Carolyn Bessette Abused Michael Bergen

I flagged a passing cab, jumped in, and went home, but I'd barely made it through the door when the buzzer sounded.

"Who is it?" I said.

"It's me," Carolyn said. I didn't want to let her up, but she buzzed again and again and wouldn't stop until I let her through.

She walked in, fuming. I had never seen such rage in her eyes. "What is wrong with you?!" she screamed, and she punched me in the chest with her fists. Boom, boom, boom—three times in quick succession.

"Carolyn— "

"How dare you parade that girl around in front of me?!"

She turned, saw one of my white candles—a huge candle, nothing like the little ones back at the bar, candles I'd purchased to protect myself from evil spirits—picked it up, and flung it across the room. She threw it so hard that she chipped the plaster on the wall.

"Carolyn!"

I began to move toward her, but she was already reaching for candle number two, and I ducked as it flew past and shattered the window that looked out onto the courtyard. Then she threw a third, striking the mirror over the mantel—the mirror we'd bought together at the flea market—and smashed it to bits. The shards rained down on the floor. There was one candle left. She threw it at my feet, and it gouged a two-inch hunk out of the polished wood floor.

"What is wrong with you?!" she screamed, completely losing control. "You like trashy girls?! Is that it? You like them dirty?"

She turned and kicked my TV set, knocking the VCR to the ground, then she literally leapt into the air and came crashing down on the VCR, smashing it. I didn't want to be there, and I didn't know how to stop her without manhandling her, so I did what any sane man would have done in a similar situation: I ran.

I tore through the door, down two flights of stairs, and out into the street. I was running like a marathoner, really goddamn moving, but the next thing I knew Carolyn was on my ass, and she was gaining on me. She was moving like lightning. This was nuts!

"You little baby!" she was screaming. "What's the matter? Can't you take it? Are you running away from me, wimp? Run, little baby, run!"

I don't know what came over me—the rage, the adrenaline, her craziness—but I stopped on a dime, turned, and pushed her with all my might. And Christ if her body didn't go flying. Carolyn was not a small girl, but she literally left the ground, sailed through the air, and landed on a nearby stoop. I couldn't believe what I'd done. I hurried over.

"Carolyn?" I said.

She didn't say anything. She looked stunned and seemed to be trying to get her bearings. I sat down next to her. "You okay?" She still looked numb and lost, but she nodded.

She sounds like a lezzie!

[quote] She turned, saw one of my white candles—a huge candle, nothing like the little ones back at the bar, candles I'd purchased to protect myself from evil spirits

🤭

[quote]She turned, saw one of my white candles—a huge candle, nothing like the little ones back at the bar, candles I'd purchased to protect myself from evil spirits—picked it up, and flung it across the room.

Domestic violence isn't funny but I unfortunately laughed at the mental image of this outwardly demure She-Hulk destroying the candles he thought would protect him.

Was Carolyn a street person?

She scratched his face, shouted at him and said emasculating things in public, and did a bit of fixable albeit expensive damage to his apartment.

He shoved her so hard she flew through the air and landed on concrete steps, and afterward was in such physical shock (and probably pain) that she couldn't get herself together and couldn't respond verbally to a question.

Huh.

Definite "field hockey" vibes.

The bitch deserved it, r7. You can’t go around clawing at people and hitting them, and not expect them to defend themselves. She needed someone stronger than John and this model dude.

Sounds like they had a fight-to-fuck relationship

Woooooooooooow. I knew about their relationship and that things were a little cra-cra, but I had no idea!!!!! Is it possible that he lied about this OP? I need to know the truth, for my own sanity.

A truly amazing post, thank you OP.

Hes still a fine piece of ass

R9 if she'd cracked her skull or spine at the wrong angle on one of those steps, she'd easily have been paralysed or brain damaged. It's a wonder she wasn't.

But yeah, he was in way more danger and under much worse threat, being called a 'wimp' in the street and having to dodge a lump of wax or some glass shard.

[quote] I didn't know how to stop her without manhandling her, so I did what any man would have done in a similar situation: *I incapacitated her with force, without due consideration for her survival or basic physical wellbeing, which I can easily do because I'm three times her size by nature and have a genetic tendency to violent reactions as well as impaired empathy. And I know I'll get away with that.*

Fixed it for him.

