Being Audrey Hepburn Read online

  The piece went on to assume that I was the latest example of social anxiety disorder, appropriately abbreviated as SAD in the DSM-5, where psychiatrists catalog all forms of mental illness. Also known as social phobia, it is considered the most common anxiety disorder: 12 percent of Americans have experienced it in their lifetime. It’s also a disorder that is frequently associated with crime. They analyzed me as being withdrawn, introverted, and characterized by intense social fear, theorizing that I lashed out at society by pretending to be someone else. I was kind of insulted by their theory.

  The article made Mom consider moving away, and I think we would have if Nan weren’t still under threat of a federal indictment. And then what happened to Mom made it impossible.

  She woke up vomiting, and if Courtney and I hadn’t rushed to Mom’s bedroom and turned her on her side, Mom would have drowned in her own puke. Stuff was up in her nose and everything. It scared the shit out of us. Even after we turned her over, she still wasn’t breathing, so I stuck my fingers down her throat and desperately tried to clear her airway. Finally Mom coughed up more stuff, and I got her to sit up while Courtney called an ambulance.

  At the hospital, her liver tests were alarming: ALP—186, GGT—455, MCV—111, and a platelet count over 96,000. I didn’t really know what all that meant—even though the doctors and nurses kept talking about it. Finally I found Dr. Newton to find out what was going on.

  “Her liver isn’t functioning,” he said. “We can stabilize her for a while, but we’re not sure what we can do at this point.”

  “But she stopped drinking,” I said, feeling hopeless.

  “Which is a good development, but the damage was already there,” he said.

  “What about a transplant?” Courtney piped up. “She’s on the list, right?”

  “We’ve already moved her to the top of the list. And we’ll even go outside our designated area, but there are no guarantees that an organ will be available or that your mom will be able to endure the long hours of surgery,” he said.

  Courtney and I silently held hands in the waiting area, alone with the ferns and the rows of mauve chairs with the endless, repetitive voices of cable news filling up the empty space.

  After Mom’s condition stabilized, we were allowed to visit her. Every nurse, doctor, and orderly watched as we came in. I couldn’t help feeling that their opinions about me had changed, as if I had caused this terrible thing to happen to my mother. I certainly didn’t feel like the good girl anymore.

  “Your lovely daughters are here,” Nurse Brynner said. She was just as warm as ever. Unlike my mother, she seemed healthier than before. As we entered, she whispered to me, “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  When she saw us walking in together holding hands, Mom looked pleased. We sat down by her bed. She seemed to be resting well and no longer in pain.

  “It’s mostly just dehydration,” she said, as if that was an explanation for her condition. “I’ll get back on my feet soon.”

  “Dr. Newton doesn’t think so,” I said. I guess I had lost all my reticence in talking to Mom the way I used to. Courtney was horrified.

  “Don’t speak to her that way,” she said.

  “I’m just saying there’s more going on than that,” I responded, defending myself.

  “Well, you don’t have to talk about it now!” she demanded. I thought she might start screaming at me, and I winced a little. I could see Mom knew what was going on. It was like she always knew what went down between Courtney and me but was just so messed up in her own life she couldn’t acknowledge it.

  “No Court, sorry. Lisbeth is right,” she said. “There is something we need to talk about.” I braced myself, terrified at what she might say next.

  “I told the doctors and the nurses and everybody that I don’t want a transplant.”

  “Are you crazy?” Courtney said. Now she was really angry.

  “I don’t deserve it, Court. They shouldn’t waste an organ on me.” I could tell she had been thinking about it for a long time. “A transplant isn’t like other operations. I’ve seen the patients that need them and how difficult the surgery is. There’s a terrible shortage of organs, and many people who are a lot more worthy than me are waiting for them. I’ll just do the best I can.”

  The wind seemed to go out of Courtney. I was devastated, too. We didn’t know what to say. I listened to the various medical monitors beep and whirr, making a symphony of sadness in the room.

