Excerpt: 'Symptoms of Withdrawal'

Sept. 27, 2005 — -- Christopher Kennedy Lawford, son of the late Rat Pack actor Peter Lawford and nephew of President John F. Kennedy, was born into a life of wealth, power and privilege. But as his new memoir details, such assets did not prevent him from becoming an alcoholic.

"Symptoms of Withdrawal: A Memoir of Snapshots and Redemption" examines Lawford's legendary parents and his life as a Kennedy, as well as his road to recovery. Below is an excerpt from his memoir.

Chapter 1

You can always do it wrong.

That's the beauty of life.-- Anonymous

What happens when you are born with the American dream ful-filled? The dreams that drew my ancestors here had been realized forme at my birth. I was born just off the beach in Malibu, California. Myfather, Peter Lawford, was a movie star and a member of the Rat Pack.My mother's brother Jack would be president of the United States. I wasgiven wealth, power, and fame when I drew my first breath. Now what?

My mother gave birth to me in Saint John's hospital in SantaMonica, California, on March 29, 1955, on the same day that JudyGarland gave birth to her son, Joe, in the same hospital. I was namedChristopher because my mom liked the name and had a thing forSaint Christopher -- the giant Catholic saint who carried the baby Jesusand the sins of the world on his shoulders. I received a Saint Christophermedal on every birthday until he was decanonized when I wasfourteen because the church determined that the evidence of his existencewas entirely legendary. My name lost a bit of its luster on thatday, and I remember wondering if the Church might be able to negatemy existence also.

The circumstances of my birth were further extolled because Judywas up for an Academy Award that year for A Star Is Born and the presswas keeping a vigil. Western Union delivered a boatload of telegramsto my parents from those known and unknown.

We're so happy for you both. He'll be quite a boy.

Love -- Jeanne and Dean Martin

Dear friends -- I'm so happy for you both and may I say youpicked my favorite hospital for this epic event -- and I'm aman who knows about hospitals. Hello to Sister MaryDavid -- Bing Crosby

"Quite a boy."

"Epic event."

I was just out of the womb and there were already lofty expectationsfrom some pretty accomplished folk. Uh-oh! I better get my s***together.

So thrilled for you both. Love Gary & Rocky Cooper

My aunt Ethel sent a telegram that read: What a difference a daymakes. Whew. Little Ethel

She should know. She was pregnant at the time with her fourthchild, David Kennedy, who would be born two and half months laterand become my "best friend to the bitter end."

So Judy's son, Joe, and I were born on the same day to movie starparents in Hollywood, California, and the media were paying attention.From the moment I came into this world, I have had a bizarreand constant relationship with the media. They were rarely there totake a picture of me or get a quote from me, but I was always in themix -- in the glow. I have known many people who have been touchedby fame. For most of them -- whether movie stars, politicians, artists, orcriminals -- it only lasts a short time. They go from ordinary to extraordinaryand back again in the blink of an eye, but the damage done canlast a lifetime. Once you have had a taste of the glare, it's hard to stepback into shadows.

My family has maintained its currency with the press for most ofmy life. Very little we did went unnoticed. A flashbulb or televisioncamera highlighted the ordinary events of life. Years later when I gotsober, I realized for the first time that I thought everybody on theplanet woke up every day and wondered what Chris Lawford and therest of the Kennedy family were up to that day. In fact, it was somethingof a rude awakening when a friend of mine pointed out to methat "there are a billion people in China who don't know who yourfamily is or more importantly, Chris, who you are!"

At the moment of my birth, my father was having lunch down thestreet at one of his hangouts, an ornate and hip Chinese bistro onWilshire Boulevard named for its proprietor, the mysterious and everpresentMadame Wu. He was throwing down some of Madame's famousChinese chicken salad with his sidekick and manager, MiltEbbins, and talking to Cary Grant about the current state of affairs inHollywood, as he awaited the call announcing the birth of his firstchild. Cary was reassuring him. Not about becoming a father butabout his career.

