The Story of H

I first met H in the early nineties in Los Angeles California. I was visiting an old pal/sometimes lover from Niagara who had moved to L.A. and was working on the ground breaking David Lynch series, “Twin Peaks.” I was having a horrible time as he spent all day working, I had assumed we would spend the week more on the lover side but arrived to find he had a girlfriend and the clincher, I didn’t drive. The only other people who didn’t drive in L.A. were homeless, criminally insane or both and I met several of them on my daily walks around the Hollywood Hills. My pal Chris did arrange for me to spend a day sightseeing with an Australian friend of his who was working as John Schlesinger’s assistant. Brett picked me up in one of Schlesinger’s sports cars, drove me to Malibu where he basically berated me the entire day. A seasoned misogynist, he yelled at me for getting a sunburn, challenged everything that came out of my mouth and when he dropped me off at the end of the day, said he had a great time and we should do it again. I asked him if I had been in the washroom during the part where he was having a great time and he rolled his eyes and peeled out of the driveway.

The evenings were spent socializing with young industry hipsters that were friendly in a- “I’m pretty sure you can’t advance my career but just in case I’ll talk to you” kind of way. The girlfriend hated me which I totally understood, and Chris spent his time avoiding the whole mess. The Hollywood scene was as creative as a Sears Christmas catalogue and it depressed me that this was the centre of the universe where the majority of our movie watching decisions were made. It depressed me that Arnold Schwarzenegger was considered an actor and that box office numbers translated into industry respect. When Chris told me his friend H from New York was in town and would be coming over for the evening, I braced myself for another soul sucking evening.
H entered the room like a perfect storm. Long wavy blonde hair, no makeup, wearing jeans and sneakers, she dropped her knapsack on the floor and said; “I am here for no more than 48 hours. I can’t stand to be in this shit hole for any longer.” I came out of my trance and perked up a bit but still held back. The night was young; it was L.A., people turn on a dime.

We exchanged pleasantries and she went over to peruse the book shelf. She barked out a guffaw as she pulled a book on EST, California’s latest craze in the personal transformation vein that was sweeping the nation. Chris had attached himself to it and had spent his last visit to Niagara trying unsuccessfully to convert his group of jaded Niagara on the Lake friends to join the movement. I was really warming to this gal as we gathered our things to head out to another evening on the scene. Later that evening as things were getting boisterous, I heard H say, “Who is that Australian asshole, he just yelled at me for 5 minutes!” I looked her in the eye and said, “We gotta talk” And talk we did.

The next day, Brett the misogynist invited H and I over to Schlesinger’s house to swim and hang out while his boss was out of town. Neither of us drove so after he yelled at us about that for a few minutes, it was decided he would pick us up at 11 am sharp the next day. We both detested him but decided that was no reason to deprive ourselves of a day drinking smart cocktails poolside at the famous directors digs. After Brett showed us where the drinks were and advised us not to expect him to be waiting on us, we settled into our lounge chairs. We devised a game where we would talk about Brett using someone else’s name so we could rip him to shreds in his presence without him catching on. It worked beautifully and Brett realizing we weren’t interested in him at all, soon went off to play on his own though occasionally would flex his muscles and dive into the pool to do a series of laps for our benefit. Okay, I can be shallow too!

Throughout the day I discovered the background on H which was pretty remarkable in itself. H was the child of a famous Oscar winning actor who was really at his peak in the 60’s through to the 80’s. Her mother was an actress and corporate heiress who hailed from one of the wealthiest families in America.I mean ridiculously wealthy as in Rockefeller, Getty or Johnson. Her mother had homes in Beverly Hills, New York, Palm Springs, the Hamptons and Colorado. Not just homes, estates that were fully staffed at all times. So basically while I was gob smacked over Schlesinger’s gold plated taps in the bathroom and the original art collection, this was chump change to H. I had heard bits and pieces about this but she divulged slowly and not until we had established an intimacy in our conversation that made her comfortable that we hit it off because of her personality not her pedigree. She was one of those people that have a natural and honest curiosity about life and its inhabitants and though that may not sound unique, it really is rare to find someone who has the time to really do it. She could observe a situation, sum it up, offer advice, seek advice, discuss, dissect, and discourse, all without being preachy, pompous or judgemental. Add a dry sense of humour that doesn’t miss a trick and you have just what the doctor ordered for my sojourn in the city of lost souls.

