I told the doctor we were on our way home from a party and I didn't have my seat belt on. David had stopped suddenly to avoid a car and I flew forward, hitting my face on the dashboard. It sounded simple and plausible and I have no reason to think he didn't believe it.
After I was stitched up they put a patch over my eye with instructions to keep it covered for a week to ten days to allow the cornea to heal. Then we drove home. There was no discussion, no argument, no recriminations, no apologies. There never were. We went home in silence.
The next morning, I was due to be part of an informal reading for Family, and I was ready to leave the house. David was sitting outside by the pool and I had to see him before I left, partly for the formality of saying good-bye but really more for permission to go. If he hadn't been there, I'd have jumped in my car and driven off. But he was there and I needed permission to leave. To be clear, he'd never demanded it; I thought I had to have it. He was in his short, green, terry-cloth bathrobe reading the paper in the sun when I walked out. He put the paper down and just looked up at me and said, "What are you going to say?" meaning about my eye. I replied that I'd probably tell the same story I had at the hospital, the same story I'd told the housekeeper and our children, which seemed to satisfy him, and he went back to his paper. Is dismissal the same as permission? I wasn't sure so I waited a few beats and then left.
Another woman would have walked away at this point. I felt such shame. I never wanted anyone to know what happened in my marriage; I didn't want anyone to know he thought so little of me. If he didn't care about me, if my mother didn't care about me, I must be a nothing. I had such self-hatred. I could pretend just fine in the outside world, but under the surface I was full of shame, fear, and unrealized anger. And if this were true, that I was a nothing, what could I possibly offer these incoming twins that would be different?
AS a thirty-seven-year-old woman pregnant with twins, I fell into the "at risk" category of expectant mothers. My doctor put me on six weeks of bed rest, which really only meant that I had to stay home and take it easy. Consequently, I took a long leave of absence from Family Ties until about a month after the babies were born.
I'd been experiencing lots of false labor signs. False to the medical profession perhaps but as real as hell for me! I'd be timing contractions, calling in the troops, packing the bag, then racing to the hospital, where everything stopped. At home, I was agitated and in perpetual labor. At the hospital I was a small planet waiting impatiently to assume my new orbit. My twins--Mollie Elizabeth and Peter David Edwin Birney--were born on October 2, 1984. They were breech, positioned butt to butt, so they were delivered by C-section. And of course, they were stunning! Mollie, at 6.8 pounds, was the heavier, and had a very healthy, peachy quality to her skin. My mother later described her as perfect as waxed fruit. Peter was more than a half pound lighter and much paler in complexion. I could see the blue veins throbbing on his little head and cheeks; he looked a bit ... not quite done. If he were a biscuit I'd have put him back in the oven for about six minutes. Thank goodness we'd planned ahead and got a nanny. I found young Donna Holloran. She was from Indianapolis, was a huge Family Ties fan, had an infectious smile and endless energy. And damn ... she loved babies and seemed to know everything one needed to know about them. Donna was there with us from day one and was a true godsend.
I'd had three children already but I was completely unprepared for two at once. Eva was away at boarding school, so the babies went in her room, in one large crib, divided with bumper pads. David and I would just look at them in there and say ... two? I spent many of the wee hours hanging over the sides of the crib, half-awake, trying to pat, pat, pat them back to sleep simultaneously. The danger was that when I stopped, the lack of patting seemed to waken Mollie and she'd start squirming and an oh-my-goodness-please-don't-wake-Peter panic would spur me to pat her little back furiously until she nestled back to sleep.
I nursed all my kids and am glad I could. Nursing twins is a time-consuming but emotionally powerful event. They ate so much I could have used an extra row of breasts. I nursed them both at the same time, usually on the sofa in the den downstairs because I could sit with my feet propped up with a firm pillow along my left thigh. I always held them in the same position: I'd hold Peter on my right, cradled across me; Mollie would lie on the pillow, sort of under my arm as you'd hold a football, her little legs up behind me. My left hand would cup her golden head. Nursing was such a sweet time and she'd show her pleasure with a rhythmic thumping of her right foot back and forth, like a little pink metronome, whack whack whack. Peter would not break eye contact with me until he was asleep ... he'd nurse with intensity as if I were going to cut him off any second and then plunk ... you could almost hear him fall asleep. With little adjustment, I always had at least my left hand free to move them up to burp position over my shoulders, which I also did simultaneously. There was no way to avoid the usual spitting up on Mom, fore and aft; it just went with the territory. We went through clothes as if we owned Walmart.
