You Have No Idea: A Famous Daughter, Her No-Nonsense Mother, and How They Survived Pageants, Hollywood, Love, Loss (14 page)

I woke up the next morning feeling confused. We were heading back to New York and I couldn’t wait to get out of that house and away from Susan. Then on the flight home, I thought about it some more. I just wanted to get home and see my parents. I couldn’t tell my mom about this because it felt naughty. I imagined her looking at me hard and saying, “Oh, Vanessa, what were you thinking? Why didn’t you say no?”

But maybe I’d be able to talk to my dad.

When I got off the plane and saw my parents waiting at the top of the Jetway, I knew something terrible had happened while I was away. My father had lost weight and his skin was ashen. He looked so, so sad.

“Uncle Artie died,” Mom said.

My confusion and fears were evaporated by my family’s grief. I pushed Susan’s late-night visit to the back of my mind as we mourned for Uncle Artie. Dad was devastated by his brother’s death—Uncle Artie had been a really talented basketball player, but he had a heart murmur and couldn’t pursue his dream of playing professionally. He just kind of drank himself to death. My father took it really hard and never recovered from this loss.

And that’s how the summer ended—with a funeral and burial. Then it was back to school. I tried to forget about Susan. When I couldn’t, I struggled to make sense of it. I thought,
Okay, there’s this thing I did—it felt good, and since it was with another girl, it was probably okay.
That’s how I rationalized it. But even as I told myself this, I felt it wasn’t really okay at all.

For years I kept Susan’s visit to myself. Most girls remember their first kiss fondly, but every time I thought about sitting on the pipes at the construction site with John, I’d get this yucky feeling. My thoughts would always be overshadowed by Susan with her dark purple bedroom and the way she pretended to be the cool older kid to a ten-year-old on a summer vacation. Even today, if I see a dark purple room, it just brings me back to that trip and I get a weird, sickening feeling in my gut.

I didn’t really understand what had happened until I was in college. I was with my boyfriend, Bruce, and it just hit me and I blurted it out: “Oh my God—I was molested!”

It took me almost a decade to realize that I was an innocent victim and Susan was an eighteen-year-old predator. She had manipulated me the entire trip, just so that she could take advantage of me and I wouldn’t speak a word of it.

Years later, when I was suing
Penthouse
for printing the photos of me with another woman, my lawyers told me that Bob Guccione’s attorneys would grill me on any sexual relationships I’d ever had with men… and women. My mind immediately went back to my trip to California. I thought I’d probably have to tell them about Susan. I imagined the headlines.

After that trip, I felt something change in me. I had always been defiant, but I became a bit more rebellious. I began to pull away from my parents, which devastated my dad. We’d been so close. I always felt I could tell him anything—and then I just kept to myself.

My parents blamed it on approaching adolescence and hormones. But I wonder if part of me was acting out the anger and confusion I felt over Susan’s late-night visit.

CHAPTER

9

I think my children felt very loved when they were little. But when they turned into adolescents, when it really mattered because they felt uncomfortable in their skin, I had a hard time showing them affection. I wish I could do it over again and show them my love at a time they really needed it.

—HELEN WILLIAMS

M
y fourth grade teacher, Mr. Hart, gave everyone a nickname; mine was “Van Can.” He’d chime, “Van Can do it all—winter, spring, summer, fall.” That year, he decided we’d produce a play based on our Greek mythology studies. He gave students various assignments—writing, acting, costuming. He knew I was a dancer, so he asked me, “Van Can,” to choreograph a dance that would be my solo.

Westorchard Elementary School in Chappaqua was a very progressive school for its time. The classrooms had partitions, which could be rolled back to allow another grade to join discussions. Sometimes third and fourth grade would be combined. The teachers also tried to make learning as creative as possible. Mr. Hart, a
tall, lanky, dynamic man, was just one of the many excellent teachers I had.

I loved school. I loved my teachers. I loved learning. It was such an encouraging and very safe environment.

