During one of my sessions with Dr. Dan, he asked if he could show me the “Still Face Experiment,” a short video made by Dr. Edward Tronick and his developmental psychology team. The film shows a nine-or ten-month-old baby sitting in a high chair, open-faced and gleefully fixed onto the eyes of her mother, seated before her. The baby is preverbal but clearly communicating back and forth, in a joyous conversation of love with her responsive, playful parent. The mother is then told to turn her head away for a moment, and when she turns back, it is with a blank, lifeless expression, no longer responding in any way. The baby is immediately affected, confused as to why her mother is not reacting, becoming anxious as she tries to reestablish the attachment, at first babbling, then reaching out, then screeching with alarm, until finally the baby turns away, trying to escape from the discomfort, and starts to cry. If no one comes, if the mother still does not hear her distress, she begins to chew on her own hand, hoping to soothe herself. Then, after a few minutes—which seems like an hour for both the viewer and, no doubt, the baby—the mother comes back to life and the connection is reestablished. The bad is gone and the good returns, and if done with loving support this process can help the baby build inner resilience. It is a powerful and moving study of a child’s need to have an attentive parental connection and the hardwired reaction of that baby when the attachment is lost, even for a short time.
“But,” I protested, “parents and caretakers have to look away periodically—they’re human beings. And my mother was there, always caring for me, or making sure I was with someone who would, my grandmother and my brother. Baa was wonderful and loving,” I kept declaring. “I’m here because I don’t know how I’ll live without her. Not to tear her down. She has been my life!” Dan listened while I repeatedly told him he had it all wrong, nodding his head with acceptance, until he sat quiet for a moment. Thinking.
“A child instinctually knows that it cannot survive alone,” he told me a few days later, and I wanted to say, No shit. He continued, with a “be patient” look on his face, “But if their survival is dependent on someone who might be dangerous or deeply flawed, then the knowledge of that is too terrifying to accept, so the child creates a better scenario.” Even though I was tapping one foot against the other, giving off the appearance of being bored to death, he began speaking now for the imaginary child. “ ‘The problem can’t be my mother’s fault because I can’t live without her, so it must be mine. My mother is already perfect, she has to be, and I am not. I can fix me. I can make myself better.’”
I stopped moving. And something popped out of my mouth before my brain had formed the words. Stunned by what I’d revealed, I sat with my mouth wide open, astounded and horrified. Had this never registered before, never penetrated my brain until that moment? When I got home, I pulled out my many journal-filled containers, and sitting on the floor, I went through the books until I found it—a day only five years earlier, one of the many days I’d spent packing to move out of the Brentwood house. I glanced at the journal to verify that it had indeed happened. I had written it down, for God’s sake, but I had never let the thought register in my mind. Even then, I hadn’t wanted to know.
May 15, 2004
Mother told me the most amazing thing yesterday. I was packing, talking about… I don’t know… feeling remote, slightly perturbed, the way I often do with my mother. Sometimes I can break through, can be with her, but mostly I stay remote, in a place where she can’t reach me and she keeps trying. She finally caught my attention when she said something about always fighting with Jocko. I looked in her face and asked if she ever really fought with him. “Yes,” she said. “If alcohol was involved.” I laughed. She said she would let out all of her anger then, and it was mostly about me. I felt jabbed with a long hatpin. When I was a teenager and no longer speaking to him, he once accused me of being the reason his marriage was such a mess, but Baa had never told me that I was the cause for any of their fights. Had she? I wanted to be quiet, didn’t want to talk at all, but as we sat in silence, without thinking I asked, “Why were you fighting about me?” “For what he did to you,” she said simply. The world slammed to a stop. I stuttered something like, “But I didn’t tell you, not really.” And when she said, “He told me,” I kept packing but felt dizzy. Calmly she continued, “He told me how he had suffered for what he’d done. He wanted my sympathy, for me to know how hard it had been on him. Of course, I was appalled and knew it was the end of us.” I couldn’t look at her. My hands were shaking. “If he admitted it, then why did you and Princess treat me like I’d made it up? I tried to tell you both once. Remember? When I was doing the Nun?” “I know,” she said. “I told Princess the truth and I tried to talk to you, I think… I tried. I don’t know.” At first, I felt a wave of relief and gratitude, that she had tried to help me… but… but. Something’s wrong. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
My cherished mother had known… something. What exactly that was, I didn’t want to hear, because even at that time, when I was middle-aged, I couldn’t bear the idea that she hadn’t run to my side, that she hadn’t come to get me. Even now as I write this, I remember the wave of fear that rolled through me. I had spent my life hanging on to the vision of her being a glowing treasure who loved me, that I was worth loving and protecting, and if I lost her, what would I have? Even as she was dying, I fought to keep that vision safe, but in doing so, I was losing myself. I was the one who had kept me safe. All of me, including the parts I found unlovable: They had protected me, had steered me outside of my fears, pushing me toward things I didn’t feel capable of doing.
Suddenly something lit up. It was as if I’d been standing in a dark room, panicked and sightless, until I realized I was holding a lantern and all I needed to do was turn it on. Light filled my head and I saw the childhood illusion I’d fought so hard to live in. I had accepted the idea that I was broken in an effort to keep my mother whole, always battling with a part of myself that expected to be knocked out, the buzzing voice that had come out of nowhere and grown over the last years, telling me to duck even before life took a swing. Lincoln wasn’t lost, not yet, not until it was actually taken away from me. I couldn’t give up the battle before there was a battle to fight. And I couldn’t let my mother leave her life without knowing what had so powerfully affected mine, without asking her the questions whose answers I’d never wanted to hear. I couldn’t bury her while she was still alive, getting into the grave right with her.
Feeling as though I needed to gather all the necessary equipment, I closed my eyes and visualized that rock-solid piece of me, then picked up the phone and called Steven’s office. After waiting a moment, I heard a click and then his friendly “Hey, Sal, I’ve really owed you a call.” And like the first shots at Fort Sumter, I knew the war had begun. He went on to tell me how thrilled he was that D.D.L. had agreed to play Lincoln but—and here it was—unfortunately he no longer saw me as Mary, saying that he’d always imagined me playing opposite Liam and just couldn’t see me with Daniel. With certainty I said, “I’m ten years older than Daniel and Mary was ten years younger than Lincoln. I know all of that. I’m older than Mary was at that time, but she was worn. They were both worn.”
“But we’re not going to be using prosthetics,” he said. “And the lighting will be harsh.”