Later that afternoon, as I walked the streets of the city, I heard music coming from a nearby church. Curious, I walked toward the source of the singing, up the steps of the building and in through a tall, narrow archway. The church had high white stone arches and wide marble pillars. In the pulpit, a choir was singing, and in the pews, the congregants were singing, too. I didn’t know the hymn but I heard the words “ave Maria,” over and over.
I stood there, listening to the beauty of the music in the ancient church, the light streaming in through stained-glass windows like a blessing. In the past, I had always been a little skeptical about religion, at times even blaming my mother’s faith for her obsession with prayer and miracles, fixations that I felt prevented her from confronting the reality of our situation. But standing in that church at Lourdes, I finally understood why her belief was so compelling to her. In that instant, I saw myself as she did, as a small dot in a much larger continuum of planets and time and cosmic influence, everything always moving, our fates not entirely in our own hands.
To my side there was an area with votive candles. I decided to light one for my mother and one for Robin. As the choir continued to sing, I bent to touch the taper to the wick, and the following words came into my head: “Stopped in to a church I passed along the way.… well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray.…” They were lyrics from one of Robin’s favorite songs, “California Dreamin’.” She used to sing it to me, strumming on her guitar. In that moment, I felt my sister was standing alongside me in the church, just as she had always done when she was alive, holding my hand, whispering in my ear.
I left the church and went back to my hotel. The next day, I was due to travel home to New York, but in so many ways, the journey was already over. I had gone to every place connected with my mother and her life. I had met her family, her friends, the people she had known as a model. I had met with medical professionals who had helped me to understand her illness. I had gone back to every memory of her from my childhood, and instead of turning away this time, I’d squared myself up to the past, asking every question, imagining every implication and scenario. It had been a long journey, and I was tired now, but there had been a reason for my persistence: I was trying to let my mother know how much I loved her, how much I still love her. I hoped she understood that. As I packed my bags and prepared to leave Lourdes, I knew with complete certainty that my mother loved me in return, that despite everything, she had been trying to do what she believed was best for me.
During this period of my research, I dreamt of my mother for the first time in years. In the dream, I was standing in the house on Long Island. I was alone. It was nighttime, and the room was very dark. I felt filled with fear, certain that something very bad was about to happen. I wanted to run away, but instead, I found myself drawn, as if by some invisible force, to the center of the house and then the kitchen. I looked up. I saw my mother, standing in a glow of pinkish-white light. She was beautiful, still young, dressed completely in white; she looked at me with so much love. I tried to say her name, but all I could get out was “Ma.” When I woke up, I was still calling for her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My journey to write this book began on October 27, 2013, when I received a Facebook message from a stranger, Eve Claxton.
Eve told me that she was a writer, and she was hoping to write a book about the history of the Barbizon Hotel for Women. In the course of her preliminary research, Eve had stumbled on an article about Grace Kelly’s stay at the hotel and her friendship with my mother. Since then, Eve had been attempting to track me down. It hadn’t been easy for her to find me, as I had changed my name to Giles after marriage, but fortunately, Eve came across a photo of Grace’s wedding on Flickr, with a comment left by my husband explaining that his wife was Carolyn’s daughter. This had given Eve the clue to my married name.
Eve and I met for lunch shortly after. I told her that I had contemplated writing a book to honor my mother but could never summon the courage to do so, given the sheer complexity of the task. Not long after that, Eve and I decided to collaborate on a book, weaving together the years of Carolyn and Grace’s friendship with my childhood memories and coming of age.
It was incredibly reassuring to me to see that Eve believed in my mother’s story from the very beginning, which only served to build my own confidence, as we worked to put the pieces of the
