We recruited friends of Tommy’s in real estate to help me find a place nearby. They showed me several lovely homes, but I was holding out for the right thing, for her. My taste leaned more Old Hollywood, and hers was more “Old Woodstock.”
After an extensive search within a twenty-minute radius of our estate, we finally rolled up on a deeply wooded property with a house set far back from the road. It wasn’t meticulously manicured, which was typical of that section of upper Westchester; rather, the landscaping was intentionally organic. The six green acres were filled with splendid old oak trees. And the house blended into the nature around it beautifully. The interior was both spacious and cozy, with warm wood tones and soothing light streaming through gracious windows. Once inside, you couldn’t hear or see the outside world.
I had found the only hippie-opera-singer-dream-cabin-in-the-woods in Westchester! It was perfection, and I knew exactly what to do to bring it to life. I took it on like I was an interior designer on one of those makeover shows. I picked out and paid for every piece of brand-new furniture, all the knickknacks and accouterments. I chose every detail, from light fixtures to paint colors, all in “Pat’s palette.” I hung wooden flower boxes outside and filled them with romantic wildflowers. I got photo prints made of her Irish family members and Irish crests, had them mounted and framed, and hung them ascending the wall along the staircase. And I managed to keep it secret from her.
The biggest challenge was getting her piano in without her knowing. I knew it was important that it was her old blond-wood Yamaha upright that would be in the living room, not a shiny new model. Her piano held memories in its keys; it was a symbol because it was a significant, stable object she provided during my turbulent childhood. I made up some story that I was going to get it tuned or something before it went into storage; I even had her sign fake moving documents so it could be taken away without suspicion. Her old piano would be the pièce de résistance in her cabin in the Westchester woods.
One of the details that sold me on the property was a wooden sign that had the words “Cabin in the Woods” carved into it. The sellers didn’t want to part with it, but I fought tooth and nail because I just knew my mother would love it. I got so much joy from making plans, keeping the secret, and working to make everything just so. Growing up, I had always wanted a family house where I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring my friends. Creating a place where my mother could live comfortably and the whole family could gather was so special—healing, even. It was like preparing a spectacular Christmas for my mother and family.
I was giddy with excitement when it was time to present the house I had created to my mother. I was proud of the work that I had done. To me, this house was also testimony to my ability to hold on to childhood desires, proof that the trauma and danger I had faced hadn’t destroyed my hope. My mother thought she was coming up to Sing Sing for one of our semiregular dinners. When I picked her up, I told her I had to swing by Tommy’s friend Carole’s house, which was nearby. When the wrought-iron gates I had installed swung open like welcoming arms from the stone pillars and we entered the property, I felt my mother go still, then heard her take a deep breath. Trees will do that: make you stop and breathe. She moved out of the car as if the fresh air was making her slow down.
She looked up at the house in all its beauty. I watched her take in the grace of the flower boxes. And as Carole opened the front door, the aroma of rich coffee and hot cinnamon buns drifted past us. (I had orchestrated it to be brewing and baking when we arrived, as I wanted those details to set the mood.) My mother stood in the doorway and softly said, “Oh, Carole, your house is beautiful.” Playing right along, Carole offered to show her around, and I followed behind. When we got to the staircase my mother paused at the photos, but I could tell it didn’t quite register. So I broke her trance. “Mom, look at who’s in the pictures.” She was struck with utter confusion as she noticed her family on Carole’s wall. Faintly, she replied, “I … don’t understand.”
“This is all for you. This is where you live now,” I said. She was speechless. And I was the proudest I’d ever been.
Mike, who I completely treasure, was still quite little then. He went tearing through the house and out to the backyard, running along the plush grass, squealing with delight. He was full of such pure joy (and is still such a source of joy to me). He was free. A little boy playing in the afternoon breeze with no filth, just free. We had come full circle from swinging over trash heaps or being thrown out like garbage—or so I thought.
Along with the ballroom and couture shoe closets of Sing Sing, I built a fantastic state-of-the-art recording studio. Adjacent to the studio was a huge Roman-style swimming pool of white marble inside of a grand parlor. In these two places I found solace and solitude. They were a temporary reprieve and a chance to feel weightless—in the recording studio and in the water. But the studio, the pool, and I were all still
