WHEN FELICIA WOUND her car out of his driveway, Del retreated into his house, his youth intact, but tired nonetheless. Tonight, he’d added to his collection of cherished memories in this home.
Upon reaching the top of the staircase, he padded down the hallway and into his bedroom. On his way to the master bathroom to brush his teeth, he stopped. Opening a dresser drawer filled with T-shirts, he reached in, dug beneath one stack, and retrieved Marilyn’s screenplay, the photocopy he kept at home. He breathed in its scent. It still smelled like fresh toner. Unlike the original, this duplicate was crisp, as if Marilyn had handed it to him that week, though the reproduction made the typed text appear blotted and fuzzy.
Del ran his fingertips across the title on the cover page, then returned the treasure to the drawer, a hiding place discreet yet accessible. Much simpler than punching in a security code on his safe downstairs. Why he felt the need to hide the script in his own home, he had no idea, but one could never be too careful with these things.
As he brushed his teeth, he thought back to one afternoon in 1962. Late January in Los Angeles, a day much like today. Del was in his early twenties, not much younger than Nora. Marilyn was thirty-five years old—not even middle age, yet by that point, she had endured so much. Far more than many individuals bear in their entire lives. She seldom talked to him of her childhood, but on that particular day, she had felt drawn to Del and opened up about facets of it.
Marilyn Monroe’s insecurities lay not just in her fame and the challenges that accompanied it, but more than that, in her unsettled childhood.
She never met her father. In fact, though theories abounded, his identity remained a mystery to her. According to her birth certificate, her father was Edward Mortenson, her mother’s second husband. However, because the spouses separated shortly after Marilyn was conceived, circumstances called the man’s paternity into question. Marilyn even had a half-sister, a relative of whom Marilyn was unaware until Marilyn herself turned twelve years old.
Marilyn’s mother, Gladys, cut negatives at Columbia Pictures and suffered from paranoid schizophrenia.
On that afternoon in 1962, Marilyn confided in Del the troubles Gladys had endured. She also spoke well of Albert and Ida Bolender, her first foster parents, who cared for Marilyn during her earliest years. The Bolenders, who were evangelical Christians, also planted seeds of spirituality in the young girl’s life.
After several years, Grace Goddard, who was like an aunt and had taken Marilyn under her wing, became her legal guardian. They lived together off and on, as Marilyn bounced between stints at Grace’s home and the local orphanage. She and Grace lived in places where other lodgers lived.
One of those lodgers, according to Marilyn, sexually abused her when she was eight years old.
To this day, Del couldn’t help but shake his head in dismay.
Not knowing her father. Prolonged absences from, and minimal contact with, her mother. No place she could dare call home, because she never knew how long her residence would last.
What pain and emptiness, Del wondered, had such instability and rejection wrought in the little girl’s life?
* * *
“I’ve found my Jesus,” she said.
The remark took young Del off guard. “You’ve gone to church?”
She giggled. “No, silly. I’m talking about Dr. Greenson. He’s my psychiatrist, and I adore him. I call him my Jesus.”
“Why?”
“Because he gives me what I need. He listens to me and helps me. He affirms that I’m worthy. I tell him my concerns, and he reassures me that everything will be all right. I feel so much better after I’ve spent time with him. So that’s what he is to me: my Jesus. He’s my savior, who helps me not to be afraid.”
“Why do you need a psychiatrist?”
She peered at him in a maternal manner, a mother indulging a child’s questions.
“It’s not a bad thing, is it? We’re all a bit messy, wouldn’t you say?”
Del didn’t reply. She had confided in him about her childhood. From her description, Del knew they had come of age in two different worlds. She had seen so much more than he. Compared to Marilyn, Del was a mere child.
Marilyn regarded him. “You don’t have a motive, do you?” she said, an observation rather than a question.
“A motive?”
“You know—when people believe they can get something out of you.” She paused, examined his eyes, and gave his expression a deep, probing stare. “No, you’re an innocent young man. A kind young man. There’s so little kindness in the world, wouldn’t you say?” She looked away, the pain evident in the way she wrapped her arms around herself in an embrace. “People can be so cruel sometimes. But you—I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course you can.” Young Del sat awestruck by this stunning beauty, a woman he’d grown to love.
Marilyn smiled, an intimate grin. She placed a soft kiss upon her fingertips, then placed them upon Del’s lips. He buzzed with delight.
“There now, that’s better,” she said with satisfaction. “Something for my handsome young man. My handsome, genuine young man.”