After slightly more than three weeks in bed I came down with what I thought was the flu, except it felt stranger than the flu. It was a Sunday and I had a doctor's appointment the next day, but I told Morgan that I was going to cancel until the bug pa.s.sed and then go in. He advised against it, and thankfully I listened to him. My doctor discovered that I didn't have any more amniotic fluid and sent me directly to Cedars Sinai Medical Center for an emergency C-section.

I was hungry, and on the way to the hospital I stopped for a burrito, figuring it would be my last fattening meal. The nurse checking me in saw me holding the half-eaten burrito and, with a look of disbelief, asked, "What are you doing?"

"Eating," I said.

"Don't you know you aren't supposed to be eating before surgery?"

"No," I said.

By the time I was ushered into a private room, Morgan arrived from his William Morris office. I was given an epidural and taken to surgery. A short time later, my son, James Duke Mason, announced his arrival in this world with a slight cry. Little Dukey, as we called him, was immediately whisked off into the arms of specialists while I was taken into the recovery room. Doped up on morphine from the surgery, I sailed off into la-la land. As I came out of it, I sat in bed and read the National Enquirer, the Star, and the Globe as if everything was fine.

But it was definitely not fine. Unlike the other babies delivered at Cedars on April 27, 1992, Duke was three weeks early and weighed a mere three pounds, thirteen ounces. He was jaundiced and suffering from a virus, probably the same one that I'd had a few days earlier. Morgan had the unpleasant job of calling all the relatives with the good news but tempering it with an asterisk. It was a scary time.

Late that day, a doctor appeared at my bedside and confronted me about my drug use. Cold, unsympathetic, and aggressive, he ran through a list of drugs from c.o.ke and pot to pills and heroin, asking me if I took them during my pregnancy. Each time I answered no, he looked at me and asked, "Are you sure?"

I insisted I was sure, absolutely sure, until it was painful. I felt like I was getting beaten up even though I knew I didn't have anything more than a daily gla.s.s of wine throughout my pregnancy. I didn't know if I was going to get arrested, have my baby taken away, or what. I answered his questions; he didn't respond to mine. Once he left, though, I never saw him again.

But I couldn't relax. I had the TV on as I recovered in bed, and it was full of nonstop news reports about the four police officers on trial in Simi Valley for the beating of Rodney King a year earlier. It wasn't like I wanted to hear the same story over and over, but I was hooked by reports that made it seem like the city was a powder keg ready to explode if the verdict came back in favor of the police. It was like a weather report predicting sunny today, Armageddon tomorrow.

Sure enough, the next day, April 29, I was watching TV when the local news broke in with a special live report that the four LAPD officers had been acquitted. Within minutes, or so it seemed, riots erupted across the city. Like millions of people across L.A., I watched coverage of four black men pull white truck driver Reginald Denny out of his cab and beat him senseless. I was glued to the set as stores were looted, cars were overturned, and fires broke out.

I told Morgan to look out my hospital room window. From our perch, we could see black smoke less than a mile away from the hospital. As time went on, we were able to smell the smoke. It went on for days. The National Guard was finally called in to stop the violence and restore order. Seeing tanks and armed soldiers patrolling in front of hamburger stands and shopping malls I'd been to was surreal--and terrifying.

On May 1, Rodney King went in front of the media and made his now famous request, "Can we all get along?" By then there had been 53 deaths, more than 2,500 injuries, and more than 7,000 fires. People were aghast, outraged, and frightened by what they saw happening to the city.

Morgan and I were profoundly affected. We had the same reaction: we had to get out of L.A.

In the meantime, I was out of la-la land and worried about my baby. No one gave me a straight story, at least not one that I could understand. I didn't like the look on Morgan's mother's face when she came into my room after seeing Duke. I saw the fright in her eyes. I saw the same thing in his sister's, too. It was only after three or four days that my doctor finally met my repeated questions with more optimistic responses. Even then, I felt he was being vague.

