Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (7 page)

A ball hit me in my cheek and knocked me off my feet.

I was rushed to the nurse’s office, and someone fetched my friend Sarah, who remains one of my best friends to this day. She drove me to the city and we went to the hospital. At the ER, an oral surgeon told me my jaw was broken, and that I’d have to have surgery that night.
Here we go again.
 . . .

Surgery Number Four: Jaw Wired Shut

Now, you tell me: Was it really that ridiculous for me to think,
If something weird, random, and freaky is going to happen, it’ll happen to me
?

It’s not paranoia if it’s true, right?

My jaw was wired shut for eight weeks, right through graduation and prom. (When I saw
Mean Girls,
I died when Regina George had to wear a neck and shoulder brace at prom.) I had to drink and eat through a straw. I was already too skinny to begin with, and I lost more weight. I looked like a skeleton in my graduation and prom photos. I could barely speak, and mumbled when necessary. If I had to choose, I’d say not talking was worse than not eating, although I missed both, a lot. It was definitely worse than wearing a prosthesis. Mike put up with a lot during those two months. I can only imagine the jokes in the locker room about how his girlfriend couldn’t use her mouth.

My friend Rob calls me “clumsy and long.” The irony is that 90 percent of my klutz moments have nothing to do with my prosthesis. And unfortunately I didn’t leave my clumsiness behind with adolescence either. On
The
Real Housewives of New York City,
there was a scene at my fifth anniversary party when I fell down a short flight of stairs. I stumbled on my
good
foot. Who goes on national TV trying to show the world that she can do whatever everyone else can,
and then tumbles down three steps on camera? Luckily, in typical form, Reid literally and metaphorically saved me from that fall.

In my own defense, a photographer said, “Aviva! Look up,” right before it happened. I wasn’t watching my steps. I tried to recover as gracefully as possible, but I felt foolish. I wound up having to wear a bootie on my right foot—prosthesis on the left—for two weeks. (They should have filmed me walking around like that!) For the rest of the party, my ankle was throbbing. I had to take a seat. I wasn’t going to limp into a taxi and leave. The cameras were rolling.

I did take the edge off with a glass of Ramona Singer’s Pinot Grigio. I drank it in one gulp. And you know what? It tasted pretty good.

T
his summer,” said Dad, “we’re going to see a messenger sent by God to save the world. His name is Sai Baba, the modern-day Jesus Christ. We’re going to his ashram in India and he’s going to grow Aviva’s foot back.” It was 1985. I was fifteen.

My mother sat next to Dad on the couch in the den while he made this stunning announcement. She’d been sober for three years. If she had any objections to Dad’s summer plans, she didn’t voice them. She loved him deeply and followed his lead.

Andre, then eleven, said, “Wow, India. Sounds cool.” He was a passive follower of my dad’s ideas and plans, no matter how kooky.

I was too shocked to speak. I glanced at Mom to make sure I’d heard correctly. She nodded at me. The Jesus Christ of India was going to make my foot grow back? Would it appear in a puff of smoke, or would he pull it out of a hat?

“Don’t give me that look, Aviva. Sai Baba is a bona fide miracle
worker. It’s been documented,” said Dad. His eyes glowed with the certainty of a recent convert.

Mom confirmed it. “It’s true,” she said. “He’s the avatar of a healing spirit.”

My parents had gone completely off their rockers.

“How long will we be there?” I asked, thinking I could tolerate one of Dad’s bizarre schemes for a week, ten days tops.

He said, “A month.”

“I don’t . . . this sounds kind of . . . I think I’ll pass.” Go to India and live at an ashram? I wasn’t 100 percent sure, but India in July sounded hotter than the furnace of hell. My summer plans had been to hang out with my boyfriend, Mike, in the city or Jamaica. Mike and I were madly, deeply, and passionately in love, as only teenagers could be. The thought of being apart was like tearing off another limb.

“It’s not open to discussion. We’re going to India to meet Sai Baba,” said Dad.

Then came the hard sell. According to what Dad had heard and read, Sathya Sai Baba could:

1. Revive the dead.

2. Cure the sick.

3. Materialize objects like gold rings, precious jewels, statues of Krishna, and a “sacred ash” called
vibhuti,
a holy healing substance made by burning cow dung (as if I needed more cow shit in my life).

