Fairy Tale Interrupted (27 page)

In 2000, with the playwright Toni Press-Coffman’s blessing, we sent the script to nonprofit theaters throughout the city, but we received “don’t call us, we’ll call you” responses. I couldn’t believe they didn’t see the clear genius of the play. Michele, Robin, and I never gave up (although sometimes, while waiting forever at Tower Copy East for the copies to be done, we wanted to). We continued to check in with theaters and send the script out to new ones until, two years later, someone finally bit. The Women’s Project, a twenty-five-year-old all-female theater company, included
Touch
in a reading that went so well, they decided to mount the show in the fall of 2003 with Michele as Kathleen, the prostitute who develops a complicated relationship with Kyle, played by Tom Everett Scott.

Michele called me at 5:30 a.m. the day the
New York Times
reviewed our play; they called it a “gripping, heart-wrenching, tender drama.” I was ecstatic, and not just because the
Times
and audiences loved the show. Achieving the near-impossible dream of mounting a play in New York City was a turning point for me, bringing me out of grief and back into life. The
Times
could have been talking about me when it described Kyle as emerging “at the end with a weight that will never lighten but with his sense of wonder and possibility intact.”

I would never forget John. But the production of
Touch
was the first time in years that I had accomplished something that had nothing to do with working for him. With the help of friends and family,
Touch
was my achievement.

It was a funny contradiction. If I had never worked for John
Kennedy, becoming more sophisticated through the prestige and the perks and earning respect in a demanding role, I would never have dared to produce a play. But if I had continued to work for him, I probably wouldn’t have done it, either. Life with John and Carolyn was wonderful but all-consuming. They were the center of my life, and once they were gone, I had to fill that place myself.

Just as with producing
Touch,
I could never have imagined owning my own business while I worked for John (I had planned to stay by his side no matter where he went, even to the White House). After he died, no one I could possibly have worked for was equal to him (other than, perhaps, the president, but he wasn’t hiring). So, eventually, I decided to work for me.

With the help of my mentor, Nancy Haberman, I returned to my PR roots in 2004 and launched my own firm, RMT PR Management. Working out of a cozy office in Chelsea, I began with a few top-notch clients such as Richie Notar from Nobu and the political commentators James Carville and Paul Begala. I had John to thank for more than just helping me land big names out of the gate. To this day, I continue to use the lessons John taught me. Whether I’m helping a client weather a public crisis or trying to drum up more business, I aim to be appropriate, restrained, and fair. My motto is “underpromise and overdeliver.” In my business, people get hired because they promise a client an appearance on the
Today
show within a month. But when they can’t produce, they just get fired. John believed in being honest and up-front with people, and so do I.

His example is one reason I’m able to remain gracious (for the most part) even in pressure-filled situations. The other reason is my mother. She believed in me and felt I deserved success, even
when I was at my lowest. The frustration she showed when I was a kid, about her own life, turned into a passion for me to have the best life possible. On the opening night of
Touch,
she didn’t stop smiling the entire evening. When I got home, there was a message from her on my answering machine.

“RoseMarie, it’s your mother [as if I didn’t know]. I am so proud of you, and your father would have been so proud, too. You are such an amazing woman and I love you very much.”

After my father passed away, I worried about her living alone. So I was grateful that because I owned a PR firm, I could occasionally work from her house and had the freedom to spend more time helping her out. (She refused to hire a cleaning lady until her dying day, and I would find her, at eighty years old, standing on a ladder washing the windows.)

Maybe it was my mother’s unwavering faith in me that made her death so devastating. Or maybe it was that I had lost so many people—Frank, John, Carolyn, and my dad—within a matter of several years. Or maybe it was just that she was my mom. But in 2006, right after Thanksgiving, she collapsed while visiting my sister in Florida. Arriving at the hospital to see my mother on life support and looking nothing like herself, I have never experienced such fear and intense sadness. I kept a vigil at her bedside and slept on a couch in the waiting room. I felt like I was ten years old and couldn’t leave my mother for even a minute. “Please, Mom, don’t leave me,” I begged her. “I can’t live if you’re not here. Please, wake up. I will do anything if you would just wake up. Please.”

By the fourth day, all hope was gone. We took her off life support, and I spent the next twelve hours at her side, watching her chest go up and down until it stopped. We buried my mother
three weeks before the most brutal Christmas ever. I had felt alone before, but without my mother, the person who went to sleep at night wondering if I was okay, the world felt empty.

A few weeks later, while my sisters and I were cleaning out her house, I came across four large brown envelopes marked
ANITA
,
ANDREA
,
AMY
, and
ROSEMARIE
. Inside each one were pieces of her jewelry and a note.

I knew my mother loved me, but I never realized how much she admired me. When I put myself down as simply a girl from the Bronx who was lucky enough to meet JFK Jr. and win his trust, she knew better. While I owed John a lot, I didn’t owe him everything. He and I were similar: we valued loyalty, intelligence, and determination, and those qualities were more significant than the superficial traits that set us apart. They allowed me to do my job well for John and continued to push me forward in spite of the ordinary disappointment and sorrow that accompanies any life.

The greatest tragedy of life is that at some point we have
to say good-bye to the people we’ve spent a lifetime loving, whether it’s John Kennedy or Marion Terenzio. Religion. Therapy. There’s no good answer to it. Death just doesn’t make sense. And there’s no antidote to the emptiness it leaves in its wake. You don’t forget the dead even though they can no longer console you, inspire you, or make you laugh.

