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

by Sachi Parker

  “She made you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s what she wanted. I couldn’t say no.”

  I discovered later that Mom and DeVries had been staying—in separate rooms—the last few days at the Homestead Inn, where she would have had plenty of time to feed him his lines, and tell him all about Dad and cooking and that fucking Obadiah.

  It took me a while, but I managed to pull myself together. We still had to get through Christmas dinner, after all. I went back to the living room, full of false cheer, as merry as any elf. Mom, who’d gone to such great lengths to puncture my ego, would have none of it; she took me aside: “Look, I can tell you’re upset. You should be. Mediocrity is not an easy thing to accept.”

  “I’m not upset,” I told her. “Because he’s wrong, that’s all. Even the best psychics can be wrong.”

  “He’s wrong? Oh, really? He has a TV show, and he’s wrong?” Mom was furious. She couldn’t stand that I wasn’t buying into her bullshit. She’d really wanted to put the last nail in the coffin of my acting aspirations, and her plan had been a big fat flop.

  Dinner was very forced. I wanted to feed them both and get them out of my house as soon as possible, so I pulled the meal together in record time—and it was, by the way, fabulous; I really was a good cook. Grandma’d got that right. The crosscurrents of tension at the table were excruciating. I was on to Mom, and she knew I was on to her. Meanwhile, DeVries was nervous that I would tell Mom what he’d told me. We ate in nerve-racking silence. Then they left. I was never so happy to see my mother make an exit in my life.

  Unfortunately, we’d made a plan to have breakfast at the house the next day, before they flew back. After the channeling fiasco, I assumed they would pass on that invitation. But no, the next morning Mom and DeVries were both at the door, waiting to be fed. I couldn’t bear to look at them. “I don’t have time to make breakfast this morning,” I told them. “Sorry.”

  Mom looked a little stunned. I think it was the first time in my life I’d ever been cold to her. I didn’t even want her to hug me. We said a very icy goodbye.

  • • •

  THE deep freeze was on for about a month. Then, one day in early 2006, out of the blue, Mom called. “Sach, I have some exciting news. Are you sitting down?”

  “Yeah.” I was not sitting down. I couldn’t imagine what news she could have that required my sitting down for, unless she was going to tell me that Paul had finally returned from the Pleiades.

  “I’m doing a new movie up in Canada. It’s called Closing the Ring.”

  “Good for you,” I said flatly. So nice to hear that her career was moving right along.

  Mom didn’t pick up on my sarcasm or chose to ignore it, because she went on brightly: “And there’s a role for you! You’re playing my daughter. Is that perfect casting or what?”

  My ears pricked up. Wait a minute—a role for me? What was she talking about? Now I sat down. “I’m playing your daughter? You mean, I already have the part?”

  Mom laughed. “Of course not. You have to audition, like anyone else. But do a good job, and I’m sure Dickie will take our long-standing friendship under consideration.”

  “Dickie?”

  “Lord Attenborough.”

  My heart leapt. “I’m auditioning for Richard Attenborough?” This was developing into something serious. It had been a long time since The Bliss of Mrs. Blossom, and now of course Lord Attenborough was an Oscar-winning director and a major producer, but if he still remembered me as little “Poppy,” there was a better-than-even chance I could get this part.

  It seemed too good to be true, and that’s why I became suspicious. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Why not? You want to be an actress, don’t you?” Still, even Mom could sense there was a hollowness to this argument. The question I was asking was, why now, after all these years?

  “Look,” Mom said with a sigh, “it’s very simple: I want to help you out. I want to make things right. Other mothers help their daughters, why shouldn’t I?” Before I could answer this, she moved on. “They’re going to fly you up to Toronto this weekend to do a screen test. Can you make it?”

  I was still a little befuddled. “Sure, I guess…I’m just…surprised.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised. You’re a talented actress; you deserve a break.”

  I started to choke up. “Mom—thank you. I promise you, I’ll do whatever I can to make you look good. I’ll be totally prepared. I’ll give it everything I’ve got. You’re taking a big risk, but I’m going to make it work!”

