And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434) (55 page)

It seemed like a bizarre kind of life cycle. Nancy was even the same age at her death that I'd been at her birth. Our family's life was just starting then. Now hers was over.

There was one big difference. Twenty years before, I'd been waiting for the beginning. On this day I was waiting for the end: her funeral. I was anxious for it to be over. Only then would she be at peace.

All I could see ahead was her funeral. Beyond that, I saw nothing.

The press was clustered in front of our house again. We made our dash inside.

“Wait, folks! When's the funeral?”

“We need to know!”

“No comment,” said Frank.

“Why?”

I tried to close the door. A reporter's foot was in it.

“Please,” he said in a British accent. “When is it?”

“No comment,” I repeated.

“I'll be back,” he warned.

“Why?” I demanded.

He was thrown by that. He removed his foot, puzzled, and went back to his comrades.

I noticed that the four of us avoided making eye contact with each other as we ate dinner. To see the pain in the other person's eyes was to compound your own.

All of us, friends and relatives included, were disgusted by the vulgar way Nancy was being demeaned in the press. To them, she was Nauseating Nancy, some rich, thrill-hungry druggie slut. They knew nothing of her troubles. Nor did they seem to care.

Frank wondered aloud about the possibility of giving out our side of the story, as an effort to counteract all of the false crap that was being written. (No legal recourse existed, since libel law does not protect the dead.) It was, he felt, important to restore Nancy's dignity. Or at least to try.

We were all in agreement. One of my friends had a friend who was a feature writer for the Philadelphia
Bulletin
—a sensitive, intelligent woman. She was contacted and she agreed to our terms. We would not discuss Sid or punk rock or the murder.

She came on Saturday morning. The four of us sat with her and gave her our side of the story. We were not looking for sympathy, just understanding. After about an hour Suzy suddenly jumped to
her feet, cried “Enough! That's it!” and stormed out in tears. The reporter closed her notebook and left. (We were pleased with the article when it appeared in the
Bulletin
the next morning, the morning of Nancy's funeral. Though the story didn't come even close to stemming the tide of public opinion against Nancy, we were glad we'd done it.)

I found Suzy on her bed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“I don't have a sister anymore,” she said quietly.

I sat down next to her. “You haven't had one for a long time, Suzy.”

She looked startled.

“I'm not saying you shouldn't cry for her,” I said. “All I mean is you could have cried for her a long time ago.”

She mulled that over. “I know. But I also know … I'll never see her again.”

She began to cry again. I tried to hug her but she pulled away from me, seemingly repulsed by my touch.

“I
did
feel a physical revulsion,” she recently admitted to me. “I didn't want to be touched or told I was loved. I wanted to be separated from you.”

Neither of us understood why at the time. I was baffled and hurt by her rejection of my love. I got up and started to leave her room.

“Mom?” she said. “What will they do to her?”

“What will
who
do to her?”

“The funeral parlor,” she said, looking down.

“I don't know. She'll be wearing her green prom dress and, well, I suppose she'll look as nice as possible. Why?”

“Do you think they can do something with her hair. It was so beautiful before. Could they dye it back from that horrible white?”

She didn't want to remember her sister as she'd been at the end. It seemed important to her.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll call them. Maybe they can.”

I could hear the funeral parlor director gulp when I passed on Suzy's request over the phone. Apparently it was an unusual one.

“We … 
can
do that, Mrs. Spungen. Yes. What color was your daughter's hair?”

“It was chestnut.”

“Chestnut.”

“Yes, with these sort of, uh, gold highlights.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, I understand. It may not be exact, but we'll do our best.”

The rabbi came that afternoon. The four of us sat with him in
the den and explained to him that Nancy's life had been as much of a tragedy as her death. She had lived a life of pain and had brought pain to those who loved her. She had left scars.

I showed him Dean's poem. He read it and was deeply moved.

He said he would write the service around it. Then he left. We were satisfied that our wishes would be fulfilled.

I slept poorly that night. I awoke ten or twelve times; every time I thought I heard a noise outside. The press was out there, I feared. Each time I checked the clock to see how many more hours it would be until the limousine came to take us to Nancy's funeral. I had a nightmare at one point, the same old one I'd had off and on since the first time I saw the track marks on Nancy's arms.

“Look what I have, Mommy!” exclaimed my eager five-year-old Nancy. “Look what I have!” Then I saw the track marks, and she cried, “Help me, Mommy! Help me!” I reached for her but my arms were paralyzed.

The limousine was due at nine thirty. We were all up hours before that.

“Will he come?” I asked Frank anxiously as we dressed. “Will Sid be there?”

He shrugged unhappily. It was the eighth time I'd asked him. I couldn't help myself.

There were no reporters outside when the limo came. We climbed inside and glided silently through the deserted Sunday morning streets. The kids and my mother looked out the window, lost in their private grief. Frank and I held hands tightly.

I saw a lot of our friends waiting outside the chapel. Mercifully, I saw no reporters or cameras.

The funeral director escorted us to a small private room off the side of the chapel. The front door of the chapel was still closed. No one was in there yet, aside from Nancy. He gave Frank and David yarmulkas to wear. Then he cleared his throat.

