The Ears That Have Eyes

By C.L. Charlesworth

"Fake love with the right man is better. Jewels, homes, and money won't break your

heart." Those were Stephanie's mom's words of wisdom. Stephanie was a princess, even

without a father, right until she was ten years old when her mother left her. Life began to

take a drastic turn for Stephanie. Will she be able to survive on her own? Moreover, could

the apple have fallen not far from the tree, or will she be another version, a better version

of her mother, and find love in the process? It's

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634177061

Book preview

Dedication

I owe my words to my father, Woodrow, who taught me how to shape my first story, my mother Alice-Ruth, who made me realize life was too short to live an ordinary one, my grandparents, whose memory has grounded me; Donna Pizzi, who help fine-tuned my voice into the writer I am today; Malorie  Michael, whose edits and encouragement blossomed this project; Gwen Amsbury, Davia Larson, and  Tanith Yates—my confidant ladies,  support team, and writers I deeply admire; Teresa Acosta, Joyce Arevalo, Christel Behrens, Debi and Larry Byrnes, Karen and Jim Brunke, Joanna Ceciliani for your beautiful photography, Suzanne Deakins,  Ron and Karen Hackenberg, Mary, Bill, and Rowan Floyd, Patti Islip, Jessica Getzendanner, Calla Lilly, Calvin Harris, Oceana, Terrie Rouse, Paulette Stokes, Sal Pizzi, Lance Phillips, Phillip-Clayton Thomas, Kathryn Wells, whose encouragement and friendships have meant everything to me; my cats Henry and Penelope, who saved my life; my sister Valerie and nephew Woodie, who’ve always held me tight with your prayers;  to Aunt Vivian for not thinking me crazy for writing at this point in my life; the memories of Sedona— thank you Brian for your thought provoking words, and Kay, Pamela, Linda, Eric, Leah, Chris, Lina and Dylan, for the art, music, friendship, and laughter we shared at Zelo—-and to you, Tom, for what you know that is all that I am and more—an eternity is always there, and finally to Marion Bell, I truly miss you every day.

Chapter 1

"I learned from my mother, who was once one of the highest paid fashion models, that great beauty opened doors. She never left home without impeccable attire, full makeup, and photo-ready hair. She said a woman’s sexuality was better than an American Express card, and if used right, the rewards were much better. Mother said her money was for pleasure and not for rent, food, or life’s other necessities. She had men—lots of men—whose generous wallets and bank accounts gladly emptied into her hands.

"By the time I was eight years old my passport was well stamped, I knew the capitals of fourteen countries, and that first-class plane seats came with much more than dime-store peanuts.

"I evolved into my mother’s twin while still in a private elementary school. She taught me her pageant walk and that helpless, innocent pout, right down to the way she tossed playfully her hair and tilted slightly her head. I used those persuasive, angelic powers and enticed boys to carry my books, complete my homework, and even give me their lunch money. My charm and intelligence wooed my teachers, while mother’s notoriety popularized my name with classmates. No, I was not your shy average child.

"Life was gloriously perfect, even without a father. Throughout the years, Mother created various versions of how he died. Her story depended on who was listening and how much sympathy she needed that day. My dad perished in a car accident, robbers murdered him in Central Park, or he committed suicide. I lost track of the ways in which he died; the point was, I never knew, nor saw him.

"Mother used to gloat after signing autographs. She knew her fame and status rivaled that of any movie star. The more people called her an icon, the more her vanity and ego exploded. Narcissism systematically replaced all the ridiculously priced paintings in our Manhattan apartment and Beverly Hills home. She needed to see and touch oversized reproductions of her magazine covers, portfolio pictures, and professional photographs that she had commissioned. I never thought my mother was crazy because she was so breathtaking and always said she loved me.

"My own sexuality was formulated by her open nudity at home and refusal to close the doors to her bedroom when she was making love. She allowed me to observe a woman’s capability to get what she wanted when I hovered in the darkened hallway and listened to the sounds and watched the movements in her candlelit room.

