I Once Drowned

By Leanna Bright

I Once Drowned is a memoir of the risks taken to save a loved one. Holly Cohen’s life is one of constant instability, continually shifting her identity to match her surroundings—California coast, recording studios, juvenile hall, correctional facilities, even drug dens. Through the comfort and betrayal of family, the joys and sorrows of friendship, and the passion and desertion of lovers, she slowly learns that she must be true to herself, whoever that may be. It is only when she’s pulled under that she can hear the silence, and only in that silence that she can hear herself. I Once Drowned is a story of rebellion, resilience, and rebirth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reverie
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955690652

Book preview

THE LUCKY ONE

I once drowned, and it was quite peaceful. I was three years old.

My twin sister and I had crept through the backyard gate that was left ajar by the pool man. We were fighting over a bathing suit, and my sister pushed me into the pool. The icy water stung my skin as my arms floundered, trying to defy gravity. I breathed in deep, inhaling water and chlorine, and my panic lost the fight to my mortal limits. I surrendered to peace. I remember the silence of the water, the tiny air bubbles floating up, tickling the tip of my nose. I felt peaceful; all fear left me. Blotches of color filled my vision, and then there was nothing.

Apparently, the maid saw me in the pool and pulled my lifeless body out of the water. In a frenzy, she sprinted to my mother, who was asleep inside the house, and woke her. Mom frantically ran to my side. Screaming, she called for the maid to bring her the phone, its long spiral extension cord winding out the door, and she held my lifeless body upside down with one hand around both of my ankles, draining the water from me as best as she could. With the phone lodged between her thighs, she called an ambulance. She did her best. She had once worked alongside paramedics and all of her previous knowledge superseded her distress.

During the scuffle to save me, my fraternal twin, Heather, was hysterical in the corner, completely beside herself.

While the paramedics revived me, my mom prayed to her own deceased mother to save me.

Please, Mom, if you are here, don’t let me lose a baby. If you never do anything for me ever again but this one thing, don’t let me lose her, don’t let her go...

I heard my mother’s prayer in the far distance. As my mouth dropped wide for air, my eyelids peeled open, fixed towards the sky just in time to witness a gust of wind pass through a tree, swaying its branches.

Her prayer was answered. I am here to tell the tale. Not many people can say they died and then came back to life.

From this point in my young life, a pattern began to emerge. I’ve been resuscitated several times: either by the grace of God, my instincts, or a form of love. My life has occurred in a series of cycles—constant rebirths—pressing the reset button until I got it right.

It began in Los Angeles, on a street called Sapphire Place. It suited us, as sapphire is not only mine and my sister’s birthstone, but our mother’s, as well. We were almost born on my mother’s birthday, but instead we arrived early the next day.

My father owned a highly successful clothing store, Brookvale Men’s Clothing, situated in Beverly Hills, California. Dad was the first person to sell unisex blue jeans in Los Angeles. It was a massive hit in the ‘70s, and by 1980 he was a booming success—even celebrities shopped at my father’s store in Beverly Hills.

He hired my mother as an employee. Shortly after, he was swept away by her beauty and Southern charm. It wasn’t long before my mom was his wife, and boss of the newly created women’s department of his business.

My parents were married at the Four Seasons Hotel in Santa Barbara, California, on Valentine’s Day. White doves were released, and Dom Pérignon champagne was on every table. It was an elaborate wedding, appropriate for an elaborately successful man like my father. My parents owned seven motorcycles, a Ferrari, and a Rolls-Royce. Dad’s Rolls-Royce also appeared in a movie starring Richard Gere.

I was told my mother went into labor in the middle of a sip of champagne, while she and my father were eating a divine meal at a lavish restaurant called Chasen’s. They rushed into their burgundy Royce and my father, unable to think straight, struggled to get the car into the right gear. My mother, while in labor, put the car in the right gear herself, and off they sped to Cedars-Sinai Hospital, where my twin and I took our first breaths. Three days after we were born, my grandmother walked in to see my mother bent down on hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor as if it was like any other day. This just about sums up my mother and her resilience.

