Hiding In the Glass Closet

/ Born and Raised in Beverly Hills

Recently, a childhood friend asked me to tell her ‘story.’

I politely told her to tell it herself.

But then I got to thinking.

It’s my story too. Written on my soul just as it was written on her skin.

So, here it is. For better. Never again for worse.

I can still see the pink and white flowers on your beautiful canopy bed, as we played Chutes and Ladders. And then, I hear her. No. I feel her. Reverberate right through me.

“TORRRRRRRRRRRRI!”

It’s a screeching, southern drawl.

I knew what was about to happen. Again.

In one swift motion, I leapt off the bed and disappeared into her dressing room. It had at least ten closets with floor to ceiling mirrors.  I shook violently as I flung one open and prayed to disappear. Instead I heard her, the woman you wistfully called ‘mother,’ violently grab you.

I stood.  Erect. Feet together. Immobile. Holding my breath. Not a sound. For fear she would discover me while she wailed. There was nothing left to my childish imagination. Every blow crushed your tiny body.

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The glass closets

There was no one like your mother. Not in Beverly Hills. And certainly not in the 50s or 60s. She was a small town girl from backwoods Arkansas who set her heart on heading west. And, boy did she ever. In short order, she married a man with a booming business, exploded into wealth, and garnered all the trappings to transform from Alicia June to The Diva.

She was a magnificent beauty.  All her pieces fit.  A petite woman with a slim waist, just right perky breasts, and tiny, perpetually high-heeled feet. Imelda Marcos would have drooled at her shoe collection. All of her closets overflowed with designer clothes, jeweled evening gowns and furs of every length. There was no end to the extravagance.

But her most prized feature was her hair. Teased to the hilt, and dyed fiery red to mask her original, mousy brown color. There’s no doubt that my long, natural red locks unlocked her love for me and the door to her beauty salon at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

One afternoon, she drove us there to steal my hair color. We cruised the curves of the hotel driveway in the back of her eggshell blue Cadillac, ‘DIVA’ proudly displayed on the plates. I grabbed your hand to keep up as we navigated through the long entrance to the lobby, past the famous Polo Lounge, down the stairs, left by the Fountain Coffee shop, and into the salon.

But she didn’t just enter that room. She General Electricified it. After she “DAHLLINGED” the whole staff, she immediately threw her arms around the famous Henri. He, in turn, ran his fingers into my ‘pure’ hair – the inspiration color for his demanding client.

There was an upside to these adventures, though. We were always treated to our own hairdos. And treated we were. Like princesses. We put on pink cotton smocks over our party dresses. (The Diva never allowed us to wear play clothes out with her). Each of us had a personal hair washer. Afterwards we sat side-by-side under giant hairdryers – the kind that go too hot around your ears.  And then we got styled. It was always the same: a simple chignon bun, mais oui.

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Us. Pre-hairstyles.

When we got back to the house, Diva would dress us up like ballerinas. Tutus, leotards, tights, the works. Always.  Then a professional would photograph us. I still have one of the prints hanging in my home. I treasure it, but it makes me tremble. There we are. Perfectly frozen in first position.  Slight smiles.

I remember your siblings as older, beautiful, handsome and distant. Both emotionally and physically.  There was a houseman, or a chauffeur, or maybe a man-in-waiting? I never understood his role.  But his name was Sanford, and his suit was as stern and dark as his face. I never got a smile out of him, and I never saw him say a kind word to you except to warn you to steer clear of your mother.  He rotated from the carport to the kitchen. I didn’t like him at all.  The only bright spots in the house were two German cooks worth their weight in five stars. There wasn’t anything they couldn’t whip up, from grilled cheese to goulash to the most spectacular, melt-in-your-mouth macaroons with chocolate chips.