  Mom tried to put it in perspective. “Well, remember, they’re looking for a twenty-six-year-old, and a name, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  I was fifty years old and no name at all, but that didn’t stop me. “I don’t care,” I said. “Even if I don’t get the part, I’m just happy that this is bringing us back together. It means so much on a personal level. This makes up for everything.”

  Some of this was pure actor-speak. Of course I did care; I desperately wanted the part. Finally, a chance to act with my mother, in a big film, with a famous director—it was a dream setup, and I couldn’t let it slip away.

  The script was sent to me, and it was indeed a terrific role. Mom and I would have some great scenes together. I wanted this part, and I was going to get it. I studied and studied, and sent on my head shot and my reel. That weekend, I flew up to Toronto and met with Lord Attenborough. “Poppy!” he greeted me in his charming English voice. He was still a delightful man, and I could see that his affection for me was still strong.

  My confidence was high as I did the screen test. The makeup artist did some work on my eyes to make me look young, and she had me put a scarf around my neck to hide some wrinkles—I was supposed to be twenty-six, after all.

  The test went beautifully. I really nailed it. There are times when you just know. Everyone was buzzing with compliments. When I got back to Connecticut, there was a personal message on my voice mail: “Oh, Poppy, you did a marvelous job on the screen test. You’ll be wonderful as Marie.”

  So there it was! I had the part! Now, admittedly there was one little snag to be worked out with immigration: according to Canadian work rules, the film could hire only a certain number of American actors, and it had already reached its quota; Mom was taking up the last spot. We’d have to find a way to skirt the rules before they could officially offer me the role, but that wouldn’t be a problem—not with Shirley MacLaine and Lord Richard Attenborough on the case.

  With the shoot coming up, I realized I’d better get my eyes done. I couldn’t count on the makeup people to help me every day. I flew out to L.A. and was treated by the same doctor who’d done my breasts, Dr. Norman Leaf. Dr. Leaf was a plastic surgeon to the stars, he did great work, and he was a genuinely nice man.

  After the surgery, I went to Dr. Leaf’s recuperation facility. There were all kinds of well-preserved women and men milling about with small bandages on their noses, their chins, their you-name-its. Quite a few of them were celebrities: no big stars, but lots of solid middle-ground performers trying to hold the line against time.

  Mom came to visit while I was there. She brought me a nice sweatsuit. I couldn’t actually see it; I had to keep my eyes closed. My head was reclined, and I held ice on my eyelids as we chatted. We talked a bit about the film. I told her how excited I was.

  “Tell me, Sachi,” she said thoughtfully. “What if you don’t get the part? What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to get it, Mom. You know that.”

  “But what if you don’t? What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. The part is mine.”

  We talked a bit more, and then Mom asked me again, “But what if you don’t get the part? What if something goes wrong? What are you going to do?” She must have asked me that five separate times. I didn’t know what she was so worried about. I already had the part.

  My eyes took only two weeks to heal, and I lo
oked great. I was all set for Canada!

  But not so fast. Someone was still making a stink about immigration. Too many Americans in the movie! Mom said not to worry; she was calling all her bigwig friends. Lord Attenborough even rang up Tony Blair a couple of times. The wheels were in motion.

  Plus, Mom had a nuclear option up her sleeve: “I know. I’ll become a Canadian citizen. My mother was Canadian. And then you can take my spot.”

  I didn’t like that idea. “I don’t want you to change your citizenship for me.”

  Mom accepted my objection pretty easily. “Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  More time went by, and we didn’t seem to be making any progress on the immigration front. So Frank got in touch with his good friend Ed Cox, the son-in-law of Richard Nixon. Ed had connections with the Canadian government, and he was happy to help out. He didn’t seem to think it was a problem at all. “Don’t worry,” he told Frank. “This is a walk in the park, we’ll get her in.”

