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  Copyright © 2017 by Kelly Grey Carlisle

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Lisa Amoroso

  Cover images © Caryn Drexl/Arcangel Images, Eky Studio/Shutterstock Images, mindy77/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over a period of time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-created.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Carlisle, Kelly Grey, author.

  Title: We are all shipwrecks : a memoir / Kelly Grey Carlisle.

  Description: Naperville : Sourcebooks, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016040632 | (hardcover : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder--California--Case studies. | Daughters--California--Case studies.

  Classification: LCC HV6533.C2 .C37 2017 | DDC 362.88/13092 [B] --dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016040632

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  I: When We Lived in a House

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  II: When We Lived on a Boat

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  III: A Normal Family

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  IV: The Ends of Things

  35

  36

  37

  V: Where You Come From

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Milly and Callie

  “Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.”

  —Peter Gay (often attributed to Voltaire)

  Prologue

  The Yankee Whaler

  Brunch at the Yankee Whaler was a big deal in our family. The Yankee Whaler was a restaurant on a boat at Ports O’Call, a tourist-trap-cum-old-time-New-England-fishing-village in the Los Angeles Harbor. We went once or twice a year. My grandfather, Richard, would wear a tie—his Old Etonian; his second wife, Marilyn, would wear a dress instead of slacks; and I would wear my Easter dress with white sandals. Marilyn would order mimosas or champagne cocktails, a sugar cube trailing silver bubbles down the long flute, and my grandfather and I would drink Shirley Temples or virgin piña coladas. I loved going there because I could stare out the window while I ate and watch the hulking container ships—Matson Line or Evergreen—glide by on the Main Channel, pulled along by scrappy little tugs. I loved the tug boats, how their sides were covered in tires that looked like big, black zeros, how they chirped and barked at each other with their shrill whistles, the thunder from their massive engines vibrating through the water and up through the restaurant’s floor, sending my bones all aquiver. Sometimes a sea lion would swim by on its way to a buoy, or a line of pelicans might skim along the water’s surface, looking for fish. Once in a while a true motor yacht would come along, all white paint and varnished teak and shining chrome, and my grandfather would make guesses as to its make, vintage, and owner. That was the kind of boat my grandfather had hoped to buy, but he’d had to settle for the Intrepid, a secondhand Coast Guard cutter, currently a stripped-down hull sitting under a blue tarp at Donahue’s Marina.

  But on the day when we waited for Detective Varney to join us at our table, we didn’t sip coladas and mimosas. The channel was empty as I stared out the window; a lone seagull circled lazily above the dark water. I was eight. I had my report cards from school clutched in my lap: a stack of thin, stapled blue booklets marked Carnet Mensuel on the front, my grades handwritten in cursive inside. They were good report cards. I was proud of them. My grandfather had told me to bring them to show the detective. My dress was stiff, and its tag scratched the back of my neck. The glass goblets of ice water on our table sweated. I took a small sip from one, careful not to spill, then put it back, precisely over the water ring on the white cloth. My mouth was soon dry again.

  When the waiter showed him to his seat, Detective Varney shook my grandfather’s plump hand and patted his back, as if they were old friends. This puzzled me because I’d never met the detective before. He shook Marilyn’s hand, and when he saw me standing beside the table, Detective Varney grinned. He stooped down to put his hands on my shoulders. His tie grazed my nose.

  “You sure did grow up to be a pretty little girl, now, didn’t you? Last time I saw you, you were just a bitty thing.” He held his hands a foot or so apart to show me.

  My mother had been murdered when I was three weeks old. This was the detective who’d found me nestled in a pulled-out dresser drawer in a Hollywood motel room. My grandfather had explained these things to me a few weeks before, the first time I’d ever heard the truth about her death.

  When I remember that day and Detective Varney, I picture Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue—balding, kind of pudgy—but I know that isn’t right. A portrait from the beginning of Detective Varney’s career in the sixties shows an attractive man, clean-shaven, with intense eyes and full lips. In newspaper pictures from the Hillside Strangler investigation in 1977, he is tall and thin and sports a plaid coat and thick mustache. He is older than in the first picture, a little stooped as he walks next to Kenneth Bianchi, but still handsome and distinguished.

  The adults began to talk about the detective’s family, retirement, boats. I listened quietly. I used my best table manners, holding my fork the English way, taking small bites.

  Halfway through lunch, Marilyn nudged my arm gently and whispered, “Don’t forget to show Mr. Varney your report cards.”

