Wasted (5 page)

Dian’s youngest son, Brandon Swate, moved in with the Hartwells. He grew up in the 2,500-square-foot, four bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath, two-story, brick home in Seabrook with a hot tub in the back. He grew up playing football in Clear Lake, Texas, with Mark Hartwell attending most all of the games, cheering his stepson.

Regina was left in Pasadena to live by herself. This so concerned the Seymoures that they phoned Child Protective Services about Regina. CPS didn’t do a thing. Regina had food in the house, a warm place to sleep, and a Porsche to say, “I love you” at night.

At sixteen, still a high-school student, playing saxophone and marching in the Pasadena High band, Regina Hartwell was on her own.

“Anytime you need us, we’ll be here for you,” the Seymoures told Regina.

 

 

The Seymoure family was tight-knit, supportive, and always there. Amy could not fathom the sorrow and hurt Regina went through.

Regina loved her dad, but she hated him. Mark Hartwell was a man who liked to brag about his stocks and bonds, who dabbled with race cars, who was red-faced, staggering, and slurring as his stepson’s father arrived.

Mark and Regina both seemed to know that they couldn’t live together. They both seemed to know that not living together made life more peaceful in the short run. But that living apart was also why Regina hated her father—he wasn’t there for her, and she needed him.

On the outside, though, Regina’s response to her father’s move was, “All right! Freedom! No rules to follow!” After all, she was independent, strong-willed, stubborn, even hardheaded. Nothing was going to get to her or hurt her, not even the abandonment by her father on the heels of the abandonment by her mother, even if those abandonments were by marriage and by death.

Regina’s devastation, although rarely spoken, came out in other ways.

 

 

She didn’t know how to take care of her Porsche. She didn’t even know how to drive it. In an attempt to gain friendship and adoration, Regina let other, older teenagers drive it. But they abused her car, and they abused her generosity. So, Mark Hartwell took the Porsche away, then he gave it back, then he took it away, then ....

Regina became close to her band director—she was a good saxophone player—and a band director is better than no parent at all. And Regina desperately needed someone to look out for her.

After Mark Hartwell moved out and moved on, his relationship with his daughter didn’t improve. When he came back to Pasadena for his occasional visits with his daughter, he and Regina stood in the driveway and screamed at each other. The yells rushed across the yards and filtered into the next-door windows, harshly nipping at the Seymoures’ ears.

 

 

Few of Regina Hartwell’s friends came from homes broken by death or divorce. Indeed, in Regina’s childhood crowd, her family situation was considered the most tragic, and not simply because of her mother’s death. Her whole upbringing was tragic from beginning to end.

But Regina was a survivor. She was charming. She was vulnerable, and yet she would stand up to anybody. Amy admired that. Regina was fun to be around, too. She had a great laugh and could make anybody smile, giggle, and feel good.

By Regina’s senior year in high school, weekends were party time at her house. Music ricocheted off the walls of the modest house and shot out onto the sidewalks. Thirty, forty, fifty teenagers ran in and out of the front door. Regina provided the house, the food, the liquor, and the bedrooms. Lots of liquor. There were drinking games, which eased into sex. Lots of sex.

Regina was being used financially and physically. She never had any one boyfriend, but she did have intercourse with boys, despite the fact that males weren’t particularly attracted to Regina. To Texas boys who like their belles soft and quiet, Regina came off as abrupt. She had a loud mouth. She could be rough at times. Still, several of them slept with her in high school. Her sex life started young. She simply didn’t know the difference between sex and love, tenderness and affection.

 

 

After each party, after the booze, after the sex, Regina was left to clean up the mess. But that was okay with Regina; she liked providing the wild parties for the Pasadena High teenagers. It made her the center of attention, and she thought it made the kids like her and be her friend.

Once again, though, what Regina felt on the inside and what she showed to the world were two different things. Her insides knew that her “friends” were just looking for a place to party.

 

 

That same senior year, Regina began hanging out with a woman who was five or six years older. Patricia was the sister of one of Regina’s classmates. Amy Seymoure never understood why someone in her twenties would want to hang out with a sixteen-year-old. To her, it didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem reasonable.