  Frank called Mom to give her the good news. I was in the room with him when he called her, and I could hear Mom’s animated reaction through the receiver. “How dare you go over my head?” she was shouting. “Stay the fuck out of this! Leave well enough alone! I’m handling it! It’s being handled!”

  Frank hung up and looked at me bewildered. What was that all about?

  So he told Ed Cox to back off; it was being handled.

  The production start date drew closer and closer, and I was still waiting in Connecticut. A marvelous cast had been assembled: Christopher Plummer, Mischa Barton, Pete Postlethwaite, Brenda Fricker, and Mom. I was champing at the bit to get started. What was taking so long?

  Finally I called Jack Gilardi, Mom’s agent at ICM. “Have you heard anything about Closing the Ring? Did they clear things up yet?”

  “Oh yeah. They went with somebody else,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What? Somebody else?”

  “Yeah. What’s her name? Neve Campbell.”

  “Neve Campbell? Neve Campbell is playing Marie? When did this happen?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  Two weeks ago? Why didn’t anyone tell me? What the hell was going on? “But—what happened? I thought Mom was handling it.”

  “Well…” I could almost hear him shrugging with indifference.

  “But I had the role. It was mine.”

  “I guess you didn’t.” He could not have been more dismissive. Of course, Jack was Mom’s agent, not mine. I knew he didn’t really give a shit about me, but he didn’t need to make it so obvious.

  I called Mom right away. “Did you know that I didn’t get the part? They cast Neve Campbell instead?”

  “Oh, yes. I heard that. She’s Canadian, you know. It made things much easier.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mom paused. “Well, you know how it is. Nobody wants to give bad news in Hollywood.”

  “You’re not Hollywood. You’re my mom!”

  “Well, look, at least you know I tried,” she said defensively. “I really did.” That was true, and that was the important thing, really.

  “And don’t worry, sweetheart,” she promised, “next time we’ll find a project for the two of us, in America, and we’ll be in charge. Nothing will go wrong.”

  I also got a call from Lord Attenborough, who apologized profusely for the way things had turned out. “So sorry, Poppy. I did everything I could. It breaks my heart. Closing the Ring just won’t be the same without you.”

  They made it without me anyway. It was not a great movie, and it went straight to video—but that was small consolation.

  I called Mom during the shoot. I’d become so invested in the movie, I had to hear how it was going, even though I knew it would only make me feel terrible.

  “Oh, it’s going so well, sweetheart,” Mom enthused. “It’s wonderful being up here with Dickie. Christopher Plummer is so good. And Neve Campbell is fine. But you know,” she added ruefully, “she’s not you. She’s not you.”

  Chapter 17

  Don’t Take It Personally

  Christmas of 2006—the Christmas after Mr. DeVries graced our Greenwich home with his party tricks—Mom invited us to spend the holiday with her in Santa Fe. “Hey, Sach, why don’t you come to the ranch for Christmas? The kids can go skiing. I’ll stock up on food, it’ll be a blast!”

  I should have been wary from the get-go—her unwarranted optimism almost begged for disaster—but I was actually kind of excited. We landed in Albuquerque, full of good cheer, and piled into the rental car for the hour drive to Santa Fe. Just as we got on the highway, it started snowing—and snowing. Before long, we found ourselves in white-out conditions. Frank could barely see where he was driving. The road itself had become just a rumor. There were accidents everywhere, and countless cars had slid off the highway and into the side trenches. Five tense, white-knuckle hours later, we still hadn’t reached Santa Fe. This was not a good omen.

  I kept in touch with Mom on the cell phone, trying to convey the treacherousness of the driving conditions to her, but for some reason, she couldn’t conceptualize our plight. She was just pissed off that we were late.

  “Where are you?” she yelled. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re stuck on Twenty-five.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t take more than an hour to get here. Doesn’t Frank know how to drive?”

  “It’s snowing, Mom!”

  “I know it’s snowing! I have eyes. I can see! But the main roads are always clear.”

  “But they’re not!”