As the sun was going down, a petulant Brett feeling bruised by our lack of attention, informed us that the rest of the group would all be coming to meet us for dinner. While H was inside, I asked him I could use his shower and he directed me to his bedroom, told me to use his hair products sparingly as they were expensive and shut the door behind him. When I returned downstairs, H was acting a bit odd, suddenly distant to the point where I asked if something was wrong. She said, “I don’t know how to say this but did you just go have sex with Brett??” I burst out laughing and asked why on earth she would think that after we had just spent the last eight hours bonding some of which included Brett bashing in great detail. Well, apparently while I was in the shower; she was calling me unaware that I had gone upstairs to take a shower. As she stood at the bottom of the stairs, Brett opened the door to his room buck naked and said, “She’s up here.” She naturally concluded that this was L.A. and anything was possible though she was disappointed that she had misread me. After we sorted that up and reaffirmed Brett’s biggest asshole in LA status, we carried on as before.

We scrolled through Schlesinger’s rolodex and drank and dialled Michael York’s answering machine. We compared the merits of spokes-model vs. infomercial host and jumped on the bed that Mick Jagger had allegedly had a threesome. We sequestered ourselves in a corner smoking buckets of Marlboro lights, revealing, mocking and judging.
The next day H was scheduled to go back to New York but I was having none of that. I told her she couldn’t in good conscience leave me here for the rest of the week with this emotionally bankrupt crew, my host whose girlfriend had broken up with him due to my presence in his house and four more agonizing days that offered little but a good slap upside the head by Brett. She saw my point, cancelled her flight and stayed on until I made it back to Canada.

A month later she flew to Toronto for my birthday and so began a 17 year friendship , her flying to see me in Toronto most of the time and me flying to see her in New York some of the time. On her first visit to Toronto, I suddenly had host city panic. She hadn’t been to the city before so I wondered what was expected of me. I hated sightseeing almost as much as I hated board games but I braced myself for the inevitable show and tell. When she arrived, I laid out a potential itinerary of local landmarks and she looked at me like I had three heads. “I thought we would just smoke and drink and watch movies in your living room and maybe, maybe go out for cocktails somewhere down the street if we are up to it.” God has created the perfect houseguest I thought to myself.

And vice versa when I went to visit her in New York, though her version was her Mother’s penthouse overlooking the East River in a building on the Upper East Side. It was very easy not to leave the penthouse though we did venture out late at night to some of her favourite haunts. The first morning in New York, I was awakened by a butler in black and whites serving me a breakfast tray in bed. “This feels kinda weird”, I noted but H assured me that we had to let him do this as her mother wasn’t often at the property and he felt like he never got to really do his job. His job also included keeping the kitchen stocked with our favourite food, wine and cartons of Marlboro lights. I could get used to this. But besides this glaringly obvious difference in our lifestyles, I never really felt that money was what made her tick. I know that money can’t buy happiness, but it can sure free the mind and wallet to do what makes you happy!

H travelled extensively and would arrive in Toronto with her impish smile, back pack, jeans and sneakers from exotic locales around the world. She had friends dotted all over the map and would think nothing of hopping on a plane on an hour’s notice to come to Toronto for the weekend or Ireland or Timbuktu if that’s what called her. She was never showy about money though and could smell an opportunist from 50 paces. Though I do remember a night in Toronto as we had some cocktails at a hotel we spontaneously decided we wanted to meet up with some friends in Niagara on the Lake so H went to the concierge and rented the only transportation they had available, a white laser limo. We picked up a friend on the way, took the concierge who was finishing his shift with us and peeled down the QEW. As we pulled up at the quaint Oban Inn Lounge with music pounding and lasers ablaze, one of the bartenders exclaimed, “Holy shit, I think the Temptations have just arrived!”

I remember her once telling me she went to an Irish bar in New York one day and sat beside Gabriel Byrne. She then went to an Irish bar 36 hours later in Ireland and sat beside Gabriel Byrne. She called me from Heathrow airport thrilled by a sighting of Mother Theresa peeling through the airport. “That woman is built for speed!” she stated. These were normal occurrences in her life and she believed that very little was accidental. Once when I was bemoaning about a serious crush I had on a man that wasn’t available, she definitively told me that when we have strong feelings for someone, it is because on some level they are feeling the same way. I loved this theory and I’m sure it would sit well with stalkers around the world as well. She believed in the spirit world, chance meetings and old souls of which she was most definitely one. H was one of those people who make you believe that anything is possible.