My parents were, independently of each other, powerful. Aesthetically, they resembled a beautiful Hollywood couple. Mom, with her jet-black hair, hourglass dancer’s figure, and high cheekbones from her Native American background, was stunning. Her pale skin beamed and was given to her from her Irish mother. Mom had almond-shaped eyes and a debutant’s smile that melted you with its warmth. My mother’s Southern accent was often embellished when she was excited or extremely angry; this added to her charm. My father was Mr. California, down to the bright blue eyes and tanned skin. He was polite and polished. He had a strong chin, thick curly light brown hair, and was lean figured. He was always seen with a perfectly shaven face. Dad was organized and logical: always flawlessly dressed, attentive to color, fabric, stitching, and texture. His closet was meticulously organized, and when you hugged him he smelled of fresh laundry detergent. My father was admired for his refined clothing expertise We had casual friendships with leading Hollywood families.

There is a tale of a Grammy Award-winning entertainer going after my father quite aggressively, jet-setting across countries while he went on trips to source material and fabrics for his store. They went on a date. However, when she walked into the restaurant, she asked, Why aren’t you playing my music? In that moment, my dad decided the woman had too big an ego, so she wasn’t for him.

He married my mother and took on her three children from previous relationships, my half-brothers, as his own. Despite being constantly overwhelmed, he was there. He took on the father role with gusto and became the coach for baseball and football games, made lunches, chauffeured school drop-offs, and bought clothing, food, and more. But there were also many lavish parties and passionate fights, and, frequently, long nights of both that changed lives forever for all of us.

CHAPTER TWO

KISSING EMPTY ROOMS

The first time I walked into my very own jail cell, I felt like I was sleepwalking and that soon I would wake up.

I remember the feeling vividly. Am I dreaming or is this really happening to me?

I looked down at my shoes, the shoes they had given me after I undressed bits of my body in front of forty other girls. They were three sizes too big, and no one I told seemed to care. In that moment, at the age of fifteen, I realized I no longer had a voice. Earlier, we had all been made to strip down naked in front of the guards. I had squatted and coughed to show I wasn’t physically hiding drugs.

Your turn, the guard said.

I was half-naked, freezing and exposed.

Squat.

I squatted.

Cough.

I coughed.

The officer forced me into the shower and dumped a bottle of lice treatment over my head. A waft of what smelled like a combination of licorice and alcohol violated my nostrils; the offensive liquid was sanitizing my scalp. My heavy eyelids wanted to succumb to gravity but I used all my energy in an effort to keep them open. I ached to sleep, to dream I was somewhere else far away from this atomic nightmare, and yet at the same time, I shut down within to protect myself from this severe pain and the internal questions that would follow.

The humiliation of the strip search protocol, upon entering juvie, was another piece of my emotional death. The polarity of these concrete walls and shackles compared to only a few months earlier, when I was swimming in my father and stepmother’s pool in Los Angeles, was stark. The guard pushed me along a concrete hallway; I stumbled, almost dropping my towel, bed sheets, and pajamas. I passed a long row of cells and noticed the eyes and voices of many female inmates as they knocked on their doors, whistling and calling me a tweaker. I was immediately labeled as a meth addict. The inmates laughed and the guard chuckled under her breath as I lowered my head and my eyes to the ground.

Is this actually real? I asked myself over and over on the way to my cell.

The officer detached her large key ring from her belt, which was fitted with at least twenty different keys, all jangling into each other. They looked heavy. She unlocked the large steel door, swung it open, and said, Go on.

I took a few steps in, not knowing what to do with myself.

Bitch, my name is Jones, my cellmate introduced herself as the door slammed behind me. Strands of hair jutted out from her disheveled box-braid design. Her bottom lip was discolored, marked with blotches of dark brown and purple, and I wondered if she had been hit. The physical reminder of violence combined with the guards’ disregard for me, the inmates bull-baits from behind steel doors, and the depressing green walls etched with graffiti caused me to mumble to myself, Where am I?

I had posed this rhetorical question to myself, but Jones responded. Bitch, you in jail!

It hit me like a freight train. There I stood, frozen in front of my cellmate, still holding my bed sheets, my towel, and my pajamas.

The awkward quiet was broken by Jones as she asked, What did you do?

I didn’t do it, I said quietly.

She looked at me skeptically, almost with pity. I didn’t either, girl; neither did the girl next door; neither did the girl across the hall. Hell, the guards didn’t either.

