Playground (11 page)

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

It’s late when one of the girls knocks on my door, comes in, and

lies down on the bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask her. She smiles at me.

She stares at me with luminous eyes that make me feel uncom-

fortable, like she’s flirting with me, though part of me enjoys the

attention.

“My dad is probably wondering where you are.”

“He won’t miss me. He wanted me to check on you,” she as-

sures me, caressing my arm.

Startled by her touch, I jump up.

“Well, you checked on me. Thanks,” I pull back. “I’m fine, really.”

“You sure are jumpy.”

She pushes her curly brown hair behind her ears flirtatiously.

“Just tired,” I mumble, wanting her to leave.

“Okay,” she sighs, getting up slowly.

I tell her to close the door on the way out.

In the late ’70s, I tag along with my father when he plays poker at

Pips, an exclusive, private cigar bar at the Rodeo Collection. At the

poker tables, I help set up the chips and race for new decks of cards

on every occasion. I learn to quickly read the players’ facial expres-

sions, their gestures, and body language. Some of the men keep a

steady face, raising, bluffing with no pairs while others throw in

chips, betting loudly, trying to win the pot with nothing while oth-

ers ask for a new stack before the round is over knowing they have

the winning hand.

The dynamic with my father shifts regularly. I’m never quite

sure why or when to expect the sudden change. Dad sends me

flowers on Valentine’s Day, we go to fancy restaurants, screenings,

plays, travel to Europe, Hawaii and Morocco, just the two of us.

In Rome, we share the same bed and sometimes at night, I give

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him a massage before we go to sleep. My fingers press hard on his

strong shoulder muscles and after a few minutes, I have to stop be-

cause my hands are sore. He says my massages are better than any-

one else’s. In the morning, he takes pictures of me asleep in the bed.

We spend our first day in Venice on a gondola moving slowly

through the canals. The sun sets, reflecting shades of yellow off the

uneven cobblestone streets.

“I can’t wait to come here with someone one day,” I tell him.

“
Someone?”
he answers in a bitter tone and I swallow hard, in-

stantly aware that I said something wrong.

“I’m not good enough?” he barks.

“No. I just meant . . .”

“What exactly do you mean? Please tell me, because obviously

I’m a little confused,” his temper explodes.

“I meant with someone . . .” I stop, unable to complete my

thought quaking because I have offended him.

,

“Last time I checked, I was somebody! I don’t know many fa-

thers who would take their ungrateful daughters on trips like this!

Do you?” he asks, threateningly.

“No.” I shake my head, afraid to speak because I know his tem-

per. The gondola moves slowly underneath a bridge and out of the

sunlight.

A dark shadow sweeps across my father’s face as he continues

to abrade me. The rest of the day is a blur. He comes around at din-

ner when I begin talking negatively about my mother.

After two weeks of traveling through Venice and Rome, I write

Dad a thank-you card while staying at the Ritz in Paris. I stand in

front of him in my favorite red dress, awaiting his approval. I am

shocked and then petrified when his mouth turns from a smile to

a snarl.

“What the hell does this mean?” he screams.

He hovers over me, screaming louder than before.

“Do you want me dead? Is that it?”

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“What? Of course not!” I shake my head wildly, trying to figure

out what I did to make him so mad. I tremble as he continues to

yell while waving the card I gave him in the air.

“Dead Dad!” he screams, handing it to me.

I look at it, my hands shaking uncontrollably. There it is on the

opening line: “Dead Dad” instead of “Dear Dad.” How could I be

so stupid? How could I make such a careless mistake?

“You must want me dead!” he rages as thoughts of his death

cross my mind. I am instantly guilt-ridden for even thinking these

thoughts. He points his finger in my face. He looks like he’s going

to beat me up
.

“I didn’t mean it,” I sob, trying to prove how much I love him.

I betrayed him. I swear to him that I will never do it again. I

play whatever mind games I have to in order to return to our usual

state of denial where we pretend nothing happened.

By that night, the storm has cleared and all the forgotten chaos

has dissipated. He finally finds it in his heart to forgive me.

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Six

B y 1984 I’m a freshman at Beverly Hills High School.

After school, I take tennis lessons at Dad’s house. I do anything

to avoid home and the constant fighting with my mother. I hate it

there.

One night, Dad decides to take me to Helena’s, a well-known

nightclub for celebrities. People stand in line for hours to get in,

but it wasn’t a problem for Dad and me. He hires a limo, and as we

walk onto the red carpet we are instantly greeted by the doorman

and owner, who lift up the velvet rope and let us enter without a

second thought. I hear others in line whisper, wondering who we

are and why we we’re so important. I walk in on my father’s arm

with my head held high, feeling as though I am his equal. I am no

longer a child.

I return to Mom’s house at twelve-thirty in the morning

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

piss-drunk, reeking of alcohol. Mom storms down the hallway to

greet me. A quiver of worry runs through me. If she had known

what I was doing or whom I was with tonight I would be grounded

for life.

“Where have you been? Are you drunk? Your curfew is mid-

night!” she yells, her eyes speak volumes.

“Midnight? Everyone else is allowed to stay out until at least

one,” I contest.