I always thought having twins saved my life. Okay, a little dramatic, but in some ways it was true. Twins demand and require a lot of attention, and frankly, I think they were too much for David. Their room became a little sanctuary where Kate and I would often convene at night, just to talk about her day and play with the babies. David might come in but he didn't stay very often.
When I returned to work on Family Ties, I brought the twins and Donna with me. The producers built a beautiful nursery across from the soundstage so between scenes or during lunch there was a place I could visit my entourage of three. Often, Donna would appear on the stage while we were rehearsing, and I'd see her whispering and gesturing with Andrew McCullough, the stage manager. He'd check his watch, shake his head, and try to wave her off. Donna, with rising panic, would not be waved off and would turn her attention to me. I recognized the look and, being a nursing mother, my breasts did too. Sorry Andrew, lunchtime; babies can't be waved off, scene break or not.
After lunch, as a rule, Donna would take the children back home, where she'd be with them until I returned after work. David may have taken those opportunities to spend time with the kids but I don't think he ever went out with them alone and never looked after them alone unless they were asleep for the night. Weekends David would play with them, often in the pool. When we went out we'd each carry them in backpacks, where they had a good vantage point of the world around them.
When they were working out the specifics of how the Keaton family would be expanded, I was asked, "Would Elyse prefer a single baby? Or twins?" I said, "Oh please! Don't make it twins!" I knew it was inevitable that Elyse would spend a lot of mom-and-baby time on the show. But if they gave her twins, there would be no such thing as a nonbaby-related moment for Elyse. I was so grateful when she only gave birth to Andy.
In season two, Judith Light did a wonderful turn as Steven's sexy production assistant who tries to seduce him. Hers was a powerful performance and it gave audiences a chance to see other dimensions of Steven Keaton, a married man whose vanity has been appealed to and feels the tug of attraction. It was a very compelling show and I admired that they trusted this sensitive topic in Michael Gross's hands. I, of course, saw this as an opportunity to suggest that in an act of parity Elyse could get a similarly tantalizing story line. I said to Gary, "What if an old boyfriend of Elyse's comes back in the picture and there's some spark between them, some kind of tension, so you get to see another side of her. It's a way you could explore her life before she was married." Gary was horrified. "But she's the MOTHER!" he bleated. And I thought, I see. Well, that explains a lot.
I interpreted it to mean that there was a sort of hallowed perception of who the mother character was and how far they'd let her go. Not far, it seemed. For instance, it was acceptable and right that Elyse might err in her commitment to her eldest and that that commitment might cause her to drive to another state to share his secret eighteenth birthday. However, it wasn't acceptable
that Elyse, as the mother, might attract the interest of or be interested in another male, even in passing. I think I was hoping for further exploration of who Elyse was beyond the family, but the parental focus was kept very close to home.
Thanks to my colleagues on Family Ties, I did manage to have a lot of fun. For the most part, we enjoyed one another's company, and a free-for-all could always explode out of nowhere. One Thursday morning, around 1986, in season four, we were camera blocking as usual, introducing the camera operators to all the moves within the scenes, and little Brian Bonsall, who played five-year-old Andy, showed up on the set with a little squirt gun, which just tantalized the rest of us. Someone got the bright idea of sending a gofer to buy us all a bunch of larger water guns from a nearby store, and we had a good old-fashioned water gun fight. But apparently we were thinking small. While we were all laughing and spritzing each other, Michael Fox's assistant had gone out and purchased for him a Super Soaker water blaster, the kind that holds a large reservoir of water, and it became a him-against-us battle royale: our guns that needed constant refilling and emitted only pathetic little sprays of water against Michael, pumping his handle, Rambo-style with superb distance capacity, just drenching us. All camera blocking had come to a halt and there wasn't a dry actor in the house. Finally, amid the shrieking and running, the director, Sam Weisman, had to intervene. "Boys and girls, would you please cut it out?" he called over the sound system from the director's booth. Squirt, squirt, squirt. "Please ... we need to get back to work." I think someone ran up to the booth to squirt him for being such a party pooper. It was just chaos. But very merry chaos and so much fun.