  “Yes,” said my grandfather in his English accent, not whispering. “She goes to a Frog school. Le Lyçée de something-something. In Redondo Beach. What is it, love?”

  “Le Lyçée Français de Los Angeles,” I said softly. Speaking French embarrassed me. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me to say it again.

  “Yes, that’s it. She’s doing very well there. They teach her French.”

  I’d placed the stack of report cards to the side of my plate when our food came, and now I pushed them across the white cloth to Detective Varney. He took them and glanced over each one, his glasses pulled slightly down his nose. He nodded and smiled. “Very good.”

  I smiled back. I wanted him to like me because somehow I felt as if he were connected to my mother, as if he’d known her. I was about to ask him what she had been like, but then it occurred to me: they’d never actually met.

  I thought I should ask him questions about her murder. I looked out the window and tried to think of some while the adults resumed their conversation, but I couldn’t come up with any. I already knew the answer to the most important ones anyway.

  A red and white Catalina Cruises boat came by, headed back to the terminal. It was almost empty; you could see through its windows to the other side of the channel.

  Who killed her? No one really knew. My grandfather had explained this to me. How had she been killed? I knew that too. She’d been strangled. Why she’d been killed didn’t seem as important, and who could answer that question anyway? Why did people die? They just did. People died all the time. Other questions seemed excessive, nosy—like the people who slowed down to stare at car cr
ashes on the 405.

  I twisted the cloth napkin in my lap and looked at the table covered with white linen, the china plates with gold rims and shiny silverware, the goblets of water, the vase of flowers. This wasn’t the right place to talk about things like that anyway. None of the adults had mentioned the murder. My grandfather’s chair was pushed close to the table, its edge digging into his round, hard belly. Marilyn smiled pleasantly, nodding as the detective spoke about his travel plans. She sat straight in her teal dress, her smooth hands folded delicately in her lap. Perhaps there would be some other time I could ask questions. Maybe when I was older. I imagined interviewing the detective when I was a grown-up, a teenager, dressed immaculately in navy silk, white pearls, and high heels, looking like Nancy Drew. Nancy’s mother had died too.

  After dessert and coffee—the bill paid by my grandfather—we all walked out together. We stood by the channel in the bright afternoon sun, the smell of warm tar from the pier mixing with salt air and the intermittent waft of crab cakes and dumpster smell from the San Pedro Fish Market. The cannery down the channel chugged away. The adults talked the way adults did, carrying on conversations long after my interest had waned. I wandered over to the rail by the water. I watched Detective Varney for a moment, the way he towered over my grandfather’s fat frame and Marilyn’s slender one, how he looped his thumbs in his belt and nodded his head without saying anything. Then I turned my attention to the water over the rail, how black it was in the shadows made by the dock, how you could see nothing in it but your own vague reflection, dark, almost sinister. I climbed one rung of the wooden railing, my shoe pushing gray paint flakes into the water. I wondered how deep the water was and what things might be hidden at its bottom. Big grumpy crabs, scallop shells, dropped tools, tin cans, pirate ships. Then it was time for Detective Varney to leave.

  “Kelly, come say goodbye,” Marilyn called.

  I gave him a hug, my cheek resting against his yellow shirt.

  “Goodbye,” I said. “Thank you for helping my family.” I said this because it sounded grown-up and because I didn’t know what else to say.

  I would never see the detective again, would never get to ask my questions, but I’d think of him once in a while, as if he were some benevolent spirit or a guardian angel, the man who’d taken me out of a motel dresser drawer when I was a baby and saved me from harm.

  • • •

  I’ve never understood why my grandfather arranged this meeting when I was so young, or what he thought I could gain from it. But when I ask Marilyn about it years later, she says the brunch wasn’t for me, but for the detective. In fact, that was why my grandfather had told me about her murder in the first place. He and the detective had stayed in touch in the years since my mother’s death. Mr. Varney was retiring, and the brunch was my grandfather’s retirement gift to him. He knew that the detective had seen only the bad endings of stories, the lives that ended in death, wives made widows, children made orphans. Detective Varney had worked on the Tate murders, the Hillside Stranglers, and Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, as well as my mom’s murder and hundreds of other nameless cases like it. When my grandfather invited Detective Varney to lunch, it was to show him a happy ending. I was the happy ending, eight years old, still alive, doing well in school, loved. All these things were true.

  If that had been the plan, to show the detective a happy ending, I don’t think my grandfather would have left his thoughtfulness unmentioned. And so now, as I remember that brunch at the Yankee Whaler, I imagine the conversation on our way back home to Palos Verdes, twenty minutes from the harbor and just south of Los Angeles proper.