  Slowly, I found myself trying to unravel the logic of what Mom was saying. I knew she was trying to do something noble. It seemed selfish of me, but I was starting to get mad that she was bailing on us. Sure, it was the “good nurse” in Mom who was trying to do the right thing, but she was giving up on us, too.

  “It’s not fair,” I said determinedly. “You’re saying that we’re not worthy. I know I fucked up royally. But I need you more than ever—Courtney and Ryan, too. Nan for that matter, not that you ever think of her.”

  Mom looked at me astounded. Courtney didn’t know what to make of it. I’m not sure Court understood what I was trying to say. She was so used to being left behind, and although she was always mad about it, in some way she expected it.

  “I can’t sit here with you,” I said. “If this is the way it’s going to be, I’ve got to go.”

  68

  I expected Jess, but I hadn’t dreamed that Jake would show up with her.

  I mean, Jake was an effin’ rock star practically. I was surprised that the press wasn’t following him. Of course, by now my story had been replaced with other headlines, like the one about Kim Kardashian dancing with Kanye at a Miami disco even though she’s eight months pregnant with another baby. The TV news vans and reporters’ cars were no longer hanging outside the house.

  Jess and Jake sat down on the couch in the living room. I couldn’t help realizing that when I was younger we never sat in the living room. I never spent any time downstairs if I could help it.

  Jess was wearing all black. Since the runway show, she had dropped out of FIT and become even more devoted to her fashion line, if that was possible. Judging by her clothes she had definitely made the transition to being a city dweller. After all, in New York City black is always the new black.

  Jake wore his usual jeans and flannels, which kind of pegged him as dated, in a Seattle grunge kind of way. But it suited him. With his dark hair and smoky eyes he seemed different, too, even more “Jake,” his presence bigger somehow. I guess that’s what happens when you get to quit being a waiter at a cheapo diner and dedicate your life to your music. My friends Jake and Jess were moving on with their lives, as opposed to you know who.

  “How’s Nan?” Jess asked.

  “She’s more upset about how angry Grandpa would have been that the bracelet he gave her is sitting in a federal lockup somewhere than anything else,” I said. “On the plus side, an old NYPD sergeant in the precinct where they questioned her said that she had the nicest smile he’d ever seen from someone not high on something and asked her for a date.” Jess and Jake laughed.

  It felt unbelievable to be sitting so close to Jake again, watching him. I kept flashing back to the Talkhouse, where he leapt around the stage like a panther, ripping the music out of his guitar like it was a screaming beast. That song of his started repeating in my mind.

  “Is she here?” Jess asked. “It’d be so cool to see her.”

  “Nah, she’s at the hospital with Mom,” I said.

  “And your mom?” Jake piped up. He caught me looking at him, but I averted my eyes, worried I’d fall apart if I actually met his glance.

  “She hates that she’s crossed over to the other side of the bed rails. I think the problem is that she’s flat-out scared of all the stuff that can go wrong in surgery. She keeps telling us these horror stories from her years on the ward, about catheters that kink, wrong medicines being prescribed. She’s a mess basically.”

  Ja
ke just sat there staring down at his shoes, pretty quiet. I didn’t know what else to talk about. I was starting to feel really pathetic.

  “Thanks for getting me fired at the Met, by the way,” Jess said.

  “I’m sorry. I kind of screwed things up for everybody.”

  “Just kidding, actually. I was going to quit anyway. I think they transferred Myers to the Met Museum Design Store at Newark International Airport, Terminal C,” she said, smiling. “So what’s next for you?”

  “Just waiting to see what the court does. Pretty much being at the hospital all the time, seeing if Mom gets a transplant and cooperates, trying to make things up to Nan. Thinking about college, I guess.”

  Jess gave me a woeful look and I could see Jake fidgeting.

  “You know, Lizzy,” Jake said finally, as if he were lifting a heavy weight. “I asked to come along with Jess to see you because I wanted to say that I know you’re in all this trouble for what you did but I think it was actually pretty cool. You lived your dream. It’s got to count for something.”