“You’re not everyone!” Mom declares with conviction.

“Dad doesn’t care what time I get home. He lets me do what-

ever I want,” I scream.

“I don’t care what your father does! As far as I’m concerned, he

is not a parent! And as long as you’re living under my roof you will

listen to my rules, not your father’s!” She paces back and forth.

“Your father isn’t normal,” she mutters under her breath, not com-

prehending the enormity of what she is saying. Neither of us does.

“At least he isn’t mean!” I shout.

Mom grounds me. I run back to my room, slam the door shut,

and pick up the phone to call my father.

“Playboy Mansion,” the other line answers.

“It’s Jennifer; can I speak with my father?”

“Hello, Jennifer. One moment, please,” the voice on the other

end says.

A few seconds pass.

“Hello?” Dad answers cheerfully and I start to cry. “Jennifer?”

his voice drops, immediately concerned. “Is everything all right?

What’s the matter?” he asks, but I am too choked up to talk.

“Nothing,” I finally get out.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” he says as I take breaks for a

moment to cry.

I miss him with a sudden and irresistible force. In a subtle,

unforeseen way I was addicted to him, conveniently forgetting

the bad times. Despite my near paralysis I manage to say, “Mom

grounded me.”

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“She’s a cold, selfish bitch,” he says, welcoming every opportu-

nity to criticize her. I somehow ignore what I don’t want to admit.

I don’t let myself see that vilifying my mother has anything to do

with his own personal agenda or his attempts to capture me out of

spite for her. I hear him puffing on a cigar.

“I can’t even talk to her,” I sob.

“How can you? She’s jealous and resents you because we’re

close and she can’t have me,” he says. “Do you want to come up

here? I can send someone to pick you up. I’m in the middle of Mo-

nopoly,” he says.

“I can’t, remember? I’m grounded.”

“That’s a joke,” he laughs. “I’m going to have a talk with her in

the morning. You know how to reach me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We hang up and I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling lis-

tening to Pat Benatar for hours.

The next morning, while Savannah and Mom are out shopping, I

call a cab and run away to Dad’s house, where I know I can find ex-

actly what I am looking for: freedom. We don’t fight over things like

rules, curfews, or partying. His parenting ethics belong to the school

of breaking rules and having fun. I’m not sure he knows how to be

a parent. I never question his ethics because they were all I knew.

Being part of a real family is the furthest thing from my mind or

anything I know. I arrive at his house and Carmela lets me in.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asks, looking at my red,

flushed face.

“Nothing. Mom and I had a fight,” I exhale, out of breath.

“Your father is outside.” Carmela hollers to let him know I’m

there, and I join Dad by the pool and tell him I’ve run away.

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“It’s about time,” he responds nonchalantly, applying tanning

oil, as if it’s no big deal.

“I can’t even talk to her,” I tell him.

“That’s the one thing about you and me. We might get angry,

but we always talk things out,” he says. “Unlike your sister, who

runs back to your mother like a fucking baby.”

We nod our heads in agreement, understanding each other.

When my father is with me, he sees nothing but me.

“Your mother always thinks I’m doing things behind her back,

but it’s not the case. I just want you kids to enjoy the opportunities

I never had growing up,” he explains.

I am completely enchanted as I see a softer side of him, and

won’t allow myself to recall his demeaning ways.

“What should I do?” I ask.

“Do you want to live with me?” he asks enthusiastically. “You

know, there’s always a room for you here at the house. I’d love to

see you more often. I miss you when you’re not around. I’ll give

you a key, a bank account, a credit card, and let you do whatever

you want. No curfews—just make sure you don’t get thrown out of

school or get caught ditching,” he laughs. “You can come and go as

you please; you know I only want to make you happy. Besides, why

would you want to live with that bitch anyway?”

I am conflicted because on one hand I don’t want to disap-

point him. I want to flee and run away, but my gut tells me I’m too

young to be put in this awkward position. I allow his power and

persuasive ways to influence me and make the final decision.

Dad says that he is the only one in the world who understands

me. He promises me that life with him would be far better than the

one I have now, and I believe him.

The clouds pass as Carmela brings a tray of fresh iced tea out to

the pool.

There is something about millions of “fuck you” money and

the freedom it buys that is hard to pass up.

Once my decision is made, I walk around Mom’s house on

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eggshells. She has no idea what I’m thinking and I’m too scared to

tell her. I keep putting off the inevitable confrontation. But she can

tell I’m slipping away. She senses I’m distancing myself from her,

we’re both so guarded, so closed off from each other, that we can’t

even talk about it. I feel like she doesn’t really care about me and

that she considers herself supremely unappreciated.

I’m in my bedroom listening to Prince’s “When Doves Cry,”

when Mom storms in without warning. She glares at me as if I’m a

stranger.

“Your father called and told me you want to move in with him.

Is this true?” she asks, furious.

“Well, I know he wants me to live with him.” I don’t look at her.

“Do you want to live with your father?”

She stares into my room with no emotion. Her eyes are empty

mirrors; they reflect nothing. She won’t look me in the face any-

more. Maybe she’s too afraid of what she will see. Maybe she’s afraid

of what she won’t see.