Beauty, Disrupted Read online

  Colleen had been born with cystic fibrosis, which in the 1940s meant near-certain death at a very young age. Miraculously, she lived until late adolescence, but due to Bay’s Chris­tian Science beliefs she was barred from taking any medication and subsequently endured years of unnecessary agony. My father and his siblings were torn, desperate to alleviate Colleen’s suffering while fearing that to do so would be to go against their mother’s wishes—and against God.

  I have come to believe that a huge and unnecessary burden of guilt associated with his sister’s suffering and death, ­coupled with the legacy of hiding one’s true self, was at the core of the alcoholism that ruled my father’s life until he finally became sober in 1988.

  While my mother’s family was small by contrast—she grew up with just one brother—oddly enough she lost this beloved sibling at a relatively young age, too. My uncle Ray fought in Vietnam and came home suffering from a serious case of post-traumatic stress disorder. In time he died of Guillain-Barré syndrome, which my mother always believed was brought on by exposure to Agent Orange. But my mother’s hardship didn’t begin and end there. My maternal grandmother, who went by the name Moonga, was mentally unstable throughout her life. She engaged in serial infidelities, was deeply depressed, periodically suicidal, had terrible boundaries and was estranged from the family for a long period of time, all of which left my mother perpetually yearning for something more.

  As I see it, both of my grandmothers did tremendous damage to their children.

  It is no wonder that when my parents met in college they fell in love very quickly. My father was just twenty-two years old and my mother only twenty. Both were truly longing for stability and happiness, and both wanted to raise a family very differently from the ones they’d grown up in. But what, more likely than not, attracted them to one another was a hint of familiarity each saw in the other. (My mom has often said that my father and her mother were two of the most depressed ­people she’s ever known.) So there they were: a young ­couple, both of whom had been reared in an atmosphere of silence, secrets, and inexplicable rules that had to be obeyed no matter what, trying to navigate an adult relationship. My father’s drinking and my mother’s withdrawal from him were predictable strategies for coping. They simply didn’t have the insight or the tools to change the dysfunctional blueprint upon which their marriage was built. But as dramatic as their stories are, they weren’t so unusual in Greenbrae, California, during the 1970s. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

  So wearing the label “dyslexic” at age eight, when no one else was owning their labels—not even the adults—did nothing for my already fragile self-esteem.

  We know so much more about learning disabilities today than we did then. Now kids with dyslexia have access to specialists and sophisticated treatments that were unimaginable just a few decades ago. We don’t confuse dyslexia with laziness or stupidity anymore, and techniques exist to help even severely afflicted kids keep pace with their classmates. But those techniques weren’t available to me or other kids in my generation. And that meant I would spend years dealing with the damaging consequences of having been called “slow” from an early age.

  Being perceived that way robbed me of the little confidence I had. So at the start of my second year in third grade, I made a decision about myself: Since I was already different from other kids, I was going to define myself on my own terms. If I was going to be labeled at all, I wanted to be known as a rebel or a troublemaker. Even being called a loser, because I would not conform, beat being called slow.

  Despite my status as an outcast, I ultimately developed my own way of making friends. By the time I was in sixth grade, boy-girl parties were all the rage—though only a few parents were “cool” enough to host them. My mom and dad were definitely not in that narrow set, but after some subtle and persistent pressure on my part they agreed to let me have what I promised would be a “small” mixer. For as long as I could remember, I’d been a very good manipulator, with an uncanny ability to exploit the insecurities of my predictable parents. I was especially good at working on my dad. When he wasn’t drinking, his guilt made him an easy mark. Extracting his permission to have a small group over on a Friday evening was contingent on getting him in one of these moments, and so I did. As I walked into the living room, his brows furrowed, his mouth set, and a sad, faraway look settled on his face. He loved me dearly, but he was so clearly uncomfortable in my presence. And though I would much rather have had his reliability, I accepted what I could get. I played on his apparent remorse for my own purposes, and I got what I wanted at the moment: my party.

  After being excluded from so many things at MCDS, I took as much pleasure in making a list of the kids I wouldn’t invite as I did choosing the ones I would. I kept it to a group of five: three boys and two other girls.