It always strikes me as odd when someone describes a man who models as "a male model", as opposed to just "a model". It's the same when someone uses the phrase "a male nurse". The assumption being that these professions are female by default, and therefore men who practice them need to be called out as special cases or oddities. And Bergin used to be a model himself!

He loved every minute of it!

Was she a Leo? Or just a very kinky girl? Cocaine's a helluva drug!

[quote]she'd cracked her skull or spine at the wrong angle on one of those steps, she'd easily have been paralysed or brain damaged.

Good! At least John Jr would still be alive today!

What a goddamn nightmare.

We sat there for a while, the two of us, confused and emptied out, and after a few minutes I stood and walked her back to my apartment. We went upstairs, dropped onto the red futon, and made perhaps the most passionate love of our lives.

It was as if we had never been apart. And the same rules applied. Our relationship, if we chose to call it that, was vague and illdefined. No labels. No plans. She'd call when she could call; we'd get together when it was feasible (for her). I felt like "the girl": like I was supposed to sit quietly by the phone, willing it to ring, and hoping to hear from her. And it was important that I not make any unreasonable demands.

When I returned from Europe, I called Carolyn again. She was busy. She had to go to the Hamptons that weekend and again the following weekend and again the weekend after that. She was hanging out with Calvin and Kelly. "

In an odd way, I think my success had begun to frighten her a little. Up until very recently, I had always been there for her, and I would come running at a moment's notice. And I think Carolyn needed that, needed to know that I was there and always would be. I don't think there was anything calculating or malicious about it; I simply think it's who she was. Now that I was harder to reach, now that I was less available, she was going to make a concerted effort to want me less. Consciously or not, she was distancing herself from me.

"I need you too," I said. I asked her to please take one weekend and come to Naugatuck, to visit my family with me, but she said she couldn't—not now. I didn't know what was going on with the Calvin and Kelly, and I didn't ask. And I certainly wasn't thinking that anything else might be going on: with JFK Jr., for example. Months ago, I'd read in the Post that he was dating Daryl Hannah and that they were very happy.

She seemed sociopathic. Jfk jr. Probably did the world a favor taking her down.

Jfc! I wonder if this psycho bitch caused the plane to crash?

But this was the summer of 1994, and Jacqueline Kennedy had passed away the previous May. Now I was reading that John Jr. and Daryl Hannah were finished, that Jackie had never approved of Daryl, and that John had dumped her as way of showing respect for his late mother.

At the same time, I heard that John was hanging out in the Hamptons, as a guest of Calvin and Kelly. Coincidence? I didn't think so. I called Carolyn and asked her about it, though I'm not sure I had the right to ask. "He's just a friend," she said. "And he's going through a lot." "I'm going through a lot too," I said. "I miss you."

I went up to Naugatuck the following weekend to see my parents.

I slept well past noon on Monday, and when I woke up, I made myself a cup of coffee, dropped onto the living room couch, and turned on the TV. A Current Affair was on. The first thing I heard was a teaser—-something about JFK Jr. 's new love—then it cut to a commercial.

I thought this was pretty funny. "Hey, Tina," I hollered to my sister. "Get this! They're doing a segment on JFK's new girlfriend." She came out to the living room and joined me. I was grinning.

"Watch. It'll turn out to be Carolyn."

I was kidding of course. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I believed Carolyn. Nothing is going on with John Jr. He's a friend. You have nothing to worry about. But suddenly, A Current Affair was back on, and it was flashing a picture of John Jr. on a boat at Martha's Vineyard. With Carolyn. My Carolyn. I was in total shock.

Carolyn was wearing a T-shirt and something that looked suspiciously like underwear, and John Jr. seemed to be helping her into her pants. "Jesus," I said. I felt physically ill.

Tina looked over at me. "Oh, Michael," she said, covering her face with her hands.

I watched the rest of the segment. It gave a quick bio on Carolyn—publicist at Calvin Klein, Connecticut born and bred, blond hair, blue eyes, and supremely elegant—then it mentioned Daryl Hannah and the recent death of John's mother.

I left the room, grabbed the phone, and called Carolyn at work. She wasn't there, but I kept trying until I reached her. I was beside myself.

"Did you see what I just saw on A Current Affair?"

"No," she said.

"It's fascinating," I said. "You're the new woman in JFK Jr.'s life. You're out on a boat with him at Martha's Vineyard, but you tell me you're with Calvin and Kelly in the Hamptons."

"That's such bullshit, Michael," she said. But she said it without much conviction. I was suddenly furious. I realized how naive I'd been, and why I'd allowed myself to be so naive. Love really does make you blind.