"I prayed for a fully developed body when I matured because I wanted men to give me pretty diamonds and money too. I made up my mind; I would have many companions as soon she permitted.

"Her mood was like a Christmas morning whenever she prioritized party invitations according to who the host was. If the gathering was in a city she wanted to visit, she demanded for her appearance and got it, paid luxury accommodations, and arranged transportation. Her agenda was the planned seductions of men who made the party worth her while.

"My nanny, Layoma, a Creole woman, always traveled with us. I especially loved those grown-up parties in Europe. Places like Monte Carlo, Rome, Paris, London, Greece, and all points in between were magical postcards. We got penthouse-view suites with gourmet room service, purchased extra luggage to accommodate new wardrobes, ate at the best restaurants, and saw all the popular tourist attractions. While mother played at night, Layoma tutored me in missed schoolwork and taught me French and Italian. I took long bubble baths, sipped a smidge of champagne, ate whatever I wanted, and watched television until I fell asleep.

"I admired my mother, faults and all. She was my protector, mentor, and the only person I trusted—until the day before my tenth birthday, when she and Layoma never returned home. The final sentence of Mother’s note left on my dressing table has forever stained my life, Forgive me, but motherhood has become an inconvenience."

'

I absolutely had their attention, but right now, there was nothing more of my life I wanted to share with my Los Angeles girlfriends, Tara, Jennifer, and Rachael, in Rachael’s Brentwood home. Indeed, an odd moment hung like a wrinkled dress. It was my long drink of Cristal champagne pitted against their gawking quiet while they reshifted stiffened bodies searching for a softer spot on the sofa.

Ladies, this happened a long time ago, a good defense for the sadness in my heart while Jennifer choked down tears.

Oh, Stephanie, it’s so sad, your mama left you, she wept.

I had already shed too many tears. My refuge, the red chaise lounge, helped quiet the raging thoughts, Why did I say anything? Why did I expose myself? Why do I always act before I think? I felt like a poster child for charity the harder Jennifer’s sympathy drowned into her hands. I couldn’t get angry at her sensitivity; it was touching in a city where neighbors barely talked or looked out for one another.

Now, let’s not turn this evening into another damn funeral. I’m sick of all the crying when we meet for our girls’ night. Tara’s street candor quickly hushed Jennifer’s sobs. I can see where you get your looks, Stephie. Sure beats the hell out of plastic surgery.

I smelt Tara’s foul smirk. I didn’t need a confrontation about my mother. It was easier to get drunk and press my annoyance with tight-lipped silence. I nodded to what I perceived a compliment as she wittingly dabbed a smudge of chocolate truffle from her signature scarlet-red lips.

No matter how much I disliked Tara’s crudeness, she was right. I wore Mother’s pinup bikini genes well. We could be twins with our naturally wavy auburn hair that cascaded down my backs and seductive emerald colored eyes. Too bad Little Miss Perfect had a tremendous unhappiness. I was nearly thirty and hadn’t seen my mother in twenty years.

I think we need some music. Rachael’s timely interruption stabbed at the tension.

It worked. My nerves cooled, and Tara responded, Good idea.

"I just bought the new release of Etta James’s Greatest Hits. Come on, Jennifer, don’t cry. It’s not like Stephanie grew up to be some kind of serial killer."

Rachael’s offbeat sense of humor made me laugh as I clamped the inner screams No, I grew up much worse.

Jennifer, get a hold of yourself. You’re ruining the party. This time, Tara’s edginess finally forced Jennifer to shrug off her emotions with a transparent smile.

Jennifer’s flushed face looked at me. Stephanie?

What?

You’re right, this did happen a long time ago.

Yes, I responded, happily distracted by the music and Rachael’s shimmy in front of the mirror. I was free, no longer the center of attention, and even better, our Jennifer stopped crying.

Hey, we’re all so goddamn beautiful. I should know. It sure cost me enough, Rachael bragged in admiration, caressing her hips, thighs, implants, and smoother-than-cream, wrinkle-free skin.

