Good Girl : A Memoir (9781476748986) (39 page)

The conversation lingered with me long after I wrote the piece it inspired. Was my dad really mentally ill? How much of it had I gotten, and how would it play itself out? What if my dad really did die because of his decisions about his cancer treatment? Had we really done all of our work? And what about the rest of my life? Would I ever have a healthy relationship, make it as a writer? Even though two of the books I'd ghostwritten had been successes at this point, I'd never spoken with my own voice.

As I struggled to simply live with the fact that these questions weren't answerable—would always be works in progress, just as my wound would never be completely erased, and it was all a part of my life's labor—I kept on living.

My father still fell back into some of his old patterns in our relationship, but I worked on tamping down my irritation at his behavior. He had cancer. I couldn't get mad at him.

My dad wasn't worried about my being angry, though, he was worried about my being sad. Whenever he didn't want to answer a question about his cancer, his treatment, or his fear his cancer had worsened and spread, he gave me the same reason:

“I don't want to upset you,” he said.

He didn't want to upset me, as if he were staying alive for my sister and me, when of course, the only person he was facing off against was himself. That's when I realized something I'd never understood before.

My father was still talking, but I was only half listening to him. Instead, I was circling this new thought, wondering whether it could possibly be true. And even though I knew that
yes, yes, it was true,
I wondered whether I could say it to him.

I wanted to say it. I needed to say it.

But I couldn't.

That's how we were. It was how we'd always been, and it was how we still were, no matter how much work we had both done, collectively, and how much work I'd done to heal myself and this relationship with the man who was my father, for better or worse. But this was it, this was quite possibly the end of it all, after which there would be no more chances. I had to be sure or, as my father said, “get clear” on what I believed and how I behaved. Again, it hit me: I already was clear on how I felt and how I wanted to behave. I just needed to be brave enough to say it. When my father paused in his rumination on his illness, I took a deep breath.

“You have my permission to die,” I said. “I don't want you to, and I'll be sad when you eventually do. But we've done our work. We've had all the conversations we needed to have, and we've healed our relationship. And I'm incredibly grateful for that.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

B
ut my dad wasn't dying. He was living. It seemed that his cancer was slowly getting worse, but it hadn't spread, and now that he'd brought his weight down, he actually had periods when he felt better than ever. He was striving to adopt a health regimen known as 80-20, which he took to mean eating eighty percent vegetables and fruits, with the twenty percent comprised of a little bit of bread with hummus or peanut butter, and he was taking herbs he'd been prescribed by a prostate cancer expert in New York City. But the herbs were expensive, so he'd found some herbs on the Internet that would cure his cancer immediately. Bits and pieces of these developments came up in conversation, amid our regular talk of movies, my sister, and my writing projects. I always listened with interest but tried to maintain some degree of distance. My father had chosen not to treat his cancer with traditional
methods. He'd admitted to being sporadic in his own self-care. I knew I had to do my best to remain optimistic and supportive, while being okay—as I'd said I was—with the outcome.

One day, he began circling around the topic of the herbs in a familiar way. He wanted something but was afraid to ask, fearing a no.

“I don't know if you read the information I sent you or not,” he said. “But I need to borrow a thousand dollars to buy three months' worth of the herb I found on the Internet.”

“What happens after three months?” I asked.

“After three months it will have knocked the cancer out of my body,” he said.

I wanted to believe this was true, wanted to believe if I gave my dad a thousand dollars he wouldn't immediately take it to the track. I circled his request again and again in my mind, feeling uncertain. I was scheduled to visit with him the next week, and when I entered his studio apartment, he immediately handed me printouts about his diet and the herbs, pitching me his plan as a way to avoid hearing my answer.

“I'm sorry, Dad, but I can't give you the money,” I said. “I've supported your decisions about how to handle your cancer. And I don't want to jeopardize a relationship we've worked very hard to repair, when you're sick, by taking on too much responsibility for your treatment.”

We talked of other things, and then it was time for me to go.

“Are we cool?” I asked my dad.

“Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yeah, be honest.”

“Well, I'm disappointed. I feel like you're showing me a side of yourself you never showed me before.”

“It's because that side of me wasn't there before, Dad,” I said. “It's the result of a lot of therapy and a lot of hard work.”