When I got clearance to go back home, I didn't want to leave unless I could take Duke. But he wasn't ready. The doctor wanted to keep him until he had gained another two pounds--which ended up taking three weeks. I went back and forth between home and Cedars numerous times a day, taking him freshly pumped breast milk and holding him in my arms so he could feel the warmth of his mother.

I was diligent until I was able to bring him home, and then I relied on a trained baby nurse. Soon I began to have trouble pumping my milk and eventually I gave it up in favor of formula and a wonderful nanny.

Was it a coincidence? No. Just as I never felt pretty while pregnant, I didn't have the bonding experience that most mothers have with their newborns. It wasn't postpartum depression; no, at the very beginning, his fragile state frightened me. I wasn't as confident in myself as I needed to be in that situation. Beyond that, I was, I think, in a prolonged state of shock and denial about being a mother as well as an addict and had a host of other issues that kept me on the run from myself.

So while I was loving and nurturing when I was around Duke, I wasn't as available as I should have been--or as I wish I had been. In other words, I could have done better.

On the other hand, Duke thrived. With the help of our nanny, he gained weight and progressed quickly. Morgan was also a sensational dad. Despite my shortcomings and fears, things worked out. I got tips from other mothers and read the basic new-mom books to fill in the gaps. I was a vegetarian then, so when it came time to add solid foods to Duke's diet, I asked my more experienced friends for advice and found out it was okay to raise him as a vegetarian, too.

My pediatrician disagreed. But then he generally didn't offer the support I needed. Neither did his staff. In fact, they were all so horrible that I hated going there. When I told him that I wanted to raise Duke as a vegetarian, he took a step back as if I had absolutely no sense and in a scolding tone of voice said, "No, Belinda, you can't do that. Did you see how small he was? He's playing catch-up. If you raise him as a vegetarian, he'll never be a football player."

I immediately thought of my experience with Mike Marshall and said to myself, "Good. I don't want to raise a jock." Truth be told, I didn't want my pediatrician any longer either. After double-checking with my friends who were raising healthy children on a vegetarian diet, I took Duke to a new doctor. At the beginning of that first appointment, he asked why I was in his office when I already had a highly regarded doctor. I explained the situation. By the end, I was in tears.

He then took me into his confidence and said, "I could get in a lot of trouble for telling you this, but your pediatrician called when I requested your file, and warned me that you had been doing cocaine throughout your pregnancy."

I turned white as a sheet with both outrage and humiliation. I looked down at Duke, who was cradled in my arms. Yes, he had been born early, sick, and small. But you wouldn't have known that from looking at him then. The doctor let Duke squeeze his finger and looked at me.

"I can see he's not a cocaine baby," he said.

I wanted to explain.

"I haven't done--" I stopped, unsure what to say. I decided on the truth. "I had a cocaine problem," I said. "But I didn't--"

"You don't have to say anything," he interrupted.

"Ask me," I said. "I may not have always told the truth in the past, but I will tell you anything where my son is concerned."

I switched doctors, and a short time later a story appeared in one of the English tabloids that I had done cocaine throughout my pregnancy. The newspaper cited unnamed sources at the hospital. I suspected my old pediatrician as the source. Who else could it have been? Almost four months had pa.s.sed since I had given birth. I was livid. I wanted to sue. Morgan urged me to ignore it and calm down.

"Let it go," he said. "We know the truth. We have to move on."

nineteen.

BIG SCARY ANIMAL.

WHEN MORGAN'S MOTHER, Pamela, threw Duke his first birthday party, I was already in the process of trying to go back to work. It was a juggling act familiar to other mothers. My days were full. I played with Duke, helped organize his day with the nanny, planned most meals, and made sure our six dogs felt like they received attention, too. We may have lived in a multimillion-dollar home, but inside it was filled with toys and the chaos of busy lives. Outside, there was dog p.o.o.p that needed to be cleaned.

