Summer of 1991
I was four-years-old when my mother pulled me into her walk-in closet to show me memories from her past; memories that she kept carefully tucked away. It was her birthday, or maybe the day before, and she was searching for something deep in her closet. I sat down, cross-legged, in my hot pink summer dress and looked intently as my mother blinked her large, green eyes to find the right hiding place. “A-ha! There we go.” Behind her white-plated shoe racks and 80’s-inspired black and red pumps, laid a pink pillowcase securing a wooden, light brown box. As she pulled it out, she knocked some dust off of the top, and opened a small drawer, only big enough for a troll or one of my Polly Pockets to live. Inside, there was a small note and a picture of a man standing by himself in front of a red-roofed apartment building. To my young eyes, I thought he looked like Sonny Bono. He had a long, handlebar type mustache and boyish brown hair, I could tell he probably tossed to the side a few times when he was trying to keep his cool. In his eyes I saw something I had never seen before – and in my mother’s eyes, I saw the same longing attraction. “You see this man, baby girl?” I blinked my big, brown eyes. “He was my ballroom dance partner.” “Is that Daddy?” “No, it’s not, it’s one of my old boyfriends, but he was special, very special.” For a second, I could have sworn my mother shared the same twinkle in her eyes that mirrored the man’s exact expression in the picture. I felt a sense of magical nostalgia in the air, as if music should have been playing. “This is Rick Anderson, the love of my life.” With tears in her eyes, she looked at me and said, “You must find the love of your life, and when you do, marry him. You must.” Before I could put the logical thought in my head, and ask my mother why she did not marry this man in the picture, the moment passed. My mother quickly put the note and picture back in its safe hiding place, almost unsure why she showed it me, carefully set the box far back behind her shoe rack, and said to me, “Please don’t ever go in here by yourself – only with Mommy.”
I nodded, and before I could ask a question, she said, “What would you like for a snack? A push-pop, perhaps?” A distraction tactic; I could not resist those delectable, Flintstones popsicles. Plus, they were the only type of sweets she would allow me to eat. I could not pass up a push-pop opportunity. “OK, Mommy – I want an orange!” I could not possibly know at four, that this memory would haunt me for the rest of my life. I quickly learned two things in this moment – there was a man out there that my mother loved, and that he was not my father. At four-years-old, my heartbeat sped up and I wondered to myself, who the hell is this man, and where can I find him? Nearly twenty years later, I did.
Fall of 2013
I am sitting in my duplex apartment in Manhattan, on the phone with my private investigator who had been attempting to find Rick Anderson. A former CIA agent, and protector of six United States presidents, DR, as he refers to himself as, was a sweet man underneath it all. A southern gentleman and an alumnus of my alma mater, he relocated to California in retirement. I had been introduced to him over email and he did not wish to meet in person with his clients. Privacy was the best policy for him – long after the CIA. Throughout all my investigation and discovery, one issue that never crossed my mind was if I did find Rick that he wouldn’t want to be found. DR, being adopted himself, went on his own search to find his birth parents as a young adult. It was unsuccessful. One of the most valuable things he learned and later told me was rooted in a famous CIA mantra. When a government official is imprisoned, all officials follow one rule. “Admit nothing, deny everything.” Some people just don't want to be found.
I started the seventh grade without my mom, and had my Bat Mitzvah without my mom. I starred in the school play, had my first kiss and could not tell my mother. But out in the audience, I could have sworn I saw her. My loneliness became me, like a shawl; I felt naked without it. I oftentimes think of that poor, scared girl who I was: the girl who went through adolescence without a mother. I wish I could hug her, hold her hand, and caress her hair. But most days, I just wish my mother were here to do it all for me. Though the tangible memories of my mother are few – my father in a fit of internal rage threw away my mom’s keepsakes – there has always been a wind propelling me toward her truth; toward that afternoon in the walk-in closet.
Some pretty provocative rumors abounded about my mother after her death. Almost none of them positive: she was put in an asylum for crazy children, she was fifteen and forced to marry while carrying her illegitimate child across state lines, that she cheated on my father with her ballroom dance partner… Still there was that special moment in the walk-in closet. A moment that only she and I shared, a moment I was convinced my four-year-old self caught a glimpse of the real Dianne. And I had my own questions.
Who was she thinking of those lonely nights in the hospital when death was looming and it was past my bedtime? I knew nothing of her past, only secrets she whispered or stories she began, and could not finish. Letters from her estranged best friend she would read in private. Old pictures she would blush looking at and then quickly tuck away, like a scared mouse scurrying out of its hiding place.
These questions haunted me throughout my adolescence and followed me to college, where one of my journalism professors who is well-known for his career in writing compelling obituaries, taught me that you can tell someone else’s story after they’re gone - but only if people are willing to talk. Suddenly, I was inspired to journey through my mom’s past via the people who knew her during each phase of her life. My key witness had been determined fifteen years prior – Rick Anderson.
Channeling my inner Nancy Drew (a character of whom my mom introduced me to so many years ago), I got to work.
The Butterfly Groove reflects my three-year journey through my mother’s past and in turn, through my present. As professional as I aspire to be, I stayed my mother’s daughter while uncovering some pretty difficult truths. In the end, those truths revealed my mother to be the most zestful, passionate person I have ever known.
Keeping following me to uncover more secrets.