  Same old Jake—sincere, earnest, heartfelt—but I couldn’t stand it. He was being supportive like always, but I couldn’t look at him. After all, I blew it. I didn’t see how to put a good spin on that. I wanted to ask him how Monica was. That would have been the civil thing to do, but I couldn’t.

  “Thanks,” I finally stuttered out. “So how’s the big-rock-star tour going?”

  Jake excitedly went on about the cities they were hitting and everything about the tour bus and the band. I didn’t really hear any of it.

  For some reason I couldn’t help thinking about the final scene in Roman Holiday, when Audrey faces the reporters and she and Gregory Peck share that unspoken feeling between them. They shake hands, pretending as if they never met, even though he’s been the love of her life, and then she leaves him alone standing at the rope, gazing at the empty spot where she was last. After everyone is gone, he leaves, taking the long, endless walk out of the palace hall, contemplating what might have been if life were different.

  But life isn’t different. And there I was, still thinking that everything in my life was like a scene from an Audrey Hepburn movie.

  I realized Jake had stopped talking moments ago, and I felt awkward. Jess piped up to fill in the uncomfortable space.

  “Have you checked Limelight recently?”

  I shook my head no.

  “I haven’t even turned on my phone,” I said.

  “Well you should, where is it?” Jess asked.

  I went to the kitchen. My phone had been on the counter, sitting there for ages. I didn’t even know if it had any power. I was too depressed to turn it on, so I just gave it to Jess. She powered it up and handed it to me.

  In my hand it kept buzzing as one after another voice message kept showing up. Lots of random phone numbers and texts, lots from Jess, even a few from Jake and lots and lots of calls from Isak.

  And in my hands, at that very moment, it started to ring.

  Isak was calling.

  69

  “You better hurry or you’ll be late,” Jess called as I slipped on a floral top and Designer X’s first pair of jeans—still in prototype actually. Her coated skinny jeans felt so wonderful, they made you want to dance.

  A light evening breeze was flowing through the open window in the guest room. As I snapped the window latch shut, I noticed the yellowed front page of The New York Post tucked in a shelf in the corner. I couldn’t believe Jess still had a copy.

  Throwing a few things in one of Jess’s monster bags, I dashed out of her West Village apartment to catch the PATH train at Christopher Street for my nightly reverse commute.

  Truthfully, all the notoriety didn’t hurt my blogger following. After a while the fan mail came back. You can’t win an argument with a troll, so I never tried, and slowly they faded to the bottom of the comments list.

  “I have more than a grudging admiration for you,” one commenter wrote. “Fabulously brazen,” another said. Flo stood by me, thankfully. She didn’t mind how my fraudulent behavior exploded our “brand.” Honestly, my brand was very much in keeping with who I was. Even if I wasn’t who I said I was. As you can guess my clicks and visits skyrocketed—everyone had to check it out.

  I gunned the Purple Beast and drove out of the parking lot by the Grove Street PATH station and made my way down the parkway, just as I had done every night for the last few weeks. One more time and I could take a break.

  The New York district attorney’s office examined my case and determined that I hadn’t gained any money or valuables from the hoax. In fact, I had even managed to lose a valuable bracelet. So I hadn’t actually committed a prosecutable crime. I fell back on Nan’s advice and apologized like mad, promising to never, ever do it again.

  The investigation was much harder on Nan. She’s forgiven me over and over, but I couldn’t stop feeling terrible about it. If Dahlia hadn’t hired the private detective to investigate me, I don’t think Nan would have ever told us her secret.

  Everybody was astounded that the little ole lady in apartment 5A of Montclair Manor had been a major fugitive all that time. Only Betty claimed that she had been suspicious. She told channel 2 news that she knew Nan was hiding something. One or two of the other blue-haired ladies complained that she was a card shark and cheated at bingo.

