Ivana Lowell - Why Not Say What Happened?: A Memoir

This Is a Borzoi Book
Published by Alfred A. Knopf

Copyright 2010 by Ivana Lowell

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The photographs reproduced in this book were provided with the permission and courtesy of the following: Caroline Blackwood by Evelyn Hofer: The Estate of Evelyn Hofer; Robert Lowell, my mother, and children with rabbits: Fay Godwin The British Library Board; Langton Hall: John Swannell; Daisy, age ten: Christopher Mason. All other photographs are from a private collection.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lowell, Ivana.
Why not say what happened? : a memoir / by Ivana Lowell1st ed.
p. cm.
A Borzoi bookT.p. verso.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59443-3
1. Lowell, Ivana. 2. Lowell, IvanaFamily. 3. Blackwood, Caroline. 4. Mothers and daughters. 5. Family secrets. 6. Guinness family. 7. Upper classBiography. 8. IrelandBiography. 9. EnglandBiography. 10. United StatesBiography. I. Title
CT 3150. L 69 A 3 2010
973.92092dc22

[B] 2010018775

v3.1_r1

For Daisy
and my mother,
and with love
to
Howard

But sometimes everything I write
with the threadbare art of my eye
seems a snapshot,
lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,
heightened from life,
yet paralyzed by fact.
Alls misalliance.
Yet why not say what happened?

from Epilogue, by Robert Lowell

I could not have done this book without the many people who have listened, encouraged, and bolstered me over the last couple of years.

I would like to thank my agent, Andrew Wylie, who was there at the start and instrumental in getting me to tell my story. He sent the proposal to Shelley Wanger, who has proved to be the perfect editorwise, funny, and a joy to work with. I would also like to thank Sonny Mehta and others at Knopf, Chip Kidd, Victoria Pearson, Iris Weinstein, and Ken Schneider, for all their work on this book. In London, my editor at Bloomsbury, Michael Fishwick, has been an invaluable and encouraging force. I would especially like to thank my brilliant friend Steven M. L. Aronson, who read and marked my manuscript with many excellent suggestions and who so smartly suggested the title. And thanks, too, to my dear neighbor Jason Epstein, who also went through an early draft and offered up ideas for improvement. I am enormously grateful to Hugo Vickers and Christopher Mason for letting me use their photographs and to Hugo, too, for his indispensable, encyclopedic knowledge. And much gratitude to Pat Sweeney and to my computer whiz, Andrew Skonka, who at any hour was able to rescue me from technological disasters. And to all my friends who have tirelessly urged me to carry on when I felt particularly despondent. In no particular order: Andrew Solomon, John Habich, Christopher Mason, Richard Schurkamp, Elizabeth Cabot, Donna Cohen, Claudie Levenson, Laura Grenning, Karen Easton, Lisa Fine, Francesca Gonshaw, Geordie Grieg, John Holton, Edward Noel, Charlotte and Alex De Cacacci, Bob Weinstein, Kimberley Du Ross, Mercedes and Sid Bass, Kathy and Billy Rayner, Jay Mellon, Ken Butler, Anthony Page, Steven Fayer, Jonathan Moffat and Marguerite Littman. To Evgenia and Sheridan, I would like to say how much I love them, and very special love and thanks to Grace Dudley and Bob Silvers, who have always been there for me, and to Daisy, my daughter, all my love and thanks for bearing with me while I was working on this book. And last but not least, Howard, thank you so much for everything and for never giving up on me.

T he day after my mother died, I agreed to have lunch with one of her oldest friends at a restaurant on Madison Avenue in New York.

The venue was chosen for its proximity to the Mayfair Hotel, where my mother had spent the last few weeks of her life and where the day before I had watched her jaundiced, cancer-riddled body take its final breath.

I dont remember accepting the invitation or arriving at the restaurant. I do remember thinking that perhaps there was something else I should be doing rather than going out to lunch. But truth was, I didnt have anything better to do. And I really needed a drink.

Its strange when the person closest to you in your life dies. Everyone assumes you have a million things to do, friends and family to be with, arrangements to make, and tears to shed. But I didnt. The important things were all being taken care of. My brother and brother-in-law were at Frank E. Campbell organizing the cremation, my pregnant sister was back at the hotel resting after the stress of the past few months, and I wasnt ready to cry.

So it was in an unreal state of mind that I turned my attention back to the woman sitting opposite me who asked me the question Of course, you do know who your real father was. Dont you?

My father? Of course I know who he was. It was Dad. Wasnt it?

She smiled indulgently and shrugged her shoulders. But I was too numb and exhausted to pursue the conversation, so the subject was changed. After lunch I telephoned my grandmother in London, and I told her about the conversation. I had expected her to refute it. Instead she chuckled. Oh darling, thats such good news. Perhaps that means you are not Jewish after all! Now, Ivana, you must make sure to tell any beaus of yours that you are not Jewish. Because, darling, you will have a far better chance of ever getting married.

I called my sister Evgenia. I told her what had happened. There was a long pause while I waited for her reaction. I thought she would laugh or at least be indignant. Instead she said, Oh, sweetie, I think she may be telling the truth.

I have recently started going to a new shrink. She is the latest on a list of many. She is British, straightforward, and cozily plump. The sort of woman you want to sit down with, have a nice cup of tea and a bit of a chat. You have been so bumped and knocked around, she told me after hearing just a little of my history, that its a wonder you survived at all.

I certainly dont feel like a wonder. In fact, I feel that I have fucked up my life. I have spent so long trying to avoid feeling the pain and anxiety that lie so close to the surface of my skin. Alcohol, antidepressants, and stints in rehabs have done little to alleviate the feelings of desperation.

The worst thought I have is that it is too late, that perhaps I am too damaged ever to be fixed. I have spent so much of my life floundering.

Now that I am a mother, however, I have grown up a bit and become brave enough to look back and try to make some sense of the past.

Dysfunctional does not even begin to describe my family and upbringing. Anyway, that is far too easy a word to usewho doesnt come from some kind of dysfunction? But what part of my history has so ill-equipped me to function in adulthood?

You do know who your real father was. Dont you? Maybe I had been given a clue to solve a puzzle that I never knew even existed.