"You look very happy together," I said. "How many times do I have to tell you, Michael?" she said. "He's a friend, and he's going through a difficult time."

"Really? He didn't look like he was suffering too much. And neither did you."

I hung up, got a beer out of the fridge, called my friend Tommy, and went out and got drunk in earnest.

What an idiot I'd been! Carolyn had never acknowledged that she'd ever had sex with anyone. She could never say, "I slept with him" or "We had a little fling." She could have made it sound classy if she wanted to; she could have referred to a brief liaison if that made her feel better. But no. Not Carolyn. To Carolyn, every man was a friend.

Pictures of Carolyn and JFK Jr. started appearing in both the tabloid press and the more legitimate newspapers. Here they were leaving a movie theater. Here they were having lunch at a sidewalk cafe. And here they were kissing in Central Park. That one in Central Park really got to me. Not only were they kissing in public, but she was holding on to him like she really meant it. I hooked up with Gordon the following week.

"How do I compete with that?" I asked him. "I'm a fucking model. He's American Royalty."

"I hear he can't get it up," Gordon said.

"You're sick," I said.

"That's what I hear," he said, but he was smiling, and I think he was just messing with my head. "I hear they had a big argument on Fifth Avenue, and she left him crying on the curb."

I gave it a week, then finally broke down and called. "So what's going on?" I asked. I didn't ask her whether we were finished, because the answer seemed obvious, and I didn't want her to confirm it. I still, foolishly, had hope.

"Nothing," she said. "We're just friends."

"What are you doing this weekend?" I asked. What can I say? I was weak and needy.

"I'm going to the Hamptons again," she said.

"Is he going to be there?"

"I don't know."

"How did this happen?" I said. "I turn around for a minute and suddenly JFK Jr. is your best friend."

"It isn't what you think," she said. But she didn't know what I thought. And she never told me what "it" was. And then she had to get off the phone; she was swamped with work.

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers," she said, and she hung up.

I kept drinking. I picked up two different women and brought them home to Mom on two consecutive weekends. I don't know what I was trying to prove. That I didn't care? That I wasn't hurt?

Then summer came and it was showtime again. My phone rang. It was Carolyn, calling me out of the blue.

"Hey," she said. "Want to come over?"

Of course I didn't want to come over. She'd lied to me. She'd broken my heart.

I went over. She opened the door and half hugged me and smiled self-consciously. "You look great," she said. She was lying again. I looked like shit. I'd barely survived that drinking binge.

"How's it going?"

"Okay," I said.

"I hear everything's really going well for you."

"Yeah," I said.

Suddenly the buzzer sounded. Carolyn crossed to the wall. "Hello," she said.

"It's me," a man said. It was John Jr. His voice was clear and unmistakable. Carolyn turned to look at me, calm and unruffled.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked. "Would you go down and wait for me at our bagel place?" Nice touch, that our bagel place.

"Would you mind taking the stairs, sweetie?"

I felt sick to my stomach. John Jr. was on his way up in the elevator, and I was sneaking down the back stairs like a goddamn criminal.

"We just kissed." - when a woman says THAT? It means she rode him till his dick fell off.

R21 -- Well she delayed the takeoff -- which was pretty much enough to seal their doom.

The year was flying by. At the end of August, after yet another out-of-town fund-raiser, I got back to New York and hooked up with Gordon.

"She's living with him," he said. "She moved into his loft in Tribeca."

"I don't want to hear it," I said. I didn't want to think about Carolyn. I was trying to move on.

..... Suddenly, the buzzer rang. It was Carolyn. She needed to see me. It was an awkward situation. She was waiting for me out front, with a baseball cap pulled low on her forehead. She said hi and I said hi, and we went over and sat on the stoop next door. She took my arm and began pinching it in that way she had. I noticed she was having a hard time looking me in the eye.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "You seem troubled."

"Nothing, I just needed to see you."

It was very strange. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin, fidgety, distant. And I wanted very much to help her. I know what you're thinking. As an outsider, as an unbiased observer, you probably think that Carolyn had treated me pretty shabbily. But frankly, I was still in love with her.

"Let's walk," she said.

We only got as far as the pizzeria around the corner, on Sixth. We went in and I got two slices, but she didn't touch her food. She just sat across from me in the booth, holding on to my free arm, and worrying the skin between her fingers. I kept waiting for her to say something. I thought that she was actually there to talk to me about John Jr., to tell me that he had really proposed to her.