"Don't worry, old man. As soon as you get a little gray in your hair,you'll work all the time. I didn't work for two years, my temples gotgray, and it was a whole new ball game."

My dad began feeling a bit more optimistic, and then the callcame. He thanked Cary for the encouragement by paying the tab andbeat it to Saint John's, with the everpresent Milt in tow, just in time tosee my mom being wheeled, semiconscious, out of the OR. A halfhour later, he opened the door to her room to find her sitting up in bedwith a bottle of J&B Scotch, ready to celebrate. "Come on in, boys,we've got a big beautiful boy. Let's have a drink." A few minutes later,the big beautiful boy was delivered to his celebrating mom and dad.My father looked down at me, saw my rather pronounced oriental features,and declared, "That's not my kid. He looks Chinese. Hey, wait aminute, Pat, wasn't the gardener Asian?" They laughed. And had anotherscotch.

My dad was right. I did look Asian. I was born with a Mongolianfold, which means that my eyelids droop slightly over my eyes. Thiscondition is also referred to as "bedroom eyes" and I have milked ithappily all my life. Thanks, Dad.

I was the first boy born to a mother who was the product of a familywith a long and lusty tradition of glorifying and supporting themale. You can't get more fawned over than a Kennedy male. My motherhad struggled against the yoke of being a talented and willfulfemale in a family and society that didn't really care what the womenwere up to as long as they were having lots of babies. Her marriage tomy father and her subsequent life in California were early attempts tofind her own identity and be noticed outside of The Family. It's a miraclethat I was born at all, given the fact that neither of my parents wasthe marrying kind. They were both thirty. Although my mom was feelingthe pressure of being unmarried, her personality was like my father's.My parents were two willful human beings, from differentworlds, used to getting what they wanted and having their own space.They must have really loved one another to give up that freedom.

When I was a kid my mom often recalled how she tried to escapethat love. "I fell in love with your father the moment I laid eyes on him.He was so handsome. Grandpa sent me on a trip around the world toget him out of my system. It didn't work. I got to Japan and turned rightaround."

Like most women of her generation, all roads led to children andthe creation of family. Procreation was the necessary evil in the grandpurpose of bringing forth God's little angels. I've been told that mymom made the sign of the cross before engaging my father in the necessaryevil. I don't know what she was praying for, but she was pregnantwith me four months after saying "I do."

My grandmother Rose wrote a letter to my mom not long after Iwas born, advising her to write to the Lahey Clinic for high-potency vitaminsso she could "get built up" and "not to wear falsies that are tooprominent as they are not only cheap but tempt you know whom"! I assumeGramma was talking about my father. Well, it didn't work: afterme, they had three more children.

Three girls: Sydney, Victoria, and Robin. A blond, a brunette, anda redhead. All the bases were covered. I was the only boy, the oldest,the king. The way it should be. Pure Kennedy.

When my mother married my father she made a monumental statementof independence from her own father, whom she adored. Joseph P.Kennedy, my grandfather, was the man from whom everything flowed.He was the power, the money, and the brains. My mother was the sixthchild in a brood of nine. Her lightheartedness and vibrancy made her mygrandfather's favorite. My mom called him Daddy, and his actions andwords were glorified and sanctified. His story was legend: bank presidentat thirty, friend and confidant to FDR, ambassador to the Court of SaintJames, Securities and Exchange Commission chairman, Hollywoodmogul, and go-to guy in all things political. More than any male in mylife, my grandfather represented everything a male should be. As I saw it,he was the architect of our world. There was a sense that everything theKennedy family was came about as a direct result of my grandfather'swill. On September 7, 1957, my grandfather predicted in an interview inthe Saturday Evening Post that someday one of his sons would be president,one would be attorney general, and another would be a UnitedStates senator -- all this simultaneously.