For
The Trojan Horse,
a group of us wrote a song, created our costumes, and played recorders to accompany the music. I can still remember some of the lyrics: “Where are thou, men of Greece, return home soon, remove our gloom.”

I’d done a lot of recitals—dance and piano—but this was my first role in a school play with an audience. I was a natural and performing made me joyous. If there was a play, I’d be in it. Even at home, Chris and I and our cousins or the neighbors would set up a stage in front of the fireplace and sing, dance, and act for my parents, neighbors, aunts, uncles—whoever was over for dinner. “Let’s put on a show” was something you were sure to hear if you were a dinner guest at the Williamses’ house.

When I wasn’t performing, I enjoyed watching other performers. I loved the glamour of the old Technicolor movies with big musical numbers and glittery costumes. I was hooked and could watch them for hours on weekends. Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Rita Hayworth, and Gene Kelly were some of my favorites. Some of my all-time favorite movies were
Kiss Me Kate
,
Singin’ in the Rain
, anything with Danny Kaye,
Cinderfella
with Jerry Lewis, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
Cinderella,
and, of course,
The Wizard of Oz
, which was a treat once a year.

You could see all the choreography and watch performers from head to toe. There weren’t close-ups of someone’s face or feet to make you wonder if it was really them. In these old movies, you knew the actors had to do it all—there were no doubles performing the tough moves. They were all triple threats.

Mom fueled my interest by taking me into the city to see almost every hot black show on Broadway—
Your Arms Too Short to Box with God, Eubie!
, and
Purlie
, to name a few. But when I saw
The Wiz
, I was mesmerized. I wanted to be Stephanie Mills. She sang, she danced, she acted. She did it all and she was great at all of it—plus she was close to my age. She made Broadway seem attainable. I wanted to do this someday.

The stage was alluring to me. For as long as I could remember, I wanted to be a performer. (Except for that time when I was about six and I thought that being a stewardess was the most glamorous job in the world. It was the seventies—what can I say!) I thought I’d be a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. Or a singer. Or a performer on a variety show. Or a dancer with a prestigious company like Alvin Ailey.

Then I saw Stephanie Mills and I knew. I wanted to be on Broadway.

Van Can do it all.

My dad never pushed performing on me. His attitude was “Whatever she likes, well, that’s fine with me. I just want her to have a happy life.”

My mother made a point of subtly showing me that I shouldn’t ever put limits on myself. If we went to Radio City to watch the Rockettes, she’d say something like, “Those Rockettes do a great job. Wouldn’t it be interesting to be the first black Rockette?” Or if we were at a play watching the orchestra, she’d point out a black instrumentalist. “Look at that black girl on the French horn. Isn’t she wonderful? Wouldn’t that be a great career?” (I ended up playing French horn for nine years.)

Mom was constantly putting it in my head that I could break the mold, I could be different. “Dare to be different” was a poster on a wall in our home. I suppose part of it was because she was always singled out; she was always breaking obstacles when she was young. She never told me what I should do, but she made me aware that just because I didn’t see someone who looked like me on the stage
or in the orchestra, it didn’t mean that the goal was out of my reach. It just hadn’t been done yet. And why couldn’t I be the one to do it?

My parents told me that they could pinpoint the moment when they saw that spark of something special in me. It was seventh grade, and I was part of the ensemble cast of the Robert E. Bell Middle School production of the musical
Little Mary Sunshine.
I don’t remember much about it, other than I had a solo dance. To what? I’m not sure. Mom said that halfway through the performance, she and my dad just looked at each other.
WOW!
It was a look that said “Vanessa’s got it.”

It was a moment my parents realized I could do something with this natural ability to sing, dance, and act. They said I had a small part but I seemed larger than life. They’d seen me in a few productions, but this was different. Mom said when I was onstage, the audience focused on me as if there was no one else. The local newspaper ran a photo of me—my first newspaper clipping.

“Good job, Ness,” my mom said. If Mom paid me a compliment, I knew I had been fantastic.

I started sixth grade as a straight-A student and, for the most part, a pretty obedient daughter. (Well, with some lapses.) But by the time I had spent my three years at Bell Middle School, I had changed. I was annoyed with my parents the majority of the time. (What adolescent isn’t?) I tried to shut my parents out and had a big case of selective hearing.