"Thanks for being here for me," she said, standing up.

"That's it?" I said. "Visit's over?"

She nodded and we went outside. She said she had to get back to her place, which wasn't far—she had a new apartment near Washington Square Park, though rumor had it that she was spending most of her time with John Jr.

This guy and Jr were both doormat saps for putting up with this psyco bitch for more than a few dates.

A week later, she called me again. She said she needed to talk to me and invited me to her apartment. It was a nice place, a onebedroom, larger than the studio. Some of the familiar things were there—the mattress, the empty picture frames—and the memories came flooding back.

I sat next to her on the bed, where we held hands and didn't say anything for a full minute.

"The reason I came to see you last week is that I was pregnant," she said. "I needed someone to talk to."

"You're having a baby?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I lost the baby. I had a miscarriage."

I spent the night with her. I knew it was wrong, and she knew it was wrong. After, as we drifted off to sleep, I began to think that maybe I still had a chance with her. I know it sounds crazy—it sounds crazy to me now, and it probably felt a little crazy even then—but it's a measure of how much I wanted her in my life. The way I saw it, she probably didn't even tell John Jr. about the pregnancy.

We woke up at seven o'clock the following morning to someone pounding crazily at her door. I thought for sure it was John Jr., but it was Gordon. He was really worked up.

"Get the fuck out of here!" he told me. "He's on his way over."

Christ! John Jr. had been trying to reach Carolyn, but she had taken her phone off the hook when we went to bed. He hadn't been able to reach her, so he called Gordon to see if he knew where she was. When Gordon didn't have any news, John Jr. said he was going to ride over and make sure she was okay.

I looked at Carolyn—she was freaking—and booked the hell out of there. I ran off half dressed, with my shoes in my hand.

That was in April 1996.

The next time I saw Carolyn, she was a married woman.

R13--a broken spine or brain damage might mean she'd be alive today.

[quote] —the problem with testosterone fuelled-violence

The problem with abusive and shrewish women, cunt.

Somewhere between R13's "A gentleman never strikes a lady" and "Bitch had it coming" is the right way to handle the scene she was making in his apartment. I think I would have put her in a bear hug from behind (so she couldn't knee me in the groin) and firmly restrained her until she finally calmed down -- but then I would have never let her back in my life, much less my apartment.

She also physically abused JFK Jr. As did Daryl Hannah. Some men are drawn to abusive or unstable women just as some women are drawn to abusive or unstable men.

On September 21, 1996, 1 was alone in my apartment, doing crunches and half listening to the TV, when I heard the news. Carolyn Bessette and John F. Kennedy Jr. had tied the knot on Cumberland Island, a secluded little spit of land off the coast of Georgia. A small ceremony. Very tasteful. Forty people in a tiny, rundown church. And of course no one could mention the event without pointing out how beautiful Carolyn had looked. She was glowing. A perfect princess for America's leading prince. To say I was stunned is an understatement. I felt nauseous.

The last time I'd seen Carolyn was at her place: that morning when Gordon had arrived, warning us that John Jr. was on his way. I remember grabbing my things and running off like a coward.

Gordon called me while I was reading an account of the ceremony in the NewYork Times. He was practically in tears. Carolyn had told him that he would design her wedding dress, if and when the day finally arrived, but instead she had gone to Narciso Rodriguez, an up-and-coming designer. Even worse, Gordon hadn't been invited to the wedding.

"I'll never forgive her," he said. But he said it without conviction. He'd already forgiven her. There was something about Carolyn that made it impossible to hate her.

I went out for a jog to clear my head and ran for the better part of an hour. I tried to make sense of what I was feeling, and it wasn't easy. On the one hand, I was crushed. I had known for some time now that Carolyn and John Jr. would probably end up together, but once in a while, selfishly, I found myself hoping that things wouldn't work out for them. Now that she'd gone through with it, however, I felt not only a terrible loss, but also an odd sense of relief. In a strange way, I'd been liberated. I could get on with my life.

...... When I went back to New York for my runway show— Carolyn came to see me at the Marriott. She looked stunning, and I told her so.

Still, it was very strange having Carolyn standing there, in my hotel room ....

"I brought you something," she said. She handed me a little box. There was a St. Christopher medal on a gold chain inside, and she had etched an X and an O onto the back with a safety pin.