Thousands, Tara boasted, plumping up her ample chest into Jennifer’s droopy face, which melted into what I loved about Jennifer, an infectious dimpled giggle.

The obvious satire was now laughable to both Jennifer and me because neither one of us had been under the knife like them. Rachael was our 5’ 10"Barbie-doll law partner, and Tara’s B-movie Italian vixen used her looks to buy and sell real estate like a fast-track Monopoly game.

Okay, enough laughing, you two, Rachael laughed and tossed three crisp white linen napkins. Come eat, the food’s getting cold. We can tell stories later, she beckoned Tara to the dining room table, a cue for Jennifer and me when Tara looked back with a clean plate in her hands.

We need a damn break from these past-life experiences. Miss B-Movie winked at me. You know I love you, Stephie. Don’t take offense, okay?

Jennifer nudged at my shoulder. Come on, Stephanie, we only get together once a month. Let’s make the most of the evening.

No offense taken, Tara. We’re here to enjoy our friendships.

Can you believe we known each other all of our twenties? Jennifer posed the question.

It seems longer—Tara threw me a squinted, puckered grin—don’t you think, Ms. Stephie?

Preoccupied with the intricate stitches on my napkin, it was ironic how something so small reminded me of you, Mother. You never used paper napkins; they were far too common.

Yes—I heard her punted sarcasm, and I needed a break from her voice—let’s eat.

'

Food, especially good food, on silver and white china platters made one forget their traumas, and I did forget, at least for the time being, and I ate like royalty. Waterford crystal held French champagne, vintage Bordeaux, sherry saturated Belgium, and bittersweet chocolates. I greedily oozed down Russian caviar and smoked salmon on petite squares of sourdough baguettes, lobster-and-shrimp bisque, spinach-brie quiche, a variety of spicy marinated olives, imported cheeses, and white chocolate cheesecake topped with strawberries and blackberries. This was no less than a Rachael feast.

The more the evening passed with huge consumptions of food and alcohol to music selections of jazz to classical, to the news about Rachael’s neighbors divorcing because of the husband’s affair with his wife’s sister, the more I found myself a voyeur between the four of us. I was content in the chaise lounge, to be absent from the scene and lost in my own thoughts, digesting Rachael’s contemporary home and recent purchases. I counted the half-circle cream-white leather sofa, pink crystal chandelier, and an original Andy Warhol. Rachael’s promotion to law partner and her six-figure salary apparently weren’t wasted.

Did I hate her, or was I jealous of her? Why couldn’t I control the descending melancholy the longer I stared at Thanksgiving and Christmas pictures of Rachael’s parents, sister, and brother at their Lake Tahoe cabin? It wasn’t her fault I had no close family ties. I should be grateful to have her as a friend. After all, it was her shoulder I leaned on for my suicidal babbles and drunken guilt after my second abortion. I probably was a candidate for a lifetime of committed therapy. I needed a touchdown of my own, something real and solid.

Despite the unjust or justly anger I harbored, I was codependent on these monthly girlfriend gatherings. I needed these friendships to connect the abstract dots when my life was hell. I knew Los Angeles had become a lonely place for me, a single woman. Just as Mother had trusted her small circle of confidants, I needed to do the same with Tara, Jennifer, and Rachael. They labeled me the introvert because of my subtle shyness but had no idea that I just wanted to belong without having to sleep with a man or a woman.

I could feel your disappointment, Mother, with my inhibitions. You always told me that female bonds were like sisters, and life without them was like a cheap-wine headache.

I could close my eyes and become that child again, exposed to the naked models dancing drunk while they revealed torrid revelations of sexual escapades, addictions to alcohol, cocaine, and heroin. The countless orgies flamed my imagination. Yes, dear Mother, your adventures have left an indelible impression. I am shell-shocked; only with men who have money do I transform into a temporarily tamed feral cat.

Stephanie? Stephanie, didn’t you hear me?

What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, Rachael. I was just thinking.

Lately, she’s always in her own world. I don’t even know why she bothers to join us.

Tara, shut the fuck up. I said, Stephanie, are you going to sit in that chair all night?