“Patricia’s bisexual,” Regina explained to Amy. And Patricia introduced Regina into the world of homosexuality.

That didn’t matter to Amy. Whether Patricia was or wasn’t, did or didn’t, was irrelevant. Amy just wanted to know why Patricia wanted to hang out with Regina. Again, it didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem reasonable.

But Amy tried never to question Regina or make fun of her, despite the fact that one never knew how much truth was coming out of Regina. Amy just listened and let Regina talk. Even then, she had some kind of understanding that things weren’t like they should be for Regina, that her life wasn’t stable and that Regina needed someone to listen to her.

“You don’t have to lie to me. I’m your friend no matter what. You don’t have to buy me anything.”

 

 

Regina Hartwell grew numb to physical pain, but she was never able to numb out the emotional pain. To her, love always equalled pain. That was how it was supposed to be—that’s what she had been taught by the mother who loved her so. They were buddies. They were best friends. Toni Hartwell was wonderful, beautiful, perfect.

And if Toni Hartwell was a wonderful, beautiful, perfectly loving mother, then Regina Hartwell must have deserved the hurt. That’s how a child rationalizes abuse. That’s the way an unhelped abused child thinks, even in adulthood.

 

 

Regina graduated from Pasadena High School in 1988. She bought a Ford Mustang convertible with her trust money and turned her Porsche over to her father, who put it up on blocks. “If you ever want to pay this off, it’s here,” he said. Regina moved to Austin, Texas.

Young gay women in Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and blazers pounded their feet against the wooden floor and shouted, “bullshit” as they danced the cotton-eyed Joe. Country music bounced from the blackjack tables to the patio and back indoors. Sadie’s was packed as usual. Near the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Austin, Sadie’s was where trendy, drinking, drugging, college-age lesbians went to shoot pool, dance, and find romance in 1989.

Ynema Mangum was a University of Texas coed working as a blackjack dealer at Sadie’s when she spotted Regina Hartwell. There was no missing Regina. When Hartwell walked into a bar, everyone—friends and strangers alike—turned around and watched.

She looked enviously sure. A young woman who lifted weights, Hartwell was very physically fit. She wore immaculate dresses and long, dark tresses in a roomful of jeans and butch, short haircuts. She was confident, cocky, and charismatic. Everyone wanted to know Regina Hartwell.

Ynema Mangum was no different, and Regina and Ynema got along great. They were both twenty years old, they both loved to dance, and they both had a crush on Ynema’s girlfriend.

But this was a world where girls bounced off girls like balls in a pinball machine, sometimes scoring, sometimes tilting. One night, in front of the blackjack table, Regina and Ynema kissed. Tilt.

Laughing, they backed away from each other, and not because of Ynema’ s girlfriend. For Ynema and Regina, kissing each other was like kissing a sister or a dog . . . or an alligator. “Izod,” said Regina to Ynema. “From now on, I’m calling you Izod because you kiss like an alligator.” Score, friendship.

Regina Hartwell was funny, and she was fun. She was powerful and intense. She had that strong, attractive build on the outside, but on the inside, Regina Hartwell was a little girl who was silly, immature and wrestled with personal demons of emotion, acceptance, and love.

Ynema Mangum was a young, slim, sweet, soft-spoken, Native American woman bent on destroying herself. She sipped wine coolers for breakfast, and she often threw up.

Hartwell loved to drink, too, but she never, ever seemed to throw up. It was just one more sign that on the outside, at least, Regina Hartwell was always in control.

 

 

Hartwell arrived each night at Sadie’s looking drop-dead gorgeous with perfect hair, perfect makeup, and perfect clothes that all looked suave and sophisticated. She even danced perfectly.

She had her own place, which she paid for. She had a great car, a great stereo, a fridge full of food—chips and salsa—and she constantly hosted great slumber parties, just as if she were still in high school.

But Regina was a great chameleon. After she went home from Sadie’s, she always broke out the chips and salsa for the slumber parties, jumped into a pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt, wiped off her makeup, and spilled hot sauce and queso on her clothes. She then stayed in those dirty clothes for days.

