Haywire, Brooke Hayward [the best ebook reader for android TXT] 📗

have no home. Perhaps you only say this to people for dramatic effect. I hope so. But in case you are fooling yourself, too, I want to remind you that you chose to leave your home, that where I am I will always consider you belong, whether you want it or not. You can choose not to behave like a daughter, darling, but you can’t choose not to be one, just as I can’t choose the kind of behavior I would most like from a child, or the kinds of looks, or the size, or the personality.

There is nothing you can do to stop my loving you, and worrying about you, and hoping always for your return. Perhaps you feel some guilt about going to live with your father three years ago, but please don’t delude yourself as to the reason you went.

Have a lovely summer. I shall miss you as always.…

Dearest Bridget,

I’m glad you wrote that letter, and I know how hard it was for you. I’ve always known that you haven’t hated me, but that it was an excuse to cover up other feelings you couldn’t explain or couldn’t face. But so long as you believed it was hatred, the result was the same.

The confusion and conflicts in your hearts that led you and Bill to leave your own home for your father’s had been growing for several years, while I seemed to stand helplessly by and watch—hoping that you would see clearly some day before any real harm to yourselves resulted. If only I could have averted that final crisis three years ago—not for my sake, but for yours—then I believe that Bill would not be at Menningen’s, nor you at Riggs. But in those days you would not have believed the truth; it didn’t fit in with your resentment—that I was influenced by jealousy.

And make no mistake about it, my darling, I was jealous—strongly, furiously—but only of your well-being—which I saw constantly threatened.

Anyway, it’s not too late for you, that’s certain, and I still hope not too late for Bill.…

Dearest Brie,

Your father reports that you have agreed to discuss your finances with him if he comes up on Wednesday, and that you deny you have been unwilling to give me an accounting in the past.…

When we made this arrangement, you were planning to become an outpatient [this was circled in red pencil by Bridget with the marginal note “Not immediately or even in the foreseeable future”], which would reduce your expenses quite a bit. You agreed to give me an accounting in February and monthly thereafter [again encircled by Bridget with the notation “Never discussed”].

Since any form of inspection, supervision, or advice—in fact, any relationship with me—appears to be difficult for you at this time—and since I must have same in order to provide for you, I am wondering if you wouldn’t very much prefer to return to the status of ’56 and ’57—i.e., your father’s supervision [Bridget’s note: “What does that mean?”]. If you remember, I only took over because you wanted to run away to Europe; whereupon Kubie agreed with me that this could be disastrous for you, advised Riggs instead, which your father felt he couldn’t afford.…

Dearest Brie,

Your father’s visit to Riggs was highly successful, I gather—from everyone’s point of view. For the first time he appears to be wholeheartedly for Riggs. Because he didn’t know the place, or the doctors, he couldn’t share my respect for its policies, and I so needed his moral support—without it the responsibility was too great for me alone. Often, in these last months, I had begun to doubt my wisdom in bucking him.

Now everything’s going to be different! Peace, Praise the Lord! And we’ll advise you about your finances.

Kenneth returns on Monday from England after the longest six weeks I ever spent. Nothing has been accomplished on the new guest house/studio, just problems and crises all summer. Our great elm fell across the river, creating a major challenge to some 40 engineers, tree experts, city planners, etc., and a nightmare for me.

Enclosing check and love,

     Ma

“Brooke?” asked Father tersely. “Brooke Hayward? It’s damn decent of you to return my phone call. You’re the hardest person on earth to track down. Why don’t you ever check in with the office? Where the hell have you been for the last twenty-four hours?”

“Oh, here and there.” I grinned in the sweltering phone booth, pleased by his familiar offensive. That was the summer I started modeling. I spent a lot of time in phone booths, with a fistful of sweaty dimes that kept slipping through my fingers and a cavernous bag that held everything a job might require: make-up, falsies, eyelashes, appointment book, shoes for all occasions—everything except a pen with which to write down the next photographer’s address. I was always ruining the sharp end of my eyebrow pencil on whatever paper was handy, mostly the pages of the Manhattan directory.

“Guess what? It’s my lucky day. Avedon photographed me for Bazaar.”

“About time,” rasped Father. “He’s the best. Maybe I’ll call him—take a look at the proof sheets. What did they pay you?”

“Bazaar only pays fifteen dollars an hour for editorial work,” I said.

“You should be paying Avedon,” said Father, pretending to be mollified. “He’ll make you look better than you ever looked before. By the way, have you any idea what’s been going on in the rest of the world today?”

“What?” I sighed, allowing myself to fall into the trap.

“It’s July 5th, you nincompoop,” said Father. “You’re twenty-two years old. Christ, hard to believe. I just had Kathleen Malley make a reservation at the Pavillon for eight o’clock. Big celebration. Just the two of us.”

“Neat,” I said, surprised.

“Not too much of that crappy eye shadow,” continued Father. “I’d like to see your real face for a change.”

Where restaurants were concerned, Father liked the Pavillon for dinner and the Colony for lunch. Or, as an alternative, vice versa. The reason was very simple. Comfort. They made him