Playground (12 page)

“Well, we just don’t get along and when I’m with Dad I never

seem to have any problems,” I say, trying to sound sure of myself.

She seems resigned to losing me. I secretly want her to demand

that I stay, to prove that she loves and wants me.

“Do you want to live with your father?” she asks again in a tone

as icy as the look she gives me.

Her words fade in and out like radio static. My mother’s ex-

pression has changed to one that betrays the kind of fury and

powerlessness I associate with war victims or people who have lost

everything.

“We just don’t get along,” I reply with conviction.

Mom knows the problem runs far deeper. She knows from ex-

perience that there is a powerful energy drawing me toward my

father. It is the same seductive force that pulled her toward him

years ago. Something in her eyes tells me this is not an unfamiliar

story to her. She should be warning me of his temper, the verbal

abuse, the reasons she left him, what she has been through and is

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frightened by. But she seems too exhausted to face reality. She

chooses instead to act as though my desire to live with him is

about his money, an excuse that she can live with—that I have

chosen luxury over her.

I am fifteen when I completely move out of my mother’s house

and into my father’s.

A decision I will always question.

A decision that will be a determining factor in my life, and I

will always wonder what would have been in store for me had I

stayed. I learned too late that to leave is not the same as being left,

but for some reason it feels the same.

Our lives are about to change forever.

I’m in my bedroom at Mom’s packing my last bag when Savannah

comes in. It’s quiet when she enters and I’m sad as I hand her my

sticker collection and stack of Judy Blume books.

“I don’t see why you have to go.” She sits down on the bed.

“I can’t take it anymore. All the rules and curfews make me

sick.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. I stop packing and sit beside her

on the bed.

“It’s nothing you did—don’t ever think that.” I wrap my arms

around her. “Don’t cry. We’ll still see each other.”

“No we won’t.” Her tears fall even harder.

“I’m only going to be a few miles away.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I want us to be together, but if I stay, Mom and I will kill each

other.”

“I don’t know why it has to be this way,” Savannah sniffles.

“You can call me anytime.”

“I’ll miss you.” She looks up at me.

“I’ll miss you too.”

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We sit there for a while and hold each other, crying in each

other’s arms.

Dad’s horn blares outside and we slowly pull apart. I wipe the

tears off Savannah’s face. She helps me carry my suitcases to the

front door.

“We’ll talk soon, okay?” I say.

I kiss her soft, rosy cheeks and we hug, not wanting to let go.

Dad waves to us from the car. Savannah stays standing in the

doorway while I walk down the brick pathway to his Rolls-Royce.

I am finally breaking free from the confines of reality and en-

tering a fantasyland of enchanted fables. I will no longer be treated

like a child.

I throw my suitcases into the backseat and hop inside. My in-

sides shrivel up as I wave good-bye to Savannah, who stands mo-

tionless in the doorway where I left her.

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Seven

M y bedroom at Dad’s is stocked with all the latest high-tech

electronics. It is as immaculate as a palace. There are no traces of

a child living here, unlike my room at Mom’s, where I was free to

hang posters of my favorite rock stars on the walls. A big-screen

television stands beside a brand-new Sony stereo system with

huge speakers. My king-size bed is perfectly displayed, suited to fit

a princess. The gold-plate canopy is elevated from the rest of the

room with sheer white linen sheets draping over the frame. Pink

satin sheets with lace trim are tucked under a Victorianesque com-

forter. The bathroom is decorated with Italian flowered tile, with a

grandiose marble shower and a Jacuzzi bathtub to match.

The walk-in closet is even more impressive. Dad sent his per-

sonal assistant to shop Rodeo. When I arrive, my closet is filled with

the latest fashions fresh off the Milan runway. There is everything

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

ranging from Sergio Valente jeans to Versace sequined and rhine-

stone tops, leather jackets in every possible silhouette imaginable,

and an array of designer stilettos to snakeskin boots.

Karate, tennis, and a personal masseuse once a week all be-

come routine occurrences. Everything is at my disposal. I can drop

thousands a week shopping for outfits I will wear only once.

I begin to associate materialism with love, or what I now con-

sider love.

Despite the fabulous lifestyle, my life becomes cold and lonely.

Lonely because my father is never home. I sit in his huge house

with everything I’ve ever wanted except love and attention. Lone-

liness is the catalyst that pushes me to delve into the seductions of

drugs and escapism. Dad tells me to join him at the Mansion every

day. He doesn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to sleep in my old

room there.

