Chapter Eight
In January 1978 my commitment to Capitol brought my three youngest children, Rick, and me back to the house on Appian Way. The title of the album I had come to record was Welcome Home—an irony not lost on me as I looked out the window and watched the rain pouring down on the eucalyptus trees and ravines of the Hollywood Hills.
That January, Los Angeles was inundated with rainstorms—not just average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill precipitation, but massive, torrential, dripping, splashing, umbrella-crushing, gully-washing vertical streams of water. Cars parked below Mulholland Drive on the city side of Laurel Canyon were swept down to the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard, where their owners found them the next morning, bunched up side-to-bumper in ponds of murky water that had formed overnight at the bottom of the Canyon. It was mudslide season. Rocks and trees responded to the call of gravity and blocked streets and roads faster than CalTrans could remove them. Unaccustomed to that kind of weather, a lot of native Southern Californians called in sick rather than drive to work in a downpour. Among those who ventured out, many plowed into each other’s cars, which forced tow-truck drivers and insurance adjusters out of the comfort of their homes. Now they, too, could plow into other people’s cars. On the other hand, not even the deluge après Louis XV could have kept transplanted New Yorkers home. Reports that the floor of Art’s Deli was under six inches of water did not deter regular customers from showing up in East Coast foul-weather gear to get a corned beef on rye with a half sour pickle and a Dr Pepper.
My emotional life matched the weather. Outwardly I did my best to function normally, but inwardly I was in turmoil. As happy as Rick had been in Idaho, for him the idea of the children and me going to L.A. without him had been unthinkable. When we arrived at the house on Appian Way it was as if he had parked his evil twin in a closet and traded places with it. His dark disposition reemerged, and once again he accompanied me everywhere, which of course included the studio. It was only during rare moments when he left the room that I experienced the enjoyment I usually felt in that setting.
One morning Rick said, “Go ahead. I’ll come later.”
I was puzzled, but I said, “Okay,” and drove to the studio. Though I was concerned about where he was and when he’d arrive, I found his absence liberating, almost exhilarating. That feeling continued uninterrupted. Rick never showed up. When I came home he offered no explanation of where he’d been, and I didn’t ask. A few days later he again told me to go on without him, but he did come to the studio a few hours later. His periodic absences continued through the rest of January. It was unnerving. I couldn’t fully relax because I never knew when he might turn up.
Nearly a week after my thirty-sixth birthday in February, Rick picked me up at the end of a session. My question “How was your day?” made him angry. I was afraid he’d lash out at me, but he didn’t. When we got home he stayed in the car and smoked a cigarette while I made sure my kids were where they were supposed to be. They were. I kissed the children, paid the babysitter, and sent her home. Exhausted, I went to my room, took off my shoes, climbed into bed, and fell into a restless sleep.
At 2:02 a.m. I awoke and saw Rick sleeping next to me. I turned my head and registered the time on the clock. Then I turned my face up toward the ceiling and lay on my back, motionless. I knew who Rick was, but I couldn’t remember who I was. At that moment, if someone had asked me my name I would have drawn a blank. Suddenly I heard someone ask a question. It might have been I, but I hadn’t spoken. It was as if I were outside myself hearing the question being asked in my mind.
“Who am I?”
I sat up slowly, attentively, the way people do at night when they think they’ve just heard something but aren’t sure. Rick hadn’t moved. I waited, but heard nothing more. I stepped quietly down from the bed, and started to go… where? Where was I going? I couldn’t remember why I had gotten up. Suddenly my perception shifted and I was regarding myself as if through someone else’s eyes. I watched myself walk over to the window and look out. Then I saw myself turn from the window and, with a movement like that of a silk scarf slipping off a mannequin, the woman I was watching slid down and collapsed on the rug at the foot of the bed. At that moment she—I—curled into a fetal position and disappeared. I had no thoughts. I had nothing, and I was no one.
Then I heard another question in my mind as clearly as if I had spoken it aloud.
“Where’s me?”
An answer grew out of the nothingness and shaped itself around the person I was experiencing as not-me. It wasn’t sudden, like a thunderbolt. It was an unguent, a healing sense of possibility that slowly permeated my consciousness, a balm that soothed my soul, reanimated my body, and infused my mind with a renewed sense of identity and purpose. I had no idea where it came from. If I’d been looking for something resembling what people define as God by whatever name, I didn’t find it. It found me.
