Adjusting to life in an adult home wasn’t easy for my mother, but there were benefits for her. One of them was that she finally began taking medication. The nurses would sit with her and make sure she took every single one of her pills—and she became much more stable as a result. For the first time since her diagnosis, she was actually being treated.
The move to the adult home marked a turning point in my life, too. I was determined to finally look in the mirror and to find myself there. I began establishing myself professionally, creating a new career for myself in advertising sales, working for a local newspaper for a boss who became a real mentor to me. For the first time I began to acknowledge that I wasn’t happy with myself or in my marriage. A year after my mother moved to the adult home, David and I filed for divorce. I put my focus on my children and becoming fully independent. My lack of education haunted me, but I could no longer let it stand in my way. I knew I had choices that my mother never had—to work and provide for my children and myself now that my marriage had run its course.
Five years later, when I met the man who would become the love of my life, I didn’t try to hide my past from him. I didn’t want to fit anyone’s idea of “perfect” anymore. Like me, Peter had three children and was divorced. He understood.
Early in our relationship, I let Peter know that I came with a lot of baggage.
“Bring it on,” he told me. “One bag at a time.”
* * *
NOT LONG AFTER I met Peter, my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer like her mother before her. She was moved to a nursing care center in Medford, New York, where she would be able to receive around-the-clock care. By then, she was so frail she could barely walk; the nurses would put her in a wheelchair to take her into the dining room. They were so kind to her at Medford; they took good care of her and made the last years of her life as comfortable as possible.
It was during the time my mother was living at Medford that I got a phone call from a writer working on a biography of Grace Kelly. The writer wanted to interview my mother about her friendship with Grace. Up to this point, I had always refused to talk to writers and reporters; in the years since my mother’s story had first appeared in the press, there had been articles in the New York Post and Hello magazine. TV shows such as Hard Copy and Current Affair had run segments on her situation. And in all this time, I hadn’t spoken to a single reporter. I’d always wanted to protect my mother from their questions, from the prying eyes of the world. But this time, I felt differently. My mother was no longer living at the shelter; she was on medication now, and although she was struggling physically, she was much more stable mentally. I thought she might enjoy sharing memories of Grace. Why not? I called my mother at the nursing care center and asked if she would be interested in being interviewed. She said yes—and so a few weeks later, I arranged to go with the writer for the visit.
That afternoon, I sat and listened as the writer asked my mother questions and my mother answered them. My mother, who usually didn’t like to talk about the past, told the writer story after story. She remembered the first time she saw Grace coming out of the revolving doors at the Barbizon Hotel, the color of her coat, the sprig of blue flowers in her hat. She told the story of how she encouraged Grace to go into modeling so Grace could have some financial independence from her father. She could recall the night she had seen Grace in her Broadway debut, how she had sat in the front row of the theater with Malcolm.
“When she walked out onto the stage, looking so fresh and pretty,” my mother remembered, “I burst into tears. I think it was then I realized she was going places.”
My mother smiled, recalling the time she suggested Grace wear her hair swept back from her face in a chignon, a style that became her signature.
As the afternoon drew on, I knew I should probably ask the writer to leave; I could see my mother was growing tired. But I was enjoying listening to the stories. I didn’t want this to end.
Then the conversation took a different turn. The writer had been saving one question for last.
“I heard somewhere that there was an affair between Malcolm and Grace,” she pressed. “Is it true?”
I should have stopped the conversation right there. I should have told my mother not to answer the question. Instead I froze.
“Yes,” my mother replied, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s true.”
As my mother spoke, the writer scribbled down every word in her notebook.
“Grace asked me to come to the Manhattan Hotel,” my mother said. “She was visiting New York. She told me what had happened. She wanted me to forgive her. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ Grace told me. ‘We’re no longer an item!’ I left the hotel in tears and ran straight to my therapist’s office.”
I reached for my mother’s hand.
“It wasn’t Grace’s fault,” my mother insisted, turning to me. “Your