"Where's the glamorous life?" I laughed one day when I was talking on the phone to Charlotte, who was a few months away from her marriage to Redd Kross guitarist Steven McDonald and mulling whether her future would include children. "I have to watch where I step or I'll ruin another pair of shoes."

I could have said the same about my career. It was in an even more perilous state than a walk through my backyard at night. After Live Your Life Be Free flopped, my label dropped me. Most people thought I was cut after I had a run-in with MCA president Al Teller. Not true. I had already been tossed in the trash before I spotted him one night before an Arc Angels show at the Roxy, holding court at a table of executives.

He had no idea a storm was about to blow in. But I knew. Emboldened by a couple of margaritas, I strutted across the club until I was looking down at the thinning hair atop his round pate.

"If it isn't Al Teller," I said. "Well, f.u.c.k you."

Then I unloaded all my frustrations at the duplicitous way I thought the label had treated me on my previous effort, a.s.suring me that they were behind my record in the U.S. but leaving me out to dry as the singles failed to chart. I understood the business--just don't tell me one thing and do another.

"You're a f.u.c.king liar!"

Left to shop for a new deal, I signed with Virgin America. Cochairmen Jeff Ayeroff and Jordan Harris were excited to have me on the label. They were veteran music guys, ages forty-six and thirty-eight respectively, and they had three alb.u.ms at or heading toward the top of the charts when I began work on my alb.u.m. Buoyed by their enthusiasm, I felt like I had another chance at resuscitating my career.

Drug-free and present, I focused on making the alb.u.m. I rolled up my sleeves and went to work on every aspect of the project. I worked closely on the songs with Charlotte, her brother Tom Caffey, and Ralph Shuckett, who was married to Ellen Shipley and had as a keyboardist played with a long list of music luminaries, including Carole King, Lou Reed, and Todd Rundgren. I had credits on half the songs. I felt like an artist as opposed to the puppet I'd felt like so many times in the past.

It was my first time being in the studio as a producer, and I found that I enjoyed showing up every day, working with the musicians as they laid tracks, and making the important creative decisions. I had always known I had more to offer; I had always been lazy or irresponsible. Not this time. I put in long hours. Sometimes I brought Duke into the studio. I found the hard work very satisfying and was quite open about feeling like I needed to prove myself.

For the first time since the earliest days with the Go-Go's, I wasn't abdicating responsibility. Good or bad, my signature was going on this piece of work. Sometimes I wondered if it was motherhood that was causing me to mature. I fell into a good, productive rhythm--and a creative one.

Real became a metaphor or mantra as well as a t.i.tle. Musically, I wanted a sound that was stripped down and organic, a change from the previous effort especially. It was also one of the first alb.u.ms to use a loop, predating Alanis Morissette's phenomenal 1995 megaselling alb.u.m Jagged Little Pill. Charlotte, Ralph, and I were listening to a loop of music one day, trying to come up with a concept for it. One of us asked, "What is love?" Another answered, "A big scary animal." The first single, "Big Scary Animal," was thus born. One of my favorite songs on the alb.u.m, "Too Much Water," was written at Charlotte's house, where we sat around in the afternoon and worked on melodies.

She's an amazing writer, and I appreciated that ability even more this time around since I was more involved in the writing process. I brought in a few melodies. I wished it had been more. I frequently heard amazing tunes in my head, but unless I immediately sang them into a tape recorder, which I rarely had with me, I wouldn't be able to capture the magic. It made me wish I played an instrument.

I was pleased with the record. I remember having a good listen to "Big Scary Animal," "Too Much Water," "Tell Me," and "Lay Down Your Arms" and feeling very satisfied with that collection of songs, like I had accomplished something good. As on other recent solo alb.u.ms, I wanted the cover photo to reflect my mood at that point in time. I wore a white, long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans, and looked natural.

Real was released at the end of September 1993. I told reporters it was a frank look inside relationships, particularly the dark side. Reviews were mixed, with some refusing to acknowledge any artistic growth beyond the Go-Go's while others understood what I was going for, including one reviewer who wrote, "Will somebody please tell me who her shrink is?"

