There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me
Read There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me Online
Authors: Brooke Shields
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Copyright © 2014 by Brooke Shields
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ISBN 978-0-698-18623-1
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Contents
Chapter One
Teri Terrific
Chapter Two
Shields and Co.
Chapter Three
She Could Make It Rain
Chapter Four
If You Die, I Die
Chapter Five
Pretty Baby
Chapter Six
Fuck ’Em If They Can’t Handle It
Chapter Seven
Are You Finished?
Chapter Eight
Blue
Chapter Nine
The Brooke Doll
Chapter Ten
Remember the Hula-Hoop
Chapter Eleven
America’s Sweetheart
Chapter Twelve
I Wish I Only Knew You in the Mornings, Mama
Chapter Thirteen
We Met by Fax
Chapter Fourteen
MIA
Chapter Fifteen
Toots
Chapter Sixteen
I Know Your Kind
Chapter Seventeen
Tag Sale
Chapter Eighteen
They Die Feetfirst
Chapter Nineteen
Cremation/Look, Ma, No Pants!
Chapter Twenty
Returning Home
—Brooke Shields’s baby photo album, 1965
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Introduction
I
’m told that even decorated soldiers’ last words are often calling for “Mommy.”
That is the first feeling that washed over me.
And on November 5, 2012, six days after I watched my mother die right in front of me, I opened up the
New York Times
obituaries and the feeling hit again . . . but it came with a wave of anger. I was so hurt my vision blurred. I couldn’t believe what I’d just read, and I asked myself: How could I have been so stupid and so naïve? How could I have let my guard down? How could they have done this to my mommy?
• • •
Days earlier, I’d written my own simple and rather short obituary about my mom and had sent in the required $1,500. The following afternoon I got a call from the
Times
saying they wanted to print it on the front page of the obituary section. I said they could position it wherever they wanted.
They explained that they thought Mom deserved to have a more prominent placement. This made me feel like maybe after all these years, Mom would finally get some modicum of respect. And deep down we all want to know our moms deserve respect, don’t we? The
Times
added that they didn’t want me to pay the $1,500, but I explained that I was fine paying and thanked them for the offer. Suddenly the
person on the other end of the phone stated that the obituary was, in fact, already being moved to a more prominent part of the paper, so a bit more copy would be needed. This was the first red flag.
“I am not giving an interview. Publish my written obit, please.”
“Well, we may just need one or two additional facts that you could clarify.”
“Listen, I submitted my personally written obituary about my mother and I sent in a check. Thank you.”
“OK, we don’t want to upset you. . . . How about we just take your obit and print that but add one or two additional facts about her upbringing and the like?”
“Fine.”
They indeed called and asked one question about her deceased brother and if she had lived in any other city in New Jersey before moving to New York City. It was a two-minute phone call and it seemed fine. I was satisfied.
• • •
A few days later, on the stoop of my apartment, I was shocked and horrified to read a piece I’d known nothing about. It was a scathing, judgmental critique of my mother’s life. I gasped and stared, wide-eyed, at the nasty, venomous piece of so-called journalism.
The first line read, “Teri Shields, who began promoting her daughter, Brooke, as a child model and actress when she was an infant and allowed her to be cast as a child prostitute . . . died on Wednesday.” What an opener!