There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me by Brooke Shields Page A

hat. It was a sunny day but I still wanted to wear my new coat and hat. Mom insisted that it was unlikely that the rain would fall and that I’d be hot and uncomfortable. The way my mom told the story, I walked out of the apartment, and turning to her over my shoulder, I declared, “Don’t worry, Mama, you’ll make it rain.” And, as the story goes, as soon as we went outside, the skies opened and there was a torrential downpour.
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    Around the time I was nine years old, my mother and I moved into an apartment on Seventy-Third Street between First and Second Avenues. It was on the seventh floor of a white brick building called the Morad Diplomat. I was close to my dad, but it was my mother to whom I was incredibly bonded. She was my everything. When we moved in, we had very little furniture. Our first night was spent on a queen-size mattress on the floor, pushed up to the wall. We had sheets, one down pillow, and large multicolored neon crocheted blanket that my mom had taken from a visit to her mother’s apartment in Newark.
    Mom slept with her back to the wall, and I was the inner spoon. I will always remember that I fell asleep peacefully and comfortably. It was one of the best night’s sleep I can ever remember. To me, being spooned has always been an instant sleeping pill. This closeness with my mom gave me the utmost feeling of comfort and safety. In a way it was like being tied to her chest once again, only this time we were side by side. I think we both believed that we would forever exist within this dynamic. I loved the bed being up against the wall and spooning with Mom and being able to see the door. I was in a warm cocoon and had not a worry in the world. We were conjoined and content.
    On those first nights I would say, “Hug me!” and my mom would wrap me up and drape her left arm over my side. She would always ask if her arm was too heavy. It never was, but even if it had been, I was too afraid she’d remove it if I said so. Instead, I always said it was fine. I’m not sure Mom ever gave me her full weight until she knew I was asleep.
    I was becoming so enmeshed with my mother that it was as if my taste buds were affected. I liked Yodels until the day my mother tasted one and said it tasted “waxy.” After my next bite, I concurred and never ate another Yodel again. Actually, I’m not even sure if she disliked Yodels at all. She may have just wanted to get me to stop eating junk. But in any case, her opinions were strong enough to influence how I actually tasted my food.
    I know she was drinking even then, but the effects weren’t clear to me at such a young age. If anything, it seemed to make her more fun and more creative. My mother was always such a great artist and creative crafter. Each Halloween she made elaborate costumes for me. Starting from about three years old and for many years after, she did get off easy because I always went as Charlie Chaplin. I often won first prize for that costume and for my ability to imitate his recognizable waddle and circular cane swing. But as I grew up I beganwanting to wear more fun or feminine costumes. One year she crafted me into a huge blooming red rose. My head popped out from the middle of a layered red crepe rose. She dressed my body in a green leotard and tights for the stem, and on each hand she gave me cuffs of green crepe-paper leaves. I wore the tights over my penny loafers and by the end of the night had worn through them by walking around. Another year Mom made me an exact replica of a tube of Crest toothpaste. She perfectly copied the tube onto cardboard and even included the cap. I was transformed into a dental delight. I was thrilled with the precision of her rendering but it was extremely hard to walk in. I had to take geishalike steps and the edge of the cardboard cut into the front of my ankles. The pain didn’t bother me, though, because it was such a creative costume, and I was proud my mom made it by