Michael Gross and I also had our own playtime rituals. On Friday nights before taping the show we'd go to the Paramount commissary for a light, preshow dinner. After dinner, we'd grab bowls of chocolate pudding, then take them to the back of the building and engage in a rousing game we called the Pudding Hurl. The idea was to take a spoonful of pudding in your mouth, stand sideways, a predetermined distance from the commissary wall, and whip your head around, letting the chocolate pudding fly out. Points were given for how far you stood from the wall and the magnificence of the splat. I still feel guilty about the Rorschach test of pudding that we left behind. Vanilla wouldn't have left such obvious residue but, please, it simply didn't have the right consistency.
If there was one part of Family Ties that the entire cast loved, it was the occasional wraparound show. That's what they called those episodes in which the characters sit around--in our case, usually on that ubiquitous living room set or at the kitchen table--and recall memories that are really just introductions for clips of favorite moments from previous shows. News of a wraparound was cause for rejoicing because they were scheduled right after taping a regular show on Friday nights, and we'd get paid for two shows taped in one night. Cool!
There was no time to memorize the scraps of dialogue they'd write for us, so we often didn't. We'd stick our scripts beneath the couch cushions for easy access or, just for fun, I'd tuck my lines in Michael Gross's shirt pocket.
We'd ask for popcorn and ice cream; I'd get a glass of white wine and stick it on the floor out of view of the camera lens. Except for wraparounds, I wouldn't usually have alcohol on the set while we were filming. But to me there was something so laissez-faire about these shows--there was only a slim story, just us tossing out lines like "Remember the time when we ..." so I made it an exception to the rule. There were a few occasions when the silliness would get out of hand. I was just a glutton for having as much fun as possible and I admit the alcohol might have blurred the lines of acceptability for me a few times. I got carried away one night; my fooling around was dragging the taping on much later than required and, having already done one show, everyone was exhausted. It seemed that honking popcorn out of my nose yet again had ceased to be funny and I was reprimanded. Lightly.
Though it was customary for many of the cast and crew's friends and families to attend Friday-night tapings, David never came. Not once. Seven years, 175 shows; he never came. For the first couple of years when people asked about him, I'd just make excuses for why he didn't come ... he's so busy ... important business dinner, whatever. It was his absence I felt more than anything, his lack of interest. The truth is, eventually I stopped wanting him there; I would have felt terribly self-conscious. I'd have felt his judgment.
I came to relish the occasional after-show nights when we had refreshments. It was well past 10 p.m. so back at my house, even my older kids were probably asleep; this was solo time for me. Chalo, the prop master, would put out some wine, beer, and pizza and some of that white wine made me reluctant to head for home. The writers, actors, crew, families, and friends would mill about rehashing the show, yammering, enjoying another week wrapped. I hated to see an evening end. There were nights when I would be the last one to leave. I'd be having a great time and the next thing I knew I'd be standing out in the empty parking lot trying to find my assigned spot, just me and the security guard.
On an occasional Friday a few years into our run, after we finished the performance for the audience but before we started retakes of some of the scenes, I'd go to Chalo and very sweetly ask him if I could have a glass of wine. Since he was the prop master, and I was the star, sort of, what else could he do but pour me a glass? I don't know if he went to Gary or if Gary went to him, but after several months of this they laid down the law: "No more wine on the set."
