By Myself and Then Some (83 page)

T
he following year I was
in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks visiting my children – grandchildren – friends – taking care of some business. Sam and Sidsel had come by the hotel to have brunch and a swim with their boys, Calvin and Sebastian. I was leaving the following day. I stayed in that night, packing and room service being the order of the day. I left a wake-up call for 9:00 a.m. That would give me time for breakfast and a farewell swim before heading for the airport. I got into bed late as usual – packing does that to me. The phone rang, waking me from a deep sleep, which I seldom have. I asked the operator, ‘What time is it?’ She replied, ‘Turn on your television.’ Still groggy and thinking it was another hotel screw-up, I said, ‘I left a nine a.m. call. What time is it?’ She said, ‘It’s seven a.m. Turn on your television.’ It was September 11 and the television came on as an airplane was flying into and hitting one of the twin towers. Enormous clouds of black smoke, flames – mayhem – voices of anchors. I woke up in a hurry, stunned as the rest of the country – indeed the world – was. Open mouthed, in shock and horror, I did not leave my television. (Nor did I leave California – not for five days after. I couldn’t – security was major – airports closed. Even when I was finally able to leave five days later, I had to go in a special car,
special driver – that part of it was very like a ‘B’ movie.) I was on the phone all day to those near and dear to me. I received calls from all over Europe and New York. In all the horror, I couldn’t take my eyes off that screen. Who among us could ever forget the sights and sounds, that day of faces, people running through smoke trying to get away from it. And over and over came pictures of the planes – first one – then the second from another direction hitting another tower – pictures taken with a video camera by a man who happened to be there and who had the good sense to turn it on – though how he did it, I’ve never known.

It was the most horrifying yet surreal of days. Wives searching for husbands – husbands searching for wives – holding photos of them hoping someone had seen them – the wife talking to her husband who was on the plane that eventually crashed in the field in Pennsylvania. She kept telling him, ‘Don’t be brave, stay in the background.’ He kept saying, ‘We’re going to crash anyway. The hijackers are here with guns. I’ve got to do something about it.’ She said he was always doing things like that – trying to stop a fight. Save someone. He was that kind of person. His last words to her, as I remember them, were, ‘I love you. Take care of yourself and the kids.’ It was heartbreaking and the woman was amazing.

Then there was the interview with Howard Lutnick, C.E.O. of the financial firm Cantor Fitzgerald. They had lost more than sixty percent of their people having been on the top three floors of the first tower. Lutnick’s brother was there when the plane hit and somehow Lutnick had been able to record, or the networks had, a conversation with his brother and his wife. The only reason Howard was not there as well was that he had taken his young child to school. It was an incredibly moving interview. The man broke down continually. He would try to speak, get a few words or a thought out and burst into tears. It wasn’t an enormous company – he, of course, knew everyone in it and their families and continued to mention them with a cracking voice and tears spilling down his face. And his brother – his only brother. I heard after that he was criticized by some for trying to rebuild his company. What on earth was he supposed to do? Perhaps die with his remaining family members? Would that have satisfied those critics?

The shock, the actuality of it continued for months. A friend of mine, Berry Berenson, was on the plane leaving from Boston going to L.A. – a young, vibrant, beautiful and talented woman who boarded the plane
in Boston filled with anticipation at seeing the first concert of her younger son in Los Angeles. I kept on thinking – and still do – what must it have been like on that plane, sitting happily in your seat so excited to see your son perform and what was it like for the son to be waiting for his mother who he would never see again? All the while the television was showing you the faces of those still looking, not giving up hope of finding that most important and loved person in their lives.

