Lucky Me: My Life With--and Without--My Mom, Shirley MacLaine

by Sachi Parker

  Terms was filmed in Lincoln, Nebraska. David and I flew out to visit Mom on the set. The first thing we noticed when we got there was the tension. It was not the happiest place on earth. There was a great deal of emotional weight in the script that the actors were working through, and a lot of that turbulence bled into their personal relationships. Everyone was in a bad mood—except for Jack Nicholson, who refused as a matter of principle ever to be in a bad mood. He seemed dedicated to the proposition of enjoying himself at all times.

  Debra Winger was playing Mom’s daughter in the film, and it’s no secret that the two of them didn’t get along swimmingly. Some claim that they detested each other, but I don’t know if I’d put it quite that strongly. She and Mom just had different ways of working, and their styles didn’t always mesh. Mom was from the old school of “hit your mark and say your lines.” Debra was more instinctive and “go with the moment.” Both wound up giving spectacular performances, and their scenes together were marvelously alive and filled with emotional truth. Yet none of it came easy.

  At one point Debra dug so deeply into her role as a cancer-stricken mother that she landed in the hospital. I felt bad for her. “We should go visit Debra,” I suggested.

  Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry about her. She’s just doing it for attention. She’s nuts.”

  I couldn’t understand that. Maybe Debra was nuts—I didn’t know her; I couldn’t say—but if she was in the hospital, something was obviously wrong with her, and it seemed only right that someone should visit her. So I decided to go by myself. The thing is, I needed flowers. It’s unthinkable in Japan to visit anyone in the hospital without bringing flowers. Since I didn’t have any money for flowers, I asked Mom. “She doesn’t need flowers,” Mom insisted. “Just leave her the fuck alone!”

  So I left Debra alone—which I regret, because maybe she and I would have become friends. We had a lot in common: we were almost the same age (Debra was twenty-eight, just a year older than I); we were actresses; and for the time being, we had the same mother.

  It didn’t happen. In all fairness, it probably never would have happened anyway. I don’t think Debra wanted to be friends with me. She was generally aloof with me, never really gave me the time of day. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was a nobody, unworthy of her attention, or because I was Mom’s real daughter and she was envious of me. Or maybe it was just part of her process: she may have been so consumed by her role that she didn’t even know I was there.

  I didn’t feel any envy toward her at the time, but it was admittedly disconcerting when the movie became a hit and all the magazine articles came out dissecting Mom and Debra’s special mother-daughter connection. Interviewers would often ask, “Does this film mirror your relationship with your real daughter?” “No, not really,” Mom was always honest enough to point out. She wasn’t the obsessive, suffocatingly attentive type who would climb right into her baby daughter’s crib to soothe her. “I never would have given up my work to stay home,” she told People magazine in 1984. “My philosophy was always to just let her grow up and to be there if she needed me.”

  Mom was also on combative terms with director James Brooks. Some of this was just part of the creative process—they were both fighting for their own visions, a laudable and necessary thing in the service of art—but some of it was also frustration. This was Brooks’s first feature film, and his slow, reflective approach was sometimes maddening. He would shoot scenes over and over, and then decide to rewrite them, or drop them altogether. As much as Mom may have disliked Debra, she hated the way Brooks treated Winger. She found him abusive and manipulative in his handling of the younger actress. “He wouldn’t try that shit with me,” she declared. Actually he tried other shit on Mom, and what really irked her was that his strategies worked so well.

  I was on the set one morning when they were doing an outside shoot. Everything was on hold while the cameras were being set up, and Jim Brooks was lying in the grass, relaxing, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky.

  Mom waved me over. She had a mischievous glint in her eye, which was usually cause for concern. She pointed to Brooks. “Go stand over him and smile, and say, ‘It’s all I can do not to step on your face.’”

  “Why?” I asked. I knew it was supposed to be funny, but I didn’t get it.

  “Just do it.”