Not only did I find that funny, I appreciated that someone took the time to think about what I was trying to say.

Commercially, Real followed the same pattern as my other solo alb.u.ms. It charted in the top 10 in the UK and a handful of other European countries, and then lost steam. Here in the U.S. it was a disappointment out of the box after, unfortunately, getting caught up in label politics. A month before Real's release, Jeff and Jordan, the two executives who had signed me, resigned amid rumors of conflict in the boardroom. Industry veteran Phil Quartararo replaced them as chief executive, but insiders said the real power at the label was wielded by Nancy Berry, the wife of Virgin's global chairman, Ken Berry, and I heard she didn't like me or my alb.u.m.

True or not, I didn't get the support the guys who signed me would have provided and my record died. And so did my deal.

Maybe it was for the best--even fated. Although severely disappointed and frustrated, I felt like I had my eyes open. Of course, it occurred as the result of a shock. And Morgan played his usual calm, clear, and wise role in getting me to see that life wasn't determined or defined by hit singles, radio play, and chart position. When I focused, I saw that he was absolutely right.

It didn't mean that I wasn't wounded, but I saw how fortunate I was. I only had to look at my family. My parents worked extremely hard, my dad in construction and my mom as a waitress at Cafe California in the Broadway department store. My brother Butch, two years younger than me, worked in construction. My sister Hope became an RN and aspired to get a master's and teach--which she went on to do. The others were still growing up.

I can't say my notoriety helped any of them. For some of them, in fact, it may have created unnecessary pressure as they developed their own ident.i.ties.

My mom didn't feel more pressure, per se, not the way my younger brothers and sisters often did, but she was frequently introduced as "Belinda Carlisle's mother." People didn't realize that negated her own individuality--or they didn't care. One day a woman came up to her, complimented her on giving birth to such a talented daughter, and said it wasn't a surprise since she'd heard that my mother had worked on Broadway. My mom good-naturedly corrected the mistake, explaining she had worked at the Broadway department store. At that, the other woman turned and walked away.

"I guess she was disappointed that I'm a waitress," my mom later told me. "I wasn't good enough for her to talk to anymore."

I helped my parents out when possible and gave them gifts and vacations, but the reality was--and remains--that no matter what anyone's advantages or obstacles in life, each of us must make our own way and come to our own peace. I was constantly at war with myself over such matters, sometimes consciously, other times not.

Morgan and I frequently spoke about our lives, whether we were headed in the right direction, how we wanted to live, and where we wanted to live--which was a major theme with us following the riots. We had many discussions about this with our friend Deepak Chopra, the bestselling author, physician, and truly wise man. Morgan was working with him on projects, and we had dinner with Deepak and his lovely wife, Rita. You can't find better counsel.

In the beginning, though, I was intimidated around Deepak. I was also skeptical. I didn't trust people who talked about meditation, spirituality, and the mind-body connection. Basically I was ignorant and insecure. I didn't know any better.

At the same time, Deepak was utterly fascinating and obviously a man with great insight and wisdom. Morgan knew how to access that gift. As a result, we had intimate and probing dialogues about finding your gifts and experiencing joy--the joy in the meaning of your life. I was inherently negative, albeit with an adventurous side, but Deepak was a very optimistic man. He thought we should move and change our lives if that was what we felt was right when we looked deep inside ourselves.

"And if it doesn't work out? What's the worst that can happen?" he asked. "You move back. It's not that big of a deal. You just start over."

In early January 1994, Morgan, Duke, and I traveled to Cabo San Lucas for a brief post-holiday vacation. On the beach and away from home, we were able to a.s.sess our lives with a new perspective. We talked about Deepak, and I underscored how both of us were feeling when I quoted Helen Keller: "Life is an adventure or it's nothing."

Morgan agreed. We were still young, both of us in our mid-thirties, and yet it felt like we had been through so much separately and together. We kept asking each other, "What next?"