The overpowering grief that came through that screen. The simplicity of the people who seemed so lost without their mates. The showing of that destruction. The reliving of the planes hitting the towers, the people madly running – the ones who made it out walking down thirty, forty, who knows how many flights of stairs being led by a fireman with one lone flashlight and a strong arm to save their lives – the people who were late for work that day, or in bed with a virus – who left some important papers at home and had to go back to get them thereby missing the attacks. Those twists of fate – those minutes or seconds that were the difference between life and death. And you think of the ifs and if onlys in your own life. There was no way, during that period of horror and loss, not to reflect on your own life. The brevity of it – some surprise endings – the value of time well spent. I myself think of one or all of those facts and possibilities often. I must live every day well – usefully – aware – encourage my sense of giving to the known and the unknown. I must consciously make my world, no matter how small, a better place for my loved ones – my friends – for my everyday acquaintances. That attitude, sense of promise, lasts for a while, then gradually fades. I care just as much, am just as admiring – it’s the fervor that goes or seems to go.

About a month after 9/11, I took off for Paris. I needed to be in the midst of that most beautiful city of my heart’s delight, to walk those streets, to see my friends, to sit at the Cafe Flore for as long as I wished with my life’s partner, Sophie, by my side. The French were stricken by what had happened and totally compassionate. They all said they felt it was happening to them. When I had returned from California I had felt their reactions through their phone calls and faxes. It was surprising and wonderful. Their words – their worry – how was I? How was the city? How was the country? I wondered if we Americans would be equally as concerned if France had fallen victim to a similar event. Surely we would have cared and worried about our friends. Through the grimness
of the event, it was comforting to sit in the midst of friends and even acquaintances at our usual Sunday brunch and to listen and to hear their worries and fears and complete awareness of every detail of that horrible day.

While in Paris, Berry Berenson’s sister, Marisa, prepared a service for Berry in a small Left Bank church. Very sweet – very emotional. Very, very sad. I was so glad to have been in Paris at that time – to be able to attend that service which took place on a sunny day very much in keeping with Berry’s personality. So that trip temporarily bumped up my spirits, made me more than ever grateful for my French friends – and made me glad to be alive. I was able to look around, and while still seeing the terrible sight of the Twin Towers in flame and smoke and collapse, the Arc de Triomphe could stand out clearly and in the foreground of my mind.

L
ater that year my high
school pal, actually my oldest friend, Joan Axelrod, after some months of struggle lost her battle against cancer and died. She had played a large part in my life from the
Goodbye Charlie
days – my first starring role on Broadway – the play written and directed by her husband George. She was very wise – full of advice about my life and my ‘take’ on a few shared friends and happenings in the theatre and movie world. There was always a dinner. Their home, whether it be New York, California or London, was welcoming and available to me.

Joan had more information about more people. Heaven knows where she got the information, but she got it. She became a part, a large part, of each and every culture she found herself in. She was chameleon-like, changing as she needed to change, remaining totally supportive of George when he felt the need to move house. When I was going to appear onstage in
Applause
in London, it was Joan who found me a place to live, Joan who took me to the best antique dealers, the best markets for food and drink. In fact she was a remarkable woman, always in the service of her girlfriends. What was hard for her, living in California, was that her best girlfriends were somewhere else. Still she found a way – becoming a first-class interior decorator, something which she’d done before but not with such vigor. She was very successful, made more friends and thrived.

Joan had had two heart valve replacements that never slowed her
down. I never considered her small complaints as being serious enough to be life threatening. Wrong again. Suddenly on my next to last visit to California, the seriousness of her illness became apparent. Walking became a problem. Still she was having massages and had someone come in to cook for her and George. We were about to go to her favorite restaurant when she called and asked if I minded dining at home – just herself, George and me. We’d done that often in the past and in fact I preferred it. I always enjoyed being there. This time she used a wheelchair to go from bedroom to kitchen to conserve her strength. I tried and I think succeeded in not showing my alarm. That apparatus and Joan did not go together. All the same, at the end of a cozy dinner Joan had to take to her bed. Of course said I, ‘Not to worry. I’ll sit with George for a while and pop in to see you before I leave.’ George and I sat in the living room whose aura had already changed without Joan there and in charge. We talked as old friends can without discussing the obvious. Then I assured George I would not tire Joan and up I went to see her.

