Читать книгу My Life, by Rushie - Fred Evans - Страница 5

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR’S ASSISTANT

Helping Rushie write her autobiography has been an amazing experience. She is nothing if not an exacting taskmaster. On weekends we began the day at 6:30 a.m., sharp. I never needed to set my alarm. Rushie woke me with a gentle paw to the shoulder, which became less and less gentle until I actually got out of bed. She monitored my progress as I showered, dressed, ate breakfast and read the paper. She listened attentively while I commented on the day’s news. After I finished my cereal, Rushie licked the remaining milk from the bowl and we went to work.

When we began the project we lived in Fresno, and we would move from the kitchen to the den where she would guard the house and dictate while I typed. On weekends we usually worked four hours straight. Rushie’s powers of concentration and ability to multitask were impressive. It was a side of her I had not known previously.

During the week we would write in the evening before dinner. These weren’t as intense as the weekend sessions, but were nonetheless productive. About a year into the book, we moved to Northridge, California. Rushie’s health began to deteriorate rapidly. She slowed physically, but not mentally. Through sheer determination she forged ahead on the book, completing it just before she died.

Start to finish completing the first draft took two years. At the conclusion we both felt a great sense of accomplishment. And by working together so closely for so long, I felt that I had a far more profound and intimate understanding of Rushie than previously. Our bond was closer than ever and based on a new level of mutual respect.

I’ll never forget when Rushie first became aware of my diary. One evening my wife, Natalie, and I were talking about how Rushie had refused to walk with her earlier that day. Natalie was exasperated. I laughed and said I thought I’d add the incident to my diary. I went to the study, retrieved the diary, returned to the living room and began to read some of the previous entries about Rushie out loud. Natalie and I were having a great time at Rushie’s expense when I noticed Rushie sitting upright looking at me sternly. After reading a few entries I took the diary back to the study, made the entry about Rushie’s refusal to walk with Natalie that day and returned to the living room.

Later when we sat for dinner Natalie noticed that Rushie hadn’t joined us. This was very unusual. She called Rushie. Nothing. She started looking around the house (did she somehow get locked outside?) and finally found her in the den.

Natalie called, “Fred. Come here. You have to see this!” I walked in to see Rushie sitting on the chair staring at my diary, as it lay open on the desk. “Did you give Rushie permission to read your diary?” she asked. We laughed and walked back into the living room while Rushie stayed put. Twenty minutes later Rushie joined us, but seemed unusually subdued.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Rushie’s reaction to my diary. Then one evening Natalie and I were talking during dinner at our favorite Japanese restaurant. The conversation kept coming back to Rushie and the diary. We wondered what she would say in response to some of the entries. “Why don’t you write a book that features Rushie’s responses to your diary entries?” Natalie suggested. “Let her tell her side of the story.” The idea for My Life was born.

As I proceeded to write the book, I began to wonder, and still do, whose idea it really was. At first, there was no question in my mind that it was Natalie’s idea. Then I began to wonder where Natalie got the idea. Could it have been from Rushie?

When I first started to write My Life, I would look at Rushie sitting in front of the window guarding the house and watching me write. I tried to imagine what she might be thinking and what her reactions might have been to certain situations. The writing was slow and not very convincing. Gradually, her personality began to reveal itself to me. I could imagine exactly what Rushie was thinking and the words began to flow. Whenever I lacked for ideas I’d look at Rushie and ask out loud what she thought. She’d look me directly in the eyes and the ideas would come. I know this sounds fantastic, but it’s true.

It is also true, as Rushie says in her Foreword, that although I did the physical writing, this is Rushie’s story—told by her. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did writing it.

Fred Evans

February 6, 2007