Quietly I realized my truth would fall on deaf ears. If I wanted to survive here, I had to play the part.

My mother raised six children in her household. She and my father split when I was six years old. It was only a few years after my mother had given birth to my little brother Dustin that the marriage ended. I was left feeling split in two myself. I have often reflected on the fact I wasn’t the easiest child to raise; I’m inclined to believe my parents would agree.

After my parents divorced, frequently adapting to new homes, neighborhoods, and schools became a common theme in our household. I presume it was due to my mother’s lack of money after the divorce, but each new house was always smaller than the last. I can remember my mom hauling all of us and our belongings to a series of new neighborhoods, new homes. No matter how familiar, the pain of leaving each home always stung. I had a ritual that I didn’t dare tell anyone about.

As my mother’s hands clenched the steering wheel, moments from departure, I blurted out: One last thing! I forgot something in my room. Then I pushed the car door open and ran into the vacant home. I bolted up the stairs to my barren room. By then, the silence had taken on its own voice; it was startling. The house and its space, once filled with bustling life and noise, now was silenced with void space in what felt like its twilight years. I placed my hand on the hard wall and, with a little kiss, I said goodbye to the house as if it was alive. I stood in the middle of the empty room to let the walls speak to me. I wanted each house to know it meant something to me; that even though we only stayed there a short while, I wouldn’t forget it. You are not meaningless, house. You protected us and will forever be with us–well, me. Thank you, house, for holding my family. I see you. You are not overlooked. Look after the next family, and goodbye.

I don’t know where I came up with these words; all I knew was I had to be alone to say them. Living with so many people, at times it was a struggle to hear my own thoughts or when the house spoke to me. But I believe the house said thank you.

And then, we’d dash off to a new world, and I always held a jitter within me, fearing we would never settle. New schools often meant shifting personas. I was forced to transform and change, pieces of what I knew dying and being reborn again. I was being prepared for my future. If I had seen into a crystal ball, I would have trusted that these experiences were teaching me to readily accept change.

The golden days of my childhood beautifully prepared me to be adaptable to anything. At least, that’s how I choose to see it.

CHAPTER THREE

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

The yellow elementary school bus dropped my sister, my brother, and me off at a corner stop about a block away from our beachside home on Ocean View Lane. The three of us would have dramatic, competitive races to our house, starting the moment the soles of our shoes hit the black asphalt road. Our races were almost an angry thing, so full of youthful passion. It wasn’t often that we diverted from our usual mad dash, but every now and again we would catch a glimpse of an older, retired-looking lady outside of her cottage-style townhouse; the roof was thatched with layers upon layers of ashy wood, like something out of Hansel and Gretel. I often wondered about this woman. At night, just as I would drift off to sleep, she would enter my mind. I thought of her as she pulled weeds from her garden and snipped at her roses; I would take note of her long hands with spindle-like fingers. She always wore her hair loose, letting the long white strands cascade down the sides of her thin, tall frame. I found her fascinating, and it seemed as though she noticed.

One afternoon, she caught our gaze. She invited us into her cottage for cheese and crackers.

We were always hungry right after school, so we happily accepted her invitation. We followed her up the stairs to her front door, slowly pausing behind her because she took each of her steps as though she were walking in molasses. We tried not to snicker at her pace, squeezing our lips tightly while looking at each other; we wanted our snack and couldn’t have one of us ruining it for the rest.

As soon as we stepped into her home, it was as if she had been waiting a very long time to show us around. She took a few steps over to a box in the corner adjacent to us.

Look at my pet, she beckoned in a friendly tone, her voice crackling.

What pet? I thought.

We looked at each other and wondered what she was talking about. Her house was cluttered, but she kept everything in neat little stacks; tiny ornaments were perched upon her various shelves and piles of books. She silently reached down into a plexiglass box and pulled out a large tarantula. My face flushed hot and my heart pounded as she introduced her wooly friend to us. I was petrified and kept back, surveying my fearless little brother and sister as they introduced themselves to the little fellow. She stroked the spider and gestured for us to touch him as well, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

He cannot bite you; that part has been removed, she calmly explained.

When she looked at me, I felt I was the only child in the room. She seemed to look into me. It was as if I was observing myself, watching the whole scene unfold before me.

