Adair Lara - Hold Me Close, Let Me Go: A Mother, A Daughter and an Adolescence Survived

ADAIR LARA

hold me close,
let me go

a mother,
a daughter,
and an
adolescence
survived

B R O A D W A Y B O O K S
NEW YORK

Contents

For Morgan, Patrick, Bill, and Jim
for trusting me with this story

Pick Me Up
Hold Me Close
Put Me Down
Let Me Go

the story of raising a child,
according to an old adage

acknowledgments

People often think of a writer as going into solitary rooms where he or she hunches over a machine surrounded by balled-up paper for two years or so and emerges with a finished book. For me it was like that, except there were many people crowded into that room with me. First, there was Morgan herself. She was not thrilled at any time about the notion of a book about her wild teenage self. Its a self most of us like to put quietly behind us rather than having it etched permanently into the record and then sold to strangers in stores. But she let me write this book about our experience. I cant think of a larger act of trust in my whole life.

And in that room with me was Bill, who is such a thorough and selfless editor that he first lived through every day of those difficult years, then consented to read about it again and again, always telling me to keep going.

And then there were the women: Ginny McReynolds, who was my writing partner when Morgan was a teenager; Neshama Franklin; Annie Lamott, who read a terrible first draft and told me to keep going; Donna Levin, who read terrible second and third drafts and gave me the title; my sister Adrian Isola, who read sections throughout; and my friends Cynthia Gorney and Tracy Johnston, who both generously read the manuscript at an early stage, using time they surely could have used for something else. And then my writing club, Wendy Lichtman, Rebecca Koffman, and especially Janis Newman, whose critiques made the book much better than it would have been otherwise. And if it isnt crowded enough already in my little writing room, in there with the rest of us were the readers of the San Francisco Chronicle, who read my columns about Morgan over the years, following her progress and cheering her on until she got through high school and then college.

And when I emerged from that room, there were more people: my agent Fred Hill, and Harriet Bell, and my wonderful editor, Gerry Howard, with his generous understanding of the book and its aims.

prologue

I LEANEDagainst the doorjamb, sticking my head into Morgans room stiffly. Where you going? I asked, hoping to sound casual.

Hollys, she said, her eyes on the pile of jeans, underwear, and bras she was piling into the red Nike bag that lay open on the floor. Holly was a school friend who lived a few doors down from us.

Morgans hair was Manic Panic red, the only bright spot of color on a gray August Tuesday. She folded several pairs of cutoff jeans, then a white T-shirt with torn-off sleeves, on the front of which she had scrawled in black marker, Why yes, I am Wonder Woman.

She was not running away.

I was throwing her out.

I watched her pack, then, unable to watch anymore, walked blindly out of the house. I stood on the sidewalk and looked back up at the house, a large yellow Victorian capped by a tower. At my feet, in the cement, were the names Morgan and Patrick, scrawled there when the kids were six and seven. I walked three miles over the steep Castro Street hill to 24th Street and back. I must have taken Cody, our sheltie, with me, but I dont remember. I must have waited at red lights, walked by the Walgreens, Noahs Bagels, and the Bank of America, but I dont remember that either.

When I got back an hour later, she was gone. Shed left a note on the table next to her cereal bowl, empty except for the last few Lucky Charms, yellow moons, pink hearts, and green clovers drowned in rice milk. Mom, I love you. Bill wants you to call. I love you very much. Morgan.

I felt the bones in my neck turning to concrete. I folded the note and put it in my pocket and went into her room. It smelled of wet towels and the peach bubble bath she always used. On her bulletin board she had thumbtacked a picture of me reading to a small crowd at a bookstore. In it I was wearing my green speech suit. My head looked tiny, like the top of a PEZ dispenser. Postcards were tacked to the walls haphazardly--wed given up talking to her about making holes in the wall--and her snowboard leaned against the dresser that she insisted on keeping in the closet, the white closet doors gaping wide.

On the table beside the bed lay a snapshot of her Id taken at a school play only months before. I picked it up and carried it over to the window. She stood at center stage with two other girls, taking a curtain call. All three were dazed and smiling at the applause, but Morgan managed to hold the spotlight, smiling radiantly. Even in that blurred photo, you can tell that Morgan helped herself to the best features of her parents--my slightly slanted brown eyes, set wide apart like her dads, with a lot of green in them. Jims blond hair, thick like mine. My small nose and his high cheekbones.

The phone rang. I fished through the pile of jeans and tank tops next to the bed until I found the white cordless phone.

Adair? Its Judy. Judy was Hollys mother. Are you all right?

No, I said.

Morgan is here at my house. Would it be okay with you if I kept her for a couple of days?

Yes, of course, I said, feeling relief flood me. Did she tell you what happened?

Yes, she did. Morgan feels she doesnt need the recovery program. Judy spoke in a neutral tone, but it was clear to me what she was really thinking: What kind of mother throws out her own sixteen-year-old daughter?

I didnt blame her. The same thought tortured me. It had taken us just three years of shouting, slammed doors, tears, phone calls, and notes sliding under doors to get to this most terrible of days.

chapter 1

M ORGANwas still asleep, though it was almost eleven. The light from her west-facing window washed the top half of her face and her tumbled hair, the same brownish-blond as her brother Patricks. One pink foot stuck out. I sat on the edge of the bed and shook it.

Mom, I was sleeping. She smiled lazily at me.

Is it true that last night you and Tara went into Dolores Park?

Mom, what are you talking about? Morgan, caught off guard, sat up, trying for an expression of injured innocence.

Did you?

What park?

Dolores. Where the drug dealers hang out.

Well, yes, but we were totally safe. She said it with a little shrug.

What about the beer? I said in a tight voice. Tara said something about a six-pack.

It was just sitting in a bag in a parking lot. I didnt drink any of the beer. It was sour. I just sprayed it on the ground. God, Mom. Youre overreacting, just the way Daddy always does. She slumped down, then, in a sudden change of mood, grinned at me. It was worth it. It was the most fun I ever had in my life. The only problem was getting caught.

Fun? You could have been raped or murdered, two young girls out on the streets. Dont you remember those two girls on Potrero Hill who were just standing on a corner when a gang of boys took them off to a shed and raped them five or six times each? They were only thirteen, like you and Tara.