"Hugs and kisses," she explained. "From me."

"That's very sweet," I said.

"St. Christopher," she said. "You know, for protection. Because I'm not around to protect you anymore."

Carolyn and I realized we weren't going to be able to resist each other—the flesh was weak—and she ended up in my bed. I killed the lights and we got under the covers. I was as nervous as a virgin.

"We shouldn't be doing this, should we?" I said.

"I think John's having an affair," she said.

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," she said. "I just do."

John was apparently off in Iceland, kayaking with a group of friends.

But suddenly none of that mattered; suddenly we were making love. Carolyn and I were locked in each other's arms, and it was everything I remembered it to be and more. It brought back all the craziness. All the subterfuge and lying and madness and abuse, all the things you put up with when you're in love.

I knew this was wrong, but my emotions already had the better of me, and emotions don't leave much room for logic.

You know, I've never been a huge JFK jr stan.

However, I've never liked Carolyn and always thought that had Jackie O still be alive, she would NEVER have allowed him to marry her. Jackie would have seen through her in two seconds and would have put a stop to it faster than she squashed his relationship Daryl Hannah.

Ultimately, given the type of person he seemed to be, he was always going to marry an uber-bitch if mommy wasn't there to stop him.

[quote] In an odd way, I think my success had begun to frighten her a little.

[quote] Now that I was harder to reach, now that I was less available, she was going to make a concerted effort to want me less.

Calm down Michael

............. On Friday, with the weekend looming, Carolyn had told Gordon that she wanted to be alone with me. For the next few nights, it was just the two of us. I felt like we were in the middle of an old-fashioned TV series about an idiotically happy couple.

Here I was, coming home to my lovely wife, who always lit up when I walked through the door. All we needed now were a few kids. But then I'd remember: She's not my wife. She's married to someone else. She chose him over me.

We didn't talk about this, of course. How could we? To talk about John Jr. and Carolyn's marriage and her new life in the public eye would only have served to show us how insane we were.

During the day that weekend, we went out, with Carolyn in her loose-fitting corduroys and a baseball cap, pulled low on her forehead, right up against her dark glasses. She didn't want to risk being recognized. We walked along Third Street, went into stores, and window-shopped like we used to do in SoHo.

The next day, we piled into my Jeep and I drove her to the airport. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I couldn't do it. It wouldn't have been fair to her, but I wasn't only thinking about her. I was thinking about me too. I really did love her. But she'd made up her mind, and there was no turning back.

What was the point of all this torture? Almost more than I could handle. She was married, for God's sake. What were we doing? What were we thinking?

It was crazy. I was torturing myself, and I knew it. Plus, now I began to feel horribly guilty about the whole experience. One morning, I tossed her perfume. I also wanted to toss the black sweatpants she'd left behind, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I made a concerted effort not to think about her. I really did. But sometimes I couldn't avoid her even when I tried: the newspapers and magazines were always in my face.

I remember reading that John Jr. had cut a serious gash in his right wrist while clearing the dishes at home. I thought that sounded a little suspect.

In September, as I struggled to make sense of my personal life, Carolyn called to say she missed me too much and couldn't stay away.

"I need to see you again," she said.

"What are you going to tell John?" I asked.

"I've already told him," she said. "I said I was going out to visit a girlfriend."

So it was done. She had already decided.

I couldn't put her up at my place, since I had a roommate, and we couldn't risk anyone finding out about us, so she took a room at a downscale Days Inn on Sunset Boulevard.

All that, and you spelled his name incorrectly OP. It’s Bergin.

You neglected to post the most interesting thing about him. His underwear ads.

New "DL Book Club" contender?

Is "Gabriel" Gabriel Aubry?

Y'all think Bruce Weber hit that?

I was at work when her plane landed so I couldn't pick her up at the airport, but when I went to see her at the hotel she lit up the way she always used to. We embraced like long-lost lovers, ordered Thai takeout, and once again tried not to broach any subject that might put a damper on our good mood. It didn't work.

By midnight, she looked confused and unhappy. I tried to get her to open up, but she didn't feel like talking. She asked me to He next to her on the bed, and she worried the skin on my forearm like she used to.

She didn't say anything. She seemed lost deep inside herself. And I didn't say much either. I really didn't need to ask her what was wrong. I knew what was wrong. She was having an affair. People don't have affairs unless they're unhappy in their marriages.