  I didn’t want to. To my mind, there was no way you could interpret the gesture as anything other than hostile, and why would I want to be hostile to James Brooks? He was not only a film director but a major TV producer. How was this going to help my career?

  “Oh, what’s the big deal?” Mom said. “It’s a joke. Just do it.” Implicit in her goading was the suggestion that if I didn’t do it, I wasn’t cool.

  But I wanted to be cool in her eyes. I admit, I was her puppet: if she asked me to do anything, I would do it. I needed her approval, just as I’d needed Dad’s.

  So I did it. I walked up to Mr. Brooks and stood over him, straddling his head. He looked at me with surprise, and I delivered my line: “It’s all I can do not to step on your face.”

  He was startled, and then he broke into a smile. I looked over at my mother. She was laughing hysterically, as were some other actors and crew members.

  So it was evidently funny. I still didn’t get it.

  I discovered much later, reading Mom’s book My Lucky Stars, that the line came from a scene that was cut from the film. Jack Nicholson’s character stumbles over his garbage cans and lies drunk in his driveway, and Mom stands over him and says, “It’s all I can do not to step on your face.” So it was an inside joke that everybody on the set got. Except me.

  But James Brooks seemed to like me after that. He always said hello and gave me a friendly smile. Maybe he respected my gumption. On the other hand, he’s never cast me in anything, so maybe not.

  After about a week of hanging around the set of this soon-to-be-classic film, David and I had had enough. Movie sets are terminally boring as a rule, but there’s another dynamic in play that isn’t often commented on, and that’s the sense, if you’re a visitor, of being at a country club that you don’t belong to. The set of a feature film is the biggest high school clique in the world. Everybody working on it is an insider, one of the chosen elect, and consequently assumes a sense of privilege and entitlement far beyond any reasonable expectation. This elitist mind-set starts with the above-the-line talent (the stars with their trailers, the big-name directors, the cameramen and designers), everyone who is clearly indispensable and beyond brilliant, and it filters down to every anonymous gofer and day player. They all think they walk on water, because they’re working on a movie and you’re not.

  I can’t condemn them, because I’ve worked on a number of movies myself, and I know the seductiveness of that insular, clubby feeling all too well. It’s like living in a gated community: if you happen to be inside the gate, it’s wonderful, with the perks and the inside jokes and the soothing waves of self-importance. If you’re not, if you’re not a member of the club, then you’re nobody, plain and simple, and you’re either invisible or treated with condescension and rudeness. There’s not much reason to hang around, unless you enjoy watching people being bratty and obnoxious.

  Surprisingly, the one person who seemed to rise above this fraternity mentality was Jack Nicholson. You would expect him on reputation to be the brattiest of them all, but he was so confident and comfortable in his own skin that he didn’t need to be fawned over. Whenever I saw him, he was unfailingly nice and gentlemanly—and devilishly charming, of course. It was no wonder he was getting laid all the time. He knew a secret all too many movie stars never quite grasp: just because you’re famous, it doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole.

  In between the shooting of Terms of Endearment and its December release, Mom’s book Out on a Limb was published. This event, more than anything else, redefined Mom’s persona to the world. With one bold stride, she stepped out of the shadows
and became the New Age standard-bearer for her generation.

  Out on a Limb was her third autobiographical book, but the first that discussed in depth her belief in mediums, UFOs, and, most prominently, reincarnation. You probably know all the stories about her past lives: She was an Indian princess; a geisha; a man from Atlantis. She slept with Charlemagne in a past life. She also slept with the Swedish prime minister Olof Palme in this life, and he used to be Charlemagne in a past life, so she nailed him twice, a millennium apart.

  I was not exempt from the metaphysical carousel. Mom was convinced that mine was an ancient spirit that went back thousands of years. In one incarnation, in fact, it seems that we switched roles and I was her mother. I hope I treated her well.