Oblivious and sublime thoughts of my past needed repressing. My nightmare would bring them back alive soon enough. Before another comment hurled in my face, I emptied the remaining of the third bottle. Let’s party. I was good at faking a transitional smile from my mind to the reality that was a part of my own circle of friends.

The present was the same. Tara cranked up Aretha Franklin’s, A Natural Woman. Never self-conscious, Tara lifted her sweater and flaunted extra-tanned double Ds. Tara’s ego pushed Aretha off stage, and Tara sang even louder the words natural woman and added her own spin, Anybody want a suck?

Our Jennifer’s tears have vanquished after more than a few long stems of red wine. She took down her generous blond ponytail and channeled a belly dance like a pro as if she were in a room full of men, and Rachael’s moral lawyer career had stripped down to her silk, mesh bra and lace thong. Uninhibited, she gladly licked Tara’s nipples as if they were sweetened candy.

Come on, Stephanie, show us what you got. I’m unfazed by Tara’s air-kiss while Rachael sucked and groped harder on her breasts. The way you look, you can show us all a thing or two, she chuckled and nonchalantly rolled her eyes.

I’m on my period. Besides, who needs me when we have you? My reciprocated air-kiss excuse pulled me back to silence her.

I just love these times, Jennifer said, absent of her earlier sorrowful performance and oblivious of the tension as she limberly continued her six-pack stomach swirl between our conversations. We can all do what we want, right? I mean, this is what our friendship is all about, isn’t it?

Yes, it is Jennifer, Rachael agreed in a full-grin satisfaction of a mouthful of Tara’s body. Remember your suggestion for these monthly rituals?

Jennifer’s contagious girly giggles made us all laugh, and for a moment, we were all at the beginning. It was four years ago on a weekend in Santa Barbara. It was your birthday, Rachael, and I suggested in the limo that we should always set aside a time to be together.

Still bare-chested, Tara incited what she liked to do best as a sign of letting us know she was grateful for our company. She toasted us, I love you bitches. Don’t forget my genius about the rules for our little meetings.

Yes, Tara, you never miss an opportunity to be the star. Rachael cupped Tara’s rouged cheeks and gave her a French kiss. Where would we be without your fucking rules? Vote on the best story of the evening and treat the winner to her favorite restaurant. Not bad, I must say, I’ve eaten at some of the best damn places in town.

Now, it’s my turn. Jennifer’s unexpected somber notes overpowered the room. I have a story. Her serious mood demagnetized Rachael and Tara. Rachael slid back on her one-piece dress then turned off the music.

I hope I ain’t gonna cry, Tara grumbled while she covered her chest with the sweater. I’ve had enough of these sad, soppy stories. Life’s too damn short.

Jennifer’s unfazed, sable eyes barely blinked. She spoke soft and timid, I’ve never revealed this to you.

Hush up, Tara. You had your turn last week. Rachael’s opened palm in Tara’s face halted her opinion. They settled back into the sofa, and I leaned forward. We waited for Jennifer to speak.

'

You all know that I was adopted. Well, what you don’t know is—Jennifer’s voice quivered—how my mother died and why.

Tell us, Rachael edged her.

But only if you want, I added with a tear ready in the wings because of Jennifer’s suddenly welled eyes.

Well, I want to know, Tara pushed and prodded with nails tapping on the edge of the coffee table.

After a serious gulp of champagne courage, Jennifer started, "My mother was not an important person. She barely—no, she dropped out of school when she was in the ninth grade. Her reason, she was pregnant with me.

My grandparents threw my mother out on the streets after I was born because I was her second child and my father was Black. She was the whore and disappointment in our Catholic family. She gave up her son, the first baby, to a family that couldn’t have children of their own.

Jennifer’s stare was unwilling to reach our eyes, but she continued. I was born in a county hospital. My grandparents allowed us to come home, but I was too young to understand the quarrels that made the neighbors call the police time and time again.

Her unforeseen revelations affected us differently. Rachael clenched her fists over her mouth. Tara forgot her makeup and allowed tears to streak its foundation, and I needed a Valium to lock down my nerves.