Unfortunately, I didn't have as much time for her as she had hoped. I was very busy with the series, and I was involved, or half involved, with my roommate. Maybe I could have made more time, but I think part of me—the wiser part of me—was trying to distance myself from Carolyn.

It's not that I loved her less, but I wanted to love her less. I knew this relationship wasn't going anywhere, and I suspected it wouldn't end well.

She must have sensed my distance. When she left, she was more unhappy than ever. Oddly enough, I thought this was a step in the right direction.

.... Thanksgiving came around, and I flew home to see my family. The Friday after the big meal, the phone rang. My father answered. "Hello," a woman said. "Is Michael there? It's Mary."

My father handed me the phone. "It's 'Mary,' " he said, and gave me an odd look. I wondered if he knew.

It was Carolyn, of course. She asked if she could see me. We met at a seedy motel in nearby Milford that evening. She showed up behind the wheel of a Range Rover. I got us a room, and we went inside and made love without saying much. It felt wrong, but I guess morality wasn't much on our minds. It felt as if we were in one of those noir movies from the 1950s: the married woman and the amoral cad, lying in bed in a cheap motel room, with the neon light blinking outside.

In the early morning, we got dressed and left the room. She kissed me and got into her Range Rover and drove away. We hadn't said more than a couple dozen words to each other.

Did Bergin write it himself?

I started a journal. I was trying to make sense of my relationship with Carolyn because it was eating away at me. I needed to get it out. I needed to deal with it. She was somebody else's wife, for God's sake, and I still loved her. And until I got her out of my system I wasn't going to be able to move on. I knew that it was over, but there's knowing and there's knowing. I still wasn't free of her.

..... The distraction didn't last. Carolyn tracked me down while I was still in the city. Gordon told her that I was staying near Lincoln Center and she insisted on coming over. She had something for me, she said. She'd only stay a minute. Promise.

She showed up at the hotel, looking as beautiful as ever, but skittish. There was something a little manic in her eyes. She gave me a beautiful gold lighter with my initials engraved across one side. I didn't have anything for her and told her I felt lousy about it.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Just seeing you is more than enough." Then she kissed me on the cheek and hurried off.

I thought, Okay. Good. Nothing happened. We are getting through this. It's over. We are going to get on with our respective lives.

In the spring of 1998, Gordon's mother passed away. He called with the sad news and asked if I'd meet him in Seattle for the service.

"Carolyn is coming with me," he said.

flew up that Friday and met them at the airport. I hugged Gordon first—he looked like hell; he'd been very close to his mother—then hugged Carolyn. It struck me that the last time I saw the two of them, at the airport in Los Angeles, I had hugged Carolyn first.

Carolyn saw that I was wearing the St. Christopher's medal she'd given me. She flipped it over and noticed that the X and the O she'd etched on the back had faded a little.

"I'll fix that for you," she said.

We left the terminal and took a cab to a little bed-and-breakfast that was holding two rooms for us. There was a door between the two rooms, one of which had two beds. Carolyn didn't say anything. She just looked at me, and it was understood that she and I were going to take the room with two beds.

We got back late, and Carolyn and I slipped into bed and made love. We were always tender with each other, but on this particular night she was unusually tender, as if I were so delicate that I might break under her touch.

The next day, we went to the service at a small chapel, then over to the house where Gordon's mother had lived out her final years. About an hour into it, Carolyn wanted to leave, and she wanted me to go with her. We got back to our room and made love again.

In the morning, Carolyn seemed very lethargic. "You look unhappy," I said. "What can I do?"

"Save me," she said.

I smiled at her, as if she had said this to amuse me, but she didn't smile back.

[quote] On September 21, 1996, 1 was alone in my apartment, doing crunches and half listening to the TV, when I heard the news. Carolyn Bessette and John F. Kennedy Jr. had tied the knot.

Bergin must be a Soapdish fan.

In the morning, Carolyn seemed very lethargic. "You look unhappy," I said. "What can I do?"

"Save me," she said.

I smiled at her, as if she had said this to amuse me, but she didn't smile back. We had breakfast and returned to the room. Gordon was just waking up. He said he had to go over to his mother's house again for a little while. "When I get back," he added, "we'll get ready for Fresno."

"Fresno?"

"Did I forget to tell you?" he said. "We're burying her in Fresno."

"I wish I'd known that earlier," I said. "I have a round-trip ticket, and I can't change it."