Like many kids of the rich and famous, she had a sometimes conflicted family life with a roster of half brothers and sisters from various marriages. She was the only child from her parent’s union and I sometimes felt the fractures of a family life that had so many layers. She adored her father though often butted heads with him and went through phases of non-communication. Her mother, she described as beautiful and one of the kindest, sweetest people on earth though a frosty relationship with her mother’s latest husband sometimes had H keeping her distance. H fell in love many times, even got engaged to a dentist in Dayton Ohio for a while but inevitably she would leave. I could never imagine someone grounding her.

As the years passed and my life settled into marriage and motherhood, we didn’t see each other as often though kept in touch through email and phone calls. I could go 2 years without seeing her and pick up like it was yesterday when we met. When I was pregnant, H sent me a cake from North Carolina because it was something her sister who was also pregnant was craving. When I told her I was getting a divorce, she flew into Toronto and booked us into the Four Seasons where she said we would drink Caesars, order room service, watch a marathon of movies and talk, talk, talk. As we were checking in, the elevator doors opened and a 6 foot 7 inched, Tommy Tune whisked through the lobby in a cape and full masquerade ball feathered mask. This didn’t surprise me at all.

On her last visit, I picked her up at the airport (yes I was driving finally) to take her to my place in Niagara. She emerged, bottle of duty free Grey Goose as per usual though we had long since given up the Marlboro lights. She looked somewhat elegant. The sneakers had been replaced by knee high boots and her hair had been dyed a fabulous shade of red. She met me at the exit and breathlessly said, “We have to wait, Heather Locklear was on my flight and she is just the cutest thing.”

She was coming to visit me at my cottage in Niagara, my landing after my marriage ended.
It was an unseasonably warm November and we sat on my porch drinking Caesars and chewing the fat, analyzing, speculating and commiserating. She had initially thought that moving out of Toronto was a mistake and I was anxious to show her why my little world in Niagara made sense. I started to wonder if her life of so many choices had made it impossible to make choices. Hers was a world of never ending possibilities but also an underlying loneliness. Our friendship at this point had a longevity that had its own short-hand and in a year that had been tumultuous, it calmed me to have her there. We kicked back old school and when she left, I was exhilarated and exhausted just like the old days.

A month later, she called and said, “Are you sitting down?” My god, I thought, she’s really going to get married this time. “I have ovarian cancer, but not to worry because there is no way this is going to take me. It just isn’t going to go that way.” I believed her too because when H put her mind to something, there was no stopping her. In the following months she went through a series of treatments both experimental and traditional. She was always upbeat and flatly refused to acknowledge anything but a mild inconvenience this whole business was causing. She sent pictures of her newly shaved head and told me that she had purchased a series of wigs that made her look like alternatively Cher and a drag queen. I know this is starting to sound very “Beaches” and I apologize profusely for that but she really looked at the whole damn thing as an opportunity to re-evaluate.

After her hysterectomy, she emailed me saying, “Sweetie, the hysterectomy was tough, but they got it all and I am now on the road back” I was elated and frankly not surprised that she had shooed it away.
I wrote her a love letter that every great friend of many years deserves to receive and we shouldn’t wait for the “Big C” to deliver it. The next conversation wasn’t so hopeful. They hadn’t gotten all of it and now there was talk of having to have a colposcopy bag which she refused on no uncertain terms. It was the first time I sensed any panic in her voice as she said, “This is not how my life is supposed to go”

The week after, she told me she was going to Brazil to see a healer named “John of God”. Her specialist in New York had nothing left to offer so who was I to question. I told her I loved her and to keep in close touch. That was the last I heard from her. H went off the radar having travelled to Brazil with her cousin and best friend N. My phone calls and emails went unanswered. A few months later, I received a call on Mother’s Day from N saying that H had spent the last few months in Argentina exhausting all avenues of experimental treatment until she was finally too weak to return to New York. Her family flew out to say their good-byes and N crawled into her bed and held her as she left this world.

H left a letter with very specific instructions when she knew she had lost the battle. I share a few highlights:
“I am writing this to let you know what my wishes are after I have moved onto that Samba line in the sky.
She requested her ashes be scattered on Macaroni Beach on her favourite island of Mustique. She chose a list of close friends and family that she invited to spend a week at her expense celebrating her life on the island. She wrote:
“I’d really like it to be a celebration of a life that I loved, the love, joy and laughter that all of you brought me, and the fact that I have gone happily to the next state of consciousness. Don’t forget energy cannot be destroyed, it just changes.”

In addition to the week-long celebration was an insistence that the spreading of her ashes must without question be followed by a dinner party where everyone must attend in drag, wigs mandatory, no exceptions.
To be continued…