4. Spit up a golden “lingam,” an egg-shaped symbol of the divine.

5. Be in two places at the same time.

6. Conjure his likeness in fire or in the sky.

7. Create energy clouds.

Dad truly believed that Sai Baba wasn’t just a messenger from God, he
was
God. He had a legend and a history of incredible stunts. Allegedly, he’d suffered a heart attack and stroke that paralyzed him, and then he cured himself right on stage before a throng of devotees, in classic “I can walk! It’s a miracle!” fashion. His ashram in Puttaparthi attracted hundreds of thousands of people a year just to catch a glimpse of the living god.

Dad showed me a photo. It was the mid-eighties, the height of Big Hair. Sai Baba’s afro was the highest and bushiest I’d ever seen. It would have looked great on a Harlem Globetrotter or one of the Jackson Five. He had brown skin, a broad nose, and bulging crazy black eyes. He wore a crossing-guard-orange caftan, buttoned up to his neck and flowing down to his feet. If I saw him hanging out in Central Park, waving his arms around and coughing up golden eggs, I’d think he was on drugs.

“He’s got millions of followers from all over the world,” said Dad. “Doctors and politicians. Not just the needy and uneducated.” That was true. The prime minister of India, scientists, and intellectuals from around the globe swore by his divinity.

The description of this ashram—thousands of sick, desperate Kool-Aid drinkers crammed into a remote village in a Third World country—triggered an instant panic attack. I was convinced the trip would kill me.

By no means was I averse to exotic locales. My parents were travel junkies and took my brother and me on trips through Europe. We rode the Orient Express, and went on safari in Africa. Elephants charged at us at top speed, almost squashing our Jeep. We watched a python catch, kill, and swallow a gazelle whole. The Masai Mara people were fascinated by my leg. They cut me to see if I had human blood in my veins. I loved exploring foreign lands and cultures and
was grateful my parents had taken me to the far corners of the world.

But this trip to India wasn’t a holiday or a wild adventure. It seemed like the desperate plotting of a delusional man who was forcing me to go along with him against my will. I staged a protest and refused to leave New York. My father put a ton of pressure on me. He made me feel like I had no choice. When I left Mike for the airport, I honestly believed I’d never see him again.

My parents, brother, and I flew seven hours to Paris. My anxiety spiked for the entire flight. By the time we landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I felt wrung out. We would spend the night in Paris and then continue to India.

For dinner, we went to a restaurant near Sacré-Coeur. I was on the edge of my emotional control and couldn’t eat. Mom tried to force food on me, but I was nauseated. I felt light-headed. My chest was tight. Suddenly, the room went dark.

“I’m going blind!” I screamed.

“For Christ’s sake, Aviva, they just dimmed the lights,” said Dad.

“What is wrong with her?” Mom added.

It was like that the entire trip. Any twinge meant the worst-case scenario.

The next day, we flew to Bombay. The flight was ten turbulent hours in a jam-packed plane. We landed in a place of abject poverty and human suffering like I’d never imagined. Beggars and garbage everywhere. The smells were indescribable. And this was an industrialized city. This was civilization.

Dad said, “We’re almost there!”

We then flew to Bangalore, a vacation spot for Indian residents. From there, we drove deeper into the subcontinent in a rickety, overcrowded bus, down hundreds of miles of patchy “road.” Hours went by. It was like driving to the end of the world. Finally, we arrived
in Puttaparthi, the village that had been built up around Sai Baba’s ashram to cater to the seeking masses. Our bus was one of dozens to arrive that day disgorging the faithful, the needy, and the sick, of all races and ages. The hundreds joined the thousands roaming around the place with a glazed expression, like they’d been hit on the back of the head and weren’t sure who they were.

“I can’t believe we’re here!” my parents said to each other. They were excited, and eager to find our rented apartment and settle in. My brother was nonplussed.

I was miserable, of course.

“Change your attitude, Aviva,” Mom said sternly.

“Or it might not work,” Dad chimed in.

“It” was the spontaneous regeneration of human flesh. What the best doctors in New York City could not do with state-of-the-art technology, a self-proclaimed god with a Jimi Hendrix ’fro in India would accomplish with cow dung ash.
But only if I changed my attitude
. Skepticism would jinx it.

I felt like the only sane person for thousands of miles.