He didn't acknowledge my therapy, or my hard work, or the reason
I'd needed so much of both in my life, and he didn't seem particularly happy about this new side of myself, especially in terms of what it meant for getting what he wanted. But then he smiled.

“You're still my best friend,” he said.

As I left, I was surprised to find I was elated. I wasn't worried about getting knocked down, by my dad or by anyone else. I wouldn't lose it all and have to start all over again. I knew my own mind, and I didn't need my dad, or anyone, to think for me or to complete me. Finally, I was free, not to do everything, or to chase the big life I'd pursued to give me external value. But to do the one thing I really wanted, the one thing that was really me: to be my true self, to write, to live as I believed, and to be happy. I could be the good girl of my own choosing, whatever that meant, and the woman she had finally become.

A
year after I said no to my father, I was back on the East Coast for a writer's retreat and to visit with family and friends. I drove up to the land and stayed a full week, listening to the crickets' and bullfrogs' cacophony in the deepest darkness, a total blackness still not penetrated by a single light beyond my family's home, the neighbors' houses obscured by the thick leaves of the summertime trees; smelling the infinite shades of green abloom in a humid afternoon; appreciating, finally, the purity and the peace.

Alone in the house one morning, I faced the big windows I had haunted as a child. I looked out at the driveway where I'd waited for my father's cab to appear on so many days that the waiting became my constant state, who I was. I looked at my parked car, which I had driven from Los Angeles, crossing the country, visiting friends, doing my best thinking on the road, just like my dad. Finally, I'd come to enjoy all I'd longed for as a little girl, my power of volition, my ability to choose. And now that I did have the choice—had been across the country and back a half dozen times—I knew I would always return to this land, and I would always go away again, taking this refuge with me, but
making my home wherever I found myself in the world. Whether I was here or there, with others or alone, a writer, a mother, a wife, a good girl, or the best woman I could be, I wasn't waiting anymore. I had arrived at the heart of my big life. It had been with me all the time, and always, it had been no one's but mine.

M
y dad, who showed great valor in his willingness to help repair our relationship, and who inspires me with his curiosity and always supports my happiness.

Craig, who was a dad to me long before I could see it, and taught me the value of hard work and showing up for family in the simple ways that really matter.

My wonderful extended family including all of the Tomlinsons, Trouwborts, and Rands, who nurtured me and championed me, no matter what.

My brother, Andrew, for enduring my sullen teenage years, for being my companion at so many Bright Eyes shows, and for being the musician I always wanted to be.

My sister, Asmara, for being my sister, and for great examples of strength and grace.

All of those on the land, who were like members of my big, extended family.

So many fantastic teachers: Mrs. Fallagario, Mrs. Meyers, Hal Holloday, Pat Sharpe, Benjamin LaFarge, Laurel Leff, and especially Peter Sourian, whose kindness and belief in my writing came at a crucial moment in my life.

So many brilliant editors and mentors: Laura Miller, Haley Kaufman, Steve Morse, Scott Heller, Matt Ashare, Carly Carlioli, David Daley, Sarah Hepola, Whitney Joiner, Laura Sinberg, and especially James Reed, who never fully succeeded in teaching me how to use a semi-colon, but who has always been a good friend and a source of joy.

Kirby Kim, who believed in me early, and throughout mergers, moves, and celebrity meltdowns, my writing is better and my work life is more fun thanks to you.

Jen Bergstrom, such a dear mentor and friend, whose belief in me and this book literally changed my life; I wouldn't have wanted to write it for anyone else.

Trish Boczkowski, for essential edits and helping me to find the strongest, clearest version of my story.

Kate Dresser, for tireless enthusiasm and support and for encouraging me to go back in one last time and make the manuscript as good as it truly could be.

Louise Burke, Kristin Dwyer, Melanie Mitzman, Jennifer Weidman, and all at Gallery Books who have welcomed me to the family and helped me to share my story.

Carrie Thornton, Farrin Jacobs, Jeremie Ruby-Strauss, Kara Cesare, Zachary Schisgal, Marc Gerald, Patrick Price, Jan Miller, Nena Madonia, Andy McNichol, Brant Rumble, and everyone in my celebrity ghostwriting life who has taught me so much about publishing and storytelling and made the job so enjoyable.