As we were so close and had seen each other through so many emotional crises in our lives, the talk came amazingly easily. Was there anything I could do? Then she said, ‘I don’t mind dying. I just don’t want to be in pain.’ I don’t know what I said. I was so shocked. She must have been aware, her body must have told her something. I probably said something inadequate and not very convincing like ‘But that’s a long way away, nothing to think about now.’ I was returning to New York a couple of days after that evening but I told Joan I’d probably be back soon for Cecilia Peck’s wedding. I’d call her from New York and tell her exactly when.

I couldn’t believe it. How had it happened so quickly? She was fine and then she wasn’t. Back home, all of a sudden I decided I would have to return to California sooner rather than later – definitely go to the wedding. Could it be that I would come to California one day and not have Joan there to plan our girl days together? She was my one friend with a husband that I had real girl time with – catching up on our lives, our problems – having lunch in odd places – doing things together that were fun for us. Yes, it could be. And yes, it was. I called her as soon as my travel plans were made and heard something I never thought I would hear from her. She said, ‘The hospice people were here. They were terrific. They really made me feel so much better, explained
everything to me. Now I don’t have to worry. And they were so nice. Really made an enormous difference.’ I knew what ‘hospice’ meant. That was reality. That meant it was going to happen. When I heard the sound of relief and pleasure in her voice I was happy for her. I told her that and how good it was to hear her sound so pleased at having found such really good people to visit her regularly and attend to her needs.

So upon boarding the plane a couple of weeks later I was filled with all kinds of emotions – joy for Cecilia and sadness for Joan. On arrival at the hotel, my first call was of course to Joan. How did she feel, how was she doing, when could I see her? The next day, of course. So off I went filled with apprehension.

George let me in, warning me not to tire her. Into the bedroom I went with a big (convincing, I hoped) smile on my face. I headed for the bed where she sat looking (except for the oxygen tubes in her nose) so much better than I had expected – in full make-up, perfectly groomed, in one of her favorite white cotton nightgowns. I pulled up a chair next to her side of the bed so we could have our time together. George discreetly left us alone. She brought me up to date with how she was – felt – never really going into the terrible world of cancer. Being a big boned woman, she never did look emaciated as so many victims of that disease do. She told me how fantastic the hospice people had been, how attentive. Then she took from her night table a bottle of medicine with an eyedropper lid, waved it and said, ‘They left this for me – so if I am in pain, this will take care of that.’ I was very shocked at the sight of that bottle, clearly morphine or some magic potion with morphine in it to alleviate pain for diseases such as this. The bottle from the hospice nurse signified the end of life to me. Joan was still able to talk about it, though whatever other medication they had given her did dull her mind to some degree. She was still determined to attend Cecilia Peck’s wedding a few days later and Joan was the kind of woman who, once her mind was made up, would get enough adrenaline going to enable her to fulfill her wish. I begged her not to push herself, but I’d be there to hold her hand if she needed me. About then, George popped into the room saying it was time for me to go. She was getting tired. She said she was a bit and she clearly was. I hugged her, told her I loved her and would see her at the Pecks’. She handed me a small gift bag – told me to look inside – she wanted me to have it. It was a small double picture gold frame from
Goodbye Charlie’s
opening belonging to her and George in which I could
place two photos of them or whoever I wished. That made me instantly teary so I blew her a kiss and said I’d see her at the wedding.

Come the wedding day and, by God, Joan came. She lasted through the ceremony, and for about a half hour more before she had to leave. I kissed her goodbye and said I’d call the next day. When I did, George picked up the phone and told me Joan was really too tired to speak. It’s strange how a voice changes at such a time – it was clear that Joan was too weak – that I had said my last goodbye to her. It was a few days after that that George called to tell me she had gone. She had always been so innately strong, I never expected her to die so soon. But then even when someone is very ill, one does not expect it. There is no way to prepare yourself for disaster.