Your father, Edgar, was the soft, passive moon to Diva’s explosive sun – quiet, bald, tanned, and trim. At six-feet-five, he towered over everyone. Diva proudly converted to his Judaism, and the family observed each High Holiday. I was invited to some, and I loved learning to light the menorah candles. There was joy around that table. But it mixed with the anticipation of Diva’s next outburst. Like tiptoeing on gorgeous, faberge eggs.

I was subjected to the same panic. From my father. He chose words as his weapon.

I was spared the rod, but I was not spoiled with love. My father, the Duke, took one look into my sensitive, anxious, needy eyes, and he knew he found the perfect target to bully. He seemed to take pleasure in screaming at me. He knew it hurt when he took his forefinger to his thumb, flicked it by the side of my head and called me “knucklehead.”  But he never stopped. He was always there to demean and shame me.

We tried to escape. You ducked into the imaginary world of animals, where your favorite teddy bear lived and your prized collection of Breyer horses roamed free.  We played pretend with your white stallion and my thoroughbred. As for me, I attempted to vanish into the welcoming arms, and gigantic breasts, of my nanny. Thank God for her. But where were your father and my mother hiding? Why didn’t they stop the madness? Their silence was deafening.

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My favorite escape. Betty the Nanny.

We were victims of a smorgasbord of undiagnosed mental disturbances – anxiety, depression, mania, the whole enchilada with peppers. And those viruses were contagious. We came down with the same genetic flu, but somehow both of us clawed our way out of depression and panic disorder, over and over again. We hurt others, and ourselves, as we struggled to cope. There’s no denying that. But somehow, we still found a way to see the light. I’ll never forget the day you overdosed on your medication and doctors pumped your stomach.  We heard the click-clack of Diva’s heels coming down the hospital corridor.

“TORRRRRRRRRRRRI!” she screamed. It was always the same.

You turned over and smiled. “Oh shit. Why didn’t I die?”

Your sense of humor has always been unflappable.

The other day, we spoke on the phone.  A real phone with a cord and a dial tone. Because neither of us dare succumb to the digital world. I waxed nostalgic about returning to simpler time with rotary phones. You said that reminded you of Diva’s special pen with a feathered plumb. She used it to turn the dial on her phone.

“Because, you know, Jennifer. She couldn’t ruin one of her perfectly manicured nails.”

We laughed at the same time.

Just the way we did on your beautiful canopy bed.

17 thoughts on “Hiding In the Glass Closet”

  1. “mixed with the anticipation of Diva’s next outburst. Like tiptoeing on gorgeous, faberge eggs.” Yep. I too tiptoed around an unpredictable mother. But on Safeway market eggs. Your writing is superb, Jennifer.

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  2. Another wonderful journey to the past… So beautifully expressed and hope many more get the chance to read…👍

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  3. My wish is for those who have suffered the indignities of abuse in their childhood will not blame themselves. If I can reach one person and they feel vindicated and freed… My words and voice have been heard. That’s enough for me. I taught my children the most invaluable lesson.. Humility. I am feeling the same. Your support means more than you know.
    x
    jensy

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      • Nahlia.. Do I know you? If so..REVEAL!! Bravo . You have, I assume. realized your WORTH and the reality that your father was the problem. Not you. Regretfully I understand . I too married .. close to 30 after a series of passionate affairs with all the wrong men. Inclusive of one who was married. That one rocked my body to inertia. Ive been with Ed for close to 40 years. 2 adultdaughter, one son.. all of whom we raised polarized from our childhoods. Nothing is perfect but I can say.. the most successful thing in my life . I can proudly say “I wish I had a mother like me” as for Ed. If there is a father knows not best but Love .. he gets the prize.. it’s been a crazy ride. thanks for the read and again.. high ten to you.. Jenn

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    • It was written within the last 10 days.. Obviously I wasn’t a child prodigy .. I didn’t write it when I was 8 and keep it tucked away in a file for 58 years and publish yesterday. Vickee was. Of course. Show the piece before it went online.. As you saw I disguised names. Yes. There will be people who know of whom I write. They as my parents are dead. Yet. I wish they here to read and perhaps take ownership. I would never do anything to hurt her. She has certainly had enough. Thank you for reading. If you are interested there are 4 previous blogs and more to come.. assured. they will not be dark.. hope all is well

