There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me - Hardcover

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Introduction
I'm told that even decorated soldiers' last words are often calling for "Mommy."

That is the first feeling that washed over me.

And on November 5, 2012, six days after I watched my mother die right in front of me, I opened up the New York Times obituaries and the feeling hit again . . . but it came with a wave of anger. I was so hurt my vision blurred. I couldn't believe what I'd just read, and I asked myself: How could I have been so stupid and so naïve? How could I have let my guard down? How could they have done this to my mommy?

- - -

Days earlier, I'd written my own simple and rather short obituary about my mom and had sent in the required $1,500. The following afternoon I got a call from the Times saying they wanted to print it on the front page of the obituary section. I said they could position it wherever they wanted.

They explained that they thought Mom deserved to have a more prominent placement. This made me feel like maybe after all these years, Mom would finally get some modicum of respect. And deep down we all want to know our moms deserve respect, don't we? TheTimes added that they didn't want me to pay the $1,500, but I explained that I was fine paying and thanked them for the offer. Suddenly the person on the other end of the phone stated that the obituary was, in fact, already being moved to a more prominent part of the paper, so a bit more copy would be needed. This was the first red flag.

"I am not giving an interview. Publish my written obit, please."

"Well, we may just need one or two additional facts that you could clarify."

"Listen, I submitted my personally written obituary about my mother and I sent in a check. Thank you."

"OK, we don't want to upset you. . . . How about we just take your obit and print that but add one or two additional facts about her upbringing and the like?"

"Fine."

They indeed called and asked one question about her deceased brother and if she had lived in any other city in New Jersey before moving to New York City. It was a two-minute phone call and it seemed fine. I was satisfied.

- - -

A few days later, on the stoop of my apartment, I was shocked and horrified to read a piece I'd known nothing about. It was a scathing, judgmental critique of my mother's life. I gasped and stared, wide-eyed, at the nasty, venomous piece of so-called journalism.

The first line read, "Teri Shields, who began promoting her daughter, Brooke, as a child model and actress when she was an infant and allowed her to be cast as a child prostitute . . . died on Wednesday." What an opener!

The obituary's author highlighted-completely out of context-the most salacious facts and quotes. He painted her as a desperate single mom who sold her daughter into prostitution and nudity for her own profit. He even distorted Mom's most famous quote, mistaking her wry humor for deep abuse-"Fortunately, Brooke was at an age where she couldn't talk back." This quote referred to the fact I'd been eleven months old when I shot my first ad, for Ivory soap, not to human trafficking of a minor into the sex trade.

Who the fuck did this guy think he was to write about a woman he never knew? How could he hurl such vicious allegations when an obit was supposed to be fact based? The piece was shocking and of the lowest common denominator, which was especially terrible coming from somebody who called himself a reputable journalist.

Reading the obit, I felt myself beginning to lose it. I started to take deep breaths, trying not to panic or pass out. I ran into the kitchen and began pacing around the table as I sobbed and rambled: Why are they so cruel? Why can't they let her be? Why can't they let her die without being nasty? Why can't they be kind to her just once? Why was it so easy and acceptable for him to degrade her? Where was the human decency? Someone's mother just died.

I walked in circles, cryin