Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Hawaiian Good-bye

New York City

1975

Dena woke with tears running down her face. She wondered what that was all about. Then she remembered her dream, that same old dream that had popped up again. She would be on a merry-go-round and see a white house but lose sight of it as she went around, then it would come to her that her mother was dying and needed her. She would rush to the phone and try and get the number to call her but she would dial the wrong number over and over. Or the phone would not work. Then she would start to panic and wake up crying, lost and helpless. That was not a feeling she could understand. She was a person who was not lost or helpless. As a matter of fact, she was one of the most unhelpless, self-sufficient people she knew. Ask any man who had ever loved her. She did not want to depend on anybody for anything. She had always taken care of herself, didn’t want to need anybody, didn’t want anybody to need her. She had always been good at almost everything she tried; she was bright, and she was a fast learner.

But the one thing she was no good at was love and she knew it. Last week she had to tell J.C. that she couldn’t see him anymore, and it had been hard. She liked J.C. but he had turned out to be like all the rest. They always wanted too much from her, something she could not give. She had told him over and over she would not marry him or ever live with him. But, typical of most men, they always believed she didn’t really mean what she said and would change her mind. She never did. Why did they always have to push her into a corner and get so upset? She didn’t want to live with anybody. She liked being alone. She hated anybody grabbing at her, trying to smother her. Her job was getting harder and harder, and J.C. had become more and more demanding.

She didn’t have the energy to fight him and fight for interviews at the same time, so she told him it was best that he find someone else, that it wasn’t fair to him to keep hoping. After she told him, he talked her into going out to dinner just one last time.

They were in a red booth at the Hawaii Kai restaurant on Broadway under a red and green lantern with red tassels. She sat and twirled a tiny paper umbrella while he lectured her on how she would never be happy until she made a serious commitment to another human being, and how he knew her better than she did herself—all the things people say. After two hours of this and several piña coladas, all she could think of to say was “Did you know that there are over four thousand little levers that control the lights at Radio City Music Hall? Not to mention the two hundred and six spotlights. And are you aware that the Rockettes are not all the same height, that it is an optical illusion?”

J.C. finally got the picture, and realized that Dena was a lost cause, and gave up. When he took her to her door for the last time, he hugged her good-bye and held her for a long time. It made Dena feel even worse; Dena did not like displays of emotion or affection. They always made her feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. Her mother had never really been affectionate with her, not like Dena had wanted, and she had always felt so awkward around her mother, all arms and legs, gangly and unattractive. Her mother was so cool, so isolated, so in control at all times. She had never seen her cry. She had never seen her laugh much, either. Her mother had been so beautiful, but there was something about her that was far away, removed, and even as a small child it had frightened Dena. As a little girl, she used to crawl in her mother’s lap and take her face and look into it trying to see what was the matter. She would ask over and over. Her mother would look at her and smile and say, “Nothing, darling,” but Dena knew something was wrong.

She hugged her mother tightly. Her mother would laugh and say, “You’re going to choke Mother to death.” And afterward, when she was older, she tried to hug her mother, but when she was seven or eight she had stopped trying. It was awkward to hug her, to kiss her, it was a skill she never learned, and after a while it did not come naturally to either of them.

In her personal life, Dena did not like to get too close to people or have them get too close to her. She was much more at ease sitting across from someone than having to sit beside them on a sofa, much more comfortable speaking to a group of five thousand behind a podium than talking with one person alone. When someone tried to hang on her it made her feel claustrophobic.

When she went inside and closed the door, Dena made a promise to herself: never get involved again. It was too difficult.