It was not just about money and power with my grandfather. Hewas first and foremost about family. His will to power and wealth wasabout protecting his family. His kids loved him more than they fearedor respected him. My mom told me when I was young, "Grandpa gaveeach of us a million dollars when we turned twenty-five. All of hisfriends told him not to do it, saying his kids wouldn't give him the timeof day if they got all that money. It wasn't true. We all still can't wait tocome home." You couldn't keep my mom and her siblings away from"Daddy and Mother." Later I figured out that although Grandpa gavehis children the money to realize their independence, he never taughtthem what to do with it. I always assumed this was because he felt theywere meant for higher pursuits. But it might have been about control.

There was no more dominant force in our world than "Daddy,"and my mom was his little girl. My dad said to me that "your mother'slove for her father took precedence over her love for me."

There is a thin line between love and hate. On the other side ofthis adoration for her father was a deep anger and resentment at not beingallowed fully to live up to her potential. My mom also inherited mygrandfather's interest in dramatics. And she was good at it.

"You know," she would say to me and my sisters, "before all of youwere born and ruined my life I was a television producer for FatherPeyton's Family Rosary Crusade, the program that made 'the familythat prays together stays together' a household phrase and was seen allover the country." She was only half kidding. My mom had the talentto get her share of accolades in the professional world, and though shewore "putting her children first" as a badge of honor, I think she resentedthe limitation. Her proprietary outlook toward all thingsKennedy was her way of participating in the bigger picture of the family'saccomplishments.

My mother was more like my grandfather than were any of her siblings.She had a mind for money, a strong independent streak, and shecould cut you off at the knees with "the look" just like the Old Man.There was no mistaking it when Joe Kennedy was unhappy with you.His displeasure burned in his eyes and straight into whoever was unluckyenough to cross him. I don't recall ever getting "the look" frommy grandfather, but my mom more than made up for it so I have someidea just how unpleasant it might have been. My mother also had herfather's instinct and luck when it came to making money. My grandfatheroften said that, "The one with the best business head is Pat. Ifshe put her mind to it, she could easily take over the business."

I was seven when my grandfather became incapacitated with astroke. My mom found out about it in December 1961 while she wasdriving my sisters and me to lunch. A stranger stopped her and said hehad just heard on the radio that her "father just had a stroke." The onlyvivid recollection I have of him before his stroke was in a park inWashington on a cold day in January before going to PresidentKennedy's inauguration. He was wearing a topcoat and a hat. It was excitingto be with this man, who made my mother beam as he pushedme on a swing, saying, "You are going higher and higher, Christopher.You are going to fly like an eagle." Then he was gone. The next time Isaw him he was in a wheelchair, but for the rest of my life, the voice inmy head that only allows perfection and questions my choices wouldbelong to my grandpa, Joseph P. Kennedy.

Shortly after the inauguration my mom shipped me back to Californiawhile she stayed on in Washington to make sure all was goingwell at the White House. A month later she sent me a note on WhiteHouse stationery:

February 22, 1961

Dear Christopher,

I arrived here yesterday to stay with Uncle Jack until tomorrow.Remember when you were here the day after the inaugurationto see Uncle Bob sworn in as Attorney General? You reallyloved all the beautiful chandeliers so you must come back andsee them soon.Love,

Mommy

Chandeliers …

My mother spent a fair amount of time at the White House whilemy uncle was in residence. I know this because she would always bringme back the place cards and menus signed by some of the folks she washaving dinner with: John Glenn, Douglas Dillon, Dwight Eisenhower,Robert McNamara, Lyndon Johnson, and so on. She might have beengone a lot but she was always thinking about her kids. And the WhiteHouse chandeliers …

My father, Peter Sidney Lawford, was English, Protestant, and anactor, three characteristics that made my grandfather's skin crawl.When my father flew to New York to formally ask if he could marry mymother, my grandfather supposedly said, "If there's anything I'd hatemore for a son-in-law than an actor, it's a British actor!" My mom toldme that he advised her not to marry my father, "shaking his head as heleft the room" after she told him.

My grandfather had my father checked out by everyone fromLouis B. Mayer to J. Edgar Hoover and found that he probably wasn'ta homosexual or a Communist, and he must have figured that hecould live with my dad's philandering.

