Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [130]
I found it in the stillness of the night on the beach in Malibu.
I found it because I asked.
It was just that easy. I asked. And I received. And I feel certain that by now, you’ve found it, too. (Of course, just as with falling in love, finding it was one thing and living in it is quite another. It’s work, to be sure, but it’s the nicest work of all if you can get it, and the best part is, everybody can!)
Just the other night, for the first time in many years, I dreamed about you. I was standing on top of the world, enjoying the view. And then I felt a pair of arms wrap around me from behind and somehow I knew they belonged to you. I turned around and we were face-to-face. I was so happy to see you.
You led me through a door and into a room, a cozy room with a fireplace and a piano. From a kitchen somewhere in the house, I could smell the aroma of cooking—I think it was bubble and squeak, one of your favorites. You whistled, and I heard the cheerful sound of a dog barking.
And there was Bangs, leaping up into my arms.
You looked at me, smiled with that incredible sparkle in your eyes, and we gazed at each other for a long while. I had such a strong feeling of peace and bliss; all the wounds were healed, all the confusion had blown away like wisps of smoke, all of the blame had dissolved into understanding.
“All is forgiven,” you stated simply.
“All is forgiven,” I replied, though it needed no confirmation.
And that’s how I feel: totally at peace with the past, and so grateful for the love we had, imperfect as it may have been, and blessed by the lessons I’ve learned from the experience.
Cary, I wish I could take hold of your hand right now and look in your eyes as I tell you this: thank you for letting me be such a big part of your life. Thank you for choosing me to be the mother of our child. Thank you for the romance of a lifetime, and for teaching me the difference between romance and love.
It has taken many years (and oddly, as time rolls on, I don’t feel older—I just feel newer), but I wanted you to finally hear my heart.
I wish I could have loved you then the way I’ve learned to love now.
P.S. I never knew if you figured out that the chicken I served you in my apartment that night was from La Scala . . . Did you?
Author’s Note
In 1986, two weeks after Cary passed away, the legendary literary agent Swifty Lazar called me. He’d been a friend of Cary’s, and mine as well, and I was happy to hear from him. “Dyan, it’s time to write the book,” he said, forecasting a thundershower of money.
“Sorry, Swifty . . . I don’t think so,” I replied. It really was out of the question. It had been eighteen years since Cary and I split, but I knew I wasn’t yet ready to take on the subject.
Roughly fifteen years later, Jackie Onassis, then an editor at Doubleday, called. “I’d like you to write a book about your life,” she told me, “and you don’t have to mention a word about Cary. You have got enough to say without even referring to him.” Although astonishing sums of money were again mentioned, I told her I heartily disagreed. I still wasn’t ready to write a book . . . and especially one that didn’t go into my relationship with him; that would make no sense. He was too big a part of my life, and his absence in any narrative written by me would be like an invisible planet warping the orbit of any story I had to tell.
Simply stated, the right time has come. It’s been many years. There have been numerous false starts and obstacles along the way. I can say without qualification that writing this book has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but also that I’ve learned more from the process than anything I’ve ever done.
I thought the healing had been complete, but I was mistaken.
The real healing had just begun.
Why now? Because finally, I found a way to forgive. Because my heart was broken and now it’s whole. Because it hurts to hurt . . . and I don’t hurt anymore. Because the Love that fills and completes my life is available for everyone. There is a way