I knew what I didn't want. Earlier that summer, Morgan and I had attended a dinner celebrating William Morris chairman Norman Brokaw's fiftieth anniversary at the agency (he had started in 1943 as the very first mailroom employee). On the beach at Cabo, I flashed back on that night and thought, Oh my G.o.d, is that my future? I told Morgan that I didn't want that life. I didn't care about status in Hollywood, a big house in Brentwood, membership at the right country club, or driving a Mercedes or a Range Rover.

"That's not what life is about," I said. "That's not my adventure."

"I feel the same way," he said.

So we sat on the beach and talked, and we agreed that it would be such a shame not to have an adventure, not to take a risk if we could afford it. We were young and healthy. We were hooked on the movies To Catch a Thief and Breathless, director Jean-Luc G.o.dard's influential French new wave film about a crook on the run in France. We kept watching them over and over, each time feeling the ache for our own adventure. More relevant, I read Calvin Tomkins's enchanting book Living Well Is the Best Revenge, the almost unbelievable story of Gerald and Sara Murphy, an American couple who moved to the South of France in the 1920s and befriended Pica.s.so, Ernest Hemingway, and other great artists and writers. F. Scott Fitzgerald patterned d.i.c.k and Nicole Diver of Tender Is the Night after them.

I had Morgan read the book and he adopted my South of France fantasy, too. The two of us, though bourgeois on the outside, thought like bohemians. I could see us chucking everything familiar like the Murphys. How exciting! Much more so than the predictable life I saw unfolding if we stayed where we were.

"Wouldn't it be amazing to have a life like that?" I said.

"Let's do it," Morgan replied.

My jaw nearly hit the ground. What? Morgan was serious. For the next few days, we sat on the beach with Duke and tried to figure out where to move. Australia was too far, we decided, and Mexico was too close. We mentioned a dozen spots, but none sounded right. The last place we brought up was the one that both of us knew was the only place we could possibly move--the South of France.

It was obvious. We had spent a week talking, reading, watching movies, and fantasizing about it. Maybe we had purposely avoided it out of fear that the other one would say "Yeah, let's do it," which was what happened. As soon as we mentioned France, I thought, Okay, that's it. I said something to that effect, too. And Morgan agreed.

He then did something that to this day remains one of the most romantic, risky, and amazing things I have ever seen in my life: He went downstairs--there were no phones in the room--to the phone booth off the lobby and motioned for me to step inside while he called William Morris and gave his notice.

I was in shock. So were our friends, who tracked us down at the hotel as word of Morgan's resignation spread through the agency and then across town. "What do you mean you're leaving?" they said, freaked out. "You can't do that!" But we had done it--well, Morgan had. But I was ready to go, too. It was a movie-type moment, an unexpected plot twist in our lives. Most people fantasize about packing up and moving into a new life, but they don't do it. We were taking the leap.

Or so we said. Other than Morgan quitting his job, obviously a huge step, we didn't make any specific plans or set a time line.

We flew back from Mexico on Sunday, January 16, 1994. On Monday morning, I woke up just before four thirty A.M. I heard our Jack Russell terrier barking under the window. Annoyed, I got out of bed and put on my robe to let him out and see what had caught his attention. Suddenly, everything began to shake--the floor, the roof, the walls. It was violent, loud, and completely disorienting. My first instinct was to think, Oh my G.o.d, the house is exploding; a second later, I realized that it was an earthquake. It felt like the proverbial big one that I, like every other Southern California resident, had been warned would one day hit. Here it was--or so I thought.

Morgan woke up and tried to pull me into bed. I shook him off and ran down the hallway to get Duke. My mother instinct took over. With adrenaline racing through me, I wanted to get my baby.

The shaking from this quake, which turned out to have a magnitude of 6.7 and was centered in Northridge near where I grew up, seemed to last for a minute or two. Actually, it felt interminable. It turned out to be only twenty seconds. But those twenty seconds changed life across the southland. Some seventy-two people died as a result of the powerful upheaval, more than nine thousand were injured, and damage was eventually estimated at $20 billion.

