I remember now how I used to call Eli Lijah—until he told me to stop—and how I longed to talk to his dad too. But I also remember how angry I was at Steve. How he had fueled my fear of being penniless by spending money I was sure I didn’t have, how I was so afraid of losing everything, the way it had happened in my childhood, that I sold the house without knowing if I actually needed to or not. More than that, I was furious with Steve for allowing me to hurt him. I walked outside that day, through the sliding bedroom door and around the edge of the house. Standing in an unfamiliar, shabby backyard, I put my arms around my body, whispering, “I’m sorry, Sally. I’m so sorry.” Then went back to get Eli, who was playing with Peter and didn’t want me to come near. Who could blame him?
Unlike the screen test I’d done for Gidget—on a soundstage with a crew and all their equipment—the three scenes I was told to prepare for Sybil were to be videotaped in the same office where the meetings took place, using a small camera. For the first time, I was glad that my drive took so long because by the time I got there, I was ready. And from the moment we looked at one another, even before our how-do-you-dos, the relationship between the reluctant patient and the watchful doctor was in place. Joanne Woodward, with her intense gray-blue eyes, met Sybil, and I met Dr. Wilbur. We needed nothing else from each other. There was no polite chitchat, no conversation outside of the story we were telling. I can’t remember who was in the room, although I do recall someone taking the video camera off its sticks to follow me around at one point. But the memory I hold most dear is the pure, generous connection I instantly felt from this beautiful, sturdy actor. She was sitting very still in a low upholstered chair most of the time, but during the last scene—which was long and emotional—I jumped to my feet, then scurried under a conference table. Joanne walked to where I had vanished and peeked under, trying to coax Sybil—me—out from hiding. As she returned to her chair, I—Sybil—slowly crawled to sit on the floor by her feet. Not looking at the script, she leaned forward over her lap, her voice kind but unsentimental as she hovered over this emotional girl at her knee. Through the chains of Sybil’s childhood, I felt the need to touch the doctor, but knew that Sybil couldn’t touch anyone, was afraid of being touched herself, so I grabbed the sleeve of Joanne’s thick navy-blue sweater, held it as if it were a precious stuffed animal, then wiped my gushing nose on it. She didn’t flinch—only tentatively, and with great tenderness, put her hand on the top of my head. I later heard that Joanne told the production: If Sally is not cast as Sybil, then I won’t be your Dr. Wilbur. I was cast as Sybil.
As Sybil.
I didn’t feel excited when I got the “congratulations, you got the job” call. Everything in me went still, quieted by the thought of what lay ahead. I didn’t doubt myself, but I couldn’t congratulate myself either. I was going into battle, this time on the front lines.
The schedule was to rehearse for two weeks on a stage at Warner’s, then spend two weeks in New York, shooting the exteriors, and a remaining five weeks in the sets built on the studio lot. I needed my mother. I couldn’t leave the kids for the two weeks’ filming in New York without her help. I couldn’t do any of it without her. She had moved out of Joy’s house, was renting a tiny apartment at the beach, and was still trying to beat down the real estate door. But when I called her, she, without hesitation, packed her suitcase. From then on, that suitcase would be kept in the back of her car, packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice if I needed her. She even hovered nearby when Steve had the kids, days that always made Eli happy and Peter achingly homesick—though for what home I don’t know.
Before traveling to New York to start filming, we rehearsed the four-hour miniseries on an empty soundstage. With white tape on the cement floor to indicate doors and room size, we’d block out as many scenes as possible, then at the end of each day, Mr. Page wanted us to run it all, full out. The process felt more like we were rehearsing to open on Broadway, rather than preparing a project to be filmed one scene at a time. And while I appreciated the information it gave the actors as to the evolution of the story, my instincts also told me to guard against leaving the performance on the rehearsal room floor, as they say. Very different from the discipline of creating and repeating a performance night after night onstage, I understood the magical immediacy of working in front of a camera, understood that the camera just needs to see it once, instant and alive, sometimes only the blink of an eye, or a flash of a thought that can never be repeated.
Because of that, I’d ask Anthony if I might simply touch on the emotions and not ask myself to land the performance day after day. That would not do. He needed to see all that I had to give, constantly doubting my ability and disapproving—many times vociferously—of my choices. He didn’t like the physicality I was bringing to Peggy—the nine-year-old piece of Sybil who held all her anger. He would say he didn’t believe her, that she was farcical and looked like an old lady golfer (which she actually did). I didn’t know what to do. Rehearsal time needs to be free from the obligation of being a finished product, and I needed to flop around, to try this and that, to find things I didn’t know I was looking for, to let my brain lead me toward behavior I couldn’t have planned. I learned to rehearse at home with Peter and Eli walking in and out, away from his scrutiny and judgment.