Untied

by Meredith Baxter

  I could have slept under my car that night and not noticed, I was so blind with fatigue and emotion. The next morning, my swollen eyes and I got up very early, drove back to my house, and immediately I wrote David a letter in England telling him how I felt: that things had not been good between us for a long time and that I wanted us to get into couples therapy. Then I sat in dull anticipation of his return and his reply. When David got back from England, he told me that if I wanted to get into therapy, fine, but since I was the one with the problem, he wouldn't be coming with me.

  I did start therapy for myself, but unloading all my trouble on Michael and Elza was one thing. That was a tidal wave; I couldn't have stopped it if I tried. But being that coherent and revealing to a stranger in planned 50-minute sittings was surprisingly difficult and I didn't get too much relief because I didn't yet know how to be completely honest. At home there was a quiet detente for a while. Things weren't great, but they didn't get worse until I signed up for the seventh year of Family Ties. Each of the actors was originally contracted for six years, but when they offered a seventh I jumped at it, mainly because I couldn't bear the prospect of having no place to go every day. I never asked David's permission, I never discussed it, I just signed up. No matter how angry it made him, I wasn't going to give it up.

  I had some complaints over the years on Ties, but the truth is that when the show finally came to an end, I forgot about the sting of feeling underused. I was just incredibly sad to see it go. I remember when I read the script for the final episode, I was so dismayed. It was so not up to the task of being the ultimate script, the culmination of seven years of the Keatons. It was about Alex landing a job on Wall Street and moving to New York and how his departure affects the Keaton family. A fine premise, but there was no heart, no resonance, no majesty. And oh ... we wanted, we needed, to go out on majesty. I expect the writers had trouble addressing The End themselves, didn't want to say good-bye to their beloved characters. Each rewrite they sent down from their offices was more disappointing than the one we'd read before. Everyone felt it, most acutely the writers, I expect. I'm imagining it was like penning their own obituaries. We rehearsed and camera-blocked this very lackluster show and I remember going home on Thursday night and thinking, We're missing it ... what a sorry, dismal way to go out.

  When we came in on Friday morning we were handed yet another script; and, oh, it was killer. It addressed all of the emotions, the loss, I'd experienced when Ted went off to college two years before: the pain a parent feels when a child moves away, of having to say good-bye, about the closing of one door as another door opens. In that one episode they took on loss and abandonment in the face of another's opportunity and excitement and the deep love and commitment between the family members. And the words they gave us (and I could feel their tears in the ink as they put them down on paper) became ways to channel the love, respect, and regret at seeing it end among the cast at the same time. They honored those relationships they created and forged over seven years of hard loving work. They gave us majesty.

  I'd never experienced anything quite like the taping that night. Whenever we'd go to the dressing rooms for a costume change and we'd walk past one another, I remember we'd reach out and touch hands or stop for a brief tender hug. It was much quieter than usual back there. We were all in the same deeply emotional place of "We will never pass this way again." Every exchange onstage put us one step closer to that final moment.

  When we finished the taping, we all collected backstage as usual. I was on a complex high from finishing a profoundly moving show and trying to grasp that this was, inconceivably, the end. Andrew McCullough introduced us, again as usual, calling out the cast's names one by one, as the studio audience applauded. I was the last one out; I came out applauding for the audience and to my peerless peers, my comrades in the trenches, these darling, funny, accomplished people. As we stood there beside one another, I remember Michael Fox and I fell into each other's arms and began weeping. And with that, my Family Ties era was over. What a tremendous experience it had been.

  Chapter 11

  With David Morse in Winnie.

  One undeniable plus of being on a hit show like Family Ties was that it raised my profile. In television, having a recognizable name can translate into job offers. In the mid-1980s, Family Ties was seen both in its weekly prime-time slot and in syndicated repeats Monday through Friday during the day; my old series Family was being aired on cable, and I had various TV movie reruns airing. I've forgotten which entertainment publication determined that roughly 80 million viewers saw me every week, making me, for that small window in time, the most watched woman in America. They also might have been the ones to dub me Queen of the TV movies.