  “Well, they should be!”

  I called her every fifteen minutes or so, and every time, she gave me grief. Now it was getting dark, and the kids were starving. I told Mom that we were going to stop at a diner.

  “No, don’t stop!” she shrieked. “I already made a great dinner. Just get here!”

  We plowed on to Santa Fe. Once we got off the highway, the conditions got worse. We had no idea where we were going. The roads were covered, there were no street signs visible, we were going completely on instinct and my mother’s long-distance imitation of an hysterical GPS:

  “Take the next right turn!”

  “But there is no right turn—”

  “Just take it!”

  To give Mom the benefit of the doubt, I knew that she was nervous and worried for us. Crankiness and impatience were her default modes when she was under stress. She was not calm in the face of adversity, especially when she was helpless to do anything about it. So this was her way of showing that she cared. Of course, that was small consolation to me when she was screaming in my ear while, all around me, the world was being sucked into a white black hole.

  Finally we started down the long downhill road to her ranch. As we descended through the snow, we wondered if we would ever be able to get back up that hill again, but we didn’t care. Exhausted, we staggered to the front door, where Mom was waiting with a big, incongruous smile, as if all her hyperventilating over the phone had been part of a past life: “Hi! How are you! Come inside, it’s so great to see you! Hi, kids!” She was suddenly the dream grandmother.

  Starving, we headed straight to the dining room, eager to dig in to the great dinner she had promised. But there was no great dinner. There was bean soup.

  I took Mom aside. “Bean soup? Is that all you have?”

  “I made a huge pot.”

  “The kids aren’t going to eat bean soup,” I told her. They were still in the pizza, chicken nugget, mac-and-cheese phase of their culinary development. “Do you have anything else?”

  She gave me an unflinching stare. “I have bean soup.”

  We sat at the table, and Mom ladled a skimpy spoonful of soup into each large bowl. The tiny portion settled at the base of the bowl in a shallow puddle. Frank and I stared down at our soup in dismay, like a couple of Dickensian orphans.

  “Mom, could we have a little more?”

  “No,” she answered pere
mptorily.

  “No?”

  “We have to ration. I heard on the news, it’s going to be a bad storm.”

  The snow kept falling through the night, and the house was all done up for Christmas, so we relaxed into a festive holiday mood. Mom had a stack of Academy screeners, all DVDs of current-release films. We settled back on the couch and watched Charlotte’s Web and Happy Feet.

  The next morning, we woke up to an arctic wonderland. The snow was still falling steadily, the landscape was a pure, endless desert of white. A sense of magic filled the air.

  While we didn’t know it, this was the high point of our holiday. The warm, cozy family feeling was brief and evanescent. As the day wore on, and the snow kept falling, we started coming to grips with a grim truth: we were not leaving this house anytime soon.

  This wouldn’t have been so bad if Mom’s four-hour grace period of charming hospitality hadn’t long since expired. She was tired of us already, and she wasn’t shy about letting us know it. She was all Mrs. Hyde from here on in, and we couldn’t escape her.

  Also, the rationing continued. Mom had gotten it into her head that the food would run out soon if we didn’t take Draconian measures. “We’re all going to have to make sacrifices if we want to survive the week. So kids, one slice of bread each. That’s going to have to hold you until dinner.”

  It was absurd, because there was plenty of food in the house—the pantry was stocked to the ceiling—but Mom had shifted into survival mode, and she took it very, very seriously.

  By the end of the day we were all starving again. To make matters worse, she had nothing in the house that children might like to eat. There was no cheese, or frozen pizza, or pasta. There wasn’t even any milk. She did have ice cream, the family weakness, but even that she parceled out stingily: “One scoop!”

  There was plenty of “adult” nourishment at hand, though, particularly of the alcoholic variety. While the food was out of bounds, it was perfectly okay to dip into the liquor supply. From the first night on, Mom was mixing eggnog like a demon, with very little egg and great sloshes of rum. Little food, lots of booze—a deadly combination.