The old woman told us we could call her Whinnie. Compared to my mother, who was take-charge, forever in a state of emergency, and simply didn’t have the time to be curious, Whinnie felt utterly different and alluring. She held a calm, confident demeanor, like a point someone would reach when they have paid their dues. Beyond introducing us to her exotic pet, she unlocked a gateway within me, a mysterious way of living. Her entire way of being was like a visual riddle, and it woke something in me that day; enlightened me. She showed me that there are original people in the world that bestow curiosity and are in possession of something beyond what the eye can see, the creation of a sort of magic. Funny how it can be the most inconspicuous people that penetrate and shape the brain of a young child. She intrigued me, and ever since the first time she invited us into her home, I held a piece of her mystery within myself.

It was a lively and quick-paced life at my mom’s. All of us children ran wild everywhere. We would come home, quickly change into our bathing suits, and take off to the beach, which was footsteps from our door. We would spend hours bodysurfing in the waves, making shapes out of wet sand, flirting with the white frothing dance of the ocean, and return home with salty lips and sun-kissed skin. Our family clan tread everywhere with dirty bare feet. We were unrestrained and free. My mother embraced this way of living.

There was only one rule: when the sun started going down, we were to come home.

I can recall that when we left our first home on Sapphire Lane, my mom headed north. The opposing headlights beat against my worried mother’s face as we sped far down the 101 N freeway. It was as though the faster she drove, the further she was from her life of wealth and a committed marriage to my dad; it signified her goodbye. Previously with Dad, in our home on Sapphire Lane, we had been close to where Michael Jackson’s family lived. Back then my brothers played sports with the children of the Jackson Five, and O.J. Simpson used to toss a football in the front yard with them. When you grow up in L.A., these types of relationships just happen among the wealthy. And then one day, after too much partying, and too many lavish long nights–maybe too much gin over too many years–you find it’s all gone, and you have no idea how that happened.

My family had relationships with stars, big and small, most of which were made through my father’s business. But my mom made sure to try and maintain the ones that were important. My godparents were Momma Mae and James Wade. James was an executive at Warner Brothers Records. We were often invited to Momma Mae’s home in the valley. We loved going to her house, even after my parents separated. Momma Mae cooked us homemade salty collard greens and would give us goose grease if we had a sore throat.

Once, we were invited to a birthday party for a family member of the Jackson Five. It was like walking into a carnival. There was a large circus-sized popcorn stand at the entryway, an In-N-Out burger truck parked on a tennis court, and acres for days. A huge pool had brand new, high-tech speakers so swimmers could hear music underwater. There was a floating bar in the center of the pool, and glamorous people were scattered along the edge, wearing large sunglasses and sun hats.

I was playing in the pool, and I needed the restroom, quickly. I darted to my mother to ask where I could use the bathroom. Mom pointed me in the right direction towards the inside of the house. When I came out, there was Michael Jackson, standing in front of me, wearing dark glasses. He was a steeple before me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his sunglass-shielded eyes. He must have been in his mid-thirties. I wondered why he was wearing such dark sunglasses while inside the house. He held my hand to greet me and I noticed how wafer-thin his skin felt. Everything about him was weightless and fragile, and his movements were achingly slow.

Hello, what is your name? he asked. He spoke in a high, soft whisper that I thought sounded more like a girl’s than a boy’s.

Holly, I bashfully replied. Noticing the interaction, my mom quickly rushed over.

Michael continued, Hello, Holly, are you having fun today?

Yes.

He giggled slightly when he saw my mom. He politely greeted her and turned back to me, then pointed behind him to the stairs. There are more toys you could play with up those stairs.

I politely declined, shaking my head, all while my mother gently pushed my back, saying, Go upstairs, honey! See what is up there to play with!

I felt shy, and my mom noticed. I could tell she wanted me to oblige to such a powerful star. But when he spoke to me, I continued looking down, staring awkwardly at the ground. It was eerie. Maybe because I was cold, wet, and no one seemed to notice the vast amount of water dripping onto the floor...but the idea of going upstairs didn’t feel welcoming. My refusal to his invitation confused him, and I turned away, leaving my mother there, and trotted back to the pool.