My mother was the target for most of my moods. I’d be snippy, impatient, or plain sassy at times. I’d roll my eyes and talk back or just walk out of the room while she was speaking. And watch out! You don’t do that to my mother!

“Go to your room and come out when I tell you to,” she’d yell at me nearly every day. She’d squeeze my arm and that meant business.

Mom took my mood swings personally, but I was raging with
hormones and couldn’t help myself. Mom didn’t know how to handle this force that I had become—lamb in sixth grade, lion in seventh. As a teacher, she taught elementary school students. She’d say, “I hate middle school kids. I just can’t stand that age.” I think even before I got there, she had convinced herself that it would be pure hell.

The family times I had cherished—reading with Dad, playing Operation or Connect Four with Chris, and family badminton matches—started to seem silly to me. Hanging out with my friends was a priority.

Mom would give me her icy stare. “What’s the matter with you? What’s happened to you? Who are you?”

Now that I have children, I understand this age better—all children break away from their parents—but back then, I didn’t know what was going on. When my oldest daughter, Melanie, became an adolescent and started the moody and irritable part, I took it personally at first. I even made the other kids promise they wouldn’t act like that. But I learned that a lot of it just can’t be helped. They don’t even realize they’re doing it. With each child, I learned to be more aware and compassionate and less reactive.

And Mom, maybe because of the way she was raised, seemed completely perplexed. Sure, I knew I was changing—I was developing breasts and beginning my battle with acne. Dad seemed to understand that I was growing up and needed some space of my own, but Mom was annoyed and frustrated. Dad would often find himself stuck in the middle, trying to make peace. But how do you subdue two hurricanes?

My mother will say that my dad was the leader of the household, but I didn’t see it that way at all. They worked together. They always seemed to be in agreement. But my dad was always more approachable. I hate to use the word “soft” because that implies weakness, and he wasn’t weak at all. He was a strong man who happened to be sensitive to everyone’s feelings.

My parents were always a team. There seemed to be a wall between my parents and me. I tell my kids everything—I try to be their friend—but my parents drew the line. They were such a unit, and I think that fueled my rebellious streak. They would call me into the living room for a family meeting. I’d roll my eyes and be like, “Ugh, do I have to?” I’d sort of just drag myself in there. But I wouldn’t listen. I’d be off thinking about something else (mostly boys) as they’d outline their grievances with me:

I wasn’t coming home when I was supposed to. I was talking back. I wasn’t picking up after myself, and my room was a mess.

My dad would rely on his psychology books to understand me. He’d try to figure out why I was acting out. He’d explain to me the cause and effect and the consequences of my actions. Besides being a music teacher, he was also the vice principal and the disciplinarian at his school. He’d approach me with the same patience and understanding he gave his students.

My dad was so patient, but my mom was just exasperated with me. She didn’t want to talk about it and analyze it; she wanted to take action and stop it! One time she stormed into my room, took everything she could pick up, and just dumped it in the middle of the floor. “Now, clean it up.”

I was furious with her. I had to spend the whole day cleaning my room.

I think my mom was annoyed that I was growing up. Even when I was just eleven, my changing body seemed like an inconvenience to her. I remember going into the bathroom and discovering that I was bleeding. My period! I called my mother into the bathroom and excitedly told her, “I got my period!”

“Congratulations. You’re a woman now,” Mom said.

Okay, that might seem like a normal maternal way to react, but you had to be there. She said it so matter-of-factly and then let out a heavy sigh. It was almost resentful. It was like, “Now look what
you’ve done.” There was no hugging, no excitement, just exasperation. My getting my period seemed like a major inconvenience to my mother. Why? Did she think I’d become more hormonal, more difficult, more moody? I wasn’t sure.

Now that I’m a mother, I understand better. I was young but I was developing early. So Mom knew I’d be getting attention from older boys who thought I was more mature than I was. She knew I was too young to understand or handle this.