I began to recollect what I knew about myself. My success as a songwriter, my musical gift, my joy and responsibilities as a mother, and the financial independence that had defined me in the past were all still part of my present. If I didn’t have the will to leave Rick, maybe I could learn to live with him in a more healthy way. Meanwhile, I would continue to be the best mother I could be, finish my album, and, since professional counseling was readily available in the land of la-la, I would seek such help. With clarity and resolve, I stood up, walked to the bed, climbed in, and immediately fell asleep.
A few hours later, I woke up before Rick did. I went downstairs, called a friend in a later time zone, got a name, and somehow managed to book my first therapy session without Rick finding out. For each of the next few therapy sessions I came up with what I hoped was a credible story. Each time, when Rick didn’t object, I thought it was because my explanation was plausible and nonthreatening. I didn’t know that he had rekindled his interest in something he didn’t want me to know about. I was so grateful to be able to discuss my deepest feelings with someone other than my husband that I didn’t question why he was slackening his constant oversight of me.
It took only a few sessions for me to learn that I had power within the relationship that I hadn’t been using. Perhaps the simplest, most tangible result of my therapy was my discovery that “No” was a complete sentence. I didn’t need to explain or apologize. However, discovering wasn’t the same as doing. I would have to actually say no and mean it, or nothing would change.
The first time I hazarded saying no to Rick he was sitting on one of two sofas in the living room. I was sitting on the sofa opposite him. He had just announced that he wanted “us” to buy a sailboat as soon as I finished the album.
A sailboat??? I thought. No way! But Rick had already launched into his presentation. His eyes twinkled with anticipated pleasure as he said, “Baby, it’ll be great! Think of how much fun the kids will have!”
I pictured Levi, Molly, and Sherry on a sailboat.
“Carole. You work so hard. You deserve a real vacation. Don’t worry about Welcome Home. Our friends’ll take care of it.”
The idea of a sailing trip did sound very appealing.
“Trust me. Wasn’t I right about Welcome Home?”
His case had just slipped away. He had lost it when he said, “Trust me.” But he didn’t know that. He came over to where I was sitting, put his arms around me, and made his closing argument.
“Baby, you’ll see. Sailing on our own boat will be a great thing for you and the kids.”
No, I thought. It won’t.
Was this the right time to say no?
With Rick’s arms still around me, I marshaled my courage, lifted my head, looked him in the eye, and said, “No.”
He let go of me, pushed himself back, narrowed his eyes, and held my gaze for a long moment. I met his gaze and waited for the blow. It never came. He averted his gaze, then looked back at me with bewilderment. Then he stood up and walked out of the room. I stayed on the sofa and pondered what had just happened. He was gone for the length of time it would take to smoke a cigarette. When he returned he acted as if nothing had happened. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke on his clothes triggered a recurring childhood memory of my father coming out of the bathroom. The association might have weakened my resolve, but I was not going to allow that to happen. Rick never brought the subject up again.
On two subsequent occasions when Rick wanted something equally out of the question, each time my answer was, “No.” Each time I braced for him to be angry or violent, but he took each no passively, then acted as if he’d never mentioned the wanted thing in the first place.
Obviously everyone’s experience is different. Simply saying no may not be the best solution for everyone. But if you’re a victim of abuse, you may find it helpful to know that you’re not the only one who’s endured what you’re going through, and that no matter what your abuser tells you, what’s happening is not your fault. There are good, kind, caring people and organizations that exist to help you.
If you’re suffering from physical or sexual abuse, go to a safe place as soon as you can and call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY). Or, from a safe computer (to which your abuser does not have access), go to http://www.thehotline.org.
PLEASE GET HELP! You deserve to be safe.
In my situation, against all logic, it seemed that the more I had tried to please Rick to avoid his wrath, the more abusive he became. As soon as I stood up for myself with confidence and clarity, his violent behavior stopped.
At the time I thought my newly acquired ability to say no was the reason Rick never hit me again. I didn’t realize that he was preoccupied with something he wanted even more than control of me.