All of my ghostwriting clients, who have invited me to tell their stories, and by doing so, taught me so much of value when it finally came time to write my own memoir.

All of the writers who have critiqued my work or sat in conversation
with me, especially Ellen Dorr, Monica Drake, Erin Almond, Liz Barker, Edan LePucki, Patrick Brown, and Josh Levine.

Cathy Elcik, for talking me off more ledges than I can count and being a true friend to me, a patient listener, the person willing to tell me the things I didn't want to hear, and a tremendous source of inspiration and solace in both the trenches of writing and life. Thank you, especially, for your tremendous service to me during the writing of this book. It would not exist in this form without you.

Beth Cleary, who saved me from myself so many times, taught me so much about music and food and wine, devoted endless hours of her life to some of my most important conversations and nurtured and spoiled me during nearly every chapter of my life. Everyone should be so lucky to have a friend like you.

Jodi Jackson, source of sparkle and wisdom in equal parts, a huge instigator in so many adventures, not least of all my California life, and whose straight talk and kindness have both been so dear to me on so many occasions.

Marya Janoff, for teaching me about the best ways to wield intelligence with ease and grace, for giving me so much to look up to and admire, and also for being so smart and interesting and just so much fun.

Sarjan, although we don't see each other as much as we should, the fantastic and inspiring conversation between us feels like it's continually ongoing.

Cracker, a true friend on so many occasions, thanks for providing essential support and distraction during the time I lived in Brooklyn and wrote this book.

Rebecca Berman and Chris Fagot, the most generous and supportive patrons a writer could ask for, and the core of my wonderful West Coast family.

Mark Mallman for being an artistic inspiration and true friend and for the best musical voice mail messages, ever.

Karina Briski, for inspiring conversation and sweet friendship during
the writing of this book and for being one of the best gifts of my move to New York.

Rachel Egan, my Canadian soul sister, for dear friendship and the loveliest pep talks.

Jill Soloway, the most generous and encouraging mentor imaginable, who helped to grow me as a writer and person, and told me what to wear to meetings.

Richard Stein, for being a crucial sounding board and support during the final work on this book and for being the home I came out to on the other side. I love you so.

For their friendship, belief and support over the years: Kyle Purinton, Erica Swift, Brianna Bateman, Tori Bunker, Cory Costello, Tan Twhigg, Liz Hottel, Galen Gibson, Mark Harmon, Amanda Touchton, Sonja Gshosshman, Emily Mann, Zack Lipez, Josh Balog, Ben Bertocci, Daphna Kohn, Whitney Blank, James Sparber, Mishka Shubaly, Matt DeGenero, Nicole DeJesus, Benji Bogin, Zach Brockhouse, Kitty Diggins, Dawn Henshel, Ryan Puckett, Meredith De­Loca, Christine Celli, John Frutiger, Erin King, Iwalani Kaluhiokalani, Tara Julian, Rachel Legsdin, Amy Wallenberg, Anthony Rossomando, Damian Genuardi, Jared Everet, Carter Taunton, Darcy Scanlon, Joseph Sadar (and Nabile and everyone at the Middle East), Deanne Devries, Whitney Blank, Greg Dulli, Lucinda Williams, Janet Fitch, Joshua Grange, Traci Thomas, Sera Timms, Laurel Stearns, Steffie Nelson, Piper Ferguson, Caroline Ryder, Jodie Wille, Sanae Barber, Valerie Palmer, Amelia Gray, Fiona Dourif, Sabra Embury, Brett Fenzel, Pascal Vincent, Melanie Lynskey, Misha Rudolph, Jessica Amos, Rachel Melvald, Donna Coppola, Allison Linaman, Camille Hines-Parker, Azniv Bozoghlian, Arrica Rose, Benj Hewitt, Brooke Delaney, J. Ryan Stradal, Joshua Wolf Shenk, Matthew Specktor, Summer Block Kumar, Todd Zuniga, Jim Ruland, Cecil Castellucci, Steven Salardino, Robin Schwartz, Heather Crist, Tracy Scott, Imaad Wasif, Kristina Kite, Tracy McMillan, Sean H. Doyle, and Laura Feinstein.