  Jared, Tyler, and Mitch were inseparable; they were a natural choice. Cathy and Kara were “in” girls, very popular, more likely to be friends with ­people like my sister than with me. But the promise of alcohol and a few hours’ break from their parents was too good to pass up. Plenty of us had already started drinking by the beginning of junior high; for kids like me, a party without alcohol was no party at all.

  Jared was my first kiss, my first crush, the first boy who made my heart beat faster. He was short and pudgy, but cute and witty, too. He could charm kids, parents, and teachers alike with his fierce but strangely kind sense of humor. Unlike so many other boys his age, he never felt the need to be cruel to make a point or win a cheap laugh. Everyone adored Jared. I couldn’t wait to have him at my party, in my house, and to feel that he was mine.

  As soon as I got home from school that day, I immediately went to work. With care and consideration, I pulled out the records I wanted to play, lining them all up in order: Van Halen I and II; the Police’s Zenyattà Mondatta, and the indispensable early-eighties party album, AC/DC’s Back in Black. And, of course, I made the drinks. Or, to be precise, the drink. Before my dad got home from work, I discreetly confiscated a fair amount of his booze from the stash he hid in the basement. I’d taken a little bit from each bottle, eventually mixing together vodka, gin, whiskey, and tequila in one giant mason jar that I stored in the back of my closet. Obviously, we weren’t drinking for taste. What mattered was the wicked buzz that this concoction was sure to deliver.

  That basement liquor cache was always a source of tension—and, in a strange way, hilarity—for our family. My mother was determined to stop my father from drinking but wasn’t quite brave enough to throw the booze out. So she set up all kinds of silly traps, designed to make a loud noise or a huge mess if he (or I) broke into the supply. The traps were crude and obvious, and it made me laugh to think that she believed either of us would actually be deterred by them. They were much too easy to replace, making it seem as if we’d never been in the basement at all. Meanwhile the level of liquid in the bottles declined at a steady, unceasing rate. And as with so many other things, we never talked about either the bottles or the ineffective snares designed to keep us from them. I was my father’s daughter, and by the time I was twelve, I knew every one of his tricks. And I had his habit, too.

  With the music and the beverages taken care of, I began pulling together my outfit: my Converse high-tops with their glittery purple laces, my crisp striped Lacoste shirt, and my brand-new Gloria Vanderbilts. It took me a few minutes of wrestling on my bed, flat on my back, to get the zipper up on those skintight jeans. Underneath it all I wore an overstuffed bra, having carefully smoothed out any lumps. One quick look in the mirror and I was ready. My guests were due at seven.

  Waiting sucked. At six-thirty, antsy with anticipation, I tiptoed to the closet, quietly pulled out the mason jar, and unscrewed the golden lid. Holding my nose with one hand, I forced myself to take a big gulp of the pale amber potion. I exhaled dramatically, breathing fire. I tucked the jar back beneath the pile of dirty socks and T-shirts, shut the door, and checked the mirror one last time. My mouth was numb f
rom the alcohol as I tried to smear my favorite root-beer-flavored Bonne Bell gloss over my tingling lips. I smiled at the image of myself staring back at me, gave her a confident wink and a nod, and squirted three quick shots of Binaca into my mouth. Game on.

  A moment before seven, a squeal of brakes announced the arrival of the boys. I ran to the front door and peered through the peephole. Jared’s dad drove a Porsche 911. When the coupe roared to a stop in front of our house, Jared bounced out, followed by Mitch and Tyler. My heart leaped a bit when I saw them, though whether it was Jared who caused this reaction or the huge shot I’d just taken was anybody’s guess. I opened the door wide, giving what I hoped was a self-assured grin. “Hi,” I managed.

