sue’s delight, John Clark seemed to like me. I felt good about how I looked and how the night was going. Then the conversation turned in a way that threw me off-guard. Some of the executives started talking about what certain top actors were getting paid. One TV actor was making $40 million a year on a sitcom. Another was at $10 million. They were boasting about the big salaries they were paying these actors, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  It was a little past midnight. I don’t know where people may have thought I was going, but I slipped out the front door and left without saying good-bye.

  I might be too sensitive for these Hollywood parties. Now that I’m sober, there are a lot of times I still feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Like I really don’t belong.

  Later, after sneaking out of Sue’s party, I told Sean what had happened. “I just left without saying good-bye. I don’t know if they noticed.” I had felt so completely invisible. Sean reminded me that it is not normal for people to earn $40 million a year. It’s not normal or particularly classy to talk about them. Why was that a topic of interest or conversation? Didn’t people have better things to talk about? Sean had a point. But I knew the reason I was self-conscious. I take everything so personally—something to work on.

  As for my hostess, I knew Sue would forgive my early departure. She always says, “Honey, with the way you were raised, I’m surprised you’re not selling yourself on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard with a needle hanging out of your arm.” (Funny, though, I haven’t been invited back since I made my covert exit. So it goes.)