God has a way of saving his children, Jennifer downplayed her life with a slight smile.

Before I could ask what she meant, her monotone voice paced on, My mother became a prostitute at sixteen. The life with pimps came with a price. When she contracted AIDS, she jumped in front of a subway train. She was barely twenty. I had no family left because a thief robbed and killed my grandparents.

What happened to you? Tara asked what we all wanted to know.

The candle’s glimmer illuminated the funeral sadness in her eyes. My story was told in many newspapers because I was abandoned in an alley when my mother committed suicide. I was only six years old. The private detective I hired to find any remaining biological family I might have told me my mother was a prime murder suspect, but she died before she was charged. I often thought that maybe Mommy knew who shot her parents, and it was revenge because I’ve a recollection of standing on their porch in the snow, and Grandpa turned us away. I don’t know. There’s been many unanswered questions.

Rachael drew a long bellowing sigh, So, lucky to be alive. We all may never have met you, Jennifer, oh my, oh my.

Mary and George Levy, Berkeley professors, adopted me a year after my mother died. Jennifer was unable to look into our eyes. I was in a foster home at first, but I had to leave because that family didn’t have enough room after the wife got pregnant with twins. Their house was already crowded with the five other children they had, but two angels saved me. I had a family at last. We traveled to places from India to Chile. They filled my life with love, books, and education. They inspired me to get my doctorate in English literature. There’s much more, but that’s all I can say for now. A long deep breath of relief caved from her mouth, and she shed tears and looked as pitiful as her story.

I stammered to think what to say, but I was speechless and full, so I gladly accepted our arm-ring huddle, where tears replaced carefree, exotic playfulness. It was clear, Jennifer had torn our hearts.

I love you guys. Rachael’s sisterly love squeezed each of our hands.

Tara’s empathetic breakdown stroked Jennifer’s face. I’m sorry, Jennifer. I never knew this about your past. You and Stephie are alike. You’ve lost your mothers. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t call my mom.

I felt Jennifer’s arms and received her touch, relieved there was someone who was more than my girlfriend; she was kinship. I saw in her brown eyes empathy to listen when I needed to talk. My vote with Tara and Rachael made Jennifer’s story the best one of the evening.

The final record, You’ve Got a Friend by James Taylor, was a good choice. Time had closed quickly. Seven hours seemed like a three-minute roller-coaster ride. It was midnight, and all the divas were turning into sleepy children. Hugs and more air-kisses filled the doorway as if we’d never see each other again.

Thank you for coming. This was so beautiful. You know you can stay overnight. Rachael’s generosity ended the night.

I have a lunch meeting with a client. You know how real estate is, Tara excused herself in a hurry, but I wondered if it was not to another’s bed. She was not the kind to sleep alone.

Jennifer waved good-bye. I have midterm papers to grade.

I’ll call you in a few days. I’m on a week’s vacation from work, I promised.

I knew the shortcut home. This time of night, the ride to the Hollywood Hills was an easy jaunt from Brentwood. The normal road rage, car horns, and overly long red lights melted like warm ice cream. The summer night air, a breeze above comfortable, swam throughout my convertible.

I only hoped Mother’s and my favorite music of Nina Simone and the evening spent with my friends would squash the need tonight for the usual sleeping pills to kill those damn relentless night voices’ rhetoric in my head. You need to make a sobering decision and move freely in the past and present. Your life is a paragraph of unfinished sentences. You have to find out once and for all if your mother is still alive. You need to bond with the parents who adopted you. We’re tired of the self-destruction of alcohol, worthless relationships, and hatred of those people who’ve been formidable in your life.

It all certainly frightened me. Have I put off what I’ve known to be true? I needed help. She gave me her business card six months ago when we met at the gym. I was going to contact her for lunch, but as with most people in LA their promises rarely meant anything. I wonder if I made the appointment, could I finally find some resolution, whatever that would be? Only time would tell.