  Kara and Cathy arrived just as the boys were entering the house. They were wearing matching pink Polos, and their hair was pulled back in identical ponytails, secured with giant pink tassels. It was an unfortunate choice; as popular as they were, they looked a little too much like a pair of dorky twins that night. I was relieved. It’s always reassuring to see flaws in “perfect ­people.” Girls are taught early on to be relentlessly competitive with one another, and I was no better than anyone else when it came to the comparison game. But as they drew closer, my judgment quickly turned back to envy. I couldn’t believe it. They were wearing matching diamond earrings! Despite my pleas, my mother still hadn’t let me pierce my ears.

  But with only three hours to party, I decided to let my insecurities go. Everyone had to be out by 10:00 p.m. The only other rules my father insisted upon were that the lights needed to stay on and my bedroom door needed to remain unlocked. I’d thought it all through and was well prepared. We could still get a lot done within those limitations.

  I wanted to get this party started, so I directed everyone into my room and told Jared to put on Van Halen. I ran back to the kitchen and collected my carefully prepared hors d’oeuvres. Salami, cheese, and crackers on one plate and Hostess Ho Hos (my favorite) on another. I balanced them together with two six-packs of Tab hanging from my fingers, and as I made my way back down the hallway, I heard the whir of the turntable, a slight hiss, and then David Lee Roth’s voice open “Ice Cream Man.” Jared was a boy who dug the blues.

  “Okay, I got the goods,” I announced, placing the plates on my desk and discreetly adjusting the jeans that kept riding up my butt. “Now . . . who would like a cocktail?” It was a line I’d prepared, knowing that it would give me instant clout. I knew what this little group wanted, and not only was I going to give it to them, I was going to give it to them with style.

  The line worked. Everyone grinned. I told Jared to stand guard at the door as I turned up the music and poured the contents of the mason jar into plastic cups.

  “Straight up or mixed?” I asked each guest in turn, diluting the booze with cola for those who chose the second option. I felt high, my heart pounding; I was on a roll. The party was on. The Binaca spray was close by, as was the food. If a parent came in and we had to cover for ourselves, we knew just what to do. With the drinks in hand, I surveyed the group and experienced a rush of accomplishment. It felt so good to belong.

  Mitch turned off the overhead light, leaving only my desk lamp on to comply with my dad’s rule. We drank the first drink together. “One, two, three, bull’s-eye!” The first person to drain his or her glass got to start the game we all knew we were there to play: Truth or Dare. Mitch won, and dared Jared to French-kiss me. And off we all went.

  The hours passed in a blur. We paired off quickly: Jared and I took the top bunk, Mitch and Cathy got cozy down below, and Tyler and Kara stayed on the floor. We moved from our places only to get fresh shots and to change the music. Hardly anyone spoke. After a while my face was raw from making out and my jaw hurt from keeping my mouth open for so long. It didn’t seem to matter. I loved lying next to Jared, feeling him against me. It was as if I’d thought about this forever and part of me couldn’t believe that it was finally happening. Our clothes stayed on, of course. While we were wild kids on one level, we were all pretty innocent on another. I was barely thirteen.

  A loud knock at the door startled me. “Carré? Carré! Open this door. Now.” My father’s voice rose above the sound of “Back in Black” on its third or fourth rotation.

  I was disoriented. The room was dark, my skin was clammy, my hair was plastered to my neck and forehead. I felt vaguely nauseous. “Let’s go, Carré,” Jared whispered, helping me down from the top bunk. “Be cool,” he said softly, deftly unwrapping and then popping a Ho Ho into my mouth. “Keep eating.” And with a wink and an achingly sweet smile, Jared pushed me toward the increasingly impatient sound of my dad’s voice. The boy was smooth. The light from the hallway flooded into the room as soon as I opened the door. I had this weird feeling of being under arrest. “Hey, Daddy,” I managed. My father just looked at me, his brows furrowed again. I swallowed quickly and flashed him my best smile, letting him know I was so happy he’d let me throw this party. Though we’d never said it aloud, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that this was his penance for things he failed to be or do while drinking. My smile was meant to remind him of that. But my grin was drunken, too, and my teeth were caked with chocolate Ho Hos. My father simply shook his head and reached his hand inside the room, flicking the light switch back on.