At first, we stood outside like everyone else, nervous, on edge, wondering about the state of our family, friends, and the city itself. It was still dark and eerily quiet. We saw occasional flashes of light in the distant sky where transformers were bursting with loud pops and blasts of white flame. After a little bit, we went back inside. Our power was out, but we listened to the news on the transistor radio we had in our emergency earthquake kit. We were shocked at reports of collapsed freeways and hospital patients being wheeled out of buildings and into the safety of outdoor parking lots.

Like many in L.A., I freaked out at aftershocks, which continued throughout the day and for days afterward. When your house shakes and the ground rumbles, you don't feel safe. Nothing does.

Later that night, after things began to calm down and we had checked in with our loved ones, all of whom were okay, Morgan and I looked at each other with a sense of having already prepared for this moment on the beach in Cabo. He had quit his job. My career was happening only in Europe. We had agreed to restart our lives in the South of France. Our only outstanding question had been when--when would we go?

The Northridge earthquake made that decision for us. It was like a push out the door. We said to each other, "Okay, we're out of here."

twenty.

LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS.

THE EARTHQUAKE HIT on a Monday. We left on Friday. We would have gone sooner except that we had to get a visa for our Filipina nanny.

Once in the South of France, we checked into the small La Colombe d'Or Hotel in Saint Paul de Vence, Provence. It was a dreamy place to stay as we set about looking for a house, like a French fantasy. Situated up in the hills with picture-book views, the hotel's stone walls dated back to the 1600s. There were only twenty-six guest rooms. The dining room boasted artwork by Pica.s.so, Klee, Calder, and Dufy, all of whom had stopped at this chic outpost early in their careers when they had little or no money and traded paintings for room and board.

After a couple weeks, we found a house in Cap d'Antibes and returned to Los Angeles to pack our belongings, take care of loose ends, and put our house up for sale. Financially, we couldn't have picked a worse time for this dramatic change, especially selling our house. The real estate market had bottomed out, and we had poured a ton of money into renovations over the years. My business manager warned me we were never going to recoup our investment. His voice was among the loudest in the chorus of our friends and a.s.sociates who said, "Just stay. Take your time. There's no need to rush."

Morgan and I didn't care. We wanted to get out of there. We were following our instincts. We weren't concerned about conventional wisdom. If the house didn't sell, we'd leave it empty and figure out what to do with it later, which was what happened.

In the meantime, before leaving, I made an appointment with my hairdresser Art Luna and asked him to cut off my long, red hair.

"Really?" he asked.

"Cut it," I said, thinking of everything else I was cutting, too. "I want it an inch long."

In March, we returned to France. With our nanny in tow, we piled into a black stretch limo with about eight duffel bags bursting at the seams and set out for the airport. Everything else we had was boxed up, shipped by boat, and expected to arrive six months later. We returned to Le Colombe d'Or, where Duke ran up and down the halls and Morgan and I found ourselves having afternoon c.o.c.ktails and playing boules with actor Yves Montand.

A few weeks later, our house was ready. We had rented a beautiful pink villa in Cap d'Antibes. It had a guesthouse in back and a large, rolling lawn. The famous Hotel du Cap was down the street. It could not have been more gorgeous or glamorous. Every day I expected to see Noel Coward or Zelda Fitzgerald cross the lawn on their way into the house. I couldn't believe that we lived there.

A month later, my sister Hope brought our menagerie of dogs from Los Angeles. I had a good laugh seeing her with all those doggie crates at the Nice airport. It wasn't the way she had imagined arriving in the South of France. I loved seeing my pets again, though the reunion was frustratingly brief and then they were quarantined for a month. Since our furniture wasn't scheduled to arrive for four more months, we sat in lawn chairs and used boxes as tables. The humor of roughing it in a beautiful home wore thin pretty quickly.