When I’d cleared enough space to get dinner going, Baa wandered in saying she had to go, and without turning I tossed out a quick “Great, see ya,” not wanting to meet her eyes. She watched me from the door for a moment, then moved to put her hand on my back and her glass in the sink, asking, “Are you okay?” I could feel the dance between us—the one, two, cha-cha-cha as she stood there waiting for my lead. Part of me wanted to cry, to tell her how desperately I wanted her to stay, to hear her talk to me from under the closet door. But instead, I denied her any glimpse of my longing, ignored her question, and punched at her with my irritated words. “Well, thanks. That’s one glass you brought to the sink.”
After dinner had been made and eaten, after the kids had splashed in the bath and crawled into jammies, bedtime thankfully arrived. All I wanted was to throw myself down the dark hole of sleep, to be unable to feel for a while, but ten-month-old Eli was not going to cooperate. He kept crying, screaming to be picked up, to be rescued from his crib, demanding that the day continue. And after the fifth or fiftieth trip into his room, after patting his back and tiptoeing out thinking I was free to drift away, after waiting for Steve to stop reading whatever volume of Sandburg’s Lincoln he was on, the banshee woman—who stood constantly in my shadow—marched into Eli’s room, grabbed my baby, thundered back, and threw him onto the bed next to his distracted father. It wasn’t a great distance, but it had been done recklessly, with the same fury-fueled impulse that had possessed Jocko when he flung me across the backyard into the swimming pool. And even though he was only ten months old, Eli felt as humiliated and outraged as I had when I was twelve. Steve picked up the wailing baby, carried him back to his room, shut the door, and rocked him to sleep. I sat outside on the wooden deck, watching the waves tumble to the sand, hitting myself in the face over and over. All in all, not my best day.
One night, maybe a week later, after putting Eli in his crib and patting his back until he seemed to settle, I slipped out and stood at the door listening while he started to cry, as he usually did. Knowing I’d probably have to go back in a few minutes, I was moving toward my bedroom when abruptly, the crying stopped. Could he have fallen asleep that quickly? I remember standing in the doorway thinking, Good, he’s learning. But within seconds, my instinct sent me back into the room. Eli seemed to be soundlessly locked in the midst of a deep wail, like he couldn’t catch his breath, like he couldn’t release the sob and breathe again. I immediately picked him up, hoping he would relax and exhale. But he didn’t. I screamed for Steve and started pounding on my little boy, saying, “Breathe… breathe.” His arms and legs began to vibrate while his body became rigid, then his back arched and his face turned from red to blue. And still he didn’t breathe. Slowly his body began to melt, until his head flopped onto my chest and he took a breath. Holding him tight against my heart, I sank to the floor, crying as I rocked back and forth. Minutes later, he opened his eyes with a look of vagueness, not really focusing on anything, and even without words, I could tell he was disoriented. I kept repeating to him that he was okay, that I knew what it was like when you couldn’t remember where you’d put your arms and legs, that I knew how frightening it was and that it was over.
But it wasn’t over; it was the beginning of what the doctors thought were petit mal seizures, although they were never witnessed by any medical personnel because I wouldn’t let Eli go through the tests. I knew that the procedure of being held down while various pieces of equipment were attached would frighten him, and being frightened made him angry. The seizures only occurred when Eli got angry. From then on, whenever anything happened, I knew I had to get to him fast. If he fell down when learning to walk, if his brother took something he wanted, if I heard him start to cry for any reason, I’d run to pick him up, to soothe him before his anger became bigger than he was. And if I missed that tiny window of opportunity, then his body would send him into a helpless fit, until eventually he’d pass out and I’d rock my little son, trying to soothe him back into consciousness. And it wasn’t just me; Baa and especially Steve were always on the alert. But the amazing thing is, at about two years of age, when Eli could say words like shit and fuck—words that Steve and I gleefully taught him—when he could use language to get angry and not his body, he stopped having seizures. Something that, in my heart, I had known would happen. But even now, I’m convinced that his episodes were my fault. Eli had to deal with a very angry mother any way he could, and if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
We’d been living in the Topanga house for about a year when one morning I found a bewildered messenger standing unannounced in the middle of my disheveled living room, having wandered in off the beach and through the sliding glass door that stood open. In his hand, he held a manila envelope addressed to me with the Screen Gems logo pasted on. It contained a thirty-five-page screenplay, the pilot for a new series written by Bernard Slade, the same man who had written the pilot for The Flying Nun—and years later, would write the play Same Time, Next Year. As soon as it arrived, the phone started ringing and a stiff, unfamiliar voice announced it was John Mitchell’s office calling for Sally Field. John H. Mitchell was the president of Screen Gems, a position he’d held for the entire time I’d been employed there, though I don’t remember ever meeting him. Nor can I remember what exactly he said that day, but I presume he told me that Screen Gems wanted me back. Then came a call from Bob Claver, who had produced the Gidget pilot, and who had been my reading partner and support system through that summer of auditions in 1964. He would be producing this pilot as well, and if the network picked it up, he’d be there for every episode of The Girl with Something Extra, which, like the Nun, had been written for me. Last, and totally least, came a call from my agent to let me know that I’d been offered another series.
I remember standing at the stove a day or so later, holding Eli on my hip and stirring a pan of Campbell’s tomato soup, while Peter sat on the floor dancing tiny plastic animals on the linoleum before him. It was just like the memory I had of my mother holding me perched to one side, my brother playing behind us, while she memorized Chekhov and cooked supper for her children. Now I stood, lost in thought, caught between what I wanted to do and what I felt I had to do to support my family. The script was funny—in a glib sitcom sort of way—and we needed money, plus I wanted to work. But I did not want to do another sitcom. I felt I’d be losing something, giving up, caving in. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t stand back and logically weigh all the pros and cons because every time I tried, fear would rise up and block any other points of view I might have.
Steve appeared in the doorway wearing shorts and a tattered T-shirt, wet from the ocean as if he’d jumped in on an impulse. I wanted him to say that I was worth more, to say, We’ll be okay, hold out awhile longer. But he didn’t. He watched for a moment, then, with a matter-of-fact “happens all the time” attitude, said that Bob Claver had offered him an associate producer position if I agreed to do the show. I felt immediately betrayed and angry and began to pound the wooden spoon into the hot soup.
“I don’t want to do it,” I flared back.
“But we could work together,” he said, trying to convince me, and after a moment of silence he added, “You have to earn some money, Sal. I really think you should do it. And I’d get to work too.”