  “I said lights on, Carré. Is that understood?” He wasn’t trying to be mean, but it came out harsher than he probably intended. My father always seemed so uncertain of what role to play or what tone to take. Boys were in my room, it was dark, and it was obvious enough that we’d been drinking. So he was firm, but this time it felt like he was overcompensating for the increasingly frequent times when he hadn’t been attentive to what was going on with me.

  He turned on his heel and headed down the hall, staggering slightly. “Anyway,” he muttered, “it’s time for you all to go home. Party’s over, kids.” Grasping the handrail carefully, he made his way back down the stairs to the basement.

  Though my father and I were the serious drinkers in the family, we weren’t the only partiers. As she got into high school, Chrisse started to host some mixers of her own. One warm summer evening in 1982, she threw a party that changed my life. My parents were away on one of their weekend vacations, taking some time to work on their marriage as best they could and to have a break from us, too. We had the house to ourselves. And, of course, to anyone else my sister chose to invite.

  It was a Saturday night. A warm wind gently rustled the old oak tree that sheltered our suburban home. I was out back on the redwood deck, listening to the sounds of laughter and shrieks coming from the downstairs room that had become my sister’s sanctuary. Elvis Costello ballads poured from Chrisse’s new stereo system, and the steady crack and fizz of beer cans being opened could be heard from where I was. I sat in the dusk, debating whether I could get away with joining the older crowd of high school students who had infiltrated my playroom. I let a few more minutes pass, and then on a dare to myself I ventured in.

  I wasn’t there to socialize. I was there to snag some beer from the coolers on the basement floor. Although I wasn’t that far from their age group, this wasn’t really my crowd. They knew it, and so did I.

  I had on my favorite Ditto jeans and a purple alligator shirt. Purple was my color. On some days I dressed head to toe in it, mixing up the uniform with only a rainbow ribbon tied around my head to hold back my long brown hair. It was my fashion statement. I felt put together and special in it. It completed me, like carrying a lucky charm or a rabbit’s foot.

  Unnoticed, I waltzed over to the ice chest and pulled out a Michelob. I’ll just enjoy this in my room, I told myself. At the time, I was too shy to move to the music the way the other girls did. Some danced with partners, some alone. They grooved and swayed with a freedom and ease I had yet to experience with my body. A part of me just wanted to sit and stare for a while, to be a fly on the wall and gather clues about how to be comfortable in my own skin. But the risk was too great. I cou
ldn’t chance my sister busting me for just hanging out at her party and publicly humiliating me. In all fairness, this was not my turf. Even living under the same roof, there were spots that were definitely off-limits. The basement—at least when Chrisse and her friends were there—was one of those places.

  So I went back to my room and sat alone in the dim green light cast by my digital alarm clock. I raised the beer to my mouth and chugged. I was drinking not for the taste but for the delicious feeling that trickled down my neck and shoulders, relaxing every knot of tension along the way. As the beer flowed, I shuddered. It was like that divine moment when I’d stand over the heater in the early morning and the chill would give way to a sublime warmth. I took another swig, trying to lengthen my swallows. I’d been taught that I could get more down if I just loosened up my throat.

  Two gulps in and my eyes fell onto my most prized possession, a ceramic unicorn that sat on a piece of purple velvet fabric on my shelf. I reached out to touch the cool arch of its back, the graceful point of its horn, and launched into a fantasy that took me far, far away to a place of willow trees and brooks, grassy knolls, and a tall blond knight in shining armor. I yawned dreamily. It was time to either sleep or make another risky trip downstairs for more beer. I crept back down the steps in the hope that I would remain unnoticed.

  I wouldn’t be lucky twice.

  Chrisse zeroed in on me, digging her nails into my arm as she pulled me aside. “Just what do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed. “Get lost, Carré. Now!”

  I was dismissed, as quickly as that. I could have been dying for all she knew, or have been delivering some important information to her, but she couldn’t have cared less. I bit back the anger. I needed to stay cool.

  “I’m going, I’m going. I just left some homework down here,” I said expertly. I knew how to lie, even to a suspicious older sister. And I knew how to do it effectively. Especially if it meant I could get my hands on some more alcohol.