Hartwell’s home replicated her turmoil within. There were Cheetos under the couch, cigarette butts everywhere, and dog hair in the bed. She let her dogs sleep with her and lick her in the face. She was a lonely girl who continually took in strays of all sorts—dogs, cats, humans. She just wanted to love and to be loved, and she’d do anything to that end.

 

 

Samantha Reynolds had short brown hair, was a bit butch, and was chubby. She didn’t stand out in a crowd, and she certainly wasn’t the type to attract the lust of Regina Hartwell. Regina loved brunettes—toned, athletic brunettes—who presented themselves well and looked nice.

But Samantha Reynolds noticed Hartwell at Sadie’s many times and wondered who was that young woman who was always dressed to the nines. Regina wore a black skirt, tight blouse, pantyhose and heels while everyone else wore their cowboy honky-tonk garb. Everyone else but Regina and two of her friends.

Still, Sam Reynolds never asked about Hartwell. It was Sam’s first year in college, and she was shy and involved. She just didn’t know she was involved with someone who was cheating on her. Everyone else in Sadie’s knew, including Regina. Finally, Reynolds found out. With tears streaming down her face, she ran out of Sadie’s.

Hartwell ran after her. She stopped Sam in the parking lot.

“Hi, I’m Regina,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened, but this always happens.” Like an understanding and consoling mother, Regina shook her head. “Obviously, it wasn’t meant to be. You deserve better than that.”

She comforted Reynolds for an hour and half. Then Sam went home, and Regina went back into the bar. But they were friends from that day on. Regina Hartwell made friends fast.

Anita Morales noticed a Nissan 300 ZX parked outside of Sadie’s. She couldn’t help but notice it. Bright red and expensive, it was parked in the most prime spot. Morales and her college roommate, Sara, were out for a night of partying. They walked in and perused the bar.

“Oh, I know that girl,” said Sara. “She’s from Houston.” She pointed to Regina Hartwell.

Anita Morales watched Hartwell, who was wearing a bold-colored, cheesy
Dallas
TV-show-style suit with big, gold buttons. She had Texas big hair. Regina was never without her hairspray.

“Who is she?” said Anita.

“Some really wealthy girl from Houston. She used to have the biggest crush on me.”

Hartwell tended to get crushes fast and went directly for the woman. She spotted Sara and walked over.

But half the time, the woman wasn’t receptive. But she was fully aware she could take Regina for what she wanted and not have to be very nice in return to the rich girl from Pasadena.

That was okay with Hartwell. She was often drawn to people who didn’t care for her. They were a challenge, and Regina liked a challenge, thought many of her friends.

Believing Anita and Sara were a couple, Regina slashed Morales with a dirty look.
Oh, my God,
thought Anita,
this little girl is intimidating
. Both close to five feet tall, Anita and Regina stared eye to eye.

Regina shocked Anita, though, when she immediately began to buddy up to her. “Want to go with me in my limousine on New Year’s Eve?” she said. She intended to buddy up to Morales to get to Sara. Still, it started a lifelong friendship. From that New Year’s on, with the exception of one—Regina’s last—Anita went with Regina in her limo every New Year’s Eve.

“Don’t forget, I’m buying you your first drink,” Hartwell said to Ynema Mangum. She meant Ynema’s first legal, alcoholic drink. “Don’t forget. . . .” Regina said it over and over again as though she were obsessed with the idea.

On June 28, 1990, Mangum’s twenty-first birthday, Regina took her barhopping. Hartwell disappeared for a few moments, and Ynema thought she was alone. She sidled up to the bar, ordered her drink, and, zoom, Regina was there beside her, slicked up next to her like a magnet picking up stray steel dust. “I’m gonna buy this,” said Regina.

But Regina didn’t buy Ynema just one drink. All at once, she ordered Ynema several drinks—mind erasers and amaretto sours.

Like a typical alcoholic, Regina Hartwell lied at every opportunity she got. Regina, the girl from down-home, hard-working Pasadena would hold out an apple and say it was an orange. At least that’s what Ynema Mangum saw. Hartwell would tell Ynema all the virtues of the alleged orange. By the time she finished, Ynema would believe the apple was an orange.