He ultimately approved the marriage, if only because he probablycouldn't prevent it and he didn't want to lose his daughter. My momwas always willful and determined. Still, it took a lot of courage for herto marry my father in the face of my grandfather's misgivings.

I was born a bit prematurely and weighed six pounds thirteenounces, possibly because my mother didn't like being pregnant andwomen then did not modify their lifestyles to accommodate fetalneeds. She didn't show until the sixth month, ate like a bird, exercisedcompulsively, even skiing in the Canadian Rockies well into her seventhmonth. My father moved out of the Malibu house my mom andhe had moved into soon after their marriage. It was a small two bedroomon the beach that once belonged to Gloria Swanson, who, itwas said, had once had an affair with my grandfather. My grandfatherhad offered to buy them something substantial as a wedding present,but my dad didn't want to live in a house bought by his wife's father.My dad was working on a television series called Dear Phoebe and hadcommandeered the guest room at his manager's house in Beverly Hills.My dad had no idea how to deal with a pregnant wife and my eventualarrival. So he left, citing his need to be closer to work. My momshowed up a few days later. She told my dad that he wasn't getting ridof her that easily -- she was moving into the guest room too. My dad decidedMalibu wasn't that far away after all. I was already causing panicin my parents, and I wasn't even here yet.

Another fact of my birth that was contributive to my buddinguniqueness was that my grandmother Rose, for the first and last time,served as a nurse and helpmate at the birth of one of her grandchildren.She reminded me of this often, "You came a few days early, dear,and I was visiting your mother and father at the time, so I took chargeand took care of you."

My grandmother might have taken charge, but she didn't hangaround very long after my birth. She was a Kennedy, after all, and likedto keep moving, traveling being her remedy of choice. She jumped ona plane to Hawaii as soon as I was handed off to the appropriate caregiver.Still, three thousand miles of Pacific Ocean didn't diminish herambivalence about leaving: "Heartbroken that I left so soon and I donot know why I did, except I thought I should be leisurely and I couldhave easily waited till Wed or even Thurs -- I did try to leave Tuesdaybut it was a day flight -- It is nice here but we would much rather bewith you and Peter and Christopher. …"

My grandmother liked to move and rarely stopped moving. Some-times when you move, it doesn't feel so good. I would come to knowboth these states.Later in life, when locked in the battle with my cousinsto secure the coveted title of Grandma's Favorite Grandchild, the fact thatI was the only grandchild whose birth she actually attended, no matter howbriefly, was my ace in the hole.

My mother and father used to hang out with their friends at theBeachcomber Bar on Channel Road in Santa Monica. Legend has itthat we stopped there on the drive home from the hospital, with myparents proudly placing their newborn son with the Mongolian fold onthe bar and ordering their favorite cocktails. I suppose they thought ofit as sort of a hip Malibu neonatal unit. I wonder if this was when theimprint of alcoholism found me. Or did it always run in my blood?There are certain activities and professions in life that, once you areexposed to them, get into your veins and you're finished. You can't helpbut give yourself over to them. Show business and politics are like that.Once you get a taste, you're screwed. The fast, boozy beach bar life ofmy parents in 1955 was like that, too. Once my bassinet found its wayonto the Beachcomber Bar I was toast. Yes sirree, we had privilege,power, and wealth. What we didn't know was that alcoholism ignoresall that.

I was christened a month later by Cardinal Francis McIntyre at SaintMonica's Church in Santa Monica. My mom showed up with her fatherand a check for a hundred thousand dollars, which she deliveredto the Catholic hospital of my birth before the holy water had evaporatedfrom my tiny Catholic forehead. I'm sure all those zeros hadsomething to do with the good cardinal showing up to do the honors.My father was there with his friend Peter Sabiston, who became mygodfather and whom I never remember meeting or having anything todo with. My father's mother, Lady May Lawford, also attended, andmanaged not to make a spectacle of herself by dissing either me, my father,or the Kennedys -- which in and of itself was a minor miracle. Ifmy father was my grandfather's worst nightmare, my mother was LadyMay's. To her the Kennedys were "barefoot Irish peasants," and mymother was "a b****" who had trapped her beloved son into marriage.