This was okay with me. I had an office near the nursery by this time that came with a mini refrigerator where I could stow my own chardonnay. Now I could steel myself before going home Monday through Thursday, too, and I didn't have to bother anyone. On many a late night I would tuck a large tumbler of wine between my legs, hop into my white Mercedes sedan, and head home on Wilshire Boulevard. Along a particular corridor I liked to see how long I could keep the speedometer at 70. Today I'm appalled that I drove so recklessly; what a selfish menace I was on the road. Back then, I saw it as a challenge. I thought the wine made my instincts more acute. I don't know how I didn't get pulled over. I really don't know how I never had an accident. And thank God I never hurt anybody.
In the early part of the week, I would often be home in time to make dinner for the kids and read them stories. I'd pull into the garage, still feeling good from the day, and then I'd get to the back door. As soon as I touched the doorknob my whole body would sag with apprehension and defeat. I could hear Kate playing the piano and the little guys playing upstairs in their room; I'd want to go to them, I could feel their pull, but I was bent with depression. I didn't want to walk in that house.
I was grateful for the wine but it got in the way those nights. I could manage okay through dinner, but those stories presented such a challenge. I'd fall asleep or start talking gibberish as I was reading. That confused them. They'd cry and shake me. They knew there was something wrong. I wasn't very present for any of them. There were mornings I had no memory of driving home or reading to the kids at all.
If you asked anyone on Family Ties if my home life was anything less than idyllic, I think they'd have been shocked. On the set, I always doled out personal information sparingly. Years after Bridget Loves Bernie, the press were still giving David and me the perfect-couple treatment, which we were always happy to prop up with the right fairy-tale-romance answers. So it must have been very startling for Michael Gross when one day before Christmas of 1988, we were standing behind the set during a rehearsal waiting for our cue, and I had what could only be termed as a bit of a breakdown.
David had been away in England for about six weeks making a movie and Michael said to me, "Oh! David is coming home soon!" My eyes welled up and a few tears slid down my face. David had been gone long enough that an air of peacefulness had settled over our household. The kids and I were so happy together. I was so wound up with panic and anxiety at the idea of his coming home and upending it all, I couldn't help but start to cry. Michael misunderstood my emotions and said sympathetically,
"You must miss him so much," and that's when I totally lost control. I burst into tears and cried and cried. I heard my cue to enter the scene and I stayed put and just sobbed. I was holding on to Michael or I'd have dropped to the floor. When Michael couldn't calm me, he sat me down backstage and went to tell the producers I wasn't well and I had to leave. I guess he was released as well.
All I remember then is following Michael to Emilio's, a restaurant that used to be near Paramount. I sat at our table and cried and cried as I vomited up what felt like unending pain. I told him about the slapping, the nonstop belittling, the rages; I told Michael everything. I told him about why I stayed in the marriage, about not wanting to break up the children's home yet again, about how hard I was trying to just be a different person so that maybe things would be better. My idea of becoming different seemed to entail trying not to feel so wretched all the time, which would result in being a less fearful, better mom; drinking played no small part in achieving that. It helped the unbearable became bearable. Very slowly, alcohol was revealing itself to be more and more of a solution to my problems, but I was years away of understanding that it was becoming a problem in itself.
I cried all the way through dinner; it was a surfeit of tears. Michael called his wife, Elza, and said, "I'm bringing Meredith home with me." I followed Michael, weeping in my car all the way out to La Canada Flintridge, and when I saw Elza, I was surprised to feel the tears start afresh; it was an avalanche of misery that had been unexposed for years. They were so loving and sympathetic. Elza held me and just let me cry and urged me to stay the night. We all got on our knees in their living room and they prayed with me for clarity and courage. I felt they heard me and didn't feel less of me for having broken down. They urged me to seek out couples therapy.
I remembered Michael telling me several years before that he and Elza were seeing a therapist together. I was so alarmed--"Oh no! What's wrong already? You've just been married a few months!" He told me that nothing was wrong ... they just wanted to learn how to communicate well so things didn't go wrong. He suggested that David and I try it. It was possible, I thought. This was a ray of hope. Elza made up their guest room for me and for the first time in a long while I went to sleep with some optimism.
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