Mariel Hemingway - Invisible Girl

65 Bleecker Street

New York, NY 10012

Copyright 2015 Mariel Hemingway

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Regan Arts Subsidiary Rights Department, 65 Bleecker Street, New York, NY 10012.

First Regan Arts hardcover edition, April 2015.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015930622

ISBN 978-1-941393-24-6

eISBN 978-1-941393-76-5

Interior design and illustrations by Alex Camlin

Lettering by Aisling Hickey

Cover design by Richard Ljoenes

Cover design/collage by Richard Ljoenes. Photographs courtesy of the author.

Wildflowers by Sharon Freeman/Shutterstock. Wave by Depiano/Depositphotos

To those that could see me...

thank you.

What makes a family sad? Its a hard question to answer. Maybe its better to think about what makes a family happy and then subtract it. I grew up in a family that had a hard time staying happy. As far back as I can remember, people struggled to be happy, both individually and as a group. Sometimes that meant fighting and angry words. Sometimes it meant hiding from those angry words by withdrawing into the corners of the house. Sometimes it meant turning to other thingsother people, other substances. My memories of my family are filled with love, but theyre also filled with obstacles and detours that prevented all of us from finding our way to that love. It has taken me decades to see my way around those obstacles but also to see that those obstacles are as much a part of my story as anything else. The child I used to be couldnt possibly understand things the way I understand them now, and thats part of the beauty of remembering: we mark the distance between what we were and what we have become.

I was too early coming into this crazy world, arriving two months before schedule. My mom drank and smoked a lot, and my family liked to joke that I just needed to get some air. I came home just before Christmas after a month in the hospital. I was small, and I guess I took some of the attention away from Margot, my new older sister. Its never good to put an end to your sibling being the focus of your mom and dads lives. I remember a gray hallway that led to a dressing room/bathroom, and mommy holding me up for Muffet (my new oldest sister) and Margot to see me up close for the first time. One of my scrawny legs fell out of my blanket with a knee that was bigger around than my little noodle legs. Margot glared at me. Her eyes fired up, and I knew from then on that I was in for some trouble.

Im not sure if a whole day had passed of drinking a few nasty bottles of baby formulaMommy never let me get too close to her boobs, and I knew then that I was missing somethingwhen Margot found me in the bassinet in Mommys dressing room. She lifted my limp body, and without much thought and certainly no regret, she dropped me on my head. I would imagine the shock that must have run through me for years, but the scream I let loose was immediate and got everyones attention. Muffet, Mommy, and Daddy rushed in, and Margot looked surprised and pretended she found me like that. I think the opposite of what Margot had hoped for actually happened. Instead of instant death, I got more cuddles, swaddles, and love, while she was sent to her room with no dinner and no TV. I will hear this story for years, and everyone will laugh at the moment when she lifts me and loosens her grip, but whenever its retold, I will sneak a glance over at Margot to see how it makes her feel. It seems to upset her in complicated ways: she feels bad for me but also for herself.

Needless to say, I was never left alone again if Margot was in the house. That is when our rivalry began. That is my first memory. I still have a bump on my head to this day.

MY NEXT MEMORIES also take place in that first house, and they come to me mostly in pictures. I remember a front door and going through it. I remember a front hall and shadows on the floor. And I remember that gray corridor that led to the dressing room/bathroom where my mother holds me up so that I can see (and be seen by) the rest of the family. Its winter in Northern California, crisp but not too cold, the mountains in the distance.

Everyone laughs when they see me, but that doesnt mean that everyone is happy. Theres Margot, like I said, still reliving the moment when she dropped me. She is seven, buck-toothed, and dark-hairedcute as a girl could be. Muffet is eleven and already a glorious sight: tall, strawberry blond, and elegant. Muffet does things that I can only imagine: she plays tennis and speaks French and knows about all the latest bands. You wouldnt think those things would matter to a baby, and maybe they dont, but they give her a special kind of glow. Muffet is the one who seems to be possessed of grace no matter where she goes or what she does.

Being a baby is pretty easy. I spend my days drinking formula and my nights sleeping or stretched out awake, looking at shadows playing on the ceiling. From early on, I believe that the shadows matter, that they are like clouds in the sky: one second a meaningless pattern of dark and light, the next a secret message being sent only to me.

My next big memory is of my second birthday: November 22, 1963. I am fawned over for days leading up to it. I am dressed like a little baby doll and told how cute I look, and whenever I walk near the kitchen, my mother reminds me that were going to have a big celebration with all the foods I like. There will be cucumbers, rice, and black beans like my parents made when they lived in Cuba. There will also be a new kind of food called a cake. Daddy calls me Marielzy Pumpkin Pudding and Pie, and I wonder if cake is anything like pie, which I already love. My parents talk about this cake constantly: What flavor will it be? What frosting will it have on it? They settle on a recipe by a lady from my parents wedding picture named Julia Child. My mother went to a fancy French cooking school in Paris with her. Muffet pronounces the name of the cake in what she is quickly told is perfect French. Margot teases me about this cake, telling me that she is going to eat it all before I get any.

The day arrives, the birthday. Am I supposed to feel born? Mommy dresses me in a pretty puffy-sleeved dress with elastic stuff around my chest that makes me feel safe, as if Im inside a big hug. All morning, I watch Mommy make something special in the kitchen. I think its the cake because shes acting differently than Ive ever seen her before. She has an apron tied around her waist and a smile on her face, and her hands are powdered white. Is that the cake? It seems like magic.