just stand there, my feet firmly planted. “Good night,” I repeat.
Finally, Raquel starts to giggle. “Ahhhh, you want a hug, don’t you?”
I nod.
Raquel walks over and gives me a big hug. I repeat the same trick every night, and it works like a charm. If I ever see Raquel again, I guarantee I am going to stand there and wait for my hug!
When it all ends, I am so sad and upset to have to go back to New York and my life there. I only wish I could stay in Spain and never leave. At the airport, I feel like the four-year-old I was when I visited Dad and Esther that summer in Italy. But saying goodbye is different this time; it’s even worse. I can tell Dad understands how hard all of this is on me. As we hug, tears well up in our eyes. I am unable to muster the words, but Dad does: “Love you, Son. We’ll be together again, very soon. I promise.”
Dad lets go as I choke back tears. We embrace one last time. Regaining his composure, he then points to my plane. “You better be going, amigo. Your plane is waiting.”
I take one last look at him and Esther. Esther reaches over, hugs me, and says, “Lorenzo, don’t worry, your father and I will always love you.”
I nod. “Me, too.”
The afterglow of my summer vacation with Dad and Esther burns bright during the days, weeks, and even months ahead. On the plane ride home, I feel certain that if things are going to change this time, it will be because they will see to make sure it does. Until then, I remain hopeful and continue to pray that it will happen soon, and we will never be separated again.
The following year, my wish comes true. Mom moves us back to California and enrolls me at Paul Revere Junior High in Brentwood to start seventh grade in the fall. Coming from a New York private school, I place very high on my scholastic achievement test and am allowed to skip sixth grade.
I really love being back. I am eleven years old and living the dream again—seeing my friends, going to the beach, playing in the street until dark.
During the three years we lived on the East Coast, Mom rented out our Pacific Palisades home to Don Knotts, best known as Deputy Barney Fife on television’s The Andy Griffith Show and Mayberry R.F.D. After returning, Mom is furious when she walks into her bedroom and sees a huge blob-like stain on the fancy fabric of her bed’s headboard.
“Mom,” I ask, stunned, “what is that?”
“Well, Mr. Knotts apparently uses hair pomade.” With his Brylcreem or whatever, ol’ Barney used more than “a little dab’ll do ya,” staining the headboard beyond repair.
Shortly after we move back, a television producer woos Mom and sweeps her off her feet. He is Rounseville W. Schaum, chairman of Western Video Industries, Inc. She is now forty; he is three years younger. In early December 1969, she quickly marries him in a ceremony performed by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale at Marble Collegiate Church in New York. He is her fifth husband (his nickname is “Skip”), and two years later they have a son, Rounseville Andreas. Skip seems like a nice fellow but so did Alexis, and before him, Christian, so I never get too comfortable with the idea of him sticking around for long either. Of course, none of those other husbands could ever measure up to my father. In my mind, he is irreplaceable.
My friends all have their own mini-trail bikes, so I have to have one of my own, specifically the new Honda Z50 Mini Trail. I wash cars, mow lawns, and save money, but never enough to buy one. A minibike is on every kid’s shopping list. Finally, I wear my mom out and she says, “Lorenzo, if you have good marks and good behavior, you will get a minibike.”
One day, Skip pulls his flashy white Mercedes into the driveway and pops open the trunk. “Your mother asked me to get this for you,” he says.
Skip pulls it out for me. There it is, right before my eyes, my dream machine. Just as Skip is saying, “Your mother wants you to wear a helmet,” daredevil me hops on and tears off. Before Skip can finish his sentence, I am roaring around the driveway with it. The feeling I have riding it is hard to describe in mere words, but let me try: the roar and vibration of the engine, the sense of freedom and adventure, the thrill and excitement, the speed and danger, the wind in my face. And I am not even out of the driveway yet! Having that bike unleashes a monster inside me. I know from that moment I am a biker at heart.
But the coolest thing about being back in California is being near Dad again. I see him three or four times a week when he picks me up from school. On December 31, 1969, Dad and Esther finally marry after being together eight years. It just happens to be the same month Mom and Skip tie the knot. Esther lives in total submission to my father—right down to honoring his wishes that her children can never live with them. In return, she is faithful and a good life partner who rarely challenges him, unless it concerns something really worth fighting over.
While my own mom is more detached and aloof, Esther is more mothering; she’s how a mother should be, and I develop a close maternal relationship with her. I help her clean the kitchen, fold the laundry, and do the chores. Without fail, Dad picks me up from school; we hang out and have dinner together. Esther usually makes two dinners. The first is for the three of us; she serves at five thirty or six. The second one she takes later to her children, who live in Santa Monica with their father. After she gets back, Dad takes me home.
As dysfunctional as my life is, things settle into a nice routine. The pieces are finally falling into place. For the first time in a very long time, with Dad and Esther in my life, I start to feel part of a real family again. We are doing the kinds of stuff a regular family does. Everything is perfect—for now.
Any chance I get, I ride my Honda bike in and around the neighborhood. It is the closest thing to a motorcycle I have. On weekends, with more free time, I love to explore. One Saturday, I bike up the fire trail to the park near Will Rogers Beach. The terrain is rocky, rugged, and unspoiled, but I manage. Pumping the pedals as hard as I can, I get a strong headwind as I start to descend. Coming down the trail into the parking lot, I suddenly lose control at the bottom of the hill. With my bike carrying a bit of speed, the front wheel washes out and the bike buckles from under me. I land face-first, sliding on my stomach and knees across the hard black asphalt. Ouch!
I lie there in a daze until I realize what happened. With its misshapen frame and bent handlebars, my bike looks like an oversized pretzel. I feel fortunate that is the worst of the damage—until I stand up. My bloodied face has numerous cuts and scrapes and my elbows are bleeding. Then I look down to discover a huge gash across my knee with a large flap of skin folded over the gash. It has not yet started to bleed. When I pull up the flap, I can see the tendon and bone in my knee. I realize this cannot be good, even though I feel no pain at this point. Very quickly, my knee starts bleeding profusely. Within a minute, the whole bottom of my jeans is soaked in blood.
I am a mile from home. There are no cell phones then, not even a pay phone close by. I have no idea if my leg is going to work to get me home, but I give it a shot. I straighten the handlebars on my bike and hop back on. The pain is excruciating as I pedal a little with my injured leg. I pedal and coast, pedal and coast, and pedal and coast the whole way. It takes me twenty minutes, but I make it.
I walk through the front door into the entry hall, then the living room, and about twenty more feet to the dining room. Mom is busy working there on her astrology forecasts and her latest astrology book. I hobble into the dining room and stand there, bleeding all over the floor. I look at Mom and wait a second to see if she notices. She is so buried in her work, I finally say something like, “Hey, Mom, I’m sorry I’m getting blood on your floor.”
Mom snaps her ahead around.