  Turns out, Grandpa was a well-known member of Cosa Nostra from the fifties who mysteriously dropped out of sight. Frank Wachowicz, aka Sammy Graziano, was known as the Gentleman Gangster, famous for dressing well and carrying his gun in a paper bag so that when he walked down the street, it looked like he was bringing you a sandwich.

  The feds were so embarrassed that he had been living across the river in plain sight they claimed he was a secret witness under protection who sang like a canary.

  “Grandpa was too honorable for that,” Nan told me. It was the only time I had ever seen her angry. “My Sammy quit the mob for me, so we could have a normal life. Sure, there was a rule, the omertà, but, like a lot of rules, it was made to be broken. Your grandpa just knew how to make it work.”

  The New York Post reporter dug up some astonishing black-and-white pictures I had never seen of Nan and Grandpa at the Stork Club and the El Morroco, out on the town in the late fifties. Jess and I would sit around with the photos and pick out the actual dresses we had redone.

  In those pictures you could see what Nan was really like in her younger days. Sitting with Ida Lupino, Josephine Baker, Diana Vreeland, and an occasional Kennedy, she was one of those exquisite creatures whose intelligence was as impressive as her surpassing elegance. She wasn’t just hanging passively on Grandpa’s arm. You could see her active engagement with everyone around her.

  Judge Ruston gave Nan a mere slap on the wrist, despite Dahlia’s district attorney friend and the efforts of the DOJ’s finest prosecutors. It was nearly impossible to prosecute her with Grandpa gone.

  I overshot the parking space as usual, screeching on the brakes. I still couldn’t control the Purple Beast. One tire was up on the parking block, but it was only one. I had to hurry; the band was already near the end of their set.

  “I’m impressed with how you’ve utterly messed everything up,” Isak said when we finally got together. I was so happy to see him that all I could do was agree.

  “Seems like you have some fabulous shoes to fill,” quipped Isak, referring to Nan’s glamorous past. Even so, I apologized to Isak for being such a phony. He was utterly dismissive.

  “Sure you’re a phony,” he said. “But you’re a real phony. Not like all the phonies these days. I find it absolutely exciting that there are still people in the world who manage to have these thrilling, preposterous adventures. Besides, you know, we’re all fakes.”

  The outrage and publicity hadn’t affected Jess at all. Her Designer X line began to thrive immediately. It certainly helped that she had Isak Guerrere as her partner.

  Mom is still a worry. She was the most emotional o
ne about the whole Mafia thing, finally coming to grips with how terrified she had been as a child. They had to keep moving from house to house in the middle of the night, and she had to change schools all the time. She knew something was wrong, but no one would talk about it.

  There was a waterfall of tears the night at the hospital when Mom and Nan had the heart-to-heart they should have had decades ago. Nan hugged Mom to tell her how sorry she was that she put her through so much and never told her why. That night, it felt like some big thing in the world had changed. A missing connection had been restored that made us a family again. Now she just had to get through the operation.

  I slipped by the guys at the door, who didn’t even bother to ask—they were used to me showing up late.

  Courtney was the first one to tell me about Monica and Jake. Turns out Monica frequented Harris’s Riverside Bar and Grill. That’s where Courtney bartends. Monica would come in there on weekends with her two kids and her computer-nerd husband for brunch. She was married and lived in Weehawken. Courtney and Monica had struck up a friendship. Monica talked about this hot band she represented and what a hunk the lead singer was. It took a while for Courtney to put two and two together. The cowboy thing was an act for her music-management business, which she was devoted to almost as much as she was to her husband and two kids. She was actually a typical Jersey soccer mom wearing black-framed glasses and sweatpants.

  The band had already finished the set by the time I made my way inside. The packed crowd was asking for another encore.

  The truth is that I never felt like myself until I put on the Givenchy. It seems crazy that I had to go to such lengths to find out who I really was. But I guess something had to change. Something had to lift me up to get me out of where I had been.