If you believed the hype, my parents' marriage was storybook andpretty damn exciting. There were the presidential visits, the Rat Pack,Marilyn, weekly poker games with Hollywood's biggest and brightest,Vegas, Palm Springs, helicopters to work and an extra limo just for thebags whenever they traveled, which I guess was a lot because I don't rememberthem being around much.

In October 1961, Cosmopolitan magazine ran a cover story on myparents titled "Mr. and Mrs. Lawford, the Hollywood Branch of theKennedy Family." The opening of the article read:

The tall, slender, athletic-looking young man was moving brisklyback and forth between his living-room-sized bathroom and hisbilliard-room-sized bedroom, packing his monogrammed suitcases.Suddenly, he looked up. A small tousled (first-grade-sized)boy was standing in the doorway, arms akimbo. "Going awayagain, Dad?" The boy asked. His father nodded. The boy studiedhis father for a moment or two, then shrugged, lifted his hands,palms upward in a gesture of mock despair, turned on his heel,and walked out of the room. Six-year-old Christopher Lawford,like the rest of his famous parents' friends and family, has becomeresigned to their everlasting moving about from one oftheir glamorous worlds to another.

I don't remember the guy who wrote the article, but he must havebeen there because he sure got it right.

The article went on to describe a week in the life of my mom anddad where they "whoop[ed] it up at a Hollywood party with a group ofthe town's most notable, and nosiest, luminaries"; were "demure anddecorous" at a high society dinner party in New York; and relaxed"over an informal supper at The White House with the President of theUnited States and his wife."

"To the average man or woman" the author noted, "an evening inany one of these worlds once in a lifetime might seem so tantalizinglyremote as not to be worth wishing for. To Peter and Patricia Lawford,this is their life."

It was also the life I was promised. It was a promise never realized.

Soon after I got home from securing my spot in a Catholic cemeterywith my celebrated baptism, two events took place that had a lot todo with how I would view the primary relationships in my life. The firstpretty much sums up my relationship with my parents; the other wasthe birth of my best friend for life.

My father, who had been an only child and was desperately clingingto the remnants of his sacred beach life, decided that having anewborn in the house wasn't going to work for him. I imagine a conversationthat went something like this:

"Pat, he cries all the time. I can't show up on the set with bags undermy eyes. Plus the house smells like s***, it's getting into my clothes.Why don't we rent the apartment across the street for him."

"I don't know, Peter, have you noticed how pricey rentals in Malibuare these days?"

My mother might have felt that getting her newborn an apartmentof his own was a waste of money, but she wanted her marriage to work,so at the tender age of two months I got a place of my own, a coupledoors down from my family house, nice and cozy for me and thenanny.

The second event took place three thousand miles away in Washington,D.C., on June 15, 1955. It was the birth of my cousin and futurebest friend David Anthony Kennedy to my uncle Bobby and auntEthel. I would not realize its impact on me for many years.

Snapshot:

I awoke from my afternoon nap irritable and discontented. Mydiaper was wet, and I wanted off my back and out of this goddamncrib. I spent way too much time in my crib. I was alwayswaiting for someone to do something to me or for me. I spentmy life either unconscious or waiting to be serviced. Not a badlife if you can get it. I made this work for me long after I wasout of diapers. I wasn't as cute, but I was just as helpless. Toobad it doesn't last. Anyway, on this particular day I was onceagain waiting for them to come and take me out of the foursidedprison with the stupid puppy dog mobile that dangledoverhead in their failed attempt to keep me occupied. Today,three heads appeared over the railing: my mother, Mrs. So-and-So, who had been changing, feeding, and servicing mesince the last Mrs. So-and-So, and somebody I had never seenbefore.

You know, now that I think about it, I don't think I was ever breast-fed.I can't be sure, but I'd lay odds. It was 1955 in America, and not manywomen in the upper echelon were cramming their mammaries intothe mouths of babes. This isn't something I might be able to verify oneway or the other. There are definitely no photos, and this would nothave been a conversation my mother would be comfortable having,being old-school Irish and all.

