by Sally Field
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.
And as I look at this, all the words and memories, my life on these pages, as I spread these pieces out and fit them together, what picture do I see that I couldn’t find before? My mother and me? How we fit together? I see her in my mind, when she was young with her straight black hair and long legs. When she was old, her bespeckled hands, now my hands. I don’t know what the current theories on child-rearing or proper parenting might be; they always seem to be changing. What I do know is this: How you care for your child from the time they are born until they’re eighteen is important, but who you are as a person and parent for as long as you live also counts, and counts one hell of a lot. My mother might have blinked when I was a child—she made huge mistakes, without a doubt—but I cannot fool myself into thinking that I have been a perfect parent either… though my gaffes have been different. But I hope that I have learned from her, because on this writing road that I choose to hoe, what becomes most clear to me is that my mother never backed away. She never deflected or ducked or left my sight. I didn’t need her to be perfect. I needed to know her, warts and all, so that then, perhaps, I could know myself. She struggled to give me that, unflinchingly. She was my devoted, perfectly imperfect mother. I loved her profoundly and I will miss her every day of my life. And I know, without a doubt, that when I close my eyes for good, she will come to get me.
Till then, Baa.
Acknowledgments
Throughout this seven-year writing journey I have had the help of hovering angels who supported, empowered, challenged, kicked me in the butt, and patiently listened to my rants and raves. Elizabeth Lesser, who quietly demanded in 2011 that I give the keynote address to a Women and Power conference at the Omega Institute, insisted that I had something to say. Her initial shove and constant care of my fledgling writer’s wings has enabled them, and me. Dr. Daniel Siegel, whose influence is on every page, taught me to recognize the comfort of holding my own hand and I did a lot of that. Long before I knew where I was headed there were the encouraging words from Maia Danziger and her weekly Studio City writers group and, at the halfway point, Beth Rashbaum, who taught me important lessons with her smart, tough-love red pencil on some very young pages. While nearby and always at the ready has been my longtime publicist, my constant kvetch-catcher, Heidi Schaeffer, with her endless optimism and hard work; my steady assistant, Jennifer Rima, who adroitly learned the skill of acquiring clearances without a moment’s hesitation; my eagle-eyed lawyer, Don Steele; my faithful friend, Tricia Brock, who was a patient listener and generous early reader; and my sister Princess, sister-in-law, Jimmie, and daughter-in-law Sasha, whose cheering voices still ring in my ears.
And then we come to Molly Friedrich, my literary agent, who wasn’t sure we were a match until I wrote the first hundred pages, but who, forever after, became my goalposts and has always given me something hard to find: the truth. Lucy Carson, also my agent (as well as Molly’s daughter), joined the team, and together they carefully led me in the search to find a proper home and the right editor to take this book through the last stages of labor. Which led me to Hachette’s Grand Central—to Michael Pietsch and Ben Sevier, to Karen Kosztolnyik, Brian McLendon, Jimmy Franco, to a team of talented Grand Central folks—and to Millicent Bennett, that right editor. The book’s midwife and godmother, she has been relentless and gentle as she pushed and applauded the delive
ry, always calm in the face of my panic.
From the start my son Sam has been my sounding board and best friend, but I was afraid for my older sons, Peter and Eli, to read these pages. When they did I was overwhelmed by how lovingly each responded, sharing memories, giving astute notes, and allowing my words to open a new dialogue between us. As they have with Sam. How lucky I am to know these three men. Without them and each and every one of you, these pages would not be. Thank you.
About the Author
SALLY FIELD is a two-time Academy Award– and three-time Emmy Award–winning actor who has portrayed dozens of iconic roles on both the large and small screens. In 2012 she was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and in 2015 she was honored by President Barack Obama with the National Medal of Arts. She has served on the board of directors of Vital Voices since 2002 and also served on the board of the Sundance Institute from 1994 to 2010. She has three sons and five grandchildren.
Additional Copyright Acknowledgments
Excerpt from “There is a pain so utter” by Emily Dickinson from The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition, edited by Ralph W. Franklin, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965 by Mary L. Hampson. Reprinted by permission.
Excerpt from Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez, translated by Edith Grossman, translation copyright © 1988 by Gabriel García Márquez. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must apply directly to Penguin Random House LLC for permission.
Excerpt from “Where Do You Start?”: Words by Alan and Marilyn Bergman. Music by Johnny Mandel. Copyright © 1988 Marissa Music and Spirit Catalogue Holdings, S.A.R.L. All rights for Marissa Music administered by Almo Music Corp. All rights for Spirit Catalogue Holdings, S.A.R.L. controlled and administered by Spirit Two Music, Inc. All rights reserved used by permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard LLC.
All photos courtesy of the author unless otherwise noted. Here: courtesy of Paramount Pictures; here: courtesy of TV Show magazine; here: courtesy of 1964 Tomahawk yearbook; here, here: CPT Holdings, Inc., courtesy of Sony Pictures Television; here: courtesy of TV Star Parade; here: courtesy of TV & Movie Screen; here, here, here, here: courtesy of MGM Media Licensing; here: courtesy of Sai Saha, TV Guide magazine 2018; here: courtesy of Movie Mirror magazine; here: courtesy of TV Radio Mirror; here, here, here, here, here: courtesy of Steven Craig; here, here: Courtesy of Universal Studios Licensing LLC; here: courtesy of Guy Webster; here, here: Norma Rae copyright © 1979 Twentieth Century Fox, all rights reserved; here: courtesy of Randy LaCaze; here: copyright © 2012 DreamWorks II Distribution Co., LLC, all rights reserved; here: upper left courtesy of Hourash Falati, upper right courtesy of Alex J. Berliner, bottom courtesy of Joy Marie Smallwood.
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