When I was growing up, my mother and I were often in the house alone. My father was almost always someplace else, either working or socializing in the city. My two sisters were six and eight years older than me; they had their own lives, their friends and places to go. Our house was at the end of a long private road, surrounded by woods, at the edge of the waters of Long Island Sound. My father called our home the Dream House, and he had helped to design it. The Dream House was built from planks of redwood trees, with ceilings two and a half stories high. At the back of the house were giant picture windows from floor to ceiling looking out over our own little beach, where I liked to play. The house was very modern, ahead of its time, but at night, when the wind was blowing, the Dream House creaked and complained, as if it never wanted to be built at all.
Through the woods and up the hill was a castle called Eastfair. This was the home of my father’s closest friend, Sherman Fairchild. Sherman was a millionaire and he had built the castle for himself, modeling it on a medieval French château he had visited while traveling in Normandy. The castle was vast and made of stone, with a tall tower at one end, of the kind in which princesses are imprisoned in fairy tales. The Eastfair estate had twenty acres of grounds, indoor and outdoor tennis courts, a pool, and a big square building with a photography studio inside, where Sherman would take pictures of the models that came to visit him on the weekends. It was Sherman who had given us the strip of land on which to build our home, and Sherman who threw the parties my father attended while my mother stayed at home with me.
When my older sisters, Jill and Robin, were home, I did my best to keep up with them. I took note of what they wore, what they said, how they acted. I wanted to have what they had and to be a part of whatever they were doing. This came with its risks. I remember standing and watching my sisters playing with the tree swing that my father had rigged up in the woods to the side of our house. I knew I was too young to join in, so I stood to one side. The swing seat was made of wood and metal. Jill climbed into the tree, and Robin was pushing the swing as high as she could so that Jill could grab it and leap on.
“Nina!” Robin shouted, warning me to get out of the way.
I turned just as the metal swing hit me right on the top of my head. My sisters carried me back into the house, leaving a trail of blood all the way across the gravel driveway, up the steps, and into the kitchen, where my frantic mother tried to stop the blood with towels. When it became clear that the cut was severe, they took me to the emergency room. I remember how frightened I was, the feeling of being restrained, my arms strapped into a papoose, aware of every stitch the doctors sewed up my head.
Later that evening my father came home to find a bloody driveway and what looked like a murder scene in the kitchen. He had no idea where we were.
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IN MY MEMORIES of my mother, she’s almost always at a distance, turning away from me, lost in the daily tasks of motherhood. I don’t think she particularly enjoyed cooking, but she did it diligently, moving around the kitchen slowly and methodically, completing each task by rote. Her dinner staples were hamburgers (always without a roll) and baked potatoes and peas. Sometimes she’d heat up Tree Tavern Pizza, or make chicken or shrimp curry with white rice, or filet of sole with butter sauce. My favorite was her breakfast: one egg over easy on white toast with crumbled bacon and salt and pepper, all chopped up together. She’d bring it to me in bed when I was sick. Once in a while, she’d make me a special treat: chocolate chip pancakes arranged in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head—a circle for the face, and two smaller circles for the ears. She smoked all the time as she cooked, finishing one and lighting another. Newport was her brand; with its turquoise-and-white packaging, and the gold paper lining, it seemed so much more feminine than my father’s Kents.
When she wasn’t cooking or driving my sisters to their various activities, my mother was doing laundry. The laundry room was upstairs next to my parents’ bedroom, and it had a washer, a dryer, an iron and ironing board, and shelves lining the walls. The room was always orderly and neat; everything had its place. I would stand next to my mother as she folded with precision and care. She never expected me to help with the folding, never gave me a chore. Later, when I left home, I realized I’d never so much as loaded a washing machine or a dishwasher. My mother had always done everything for me.
As a child, I followed her everywhere. I didn’t like to let her out of my sight. Even when she took a bath, I’d stand at her side. I remember the thick, bright red caesarian scar that stood up in a ridge from her pale skin, running from above her belly button all the way down her abdomen. If I asked her about the scar, she’d tell me that it was from my birth and that she was prone to keloid scars—where the scar tissue doesn’t fade—and that’s why it looked that way.
About once a month, she brushed Clairol’s Loving Care hair dye into her glossy black hair, paying special attention to a streak