My theory goes like this: Because I never bonded with my motherthrough suckling, I view the world as a dangerous place where everyone'sout to f*** me over and no one can be trusted, especiallywomen. The way to survive is to move fast, not commit, and grab asmuch s*** as you can to fill the hole. I see the world this way becausemy mother never put her breast in my mouth.

So, back to my crib and me, waiting for the tit that would nevercome, and the new person with the kind face and funny accent. I wascaptivated. Her name was Mademoiselle, and by the time she showedup, my parents had moved down the beach from Malibu to SantaMonica and into a house that was big enough to accommodate bothmy father and me. The rented apartment and succession of renta-nannies -- my life up to that point -- must have been unmemorable,because meeting Mademoiselle that day is the very first thing I rememberin this lifetime.

Our new house was a beautiful Spanish monstrosity, which accordingto Hollywood lore had been built by the construction crewsfrom Paramount Studios as a weekend retreat for Louis B. Mayer. Itwas big, with a large slab of marble surrounding a spectacular pool,nuzzled right on the beach. According to my mother the house was alwaysin danger of being devoured by termites, and we were constantlybeing evacuated by the Army Corps of Engineers in anticipation of thegiant tidal wave that would level everything on Sorrento Beach. Noneof it happened, but the drama kept us on our toes -- and it was fun runningup to the top of the Pacific Palisades to wait in anticipation of themonster wave that would swallow our house.

S***, man, I had a nanny. I've always been in denial about this aspectof my upbringing. There was something too genteel and aristocraticabout being raised by a nanny. My father may have beenpatrician in his outlook and habits, but the Irish rebel of Kennedydominated our view of ourselves. Having a nanny would never do, sowe called her by her name, Mademoiselle, which isn't a name, really,it's a way to greet a young single Frenchwoman. Hey, that's sexy. Ayoung single Frenchwoman raised me. But my Mademoiselle wasn'tsexy. She was cute and cuddly. She was warm and safe. And she hadnothing but love for me and my sisters. She was the kind of person youcouldn't help inventing cute names for. I called her Mammy, MammyFrudy, and Frud. Mammy was my first relationship with unconditionallove. I think this is why I remember the day I met her. This was awoman who knew how to love without an agenda and did what she saidshe was going to do. And, she gave us sugar tits.

Mademoiselle:

Chrisstofere, I have special surprise for you.

Me:

What is it?

Mademoiselle:

Calmez-tu, mon petit.

Me:

What is it?

Mademoiselle:

I used to have this when I was a little girl in Paris.

Me:

Can I have it now?

Mademoiselle:

Soyez-sage … Don't tell Mommy.

Me:

I won't.

A sugar tit is butter and sugar wrapped in a rag. They're meant for sucking,not suckling, and though they may not be quite as meaningful asthe real thing, they sure are good. It's hard not to remember someonewho gave you a sugar tit.

When I was three years old I moved out of the nursery I sharedwith Mammy and into my own bedroom. My mom had decorated it withmatching curtains, rug, and bedspreads in a motif of little soldiers withdrums and bugles. I guess she figured the soldier motif would offsetany pansy in me once my sisters started arriving. She was pretty awarethat I was growing up in a house full of women. I didn't mind the soldiers,but the room was way too big. It scared the s*** out of me to sleepthere. One night I awoke in the middle of the night and looked over atthe twin bed next to the one I slept in. It was the place in my bedroomwhere the monsters would hide. I had never seen them, but I knewthey were there. I just hoped I wasn't alone when they decided to showthemselves. It must have been one or two o'clock in the morning. Everyonewas asleep. The house was quiet and dark. The only light was comingfrom the small night-light that I was mercifully allowed to have inmy bathroom. I awoke with the awareness and terror that it was stillnighttime and I was alone. I sat up in my bed and looked to where thedreaded monsters might be. Up until this night they were never there,but I always knew my luck would run out. And it did. On the other sideof the twin bed, leaning over and leering at me, was the devil himself,horns and all, in the flesh or whatever the devil is made out of. He wasas real as anything I had ever seen in my short life, and after a doubletake I was out of my bed and into Mademoiselle's room before youcould say sugar tit. I was only five but the Catholics had done their job.