  Back in the TV movie days, the three networks were making about one hundred telefilms a year. During my hiatus I always made a point of going to Jack and saying, "Pleaase get me something else." I loved TV movies because they were good money and basically took less than five weeks to shoot. But I also knew that in this town you're known for what you did last. So if Family Ties made people think I was a comedienne, I put extra effort into finding dramatic roles during the hiatus. And thanks to the Movie of the Week format, I've played a sexy cat burglar, a concert pianist, a woman on the lam, a Civil War femme fatale, a jilted lover, a breast cancer survivor, a little woman in Little Women, a district attorney mom, a Donner Party mom, a lesbian mom, an alcoholic mom, a drug addict mom, an unfaithful mom, a schizophrenic mom, a psychotic mom, a murdering mom (twice), an avenging mom (three times), and Winnie, who lived in a mental institution.

  I have a theory about why I often landed juicy roles: I wasn't a stunner. I was accessible. I didn't inspire fear or jealousy. I was average. People could identify with me. Not only that, I didn't mind parts where I behaved or looked unattractive. Looks weren't what I was trying to sell.

  For example, in Winnie, one of my favorite TV movie roles, I wore a crooked, discolored prosthetic tooth and brown contact lenses, had mousy brown hair and a gangly walk, and talked in a garbled, high voice because the character I played was slightly deaf, as well as mentally challenged. But more than anything, I wanted the audience to be in touch with the humanity of the character, to identify with her. That was important to me, no matter what character I was portraying.

  It always appeals to me when some research is required in prepping for a movie. I feel that enables me to bring more than the same old Meredith to a role. I spent time at Camarillo State Mental Hospital to learn more for Winnie. I went to a group home where the residents could work and go to school. I sat in the classes with them. I had lunch with them. I had endless conversations with them. It was eye-opening and heartbreaking. I got to see how very guileless and trusting they were. I never felt they projected or assumed; the group I was so blessed to work with were accepting, loving, and without judgment, qualities the mentally unchallenged could aspire to.

  Before I showed up at the group home, I'd been told, "Look, they watch a lot of television so if you want to be incognito, fool 'em; disguise yourself." I put on a curly reddish wig and a pair of oversize glasses. As I was driving away from my house, I passed the nanny as she was bringing the kids home from school. She looked at me with a puzzled squint like, "Who is that?" And I thought, "Yes! This is good!"

  When I arrived at the home, they were still in class. I sat down at a lunch table out on their patio and fussed with my wig and busied myself with my brown-bagged snacks, waiting for them all to come out. I hoped they'd think I was a new girl! At noon the doors burst open and their voices were boisterous. "Oh, it's Meredith Baxter! Look, it's MEREDITH BAXTER!" So much for my disguise.

  In Kate's Secret, my first big TV movie, my suburban housewife had an out-of-control eating disorder. Nowadays everyone knows what bulimia is, but back in 1986, no one was talking about it. I'd never even heard the term; it could have been the capital of Romania. When I told David what the new project was about, all he said was, "If you want to be the person k
nown for throwing up on television, go ahead."

  The truth is that bulimia was such a forbidden topic back then that when the producer of Kate's Secret--Andrea Baynes, who also produced Winnie--first started contacting male directors to determine interest and availability, some declined immediately. They found the idea of a movie that showed a woman vomiting on-screen too upsetting. Steve Weiss, the NBC executive who actually green-lit the project, didn't understand it and said it made him uncomfortable, but one of the women he worked with told him, "You've got to make this picture."

  From the moment I started working on Kate's Secret I felt that it was clear that the sexes were divided on the subject. Men might have been disgusted or downright baffled by it, but most women seemed to get it instantly. Bulimia is about anger, hostility, loss, insecurity, lack of control, and seizing control when you're bingeing and purging.