Dad rented the finest accommodations available: a single prison cell–like room with a cement floor and one small window. It had four cots and a private bathroom with a toilet and a sink with running water. We brought our own toilet paper. This was the luxury package. In 90 percent of the dorms at the compound, the devotees did their business in a hole in the ground and cleaned their hands in the dirt.

By the way, I wasn’t being a First World snobby asshole. I wasn’t whining about not being adequately pampered at a five-star resort. I was an anxiety-prone hypochondriac teenager in extreme distress, thousands of miles from home. With every breath, I felt germs entering my lungs. The crowds were tighter and riper than anything I’d seen or smelled on a New York subway. My graft abrasions were open
and seeping. The shower water came from a well. In my mind, it was a stream of malaria, aimed right at my face. The public drinking water was literally teeming with bacteria. A single sip would cause violent dysentery. We drank only bottled water. Our food came from a canteen truck. It arrived twice a day to feed thousands of people. The menu options were bread and bread. Sometimes we cooked rice and vegetables in our room, but I was afraid the vegetables weren’t clean enough, and didn’t dare eat them.

Most of the people there were Indian. We met some Europeans and Americans, too. All races were represented from dozens of countries. However diverse the people, they were all of a certain type—the kind of person who joined a cult. I’d expected to be surrounded by the severely sick. Blind lepers, crooked crones shaking tiny canes—biblical suffering stuff. There certainly were sick people who’d come to be cured. But the devoted, in general, appeared to be healthy—physically. Mentally? They had to have a screw loose.

At 4 a.m., we were roused by bells. We rolled off of our cots, got dressed, and joined the herds heading toward a large communal outdoor area that surrounded the palace where Sai Baba rested (he claimed he didn’t need sleep). We walked among concrete buildings, wandering elephants, and throngs of people. Everyone wore saris, including us. We bought some in New York before the trip, and continued to add to our collection in India. My mom loved the fabrics and thought the tunics were beautiful. I missed my jeans.

At the palace, people in wheelchairs were rolled to the front for the predawn gathering. Everyone else sat on the floor. We were really packed in tight. And then we waited. It would take hours for Sai Baba to make his appearance. Then he would walk around the people for about ten minutes. When he finally got over to us, Sai Baba waved
his hand in the air.
Vibhuti
appeared in his hand. He sprinkled the ash on us. And then he moved on.

Sometimes he materialized beads and jewelry. He’d lift up his hand, and stones would drip out of it. Once he put his hand in an empty bowl, swirled it around, and it was suddenly full of the holy ash. The people around us would bow, pray, cry, and go nuts when he came near. My father claimed to feel “ebullient” when Sai Baba was near. Mom was excited by the spectacle. I admit to feeling a calming energy when Sai Baba was close. But I wasn’t healed or relieved of my anxiety about being there. I certainly didn’t regrow my appendage like a salamander.

For a lucky (often wealthy) few, Sai Baba would grant a personal audience. He would take you to his private area and do whatever it was he did back there. Despite Dad’s campaigning for over a month, our family was not invited over to Sai Baba’s place. Dad didn’t want to leave Puttaparthi until we had been. I was losing weight, losing my mind. I fantasized about my bed, hot dog vendors, biking in Central Park, Pioneer grocery store, and of course, my boyfriend. I couldn’t stand being away from New York. I cried when I thought about Mike.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dad asked. “Why aren’t you glad to be here?”

After five weeks in saris (you don’t know how sorry), Dad agreed to leave. Although we’d been there for a long time, and had been amply showered with burned cow-shit ash, we weren’t healed. My parents’ faith was stronger than ever, though. Upon our return to New York, they put up framed pictures of Sai Baba around the house, and kept pots of
vibhuti
around the apartment. The space we called “the gallery”—actually, a home gym—was right outside my bedroom. Mom taped photos of Sai Baba on the StairMaster and treadmill. I
saw them whenever I entered or left my room, and felt a stab of resentment each time.

They talked about Sai Baba all the time, not only to each other, but with everyone they knew. Their obsessive devotion—and cult recruitment efforts—drove away some of their friends and a few of Dad’s big clients. My parents purchased an apartment at the ashram. They went back a few more times and finally landed that private interview with Sai Baba. He used his sleight-of-hand tricks and made jewelry appear. He gave Mom a necklace, and blessed them. She acted like that necklace was a gift from God. As far as they were concerned, it was.