  None of this was revelatory to me, of course: I knew all about her spiritual interests, her extraterrestrial visits, and so forth. I was a little surprised that she was going public with it all, though. I figured that, after the clone episode, Mom might back off on her astral enthusiasms. Instead, she was doubling down.

  She quickly became a lightning rod for believers and skeptics. Spiritualists venerated her; late-night comics ridiculed her. And what, people wanted to know, was my reaction? What did I think about my mother’s cosmic disclosures? Did I consider her a visionary or a crackpot?

  Publicly I supported her: “She’s my mom, and she’s wonderful.” Privately, I remember wishing she would just shut up—but not because I didn’t share her beliefs. It was just that, for me, reincarnation wasn’t a big deal. In Japan, everybody comes back. Everything that dies will be reborn. It’s an accepted belief in the culture, but not something you talk about. It’s all internalized, part of your moral DNA. While you are always aware of karma, and you try to lead an exemplary life, there’s no dwelling on it. It’s ingrained, totally reflexive, and private.

  So I couldn’t understand why Mom was talking about it in public, and why everyone was listening. The hoopla, the seminars, the talk show appearances—it seemed so over the top, and I had no patience for it. I never told her so, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but to my mind, none of this was New Age. It was totally Old.

  Having said that, there was something beautifully endearing about the fervor of her beliefs. She really wanted to fill her soul with something meaningful. I think show business in particular excels in creating a certain kind of personal emptiness: you work on a play or a movie and it becomes your whole existence, and then it ends, and suddenly there’s a vacuum where your life used to be, and you have to figure out how to fill it. You can jump into another movie right away, and keep that cycle going—one movie after another, until you die—or you can find something more enriching and sustainable to base your life on.

  Mom discovered something better, something that worked for her. Whether anyone else embraced it was beside the point. Like any convert, she enjoyed sharing her epiphanies with the world, but she wasn’t all that concerned if anyone followed her. She was a searcher, on her own spiritual journey, and the journey would never end.

  • • •

  MOM’S performance as Aurora Greenway in Terms of Endearment won her all kinds of acting awards, but the Oscar was the one she desperately wanted. She’d been denied it for Some Came Running, The Apartment, Irma La Douce, and The Turning Point, and now, as the age of fifty loomed, she knew that this could be her last best chance.

  I went to the awards ceremony as her date. I was so excited to be there with her on perhaps the greatest night of her life.

  Rock Hudson and Liza Minnelli were the presenters of the Best Actress award. When they read out the list of nominees, I suddenly felt a moment of panic. What if she didn’t win? She was going against Meryl Streep in Silkwood, Jane Alexander in Testament, Julie Walters in Educating Rita, and her own costar, Debra Winger. They’d all given brilliant performances. Holy shit, she could lose!

  Then Liza announced Mom’s name. I’ll never forget that moment. A great emotional cheer exploded from the audience, and Mom turned and gave me a kiss. I could see on her face that this was her defining moment: her life now made complete sense.

  She went up onstage and made a lovely, gracious speech. She looked so beautiful and radiant up there, and I felt so proud and happy for her. It’s a great gift to see someone you love getting her fondest wish come true.

  Mom finished her speech with an inspirational thought: “God bless that potential that we all have for making anything possible if we think we deserve it.” Then she looked at her Oscar and said matter-of-factly, “I deserve this. Thank you,” and walked off. I have to be honest: I cringed a little with embarrassment. I thought to myself, Oh, Mom, you overdid it.

  No one else seemed to think so. It was her night, and she could do no wrong. We hit all the celebrations afterward—the Governor’s Ball, Spago—and we partied into the morning. Everyone was getting progressively drunker and sloppier, except for Mom. She was always very disciplined about alcohol, and I had great respect for the way she kept control, even on this night of all nights, when she had every excuse to go wild. The rest of Hollywood could act like fools, but Mom was pure class, all the way.