  Andrea and I used to talk about the fact that every woman and many men has some kind of eating disorder. For a short period in my life, I flirted with anorexia. I was trying so hard to lose weight that I just sort of stopped eating. Looking back, I feel like it had something to do with my mother and it came from my own lack of self-worth; it was a desire to take up less space. I know that within my marriage, there was no such thing as my being thin enough. David often called me an Amazon, referring to my height, five-seven, and my weight, about 135.

  To prepare for Kate's Secret I read case histories and spoke extensively with Dr. Murray Zucker, an eating-disorder specialist who served as the program's medical adviser. I went to several eating disorder clinics and spoke to lots of people who were in recovery. The stories of how they kept their binge-purge cycle hidden from the people in their world were both fascinating and terrifying. One woman told me about having six friends over for a dinner of Chinese food, after which they all planned to go to see a film. When it was time to leave for the movie, she told them she wasn't feeling well and wanted to stay home. As soon as everyone left she ate all of the leftovers. Then she called the same restaurant, ordering the same items, and when it was delivered, she ate until the precise amount was left as when her guests departed. Then vomited. Unbelievable.

  When it aired in November of 1986, Kate's Secret was a huge success--it got the highest ratings of any TV movie that NBC had shown all year. It also had a huge ripple effect. Many people have told me that Kate's Secret had a deeply profound effect on them. On planes, flight attendants have come up to me, dropped down quietly at my side, and said, "Thank you so much for that movie. I didn't think anybody knew." In Eva's boarding school back East and many other private schools, Kate's Secret was shown in health classes, often followed by animated discussions. Prior to this movie, I don't think bulimia or eating disorders in general had been a part of the public discourse, but it was about time.

  For several months in 1987, David had been working on a project for the two of us: he was editing and adapting some of Mark Twain's shorter works and letters into a two-character play, The Diaries of Adam and Eve, which he would also direct. The plan was to develop it at David's alma mater, Dartmouth College, perhaps try it out at other venues, then present it at the Plaza Theater in Dallas, Texas, in the spring where, after a short run, it would then be taped from the stage and shown on PBS's prestigious American Playhouse series.

  I had a mixed time at Dartmouth with the play; Ted was in school there and I loved coming to see him and the mutual friends we had who lived in Hanover, but mounting the play was very discouraging for me. David had done a great job marrying Twain's pieces into one solid presentation; it was moving and very funny. I liked the piece, but working under him was demoralizing. Every day felt like an exercise in futility. I performed my lines under a barrage of his sneering criticism and fault-finding, rarely productive and never supportive. I knew nothing but to endure it.

  By the time we got to Dallas, though, at least the play was looking good. On the morning of our first rehearsal, I left the hotel room early to get a run in before having to spend the whole day inside on the stage. I trotted out into the parking lot, trying to get the lay of the land, see which was the best path to take, and I promptly stepped into a hole, hidden between two cars. I heard the snap. My right ankle was swollen immediately. I hobbled back into the hotel, where I could see several people standing, waiting for the elevator. The idea of being recognized and being injured (i.e., vulnerable) felt abhorrent to me so, to avoid detection, I walked up the stairs to my floor. David was just waking up and I showed him my ankle. At first, as we headed to the hospital, he was quite conciliatory and kind. As soon as the doctors determined I'd broken both my ankle and my foot, he was furious.

  This was going to totally distract from his play and the quality of his production. He felt that the sight of me hobbling around on crutches would attract all the attention, that everyone's focus would be on "the little darling," as he mockingly referred to me.

  My only response was to be secure in my lines and drink whenever I could. Some nights, after the show, David, some of the crew, and I would gather and "redo" that evening's performance over wine and beer. Once we were at someone's apartment and I got so drunk that all I remember is coming to in a cul-de-sac, lying on the grass along the sidewalk with my feet in the gutter. The next thing I recall is being back in our hotel room, coming to the next morning with Peter, who was about four at the time, nose to nose with me, saying in a high, frightened little voice, "Mommy? Are you all right?" I was unbelievably sick; I must have had alcohol poisoning, because I wasn't even standing till midday.