“I know you requested a closed casket, but it's a state law that you identify Nancy before we close it.” He turned to Frank. “It's only necessary for one of you to do it.”

“I want to, too,” I said.

“Me, too,” said David.

So did Suzy and my mother. We all went into the chapel and approached the open casket. When we got near it, a force seemed to pull us collectively away. It took a mighty effort to fight it off. We inched toward the casket, clinging to one another for support.
I saw her feet. They were covered with flowers. I saw her legs and her stomach, draped in her green dress. Then I saw her face.

It wasn't her. She was at peace. The pain was missing from her face. She had no more pain. Without it, she looked almost like a different person. She wasn't angry anymore.

“Now I know how much she really suffered,” I cried out. “Her pain was greater than ours, greater than all of our pain.”

The scars and bruises were gone. So was the white hair. They'd dyed it almost to its natural color.

Frank's eyes filled with tears. Suzy and David wept openly. Once again I cried only within, a knot in my throat, an ache in my chest. None of us moved any closer. None of us touched her.

We returned to the side room, still clutching one another. Frank nodded to the funeral director.

He disappeared into the chapel. A moment later I heard the casket slam shut with a bang. Forever.

Then the chapel was opened and our friends filtered in. The rabbi joined us in the private room. He pinned a black button on each of us, then tore off a piece of black cloth affixed to it—part of the Jewish grieving ritual. Then he said a prayer and we all went out to the chapel.

My eyes searched the rows of mourners for unfamiliar faces, for Sid's spiky hair. Happily, I saw only the familiar faces of our loved ones. Some had driven three hours to be there. They cared. I felt good knowing that.

We sat in the front row holding hands, the six rows behind us cordoned off just in case anyone tried to bother us. I resented the precaution, resented that a distance had to be kept between us and those who loved Nancy and us enough to come.

Her casket was now covered with lovely fall flowers. The rabbi approached the pulpit, looked at all of us with genuine sadness in his eyes, and began. As is the Jewish custom, his remarks were brief.

“We were all deeply shocked by the tragic death of Nancy Spungen,” he said. “We extend our deepest sympathies to the bereaved family. The burden of grief is always difficult to bear. Yours is uniquely painful—not only the loss but the knowledge of circumstances which led to this end.

“I would not be so presumptuous as to tell you how to cope with your sorrow. This is a time when words do not easily trip off the tongue nor ease the burden. Words of comfort ring hollow in the
deepest abyss of life's sorrow. It is not by words but by the presence here of friends—loved ones—whose hearts and hands reach out to you that solace will come.”

I could hear our friends crying behind us. Sobs and sniffles seemed to fill the chapel. Possibly, everyone there was crying with the exception of myself.

“And yet,” the rabbi continued, “not to speak some words of tribute would be to deny the life that was, the goodness and sweetness she brought. The years she lived must not be lost to us in the shadow of her death.

“What I am about to say is her family's tribute to Nancy.

“From the time of her birth, Nancy was a special, gifted, and troubled girl. Despite the love, caring, and concern of her family she experienced an inner torment and disquietude. She turned to drugs not for sensationalism, but for relief from the pain that afflicted her. She knew herself, but was not responsible for the consequences of her actions. She lived for each hour, each day, and consequently much living was crowded into the years of her life.

“She was capable of compassion, and of perception rare and unusual for her age. These are signs of her special gifts.

“The following was written by her cousin, Dean Becker. It captures the feelings Nancy would have wanted to express about herself to her family:

“Nancy is now at peace,” the rabbi continued. “She saw, heard, felt what others did not and could not. She was different.

“May her family go forth from their pain of separation, to strengthen each other, to face the ongoing tasks of life with courage. And with love for each other, and remembrance of the goodness and happy hours you shared.”

I felt very comforted by what he said. We all did. It was beautiful and right.

The pallbearers removed her casket. The limousine took us to her gravesite, where chairs had been set up under a canopy. The rabbi said a few more words, then she was lowered slowly into the ground.

I reached over and broke off a yellow chrysanthemum from the blanket atop her casket. I needed it. It stayed on my nightstand for three nights. Then I pressed it into her Darlington yearbook, where it remains.

I felt incredible relief as we rode home. Nancy was safe and protected now. For her, the fight was over.

For the four of us, the battle was just beginning.

Sid's mother phoned that night.

Janet took the call. She approached me in the living room, where I sat on a folding chair, talking quietly with friends who had come by to help us sit
shivah
, the Jewish period of mourning.

“Debbie,” whispered Janet, her face ashen, “it's Anne Beverley. She wants to talk to you.”

I froze. “W-what does she want?”

“She says it's very important.”

I took a deep breath, let it out. I motioned for Frank. He came over. I told him.

“Talk to her,” he suggested. “Get it over with. If you don't she'll keep calling.”

“Are you sure it's her?” I asked Janet. “It could be a prank.”

“She has an English accent,” Janet said.

I turned to Frank. “Come with me?”

He nodded. We went to the phone in the kitchen. I picked it up and said hello.

“Mrs. Spungen? It's Anne Beverley,” she said. “Thank you for giving me a moment. I'm in New York. I'm here to be with my son. He'll be out tomorrow on bail, you see.”