I didn't want to go to Fresno, frankly. I'd come to be there for Gordon in his time of need, and I'd also come to see Carolyn. I'd be lying if I said otherwise, but a third leg of the trip seemed out of the question. Carolyn was very upset.

"You have to come to Fresno," she insisted after Gordon left.

She reached for the phone to call the airlines. "Give me your ticket. I'll change it. I'll pay for it."

"I can't," I said. "I have to get back to L.A. for a guest spot on Access Hollywood."

"When?"

"Tomorrow," I said. "Monday."

"Cancel it," she said.

"Not possible," I said. "It's locked, and I need this gig."

Carolyn looked like she was near panic, but I held firm. I decided to sweat some of the alcohol out of my system, so I put on my running shoes and went for a jog.

When I came back from my run, I asked the young girl at the front desk if she could call me a cab in about an hour and went upstairs. Carolyn was lying in bed. propped up on the pillows, waiting for me. She looked gaunt and withdrawn—ill, in fact.

"You okay?" I asked.

"What do you think?" she said.

It was spooky. I got in the shower, then dressed, and began to pack my bags. She watched.

"I looked in your things," she said. I turned to face her. "I looked in your book and it's not true. Access Hollywood isn't until Tuesday. You lied to me. You could come to Fresno if you wanted. Why did you lie to me?"

I didn't answer. She started to cry.

"Don't you understand?" she said. "I love you. I want to be with you."

"Carolyn," I said. "Don't say that. You know it's not true. You're just upset."

"But it is," she insisted, crying harder. She was getting hysterical. "I can't go on. I don't want to go on."

"Stop," I said.

"Please, Michael—please forgive me."

"For what?" I said.

She began to bawl uncontrollably, huge, gasping sobs, so powerful she could hardly catch her breath.

"For the way I've hurt you," she said. "I know how much I've hurt you. But you have to help me, Michael. We have to do this."

We? Jesus. Suddenly it was we?

"We're not doing anything, Carolyn," I said.

I was getting scared. I was watching her come apart at the seams, and I didn't know what to do. I had always been there for Carolyn.

If she called because she needed to talk, I listened. If she wanted me for one night, I went. If she needed company at a family party, I was there. And if she wanted to get together in a seedy motel room, I got in my car and met her, even when it went against my better judgment.

But this was different. She was asking for something I couldn't deliver and didn't want to deliver. She was asking me to give her the strength to leave her husband.

"I don't think you're thinking clearly," I said. "I don't think you've thought this through."

"Don't say that!" she shouted. "I've thought about nothing else." She seemed on the verge of physical and mental collapse. "I love you! I want to be with you!"

Now I was terrified. I was actually shaking. I couldn't even begin to process what she was asking of me.

"Carolyn," I said. "Pull yourself together. This isn't about me. This is about you. This is a problem I can't fix."

"But it is about you!" she protested. "We can do this."

"Look," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "I love you, and I've always loved you, but if you think you're just going to get up and walk out on him, you're not thinking very clearly. This is not the type of scandal that people forget. This will follow us around for the rest of our lives."

"Who cares?" she said. "Who cares about a lousy scandal?"

"I do," I said. I couldn't believe she was ready to get out of her marriage. I couldn't believe she believed it. "I don't want a scandal and I don't want the responsibility for a scandal. It will be way bigger than you can imagine."

My words seemed to be coming from someone else's mouth. I loved Carolyn, and over the years I had shown—sometimes to my detriment—that I would do anything for her. But this was too much. I was unwilling to be part of this.

"Please, Michael!" she begged. She was frantically worrying the skin on her own arm.

"No," I said.

That was my last word to Carolyn. No.

I grabbed my bag and went downstairs. The cab was already there, thankfully, and I hopped in and told the driver to take off. As he pulled away, Carolyn came running outside. She called out to me, but I didn't want to deal with it anymore.

"Just go," I told the driver, and he pulled away.

"Michael!"

I turned around. She had drifted out into the middle of the street, and she was looking right at me, growing smaller and smaller. Her head was tilted slightly to the left, and her arms were hanging limply at her sides. She looked as if she barely had the energy to hold herself up. Then the cab turned the corner, and she disappeared from view.

Can we just pause for a moment and acknowledge that Michael Bergin's memoir is completely ghostwritten? Not saying it's not basically true, but the Waterbury-kid-mixing-with-society thing is laid on pretty thick.