Mom was left with what she called absolutely nothing after she and my dad separated. I don’t remember the details around Dad losing his clothing store, but one day it vanished along with all the assets and money. We were now forty minutes north from that home near the Jackson’s, and there was no O.J. Simpson playing catch out front with my brothers. My parents lost the business. My father came back for a short while to make things work. I now saw him return home from long days of cleaning carpets, with sweat beaded upon his forehead and dark circles around his tired eyes. My older brother Caleb helped, getting paid a dollar and seventy-five cents an hour.

In our new neighborhood, as one big bunch, my siblings and I would hop on our bikes and ride to the corner shop called The Bottle Shop. I was sent with a signed permission note to buy cigarettes. We bought copious amounts of candy after scrounging for coins and change in my mother’s various hiding places. We squealed in delight as we stuffed our faces with cherry-flavored gum and Kit Kat bars. We loved these moments.

As beach kids, our lives had been splendidly simple, loose, and unchained, but the heaviness of the real world caught up. Our mother’s stress, from trying desperately to keep it all together, was an undertone we tried to ignore but couldn’t escape. Caleb carried the weight alongside Mom, his sense of duty superseding his youth. Being merely twelve years old and looking after children when he himself was a child speaks more to his nature than any descriptions ever could. He would babysit without complaint while Mom went to meetings, or hair appointments, which became a rare activity for Mom after Dad left. Dustin, the youngest brother, always had energy to burn, and as the years went on he seemed to gain even more. Some thought he was out of control, but to Heather and me, this was just his demeanor. He was a bouncing ball, hitting all of the walls at once. His curly, disheveled hair lightly bounced as he tirelessly galloped around the house. His mouth was constantly smeared with remnants of food as his ravenous metabolism churned through calories. We joked he was the Energizer Bunny. He was hard to keep up with; Caleb did all he could to help reign him in. Caleb’s heart, all gold and light, sought to please my mom. I think making her proud and helping her feel secure was all he wanted. He would gently instruct us to clean our rooms, walking from one room to the next to make sure it was done properly. He scrubbed bathrooms while playing U2, UB40, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, and Bon Jovi; he taught me so much about music. He would get up early on Sundays to make his famous waffles or pancakes. When I woke to the smell of sweet batter, I would leap out of bed and race downstairs to be the first served. When it was pancakes, he would patiently wait and watch for the batter to simmer before flipping the cake.

He waved for me to come and watch. Come here, let me show you how this is done.

I stood next to him. Mom watched while having her morning coffee. She was the first one to wake and the last to sleep.

Don’t touch this because it will burn you, he said, motioning to the pan, But see, when there are enough tiny little bubbles coming to the surface, this means it’s ready to flip. Check this out! He flipped the pancake, hollering, Now that’s how it’s done, baby! while wiggling his hips. He did a little dance before making a new one.

Go wake up our brothers and sister. Let them know breakfast is ready, he said.

I dashed upstairs and woke all but my eldest brother, who was missing from his bed. I told Caleb and he sighed. Then my mother walked in, noticed his face, and mirrored his worried expression.

Jeremy didn’t come home, again, he informed her.

Okay, let me call a few people and try to find him, Mom replied. Goddammit, where is he?

I watched her nervously talk into the phone, tapping her long nails against her desk. Sometimes the police brought Jeremy back home to us. Once, the red lights flashing through our front window disturbed our pre-bed movie time and we heard a big, bossy knock at the door...

Shit, Mom said in a panic. She paused for a moment, forced a smile as if she was rehearsing for a movie scene, and with a brave face, she opened the door. We children ran and stood behind her legs, waiting to see what Jeremy had done. I knew he was spending time with a gang; but I still didn’t know what all he did. I always knew when he came home, during the middle of the night, by the sound of his wallet chain rattling as he walked.

By now, Mom knew the sheriff on a first-name basis. He would apologize to her on behalf of Jeremy as if he sympathized with Mom. The moment the door closed she would pop Jeremy on the side of his head, bitterly reprimanding him. What the fuck were you thinking?

My heart broke for Jeremy because I saw that he couldn’t physically defend himself; he would look defeated when Mom would do this. He never raised his hand to her. We kids would run to our wicker toy box, which we could only fit inside after dumping