THE SMALL TIN dressing room was the lower half of a two-banger—a long cargo-size container separated into two units, then placed on wheels to be trucked from location to location. And on Friday, November 4, 2011, while wearing Mary Todd’s underwear—or at least a close facsimile—I stood in the middle of this overly heated little room trying not to move, knowing from experience that I could get three bars on my cell phone if I stayed in that one spot. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, the company had just broken for lunch, and even though it was three hours earlier in California, I hadn’t waited till the end of my day to call, aware that by then, she’d be too tired to talk. I wasn’t looking for a long conversation, only had a half-hour break, and wanted to hear my mother’s voice and for her to hear mine. Baa always laughingly said she felt like the photo of the little kitten clinging to a bare branch: just hanging in there. But she’d promised she would continue to cling to that branch for the three months that I was to be in Richmond, Virginia, filming Lincoln. And every day, I called.
After Brothers and Sisters had wrapped, and during the months that I was preparing for Lincoln, Baa’s health had been declining. Then, just as summer was beginning she made a final request—make that a demand. She wanted to live near the ocean again, and to have a place of her own. Princess and I both felt that our mother living alone at this point was a frightening notion, but Baa was determined. So with my sister’s help she found a tiny apartment located directly on Carbon Beach, walking distance from the famous Malibu waves. One last time, we packed all her things, or at least I did, with Sam and Eli helping. When the tide was high enough to roll under the building, Peter and his two daughters, Isabel and Sophie, appeared, just in time to help us carry everything inside.
By late September, when I was departing for the Virginia location, Baa was in a serious uphill battle for tomorrow. Luckily, Princess had taken a leave of absence from Shameless, the television show where she’d been working as the production manager/producer, so she’d be able to visit daily—though my mother preferred to be left alone a good chunk of the time. Even the lovely hospice helpers had restricted hours and needed to keep their distance.
Baa had watched me gain Mary’s weight, had read the script, talked to me about the scenes and the eloquence of the language while the whole time I had beseeched her to hang on, constantly telling her that if she died before I got back, I’d kill her. I’d hunt her spirit down and strangle her. “Go,” she said with a laugh. “Go do what you do. I’m so proud of you and don’t worry, I’ll see you when you get back.” I hugged her goodbye as she sat in her bed, turning to go quickly to hide my tears, and cheerfully called her daily, telling her about the filming, asking how she was doing, and always reminding her she must hang on. She had to, God damn it.
That day she sounded chipper and relatively strong, excited about the adjustable hospital bed I’d ordered to be delivered in the afternoon, gleefully saying she’d soon be sitting in front of the sliding glass balcony doors, looking at the panoramic ocean view and watching the sun go down. We were three-quarters of the way through filming, and as I stood there, having my normal conversation with her, without knowing why, I said, “Mom, if you can’t hang on it’s okay. I won’t be mad.” Maybe I’d heard someone say that in a movie once, or maybe I was hearing how difficult it was for her to breathe, like she was running behind, trying to catch up. I told her again that I wouldn’t be mad, not knowing if I meant it or how she would take it.
“What?” she said. “Do you think I’m about to die?”
“No, no. I’m just saying that if it gets too hard… I’ll understand. Really.”
She laughed, saying, “I’m hanging on till you get back.” Thinking I was changing the subject, I casually asked her who she wanted to come and get her, to take her away. It was the question I’d heard her ask my grandmother years ago as Joy lay in her hospital bed, not in this world and not quite in another.
“Do you want Joy to come?” I asked.
With a guffaw she said, “No… absolutely not. She’d be too critical.”
“How about your father? You always wanted to see him again. How about your dad?”
Catching her breath, she said, “Yes, I would like to see him.”
“Good,” I said. “He’ll be there.” After a tiny pause, I continued, “Mom, try to haunt me, if you can. Just generally bother me all the time.”
“You mean same ol’, same ol’?” And we both laughed. “I will if I can.” I heard her looking for a breath. “And Sally, I want you to know how important you have always been to me, always… and I’m so sorry I let you down.”
My heart crumbled. “No, Mom, you have given me everything. And listen,” I swallowed hard. “Please promise something. Promise you’ll be the one to come and get me… Please, come and get me, Mom.”
Whispering fiercely, she said, “I promise you, Sally. I’ll come and get you.”
That night she began to loosen her grip on the bare branch to which she had been so bravely clinging. Was it because I’d given her permission? Do you need the ones you love to let you go before you can leave?
Princess called me early the following morning, and when my sons raced to her side, Baa asked Eli, “Am I moving on?” He took his grandmother’s hand and gently said, “I think so.”
I stayed on the phone, listening, trying to understand how dire the situation truly was. She’d had other episodes, times when she seemed to be fading, but then she’d recover and keep on going. I paced up and down in my hotel room, talking to Princess, not knowing what to do. It was then that Eli—who has always given me strength when I feel weak—grabbed the phone, walked out to the small balcony of the apartment and said, “Mom, come home. Come now. Baa may snap out of it and live for months but I need you.”
Peter picked me up at the airport at nine o’clock that night and by the time I stood next to her hospital bed overlooking the Pacific, her breathing was shallow and she was unresponsive. Rick and Jimmie, who’d been living in Florida for many years, were unable to leave and because I’d been unsure about Baa’s condition when I was running to catch my flight out of Richmond, I told Sam to wait in New York until further notice. I wish I hadn’t. The next day, after gasping one last ragged gulp of air, Baa passed away. I was standing on one side and my sister was on the other and we looked at each other, across the enormous distance of our mother’s existence. After a moment I closed her eyes, kissed her face, laid my head on her body, and cried. It was my sixty-fifth birthday.
That very day, I flew back to Richmond, and a week later, I kissed my dying husband before being guided out of the room by hands I couldn’t see, blinded by tears of grief and loss that were not for the long-gone Mr. Lincoln, who lay on the bed in the form of Daniel Day-Lewis. They were for my mother.