  “Well,” he would have said, speaking louder than he needed to over his Mercedes’s diesel engine and looking back at me in the rearview mirror, although he was really talking to Marilyn. “That went well, I think. Good thing to do, show him a happy ending. God knows what he’s seen.”

  And perhaps that conversation—experienced then but imagined now, when my recall of it fails—is why this memory of meeting the detective is a happy one for me, one colored more by the golden light of that afternoon than by its shadows.

  I

  When We Lived in a House

  1

  My grandfather’s bedroom, dim with afternoon shadows, was the smallest room in our small house, tucked behind the kitchen and furnace. The floor creaked as I walked in, and I held my breath a moment at the sound, then exhaled again. His room smelled of cedar from his closet, the Yardley’s oatmeal soap and lemon-lime Barbasol from his bath, and the sharp tang from his unmade bed. He had diabetes and often left his electric blanket on its highest setting, so that, although he never stopped being cold, he sweated constantly under the covers. When I was seven, I didn’t mind the smell. In fact, when I was sick, I liked to sleep in his twin bed, precisely because it was smelly and always warm. His bedroom smelled exactly like him, and I loved him.

  His desk was a lawyer’s desk—massive, wooden, ornate—that took up a quarter of his small room, but he wasn’t a lawyer. His desk chair was a corporate president’s chair, a brass-studded leather armchair on a swivel. Technically, he was a corporate president—of a tiny Nevada corporation called alternately Delta Publishing and Portola Investments, whose sole interest was a video store on Century Boulevard in Inglewood, just east of LAX. A messy pile of papers several inches thick covered the desk; a smaller stack sat on the floor where they had slipped off the pile, gathering dust and fur. It was the favorite napping place of our tabby, Klutz, and as I moved the chair, she gave a small grunt.

  If one were to explore the papers on my grandfather’s desk—something strictly forbidden, but which I often did anyway—one would invariably find illegible notes on yellow legal pads, overdue bills, unopened notices from the Writer’s Guild, copies of Yachting and The Economist, a creased black-and-white spanking magazine, folded to the Readers Write section, as well as old classifieds from the LA Harbor Log, in which my grandfather had circled certain boats in blue ballpoint, pressing the pen so heavily that the newsprint tore. Sometimes at the bottom of the pile, or sometimes in the top drawer of the desk, I’d find my grandfather’s gun—a black metal thing with a brown plastic grip. Under no circumstances was I to touch the gun, but kneeling on the chair, with my legs tucked under me and the chair-back hiding my body, I often did, rubbing my fingers along its barrel. There was also a bayonet, given to my grandfather by one of the clerks who worked in his video store, who got it from a friend who’d served in Vietnam. It was 1984; the war had ended before I was born, but grown-ups still spoke of it in hushed tones. I didn’t often touch the bayonet. Its dull metal was streaked here and there with rust-colored stains, which I imagined was someone’s blood.

  But that particular afternoon, six months or so before I would find out about my mother’s murder or meet Detective Varney, I wasn’t looking for the gun or the bayonet but for things that felt almost as dangerous: pictures of my mother. I knew my grandfather had them because, the night before, he’d shown them to me. Marilyn had been out teaching ESL at Harbor College, as she did every Tuesday and Thursday night. After dinner, my grandfather had called me into his bedroom, then drawn two photographs from the papers on his desk. He held them in front of me with his sausage fingers, putting his fingerprints all over the image, something Marilyn always warned me not to do with photographs.

  One picture was of the back of a little girl petting a cat, and another was of her blowing out candles on her birthday cake. There were nine candles. I had just enough time to count them before he turned the pictures around to look at them himself, his bushy eyebrows furrowed over his thick glasses.

  “That’s Michele when she was a little girl. She looked like her old man, poor thing,” he said. He meant himself.

  I squeezed around next to his chair so I could see them again. I couldn’t see my mother’s face in those pictures; her back was turned toward the camera. The little girl had red hair, and in both pictures, she had on the same dress. She was chubby, with stubby arms and legs. Before I saw those pictures, I’d always thought of my mother as a tall, graceful woman with long hair and soft, cool hands, the way Marilyn’s hands were cool on my forehead when I was sick. Marilyn, so much younger than my grandfather, was the right age to have been my actual mother, and so I’d always thought of Michele as being Marilyn’s age. I’d never thought of my mother as a nine-year-old, someone not much older than me.