Keep Growing, Keep Growing, Keep Growing

The story broke in January. The headlines yelled: James Frey Conned Oprah! At the time, I was on a solitary retreat in a remote area of the country. No television, no radio, not even a newspaper. So I missed the media frenzy. But Adam, my brother, recorded the talk shows on TiVo.

Oprah.
Larry King.
Oprah again.

Recently, I was able to catch up. I even watched the South Park satire “A Million Little Fibers.”

The first Oprah show was sensational – the way the camera slowly panned empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts. The way Oprah’s commanding voice cried out, Frey is every parent’s worst nightmare! And the way Oprah tracked down a woman who checked into rehab after reading Frey’s words: “Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Oprah even arranged a meeting between the two.

I ate it up.

Later, Oprah would accuse James Frey of being “sensational” when he said he changed identifying facts of Lily’s suicide (a common practice in memoir for privacy reasons). But that’s beside the point.

Larry King’s talk show was good – I respected James Frey for addressing the book’s embellishments on live television. I doubt many writers would do that.

Last July, I met James. I’d been a writer for six months when I saw him eating lunch with his family in Santa Monica. When I approached the table, he was nice. No, he was beyond nice. He was warm and inviting and encouraging. He asked about my writing, he gave me his e-mail, he told me send him pages. He said, “If I can write a book, you can write a book. Keep writing, keep writing, keep writing.”

When I watched the second Oprah show, my stomach burned. Her punishment didn’t fit the crime. Then Oprah stroked her back for being honest about her mistakes. Fine. But shouldn’t James also be applauded for admitting his mistakes?

“Do you think you’d feel differently if you’d never met James Frey?” my husband asked.

I had to think about that.
I don’t know.
Maybe.

But I didn’t feel differently about Frank McCourt when he admitted inventing a character in Angela’s Ashes. I didn’t feel differently about Martha Beck (a regular columnist for Oprah magazine) when I read that her family was suing her over alleged fabrications about sexual abuse in her book Leaving the Saints. I simply wondered why these writers weren’t on Oprah’s couch too, hashing out the issues surrounding memoir and autobiography, journalistic truth and emotional truth.

In the end, I came to one conclusion: change is hard work.

James Frey changed. He was drunk and angry and mean. Now he’s sober and figuring out how to be gentle and kind and giving. Oprah also changed. She’s conquered her weight battle, among other life challenges. In fact, she’s the queen of personal change.

I admire both of them for that. Especially because I’ve been trying – the past year especially – to make changes in my own life. Every day I strive and fail. Every day I make mistakes. Sometimes though, I can look back and see a little growth. In those moments, I remember: keep growing, keep growing, keep growing.

Meltdown

There were warning bells. The first one sounded in February, the day Ron gave notice to Genworth. That night, Ron and I walked from our apartment to one of “our spots” – an Italian restaurant down the street. He was excited about his new job, his new responsibilities, and our move to Maryland.

I was eating a Sonoma salad and not so excited.

Ron kept talking, eyes dancing, sputtering on about the direction our lives were taking.

“Hang on,” I said, chomping lettuce and waving my hands in the air. “I’m happy for you babe, I am, but this isn’t easy for me.”

Ron set down his Arnold Palmer.

I swallowed a hunk of chewed spinach.

“In fact, I feel a big cry right here.” I pounded my sternum. “It hasn’t worked its way up to my eyes yet, but there’s a lump in my chest, so it’s coming.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’m just warning you,” I said again. “A big cry is coming.”

“Okay,” Ron said. “I’ll give you space.”

“Heck, no,” I shook my head. A tassel of hair fell out from behind my ear. “When I have my meltdown, you are going to sit right by my side and hand me tissues and rub my back.”

Ron laughed.

I laughed.

Time went on.

But I never cried.

I didn’t cry when I walked my dog to the beach for the last time. I didn’t cry when I hugged Kari good-bye. I didn’t cry when the movers loaded our boxes into the truck.

As we drove cross-country, I kept saying: “I feel like we're on vacation.”

And I didn’t cry then either.

In Maryland, we checked into a hotel. Our plan was to bunk there for a week until we found a rental property. But nothing felt right. Houses were too big, apartments too small, duplexes too dumpy, rowhouses to expensive.

“Gimme a hug,” Ron said at the end of one long day.

“No,” my voice broke.

The meltdown took me by surprise. Tears shot up and out of my eyes. Ron’s arms were around my body, my face buried in his soft t-shirt. Despite the fact that Ron kept scratching my back – my favorite thing in the world – tears kept dripping, my eyelashes drenched.

I calmed down enough to attempt another online search, except I couldn’t log into the Internet (bad connection). How were we supposed to find a place to live without access to Craig’s List?

“That’s it!” I said. “I’m leaving!” I snapped my laptop shut and lugged my suitcase out of the closet.

“Where are you going?” Ron asked.

I stopped to think. Technically, we were homeless.

I heaved my suitcase onto the bed. “Back to California!” I yelled. “Or somewhere! I don’t know, but I’m outta here!”

I scooped up a handful of clunky plastic bottles from the bathroom and threw them in my suitcase. Ron sat on a chair watching me haul possessions out of the hotel to the car. When I finished loading, I walked back into the room and looked around.

“Come on!” I said to the dog. “Let’s go!”

The dog hopped up from her spot on the rug. I grabbed her leash and marched to the door. But first, I snatched up a bottle of wine.

Then I was gone.

Once I’d driven a few miles, I realized I didn’t want to go all the way back to California. Not without Ron. All I wanted was time alone. Time to think. It was raining, and almost dusk, so I ruled out a stroll through The National Zoo. Besides, I didn’t know how to navigate the traffic circles in this new city. Meditating in an old, abandoned parking lot was going to have to do.

I closed my eyes and slowed my breath.

Dear God, I prayed, I trust you.

Minutes ticked by.

And then an hour.

I began to miss the warm bed in our hotel room. Also, Ron and I were supposed to have dinner with my brother and his fiancée. And I was hungry. Plus, as much as I hated the headaches of the move, there were places I wanted to see. Not just the zoo, but Rock Creek Park. And the Library of Congress. As a writer, I’d been dying to see the Library of Congress.

I went back to the hotel.

The next day, hope happened. All morning Ron and I had been searching – in the drizzling rain – for a place to live. Wet and cold, we ducked inside a random restaurant for lunch. The place was Logan Tavern. The menu looked delicious. The ambiance was hard to describe. It was almost sheik, but not quite. Almost urban, but not exactly. It was comfortable and clean and tasteful. It was us.

“You love this place,” Ron said.

I slid my bowl of carrot ginger soup along the table, closer to my heart.

“So do you,” I said.

Before we finished our appetizers, we knew we'd be back.