By the end of my first week at Dad’s, he tells me he’s taking my

mother to court.

“I will not pay her child support when you’re not even there!

Because you are mine and you live here now. Do you understand?

I own you.”

Instinct warns me to agree with him even if I don’t understand

why he’s so angry. He is good at making me believe white is black

and black is white. I try not to think about the many faces he wears

as resentments resurface and I continue to bury them.

“Are we clear?” he commands, towering over me. I feel a

tremor run through me as I begin to question if all his seductions

and enticements were worth it.

“Yes.” I nod.

“Personally, I think she should pay me child support,” he

chuckles to himself.

I smile and pretend to grasp what he is saying as I turn around

and walk back down the hallway to my room.

Hours later, I’m playing Nintendo when I hear faint sounds of

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someone knocking on the front door. I hear Dad yelling, so I get up

and quietly open my bedroom door. He screams over his balcony.

I take small steps down the hallway, leaning my head toward

his bedroom, eager to hear what he’s saying.

“She isn’t home. Don’t come here again! You’re trespassing! I’ll

call the cops if I see you anywhere near this house again!” he

shouts.

I peer out the window just beyond the staircase to see he’s

yelling at my mother, who’s standing in the driveway.

I shiver, wanting urgently to run to her, to tell her I’ve made a

terrible mistake. I miss her and Savannah and want to go home. But

I am too afraid to move, to speak, to admit that I need the one

person my father despises the most.

“Don’t bother calling her; she doesn’t want to talk to you!” he

shouts, slamming his balcony door shut. The sound makes me

jump. I have never felt so helpless or vulnerable. I feel completely

and utterly alone, as if everything I had trusted had been taken

from me. Immobilized by fear, I stand there for a moment unsure

of what to do, though the thought of him finding me eavesdrop-

ping makes me run back to my room and close the door. I collapse

onto the floor as silent tears course down my cheeks.

Dad and I are driving down Wilshire Boulevard in his Rolls as

he sings along to Linda Ronstadt’s “Hurt So Bad.” His mood is

cheerful.

“I finally gave that bitch what she deserves!” he shouts with

vigor.

“What?” I ask naively.

“You are solely mine. The judge awarded me legal custody of

you and your mother has legal custody of Savannah.”

“Why?” I ask, unsure of what he’s talking about.

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“Why? No mother loses custody of her child in the state of Cal-

ifornia! I humiliated her in front of the entire community! My

greatest revenge is taking away what every woman fears losing: her

children!” His deep voice fills the car. I realize this has all been a

game to him. I am the prize he has won. I feel sick. I never meant

for it to go this far. What alarms me most is how angry he is at her,

how angry I am supposed to be, if I know what’s good for me. I

wasn’t sure what had happened to make him so upset. Was he mad

at me or my mother, or did he simply want revenge so badly that

he didn’t comprehend how much his temper would hurt me? I

knew in my heart that I loved him, and that in itself is unnerving

because it left me vulnerable to him.

The bargain is simple. Hate my mother, and I am treated like

a queen; defend her, and I am verbally berated for what feels like

an eternity. Hidden beneath the spell of my own denial, I con-

tinue to believe that he loves me and wants only the very best for

his little girl.

My relationship with my mother continues to crumble be-

neath my father’s vicious attacks. In this split, each parent gives up

one child. The trauma of losing my mother and sister leaves per-

manent gaping holes in my heart. An impenetrable barrier comes

down between Savannah and me: she’s on my mother’s side, and

I’m on my father’s. I lost her the day I lost my mother.

Years later, I will learn that even my mother’s lawyer pulled her

aside and said, “Off the record, it’s too late for Jennifer. If she

wants to live with her father, there’s nothing you can do about it. If

I were you, I would protect your other daughter from him.” And

that’s exactly what she did.

I practice not hurting. I learn to feel nothing at all.

I’ve slept in my new bedroom for two weeks and still feel like a

stranger in this house. Dad is out every night and I hate to be

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alone. I start to have trouble sleeping. Close to midnight, I snoop

in his bathroom and find every kind of prescription pill imagi-

nable. Opening his cabinets and drawers, I am careful with the

bottles because I know he has them positioned precisely, though

seemingly haphazardly, in a certain order. Some bottles lie on their