  It was great that Peter and Mollie and a new nanny were with us in Dallas for most of the duration, which made being away from home so much easier. I remember being out by the hotel pool with them one day. I was a vision in a bathing suit and knee-to-ankle cast, watching them play in the water with a few older kids. One of them splashed over to Peter and, looking at me, asked him if I was Meredith Baxter-Birney. Peter looked at me, then back to the boy, and shrugged. "I don't know."

  I was just Mommy. That made me so happy!

  Who knows what causes the switch to flip in a relationship, why one minute you can tolerate the situation regardless of how punishing it is and the next minute you have passed the point of no return. Sometime before Dallas, when we were vacationing on Cape Cod and David and I were out together at night, there was another hitting episode. He slapped me about the face and head. At the end of that night I'd said, "Don't ever hit me again." When we were back home in Santa Monica, I heard on a radio program that if your spouse struck you, you could call the police. What? Really? Then I wanted him to hit me; I prayed for it. But he never hit me again. And you don't get to call the police just because someone's a miserable person. I should have told him not to hit me years ago.

  During the fifteen years we were husband and wife, David was physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive, and, though I had no proof at that time, I knew in my bones he was unfaithful. But the end was Thanksgiving dinner, when I realized I could not do it anymore.

  It was 1989, and in truth I only remember it as a series of dark flashes: David in the kitchen before dinner bad-mouthing me as I made mashed potatoes, until I was crying; sitting in misery at the dining room table, unsure what had brought on the rush of his angry words at one of the kids; David sitting in the kitchen after the guests had left, launching into an acidic postmortem that began with "How are we going to avoid next year being a disaster like this year?" What I do remember clearly: I was standing at the stove taking the turkey off the bones for soup, and Eva, then twenty, having sat through that dinner and many others like it, passed by on the other side of the counter, and she leaned through the hanging copper pots, looked in my eyes, and asked, "What are you waiting for?"

  Holiday music was still playing on the radio. The steam from the soup was bubbling up in my face as I cracked the back and breast bones apart to fit in the pot. I'd already put in the clove-studded onion that lent such a great flavor to this potage that, as a vegetarian, I didn't e
ven eat. I knew nothing would ever be the same. I said to David, "There's not going to be a next time."

  I don't think he understood at first that I was serious. Initially, he was patronizing, as if I were just pouting over poor restaurant service. I mean, I wasn't sure I was serious, but the words had come out somehow and damned if I was going to take them back! But once we both realized I meant what I said, he asked that we not let the public know until after April 26, five months from then, when The Diaries of Adam and Eve was scheduled to air on PBS. He felt that the news of our breakup would distract attention from the show. I foolishly agreed to keep it quiet. I also found a lawyer and at least got the paperwork started. For a while, a temporary detente again descended upon the house.

  But it didn't take long for the name-calling to resume, and the tension in the house once more became unbearable. I held out for as long as I could, but when it became untenable, I pushed the issue by having my lawyer file. In March, our publicist released one of those typical statements--we'd decided to go separate ways, these are tough times, yada yada yada. I have no idea what the fan reaction was, but Whitney made a point of letting People magazine know that everyone in our inner circle saw it coming. (I didn't think we had an inner circle.) When asked by the reporter if she was surprised that we were getting divorced, my mother said, "Well, not exactly."

  Even after the announcement had been made, David did not leave the house for another ten months. Of course, this had to unfold his way and on his terms. The gloves were off. Everything he said to me was so discounting, laced with menace and contempt. He'd talk to me through the kids, saying things like, "Well, if your mother knew anything about putting a dinner on the table then she wouldn't have made this ..." or, when the housekeeper asked what he wanted for dinner, he'd reply loudly, "I don't know ... ask the bimbo."