  • • •

  THAT same year, I got pregnant. This should have been more happy news, because I really wanted to be a mother. (In a People article about my mother, just before the Oscars, I’m quoted as saying, “I want to marry eventually and have a home and children and do all those things wives do.” Honestly. This is the same article where Mom declares, “I don’t think there’s any more important profession in the world than being a mom.”)

  David wanted to be a father, but we had no money. We were two penniless actors trying to get our careers started. Having a baby now, at this stage, seemed a totally impractical thing to do. Unless we had help…

  I went to Mom and asked if she could give us a hand financially. I knew this went against her long-standing mantra of “you’re on your own,” but on the heels of her book and her TV appearances, where she spoke out so passionately for self-actualization and karma and getting out of life what you put into it, I thought perhaps she had evolved a more generous worldview and would be in a giving state of mind.

  She said no. The whole idea, to her mind, was ridiculous. “You can’t have a baby. How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Oh. Well, even so, you don’t have the time to take care of it. You and David live in that tiny place. There’s barely room for the two of you, and you want to bring a baby in there? What’s that going to do to your relationship?”

  “Make it stronger?” I weakly suggested.

  Mom scoffed. “Yeah, right. And I thought you wanted to be an actress. How are you going to have any kind of career with a baby? Are you insane?”

  That was perhaps the crux of it. She’d had a baby, too, but she’d also had a wealthy husband (or a clone of one) who could take care of it, so she could continue her career. Even so, that hadn’t worked out, since his wealth turned out to be her wealth. Was she saying that having me had been a mistake, too?

  After sounding all her arguments, Mom shrugged with resignation. “Well, it’s your choice.” Still, it wasn’t much of a choice if she wasn’t going to help us—and she wasn’t.

  David’s dad, Ben, said he would try to come up with some money, but he didn’t have much. He did have a philosophy to share, though: “Commit, Sachi. You have to commit. When you commit to it, whatever ‘it’ is—a baby, a job, whatever—commit to that thing a hundred percent, and it will set you free.”

  I needed money more than inspirational motivation at that point, but I should have listened to him, because I know now he was dead right. If I’d had the baby, it would have been tough, but it would have worked out somehow.

  I didn’t listen, though. I couldn’t see any way out. I didn’t want to have an abortion, but what else could I do? Bring the baby to term and then give it away? That would have destroyed me.

  Right up to the day of the procedure, I kept asking Mom for hel
p, but she’d said her say, and now she wouldn’t even engage in a conversation about it.

  I had the abortion at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, the same hospital where I was born. To compound the dreadful irony, the same doctor who delivered me as a baby was performing the procedure. I felt ashamed and mortified—and guilty.

  As much as I wanted to blame Mom, I know it was my decision to terminate, and it haunts me even now. I sometimes lie awake thinking about that child who never was. I sometimes dream of that lost soul. He or she would have been almost thirty now.

  My regret grew even more acute when, years later, I conceived my daughter, Arin. That night is vivid in my memory: my husband and I had made love around midnight, and now it was around 4:30 in the morning. I was in a half-awake, half-asleep state, when quite suddenly a beautiful, indescribable feeling of love, happiness, and peace washed over me. Some kind of being, a female being—an angel, perhaps—had entered my body, and I felt transformed and transfigured, and suffused with great serenity.

  About three weeks later I found out that I was exactly three weeks pregnant. That night, a new soul, Arin’s soul, had entered me. She became my angel, my protector, my love, and everything I’d ever yearned for. I’d never had such an amazing, powerful feeling before—or since.

  It took me back to that first conception, and I wondered who that soul had been, who had entered my body and lived there, and who I’d destroyed. Could it be that Arin was that same soul coming back? Was there life after death, and had my lost child rechosen me?

  Maybe God or nature or the universe makes things right, no matter how much we try to screw them up. Although I strongly believe in a woman’s choice, I know in my heart that, in my case, I made the wrong one. It was a terrible mistake, and I’ll always live with the guilt and the regret.