I often wonder what John would have thought of this or that news event or political headline, and so many times, I imagine what he’d say if I shouted over to him from the desk in my office to ask his advice on a PR decision. When I do something stupid, it makes me laugh to think how he would have made fun of me for it.

Standing in front of the mirror, I sometimes ask myself, “Would Carolyn be caught dead in this?” If the answer is no, the outfit immediately comes off. Same with guys I’m dating. If they don’t meet Carolyn’s standards, they don’t meet mine, either.

I wished Frank had been there to help me through the loss of John, my parents, and, paradoxically, his own death. But whenever I attend a fabulous party, take a luxurious trip, or eat at an amazing restaurant, I enjoy it for both of us.

When the latest political scandal makes headlines, I can hear my father saying, “Another arrogant son of a bitch.” I would give anything to sit with him on election night and fight over the outcome. And although I miss my mother so much it feels like there is a hole in my chest, I take out her letter and read it now and then as a testament to and reminder of my best self.

When it comes to death, you don’t get over it; you just get on with it. Like with Christmas. A year after my mom died, I panicked in the months before the holidays. Those big gatherings
were some of the best moments with my family. I missed cooking with my mother late into the night before Christmas Eve and sitting around a huge table with twenty other people, laughing, drinking, eating, and, of course, arguing. Now I had to make my own plans.

Instead of visiting my sisters, who were each celebrating with their own families, I decided to rent a house outside the city and invite friends. I found a beautiful farmhouse with horses and wild turkeys running around outside and enough bedrooms to sleep anyone who wanted to come. The tight-knit group that I share most of my life with—including Nick, a six-foot-two Australian charmer who calls me Rack (for reasons only those who know me will understand); my travel buddy and
George
alum, Scott, and his sister Brooke; Joey and Paul, friends from my college days who often accompanied Frank and me on our adventures; my friend Liz, whom Matt refers to as Diana Vreeland; Libby, who works side by side with me every day to build my business, and her sister Kirby; Meghan and Jim, whom I met through Libby; and of course, Michele—helped me fill the house. I also invited anyone else who didn’t have a place to go—including my office IT guy.

When I was growing up, every holiday would find some stranger at our table. Sometimes it was my mom’s coworker who wore odd hats with feathers sticking out or fake roses around the brim. Other times it was an Argentine named Chi Chi with fire-engine-red hair. My sisters and I complained, “Who’s
this
person?” And my mom’s answer was always the same: “Never mind who it is. No one should be alone on a holiday.”

The best part of the house I rented upstate was the kitchen,
which we lived in that entire holiday. (The only time we weren’t in there was when we were in bed.) It was huge, with a farmhouse table that could comfortably seat twenty, a couch, an island, two massive ovens, a six-burner stove, and windows on three full walls. I was in heaven, cooking while surrounded by everyone else listening to music, playing cards, and talking. I made everything from scratch and prepared some of my mom’s classic recipes. Memories flooded back with the smell of my mother’s meatballs and homemade apple pie, and as they mixed with the scents of dishes from my friends’ traditions, I was grateful for this warm reinvention of holidays, family, and celebration.

As I took a sip of wine and looked at the beautiful tree we had decorated the night before, images of earlier Christmases ran through my mind: the heaps of gifts from Carolyn, teasing John about his carriage ride up Fifth Avenue, my mother and father bickering over ornaments, Frank’s place around our table.

I still think about the past and the people who filled it, but I no longer dwell on what might have been. It’s enough of a struggle finding the light at the end of the tunnel and knowing that eventually you’ll come out the other side. You can’t mourn the dead forever. Don’t glamorize them or demonize them, either. As John used to say, life is for the living.

Thank you to Steve Troha for taking a chance on me and for giving my story a happily-ever-after. You are my friend, my advisor, and my agent. I could never have done this without you because of how much I trust and respect you.

You can’t write a memoir until you find your voice, and Rebecca Paley helped me find my voice and brought my story to life in a way I couldn’t have imagined possible. She brought out the best stories I could tell and gave me a safe haven to tell them. You are an amazing collaborator.

The minute I walked into our first meeting, I fell in love with Jen Bergstrom and Trish Boczkowski at Gallery Books. They spoke my language right away, and I prayed so hard that they would take on my story. I am so thrilled to have such an amazing team behind me. Trish took my words and made them stronger and became a dear friend. Jen Bergstrom understood my story and how I wanted it told. Jen Robinson made sure that my story was heard. The rest of the team—my publisher Louise Burke, Kate Dresser, Alex Lewis, Elisa Rivlin, and Steve Breslin—have
been incredible to work with and have made the process so enjoyable.

I am so blessed to have family and friends who have been so supportive and loving. You have all made the best times amazing and the worst times bearable.

I could never have accomplished what I have without Libby Schmitz. Thank you, Libby, for being my champion and for being there every day. I’m so grateful for your encouragement, loyalty, support, and most of all for your friendship.

You can be blasé about some things, Matt Berman, but you are the FIRST person I want to talk to in the morning and the LAST person I want to talk to at night. Your wisdom, savvy, and genius sense of humor have been my greatest strength through all of this. Your friendship and your advice mean the world to me. But 234, this is boring. Turn the lights down and call me later.

My sister Amy Terenzio Schreibman has been my rock, my friend, and my guardian angel. Thank you for holding my hand my whole life and for helping me to realize that everything good is not in the past. You never judged me, and you believed in me when I couldn’t bear to believe in myself. Thank you for sharing the best and for getting me through the worst. Thank you to Noah, Joseph, and David Schreibman for all your love and support while I wrote this book.