I slept badly Sunday night. I couldn't stop thinking about her. I called her cell phone late Monday, expecting that she'd be back in New York, but I got voice mail. I left a message: "Worried about you. Please call." She didn't call. I tried again the next day, and again she didn't call.

I tried to tell myself that I had done the right thing, but it didn't make me feel any better.

..... That May, in 1999, Gordon came out to visit a friend of his, the sister-in-law of Reggie Miller, of the Indiana Pacers. Reggie had a big house in the Hollywood Hills, and I went over and hooked up with Gordon and stayed for drinks and a barbecue. Before long, inevitably, we were talking about Carolyn. There were rumors that she and John Jr. had hit a very rough patch. Gordon had heard that they fought constantly and that John Jr. had actually moved out of the loft at one point.

I told Gordon about my girlfriend Joy, and about some of the rocky times we had gone through ourselves, and were in fact still going through. And I told him we were struggling to make sense of things.

"It's very important to me," I said. "Especially now that she's pregnant."

"Pregnant?!" Gordon lit up. "I can't believe it," he said, grinning ear to ear. "Michael's going be a daddy!"

"I can't believe it either," I said, and I was grinning too.

The title of the book should have been NARCISISTS ALL

Carolyn should've arranged to have Bergin and John-John at the same time.

What was so special about her? Tall blondes are a dime a dozen in NYC. She didn’t seem to have a shining personality. She wasn’t intelligent. What was it?

Old geocities gossip site listed him as bi.

After reading some of the escapades above, I realize that it almost identical to a past relationship of mine. The difference is that the psycho married me, but kept up the affair with the supposed bff...gaslighting to the extreme. Even after he was caught red handed he still tried to convince me they were only friends and that I had too much time on my hands. I feel sorry for Michael for having gone through that. Its hard. Especially if you love the piece of shit.

On Friday, July 16, I had a late shoot and went to bed late. The following morning, I got up, brushed my teeth, turned on my cell phone, and realized that dozens of people had been trying to call me. Before I could check my voice mail, the phone rang again. It was Joy, calling from Los Angeles. Had I heard the news?

JFK Jr. 's plane had been reported missing the night before. Carolyn and her sister Lauren had been on board with him. They had left Fairfield, New Jersey, en route to Martha's Vineyard. The plan had been to drop Lauren at Martha's Vineyard, then continue to Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, to attend the wedding of Rory Kennedy.

They never made it.

I didn't want to believe it. My thought was the plane is missing. It'll turn up, right? They'll be okay, right?

I called Carolyn's mother, in Connecticut, and told her not to give up hope. But even as we spoke, the news turned grim. Searchers had found pieces of the plane, along with some personal items. They weren't holding out much hope. From one moment to the next, search-and-rescue had become search-and-recovery.

I called Carolyn's mother again. When I heard her voice, I began to sob. I had called to comfort her, and instead she was comforting me.

"You were very special to her, Michael," she said. "We will keep her in our hearts forever."

......The next day, I received an invitation to the memorial service from Carolyn's mother. But I knew I couldn't go. I couldn't do that to her, the family, or the Kennedys.

....Even in the privacy of my hotel room, late at night, with the lights off and nothing to disturb me, there was no escaping her. I kept reviewing our life together. I only remembered the good things, but at the end of the week I remembered one of the bad things, and it was the very worst of all.

It was that weekend in Seattle, when I'd flown up for Gordon's mother's funeral. Carolyn had asked me for help, and I had said no.

I found myself wondering what would have happened if I had said yes. Would Carolyn have left John Jr.? Would she be alive today? Would we be together? Would we be happy?

But of course I hadn't said yes. I'd said no. That was my final word to Carolyn, and I could never take it back.

R60 Very True, that's why the title of the thread "Carolyn Bessette Abused Michael Bergen"

Wasn’t he popular in the steam rooms at several NYC gyms at one point?

R58 I think women with BPD are irresistable to men, e.g. Angelina Jolie, Carolyn Bessette, Nicole Brown Simpson, Amber Heard...

He was spotted at the Steamworks baths in Chicago during the 90s.

Thanks r65. I knew that it was something like that.

So where are the stories of him hooking up with guys ? I always though he was at least bi...

Gay-for-pay at the very least!

[quote]Carolyn should've arranged to have Bergin and John-John at the same time.

That would have been the 90's sexual zenith. You can retire after that.

R65, and Obama was spotted at Man Country. Eyeroll.

R70 Michelle or Barack?