Chapter 2

I needed to focus. My drive to Beverly Hills has taken me through a bevy of uncertainty. I’ve never been to a shrink. Could I be honest and open to face my torments? The better part of me, the part I owed to you, Mother, has said no because you raised me strong enough to handle my own problems.

Green lights and more green lights seemed my curse. I had to make a decision. I was at my destination twenty minutes early in a massive sweat of paralyzing anxiety. Don’t be afraid, brave words I’ve said over and over throughout my life, each time more desperate than the prior time. This time, especially now, courage is needed to guide my car into the parking lot sectioned with yellow lines.

Mother’s willpower and mine have knotted my stomach as if there were two people inside of me who wanted their way. Prayers have to guide me now. Help me, God. Help me to accept this journey.

'

God has won. He’s given me a shove. I can’t stop the momentum. Minutes have passed without pause. I’ve opened the car door and walked past the handful of cars toward an arched wrought iron gate reminiscent of New Orleans and its mystery. What was ahead on the flagstone pathway that curved to the left? God has held tight. He led me into an oasis of yellow and white rose bushes, a door-sized urn fountain whose water smoothed over blackened pebbles set above an eternal fire pit of sandstone and slate. My tangled, wrinkled life has softened to the classical music played through speakers strung throughout the ample shade trees. A dozen wooden doors have nameplates; hers was number 5, Dr. Iris Hayes, Psychiatrist.

'

Dr. Iris Hayes looked the same. A pristine, sophisticated woman with squeezable curves in a black scoop-necked jersey dress and black pumps extended an Omega-watched handshake.

Hello, Stephanie. I’m glad to see you.

Her watercolor blue eyes met mine as if for the first time. No, I hadn’t made a lasting impression. She doesn’t remember me, probably because I said I found her name in the phonebook, so I won’t have to apologize for not previously contacting her.

Thank you for making the time, Doctor.

My chair, I liked its shape and color, powder blue, winged back, allowed an unobstructed view of the shade trees and courtyard sanctuary. She faced me in an identical chair.

I love the garden, was the second trite thing I said to ease my nerves.

She smiled and clasped one hand onto the other in her lap.

A project the tenants did for the home we’re at most of the time, she spoke then turned to look through the double-wide picture window. Her blemish-free skin, absent of overtanning and intense makeup, brown-toned cascading ponytail, long neck, and enviable cheekbones were as understated as the garden that was before us.

Do you have a garden, Stephanie?

Yes, I have a small yard with daisies and lavenders. It’s a work in progress.

I find that working with your hands is the best therapy, she responded, still in avoidance of any eye contact.

Unsure of what to say or expect next until it was clearer, I decided to internalize the tranquility of her uncluttered wooden desk, mocha leather sofa, round glass coffee table, and several potted lilies and violets scattered on metal side tables. The muted peach walls were a canvass for framed degrees and four flowered paintings by Georgia O’Keefe. I resonated to the vivid colors of Blue Morning Glories, Purple Petunias, Red Canna, and Yellow Cactus. I didn’t want to leave.

Tell me a story, Stephanie. Tell me your story, Stephanie. Start at the point when it feels right.

She broke my concentration like glass when she abruptly turned around.

What a cruel trick. I saw this whole five minutes of silence as a relaxing trap so I would talk. What response could I give to that kind of personal question? Wasn’t she supposed to ask me questions first? How are you? What brought you to my office? Could I trust her? Mother was right. I should manage my own problems, which is why I have Jennifer, Tara, and Rachael. I’m expected to say something or I need to leave right now. Her poker face won’t budge until I’ve said something. I don’t understand was my poker face.

This is why you have come to see me, is it not? She bluffed well.

Yes, I suppose I did. I mean, yes, I want you to help me, I folded.

She nudged forward, and the distance between us was sliced in two. She has, by her magnetic, probing, questioning eyes, stripped me of pointless defenses. If I left, Mother would have won and God lost. If I stayed, God won and Mother would hate me more. The night shadows’ ominous voices, the ones who stole all my sleep, lurched in the foreground. I couldn’t handle it anymore. Madness surrendered.