Regina Hartwell was smart, and she was a smooth talker. More than once, she told her trust officer she needed money to go to college, and he gave her the money. Then she dropped out of school and used the tuition refund to party.

Hartwell just wasn’t trustworthy. Ynema Mangum thought that was the reason Regina didn’t trust many people herself.

But unanswered issues in her life, many unanswered issues, caused Regina Hartwell to appear self-confident when she was really still searching . . . soul-searching.

Ynema Mangum began to realize that.

 

 

Ynema noticed that Regina often didn’t look her in the eyes when she spoke—lying. Or, Regina looked Ynema in the eyes, but Regina’s eyes clouded over as if they were trying to hide something—lying. Ynema caught Regina in her lies and challenged those lies.

Hartwell stopped telling stories to Mangum, but she also stopped confessing to her.

None of that, though, was enough to stop Ynema from loving young Regina Hartwell. There was something inside of Regina that was sensitive and vulnerable, that made Ynema feel she needed to take care of Regina.

There were times when Regina got into trouble and someone wanted to beat her up; Ynema stepped in and protected Regina. Ynema Mangum, with a bit of a young Kate Jackson look, was Regina’s Angel, and she knew Regina was afraid of being hurt physically.

Most of Hartwell’s friends wouldn’t believe that—they hadn’t seen that side of her. Ynema had, and she loved Regina for that vulnerability. She knew the fear and vulnerability came from the loss of Regina’s mother at such a needful age and from being abused at such an early age. But most of Regina’s friends didn’t know about that either. They didn’t notice the scars on her pale arms.

They
did
notice how often she professed to hate her father. Her friends believed that Mark Hartwell didn’t spend much time encouraging Regina, but they also knew that she didn’t spend much time pleasing him. She wanted to separate from him, and to do that she had rebelled by moving to Austin and practicing a lesbian lifestyle.

Yet Regina Hartwell was much like her father. They shared the same hazel eyes, the same penchant for
braggadocio
, the same bigotries. She was uncomfortable that Mangum’s skin was dark. She worried that Mark Hartwell would treat Ynema differently because of her skin color. And he did.

On one of Regina’s rare trips back to Pasadena, she took Mangum with her. Mark Hartwell behaved just as everyone feared. He seemed surly to Ynema and made mention of her American Indian heritage, so Ynema spent her time avoiding Mark Hartwell. To her, he was wrapped up in himself.

In fact, as a salute to her father and his racist views, Regina named her white husky dog Spook. When Spook got hit by a car and had to be put to sleep, she held him in her arms and wept until he died. Ynema was with her.

Ynema Mangum was one of the very few friends Regina ever introduced to her father.

 

 

On February 6, 1991, Regina Hartwell turned twenty-one, and Ynema Mangum bought Regina her first legal drink. February was always a good month for Regina Hartwell. It was the month she received her annual disbursement from her trust fund. Come February, she’d be rich and living high on the hog. She’d often buy a new car, always with a souped-up stereo. She’d pay cash for the car. By Christmas time, the money would have disappeared, partied away into the smoke of some lesbian bar in the fantasy of finding love, and Mangum would be cooking to feed Hartwell and her girlfriends.

In those days, Regina never expressed her insecurities. If she felt embarrassed by a weight gain, which came often, she didn’t show it. She just pumped herself up by bragging about herself and how great she looked, and laughing. One thing that caused such greats laughs for Regina was that her look was so incongruent with her behavior—sophisticated look, moronic behavior.

In fact, Regina was like Sybil; she had several sides. She had a silly, immature side. If she wanted to get a laugh out of someone, that became her goal, and she wouldn’t stop until she heard the laughter. She had a serious side that manipulated others into doing what she wanted. And she had that ever present scared side in need of protection, the little girl still grieving.

She did tell a few friends that her mother had had a psychological problem and emotionally abused her. But she only let them know just so much, never the whole story. She didn’t want anyone to see the whole picture. It was a matter of control. Besides, it was easier to laugh and pretend that her mother tenderly adored her. It was always easier to pretend.