Me:

Mademoiselle, there's this really ugly guy with horns in myroom.

Mademoiselle:

C'est une reve Christofere, you are only dreaming.

Me:

No Mammy, I swear he's there. I think it's the devil.

Mademoiselle:

Mon Dieu.

Me:

Really!

Mademoiselle:

Why would the devil be in your room? You're such a goodboy.

Me:

He was laughing and drooling and smacking his lips like hewanted to eat me.

Mammy:

Non. the devil wouldn't eat a good boy.

Me:

I don't want to take any chances. Can I sleep in here withyou?

Mammy:

Allons. I'll get a gun and we can go take care of Mr. Devil.

Mademoiselle grabbed a toy gun, which seemed real enough to me,and we crept into my bedroom to see what we would find. Mademoiselledidn't believe Satan was sleeping with me but you'd never convinceme of that. When we got there, the devil was gone but I wasn'tat all sure he wouldn't be back. Mademoiselle agreed to stay in myroom until the sun came up. She was there when I woke up. This impressedme.

My mother never gave me any slack when it came to being a"scaredy cat." After I was given the honor of having my own room,which I never really wanted, I would find ways to sneak into someoneelse's room when I got scared. My mom would sniff it out and magicallyappear to herd me back to face my demons. I never thought of goinginto my mother's or father's room. That would have been worsethan what was under my bed.

My parents had separate bedrooms. I would go to visit with themwhen my mom was watching the news with Walter Cronkite and mydad was getting dressed for the evening festivities, but once the doorleading to their wing of the house was closed, it was not a door any kidwould want to open. It was dark, and both my parents slept hard. Mymom slept in a king-sized bed with blinders over her eyes and all thewindows open, so the breeze from the ocean was blowing the curtainsall over the place -- like a wall of dancing ghosts. I would stand thereat the side of her bed whispering, "Mummy, are you awake?" Sherarely stirred. There is something terrifying in being unable to wakeup a parent.

I wouldn't even think about going into my dad's room.

On the nights the monsters threatened, I would beg my mom tostay with me until I calmed down. She would for a while. Sitting onthe side of my bed, brushing my hair back and telling me, "There'snothing to be afraid of, Christopher. It's only your imagination. Daddyand I are right downstairs." My eyes closed and she was gone.

When my mother came into my bedroom before going out, it wasas if light itself walked into the room. She had lots of jewels, energy,and glamour. My room would be filled with her smell. She was this illuminatedangel who represented a magical world that existed outthere -- beyond the walls of my scary room.

During the day, one of my parents lay around on the chaiselounge reading a script in the sun. One taught me how to play touchfootball. Guess which was which.

My mom taught me how to play football by taking me out to thebeach a couple times a week and sending me out on pass patterns. Shewas a Kennedy, and the fact that she had moved three thousand milesfrom the family didn't mean that her only son wasn't going to be proficientat the family game. When my mom was in town she drove us toschool, helped with homework, and put us to bed every night, makingsure we checked in with God before we crawled between the sheets.Once a week she would dismiss the staff and be a full-time mom fromsunrise to sunset. I wondered why on these days we went to sleep whenthe sun was still up. I suspected that on these days my mom pushed theclocks ahead so that we'd go to bed an hour earlier.

This was my least favorite day of the week.

My mother had a breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice andtoast in bed every morning. It was the one luxury she required. Shewould leave a note at the bottom of the stairs as to what time the staffshould wake her. My father had his breakfast -- two three-and-a-halfminutesoft-boiled eggs and burned toast with cold butter -- in the den.My parents were not morning people and knew better than to be inclose proximity to each other during this time of day.

This is excerpted with permission from "Symptoms of Withdrawal: A Memoir of Snapshots and Redemption" by Christopher Kennedy Lawford. Copyright & copy; 2005 by William Morrow.