Linda Carroll - Her Mothers Daughter: A Memoir of the Mother I Never Knew and of My Daughter, Courtney Love

Original Book design by Chris Welch

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carroll, Linda.

Her mothers daughter: a memoir of the mother I never knew and of my daughter, Courtney Love.

p. cm.

1. Carroll, Linda. 2. Fox, Paula. 3. Love, Courtney, 1964- 4. PsychotherapistsUnited StatesBiography. 5. Mothers and daughtersUnited StatesBiography. I. Title.

RC438.6.C37A3 2005

616.89140092dc22

2005048401

Copyright 2009 by Linda Carroll

First Published by Doubleday

Second Printing by BookSurge Publishing

All Rights Reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ISBN 1-4392-4688-2

Kindle ISBN: 978-1-61550-450-3

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

For my family

and the memory of Judy Carroll

Contents

This book is the product of many peoples dedication, time, and wisdom.

My agent, Beth Vesel, believed in this book from the beginning, even when I didnt, and never stopped encouraging me to tell my story. My editor at Doubleday, Kristine Puopolo, asked all the hard questions and gave me invaluable guidance, pushing me to make this book the best it could be. Marie France skillfully and patiently helped edit the first few drafts.

Michael Kaye was an encouraging writing coach, who understood the spirit of the story while offering me practical advice.

Five friends were generous enough to read the manuscript in various forms and offer suggestions: Genevieve Arnaut, Ann Ladd, DelNan Morgan, Karen Randall, and Karen Ruckman.

In their commitment to their own writing, Paula Fox and Martin Greenberg have been a source of inspiration since I began this project three years ago.

I have tortured my two sons, Tobias and Daniel Menely, with my comma splices and run-on sentences. They spent months explaining the fundamentals of writing to me, while reading and rereading, editing, challenging, and encouraging me. My daughters, Nicole Carroll and Jaimee King, suffered the most painful parts of this story with me, and their willingness to relive it fills me with gratitude. My adopted son, Joshua, has given support and shared his memories.

Margaret Rondas gifts as a writer, combined with her patience as an editor, have strengthened this book immeasurably. She has struggled through every part of it with me, and it would not have been what it is without her.

Tim Barraud is my life partner and dearest friend. He has read with care all Ive written over three years, and supported me unstintingly through the sometimes agonizing process of capturing an entire life in words.

Each that we lose takes part of us;

A crescent still abides,

Which like the moon, some turbid night,

Is summoned by the tides.

EMILY DICKINSON, THE COMPLETE POEMS

T his is your daughter. Her raspy voice on the telephone turns an ordinary statement into an accusation.

Hello, Courtney, I say, bracing myself. I cant remember the last phone call that didnt end with screams and tears on her end and stony responses on mine. It has been years since we spoke with ease.

I thought youd like to knowIm three months pregnant.

I hear my own sharp intake of breath and feel the sudden rush of emotions: fear, joy, dread, shock. I search for the next thing to say, the right thing, everything I think of seems hollow. It would be absurd if it werent so painful. For the first time I am going to be a grandmotheryet I cannot even utter a sigh that isnt filtered through the screen of my own caution.

Thats very exciting news, Courtney, I manage.

Guess what else, Mother? I just married a prince. Hes the biggest rock star in the world.

Then I register the shock: she got married, and I hadnt been informed. Now she is going to have a child.

Things didnt start out this way, so guarded, so wary.

Courtney was my first child, born July 9, 1964, in the middle of the afternoon. I heard her cries, soft, then louder, and I reached for her. Nothing prepared me for that moment. Receiving her into my arms, I knew she was a miracle, a mystery entering the world. I couldnt believe this perfect baby had come from my body.

Until that moment, babies had held little interest for me. Yet from the instant I held Courtney, I felt that I was born to be a mother. In those first weeks, I inhaled her scent deeplyshe smelled like wildness, wrapped in wind-dried sheets with a hint of Breck baby shampoo in her hair.

Get that baby on a schedule, Dr. Spock advised. But I knew what was right for her; I could feel it in my bones. Instinctively, I matched my timetable to hers, sleeping and waking when she did. She was so smart: she crawled and walked months before the baby charts said she would. At one year, she was using short sentences. People marveled at how articulate she was.

My concern was what happened when she became upset. At times she cried so hard, it was impossible to comfort her.

Dont worry, the pediatrician said. Its colic.

Deep down, though, I did worry. Something was hurting her that she wasnt able to express in words. As Courtney grew into a toddler, anticipating her moods became my central preoccupation. If I got to her crib as she awoke, all was well. But if I waited a moment too long, there was no consoling her. She could cry for hours.

Pale in complexion, Courtney had soft, generous features. Most startling were her sea green eyes, which shifted from tears to delight with breathtaking speed. Her radiance and enthusiasm were as extraordinary as her distress. As a two-year-old, she was always ready to climb into our Volkswagen Beetle and go for an adventure. She sat in the backseat as I drove, her pigtails bouncing between the two front seats as she asked her wide-eyed question, Any news?

She loved news.

But more than news, she loved music. Whenever the Beatles hit Michelle came on the car radio, she would sing along. Already her voice held the dreamy inflection that would later become part of her fame.

Courtney was my first real love. I believed nothing could come between us.

NOW HERE WE are, twenty-five years later, holding a telephone conversation about a momentous event with such estrangement that I monitor even my sighs.

The life Courtney lives stuns and frightens me. Yet in her latest news, this pregnancy, I sense something hopeful.

Its wonderful, I say. The words sound empty, concealing the emotions washing over me.

Yeah, well, I thought youd want to know, she says. The phone clicks, and shes gone.

I hold the receiver a moment longer before I drop it into its cradle.

I hear my husband, Tim. He is downstairs, pulling a roasted chicken out of the oven. He calls up to me: Dinner.

We are leaving for Hawaii tomorrow to visit close friends. Our suitcases are packed and waiting by the front door.

Ill be right there, I call back.

I sit down on the bed. I cant bear to talk to anyone just yet, not even Tim. Our cat, Nelson, sidles over and nudges my arm. I set him on my lap. A current of excitement mixed with dread courses through me. My heart races even faster than my thoughts. Finally, I go downstairs.

I tell Tim the news.

Why do you call the baby she? he asks.

I dont know, I say, preoccupied. Im just certain the baby will be a girl.

Something is stirring inside, a feeling on the periphery of my awareness whose arrival Ive been expecting for years. Its as though I have stepped into a deep stream and am being carried somewhere new.