To make things worse, at this very moment my mother decided to get her real estate license and hoped to work her way into the lucrative world of open houses and sales pitches. I was barely listening when she chatted on about passing the exam, telling me that she’d met with a few established brokers to possibly begin working with them. Maybe I didn’t listen because I couldn’t imagine her actually doing any of it, couldn’t see her wearing a red blazer and selling anything to anyone. I had always worried that she needed to be independent of me and constantly felt that I needed to be independent of her. But every time we had tried to move away from each other, every time I’d tried to hire someone to help me, Baa would step forward saying, “Sal, I’m the only one you can really trust.” And every time she tried to build a life of her own, I’d get scared and call for her. When one moved forward, the other moved back, then we’d reverse; back and forth the dance continued. Which left her without a job and me—at this exact moment—with no dependable help.
On the day of that first meeting for Sybil, I walked Peter to his new school, leaving him sitting uncomfortably in the first-grade classroom, then returned home to get dressed in some drab clothes with Eli close on my heels, desperately complaining that he didn’t want to be left with our new housekeeper, that he only wanted his dad. In the midst of my trying to convince him of this woman’s good qualities, the phone rang. It was my new employee, the very housekeeper we were debating about, who was already late and now, because of car trouble or something, couldn’t make it at all. I had no time left and had to get out the door soon or I’d be late too. I ended up pleading with Coulter to look after Eli, but since I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone, and Coulter wasn’t sure what to do with the disgruntled three-year-old, I broke down and called Steve, beseeching him to drive over. He was happy to do that but it had to be on his own timetable. By the time I got on the road for that hour-long drive over Malibu Canyon to Warner Bros. in Burbank, frantically trying not to be late, I felt like I was losing my mind. Fortunately, I was going to be reading for the role of a young woman who was mentally ill.
Dianne looked slightly concerned as she stood to happily greet the girl she’d last seen wearing next to nothing, the girl who had always been boisterous and flirtatious but who was now dour and reticent. Without looking in her face, I gave a guarded hello, then retreated to the back of the room as though total exhaustion were one step away. I sat, staring down at my hands, until I was finally called into the large generic office and introduced to four people waiting there. It took every ounce of concentration I had to contain the part of me that wanted to entertain them, to become the Gidget girl, energetic and joyful. That part of me automatically took control when I felt shy, had been doing that my whole life, and I could feel myself reining her in, pulling her back, permitting the shy part of me to remain visible.
I never completely focused on anyone in the room, but Stewart Stern’s generous “open to anything” gaze was palpable, and I felt it even without looking at him. Two of the producers were present: Peter Dunne, who stood quietly watching from the back, and a short-haired, no-nonsense Jackie Babbin, who sat with her forearms resting on her knees, as though not wanting to miss a single one of my softly spoken words. Sitting in the most prominent chair was the director, Anthony Page, who seemed the least interested, hovering on the edge of dismissive, allowing the others to attempt a polite conversation. I could barely speak, but this time, my inability to talk was controlled by me, it was my choice. Awkward discomfort seeped out of me like a gas until everyone in the space felt uncomfortable and small talk fizzled out. With Stewart reading the Dr. Wilbur role, there came a nod for me to begin, and as I did I felt the room shift. I got lost in Sybil’s mind, and they watched me disappear.
Through April and into the beginning of May, every time I returned to read, I’d end up dragging myself out of the office, but leaving behind a roomful of stunned, totally confused observers. How on earth could Sally Field, the girl who had been the Flying Nun, be the best choice to play this challenging role? The director didn’t want me. I’d heard that he wanted Vanessa Redgrave, and who wouldn’t? But Stewart saw the Sybil in me, as did Jackie. I was called in for a final, down-to-the-wire audition, a screen test of sorts, and this time I’d be working with the actor set to play Dr. Wilbur: Joanne Woodward.
In the midst of this, Stay Hungry opened to mixed reviews, and I worried that somehow it would affect the decision to hire me for this NBC miniseries. Even though I was told that the notices were generally kind to Jeff and me, I honestly never read any of them. But, as is my habit, I kept several. I still don’t want to read them, but I’ll close my eyes and pick one. Variety, April 23, 1976.
Bob Rafelson returns to the screen with Stay Hungry, featuring an excellent Jeff Bridges as a spoiled but affable rich young Alabama boy who slums his way to maturity through relationships with street-smart characters. Among them is Sally Field, who has now and forever shed her cutesy TV series image… As a lower-class and likeable sexpot, Field is superb.
Okay, fine. I’ll take it. Don’t ask me to read any others.
As the weeks moved on, days that were filled with auditions and moving boxes and unreliable childcare, with a new house, a new man, plus an ongoing divorce, I slowly became an emotional jack-in-the-box. I’d enfold myself in Coulter’s lap to be soothed, until suddenly I’d become exasperated, resenting him for leaning on me financially when I seemed to have no trouble leaning on him emotionally, literally hiding in him like a child frightened of the thunder. My sexuality was free to roam with Coulter, but without warning, that part of me would vanish and I’d want to squash him like a bug. I never knew what all-consuming emotion would define me from one moment to the next. Each one was intensely felt, until it wasn’t felt at all, until it was totally wiped off the chalkboard and another was written in its place, in capital letters.
In one of my journals I found three folded onionskin pages, frantically typed without much punctuation and dated April 1976:
I just had a fit. The kind I used to have. Flashes of red and yellow, pressure in the backs of my eyes, my body rigid. It builds and builds while my outside stays calm. The only release is when I hit myself hard. Slap myself in the face again and again. At first I’m afraid it will hurt, then when I feel the sting I lose seconds, they flash by me in a color, a fury where I hit myself again and again. My eyes look puffy not from being hit but from the pressure behind them. Peter is screaming at Eli from down the hall. Eli. Eli. Eli, get off the phone. Eli is screaming and crying. I want to talk to my dad. I hold my voice in and carefully tell Eli to get on the other phone and then he can talk to his Dad. I don’t know the number. I don’t know the number. You don’t have to know the number just get on the other phone. Peter won’t let me get on the phone. Peter let him get on the phone. Dad’s not on the phone. Just my friend, David. I want to talk to my dad. I want to talk to my dad. I hit myself in the face mostly on my eye. I want to talk to my dad. I hit myself in the thigh with my fist, three four five times. My wrist hurts. I stand straight, wipe my red puffed face, walk in a blur to the kitchen. Eli, just a baby, only three, stands there tears in his eyes. What is it E.… what is it? I take the phone from him and hear Peter talking to David. Little six-year-old talk. I try to sound sane. Who is this? David. Peter is your dad on the phone? No, I told Eli, it’s not Dad, just David. Oh sorry. I hang up the phone and face my baby. He’s not on the phone right now. Lijah, he’s not there. He will call you when he gets to his house and I will take you to see him. Okay? I speak very calmly very plainly. I punch each word a little too hard, enunciate a little too correctly. I sound like a very bad actor in the fifth grade. As I walk out the door, fleeing to safety, I remember my baby. You’re a good boy Lijah. I can’t give him any more of me. His little dirty face watches as I rush away to finish my tantrum.