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  5. Oh the memories ! My Dad would come home and as we were having dinner his eyes would roam around the table. I would pray they wouldn’t settle on me. Being the eldest and sitting right in front of him his eyes usually did stop on me. I would cringe waiting for the belittling to begin. Fleeing to my room was the only way to make it stop. My Mum would bring dinner up on a tray with soft excuses. . He is stressed, tired overworked but Daddy loves you. Later in life I seemed to get involved men that used their words like knives, just like Dad. If they were kind to me, there was obviously something wrong with them I thought. To this day when upset or stressed my appetite fails me.
    I found unconditional love with animals and to this day they are my saviors. Years later I was lucky though, when I was 38 After two failed marriages, I found the most loving and kind man who loved me for me. Life does go on.

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  6. I loved it! A dark side which, with time and therapy, has healed…Fortunately I was able to make peace with my mom while she was still coherent enough with Alzeihmers ~ to which she replied ‘Amen’!

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  7. Jenn, we don’t know each other, but kindred spirit ‘s I believe. I read this because I “know” Bicker through FB. I have tucked away thoughts and memories in notebooks of my childhood and how it affected me AND my brother and sister. We all reacted in different ways. Sadly one of my father’s goals in life was to pit us all against each other, I never cared but my two younger siblings took it to heart. To this day the anger and jealousy is there, we are not close. I am sure my MUM weeps from Heaven.

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  8. I wept when I read The Most Beautiful Boy. My brother , one of the most handsome and gifted young men I knew was badly traumatised by our father. Sadly he never was what my father thought he should be. Dad was a aeronautical engineer and helped design the F 105 and others. So a sensitive young man artistic and thoughtful could never measure up in dad’s eyes. My sister went on to be involved with the most awful men you can imagine even to today. If parents only knew the carnage they create. If have titled it “If Words Could Kill”. Would love to talk to you.

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      • Hi… We are in the process of getting settled… I understand from Vickii you are interested in beginning a blog. I had a rough time navigating the wordpress. My daughter is very saavy with all things media .. despite I in Venice and she in Boston she nailed it…. If you are having problems understanding the process of getting everything in order along with your writing and some photos … I suggest you rent a daughter! haa.. or find a friend who is a whiz with internet..

        As for your subject matter. I heard horses?? I love them.. I rode when I was a kid.. English saddle and with my friend on her parents ranch in Pozo CA when we were teenagers and in our early 20’s… As for getting the rhythm of writing.. I can say it’s YOUR VOICE…YOUR WORDS. No one can teach writing.. yes. there are plenty of writing classes.. I have been apart of one in Cincinnati when we lived there. Women Writing for A Change.. I liked it but essentially it was all about getting in tune and braving the elements so to speak of what was important to my life.. stories. yes. I have always been a story teller. I incorporated that into my blog. One I never expected to write.. the talent was there hiding. the life experiences .. assured many… too long to go into the different areas I have worked.. Some I will continue to speak along the way… when my adult children came to florida for xmas they dumped on their me “MAMA you need much more purpose .. not just hanging out with Searay (my black lab) and going out with dad… ” They have known me to always work in media, and fundraising for children less fortunate. and so, in short order.. I.. BORN AND RAISED IN BEVERLY HILLS was created. All it takes is someone to kick you in the arse..so.. here I am.. Get off your arse and just as they say in the nike ad’s DO IT…

        If I have overstepped my bounds and you are forging ahead.. I apologize..If not I hope my banter has inspired you…. I will add.. There is one great book I will recommend.. The Art of The Memoir by Mary Karr… a really fine … word by numbers …. intro with spunk

        Hope this helps
        Jenn

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