All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(53)

I was excited to get my dad’s feedback—his opinion was one of the few I trusted completely and without question. The room was mostly silent as Meagan, Jill, Madeline, my dad, and I made our way through the film with a couple of laughs and groans. I sat on the floor as I didn’t want to be the weirdo that watches her family during screenings.

As the credits rolled, helped along by KISS’s “New York Groove,” I stayed silent. Dad was the first to speak. “Well, you fucking did it. Smashing job.” The rest of the family exalted the film with praise, and each member took turns dissecting parts they loved or were confused by. My dad did have one big criticism: We show the supposed Cannibal Cop eating wayyyyy too much. He called it a “skull fuck.” Did I mention he cursed a lot?

My dad and I had been plotting for months on who to invite to the premiere. I had been, let’s just say, an out-of-work loser for a little bit, and he was grateful to shift gears and have a second kid he could brag about (my ever-achieving twin sister had just started her PhD program). Now that was a wash. I invited the people on our list, but felt super self-conscious, like a junior high nerd sending out Evites to a basement party that people wouldn’t want to go to.

Very true to my modest Midwestern roots, I rented a dress for the occasion. A brilliant blue dress made by Monique Lhuillier, it was bejeweled at the waist, with pockets to tuck my hands in. I looked the part, but now I had to act it.

My sisters and I took a car service over to the venue. I was pretty much silent the whole ride, anxious about the speech I had to make. Meagan asked me not to drink, and I begrudgingly promised her I wouldn’t.

I stepped out of the car in my much-too-high nude pumps from DSW. I regained my composure and was invited to walk my first-ever red carpet for a film I had made. I smiled slyly, making sure not to show any of my slightly crooked teeth. I felt beautiful and cool. Jill came up to me, done up nicely, and asked for my palm. In it she placed a small metal Buddha figurine and squeezed my hand closed around it. Before I could say anything, she said, “Dad would be so proud,” and strode away as quickly as she had come. He had died two months prior, but he would have no doubt wanted the show to go on.

It was time to give the introduction, and I pulled it off without a hitch, making sure to mention Gil’s courage in participating but also my dad’s guidance. I spoke plainly and earnestly into the microphone: “To my father, who taught me truth is a hard-won battle but to strive for it at all costs.” I knew instinctively to mention the living: “To all the women in my little Carr family who are inspirations and give me the strength to carry on.” And with that I sat in the front row and the iconic HBO static reverberated in my head and on the screen. I had done it.

A smile crept onto my face and I felt a rush of gratitude for an opportunity that few are afforded. My dad had told me that being unceremoniously fired would be one of the best things that ever happened to me; he was right. It made room in my life for this. He was always right. Throughout the night, I felt a push and pull of grief and happiness. I was on a panel with Alan Dershowitz, drinking a Shirley Temple with one of my favorite filmmakers, Alex Gibney, and dancing on the bed at the Standard hotel, toasting my dear friends for all the help they had given me. How could he have missed this?





29


    Chatter





When your parent, child, close relative, or partner dies, you get a pass to eat whatever you want. In my case it was buckets of Velveeta Shells and Cheese, the kind my dad used to make when we were kids, white trash by way of the Midwest. The pass also gets you out of work when you can’t hang in anymore, the excuse to cancel on anyone at any time, and, oh yeah, to drink whatever you want. You have real pain. The only way through it is to medicate, right?

After sitting by myself for all of twenty minutes in my apartment I would become twitchy. One night I texted my friend Kathleen and begged her to meet me. We went to a nearby bar where she bought me drinks, even though I knew she didn’t really have the scratch to spare. The feeling of being pitied—I hate that I like it.

I drank eight glasses of cheap white wine over the course of many hours. When we got back to the apartment, I pulled The Night of the Gun off the bookshelf and drunkenly read it out loud. I knew I was making my friend super uncomfortable, but she placated me by listening. What a nightmare. My roommate Yunna was awakened by the commotion and came out and stared at me through bleary eyes. She quietly asked if we could keep it down. I cried and told her I would try. When Kathleen left I continued drinking and reading my father’s book. I could hear him.

It had been two months since my dad died, and while I was spiritually thin, I was otherwise large, the continuous cycle of wine and pasta quickly leading to a fifteen-pound weight gain. Anything to stop the feelings, I muttered inside my own head. After another boozy night, I had to decide whether I was going to get up and face the day or spend it in bed. No one would care either way. I decided to text my twin.


Me: Waking up is the worst

MMC: Tell me about it

Me: How many times have you cried today?

MMC: 5

Me: But it’s not even 10am.

MMC: I know.



I often asked my dad the question “How do you do the next right thing?” He responded, “you wake up and things are better. that’s how.” But things do not seem better upon waking; they feel the same. Limbo.