I'll Scream Later (No Series)

by Matlin, Marlee

  Sports Night was canceled at the end of its second season in May of 2000, long before it should have been. But by then Aaron already had a new series on the air, The West Wing.

  Some TV series take time to build an audience, others just hit. The West Wing landed in prime time with gale-force winds. Critics loved it, the Washington power brokers became immediately addicted. Not only did it draw big audiences—it was consistently one of the top ten prime-time series in its early years—but its viewers ranked among the best educated, the most affluent, the most influential.

  When Aaron said he wanted to write me into an episode, I was thrilled.

  On December 16, 1999, I got this fax: “This is your first scene. There’s obviously more to come. Aaron.”

  It was enough. Five pages that rocked my world!

  MY FIRST LINE—DELIVERED to a hung over Josh Lyman, played by Bradley Whitford—was “Are you the unmitigated jackass who’s got the DNC choking off funding for O’Dwyer’s campaign in the California Seventh?”

  Meet Joey Lucas, my character on The West Wing. She was high octane, feisty, and no-nonsense—I immediately liked her.

  I also liked the way Aaron mixed things up, really capturing the way I communicate. Sometimes the dialogue was words I signed and an interpreter translated, other times it was words I spoke, and still others it was words I signed that weren’t translated.

  Working on The West Wing was one of the most difficult but rewarding jobs I’ve ever had. I loved Aaron Sorkin’s brilliant writing and having the chance to act opposite Bradley Whitford and a great cast. (Credit: Warner Bros./Getty Images).

  Frankly that’s usually the way it is, and somehow Aaron managed to do it so that it rang true—the character’s voice sounded completely authentic.

  Here’s one bit from the first scene that was just masterful in moving from one voice to another—the first is signed and translated, then I speak the italicized words:

  JOSH

  You’re O’Dwyer’s campaign manager?

  JOEY

  Yes. And I have three sources, two at the DNC and one at the Leadership Council, that say the reason why I’m running a campaign on spit and tissue paper is—what the hell are you wearing?

  Aaron constantly changed the rhythm and texture of my dialogue in that way and, as a result, built a real flesh-and-blood character that just happened to be Deaf.

  When I showed up to shoot my episode, I was hit with waves of nausea. This time I knew exactly what was causing it—I was pregnant again.

  I didn’t want to jeopardize this shot at The West Wing, and after the miscarriage I would take a long time before trusting that this pregnancy was real. So I tried to find discreet ways to not look green, and I fought my need to throw up as much as I could.

  The West Wing cast and crew were all terrific and were the hardest-working group I have ever seen in my life. The dialogue was complex and you never had enough time to feel that you absolutely had it, but you absolutely had to have it nailed.

  One reason the show worked so well is that sense of reality Aaron gave to all the characters, not just mine, and the stories. For the audience, it felt like a window into the real West Wing. When Aaron left the show, I felt a lot of the playful nature of my character left with him. I went from sharp-witted, tough, funny, possible love interest to smart lobbyist, period.

  ONCE I WAS past the morning-sickness phase, I had a great pregnancy. I felt great and the show found a way to work around it since I was not a regular, but they kept asking me back and for that I was grateful.

  One of the best times I had was in the spring of 2000 going as part of the cast to the annual White House Correspondents’ Association dinner. It’s one of the major events in Washington, with the White House press corps, politicians everywhere you turn, lots of politically active stars, and of course most of the time the president—all showing up at the Washington Hilton the last Saturday in April.

  As Jack and I headed out from my hotel around six, the strap on my shoe broke. I was five and a half months pregnant and I couldn’t hobble along. I needed stability, and I had nothing else with me except a pair of tennis shoes, which didn’t really seem as if they would do. The hotel concierge said a Nine West was a few blocks away.

  The clock was ticking because in about twenty minutes the streets would all be closed for the president’s motorcade. Thankfully our driver knew a shortcut that would get us within about a block of the store—but we’d have to walk that block.

  So I’m in formal wear and sporting an already very pregnant belly, Jack’s in his tux, and we’re half running and half limping down the street toward Nine West—people must have thought we were crazy.

  The store was packed—I walked in and felt as if I were at the back of a rock concert—all I could see were shoulders and heads.

  Jack stepped in front of me and started pushing through, sounding very official as he announced, “Move aside, move aside, she’s seeing the president in twenty minutes and she needs a pair of pumps.” If I weren’t so panicked, I would have died with laughter on the spot.

  But a saleswoman took us seriously and ran to the rescue, asking, “Are you the actress?”

  “I don’t have time, I’m late to see President Clinton!”

  Pregnant feet swell, so I had to buy two pairs of shoes—slipping a 6½ on one foot, a 7 on the other.

  Suddenly other Deaf people were in the store. My worst nightmare. “Don’t sign, don’t sign,” I said under my breath to Jack. I had no time for casual conversation, and I knew from past experience that if I didn’t take time with a Deaf fan, I’d have the entire Deaf community up in arms again.

  Finally, as the saleswoman rang up the bill, I said, “Yes, I’m the actress, and thank you so much!”

  Outside again—no car to be seen. Jack started yelling the driver’s name: “Anthony? Anthony?” and running up and down the street.

  People on the sidewalk kept stopping, asking if I was the actress in Picket Fences. I didn’t want to be rude, but I was in the middle of a crisis and didn’t have time to chat, sign autographs, shake hands. So to anyone that felt slighted that night, my sincerest apologies.

  Suddenly Anthony drove around the corner and we hopped in. We had eight minutes to get to the Hilton before they closed the streets down. By the time we got near the hotel, traffic was at a standstill—the president had arrived, no one was moving anywhere.

  Once again Jack and I hit the streets. Inside we were directed to the US News & World Report reception. It was packed with unfamiliar faces. I was rescued by a woman from People magazine, who whisked me off to the People party.

  Inside I ran into John McCain, who remembered me from my day testifying to the Senate committee on behalf of closed-captioning, and he thanked me again for coming to Arizona a few years earlier to speak at a charity benefit that his wife had been involved in.

  Heading into the banquet hall a bit later, I ran into Martin Sheen, who gave me a big hug.

  “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s meet the president.”

  With the Clintons at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner

  We headed into the VIP party, but were stopped at the door. My name wasn’t on the list.

  “But I’m the president.” Martin said, “and she’s my guest!”

  That wasn’t enough. Even with Martin in my corner they weren’t going to let me in. The security guy at the door promised he’d check on my status and waved Martin on inside.

  “Nothing doing,” he said. “I’m staying here until Marlee gets in.”

  President Clinton might have been the main attraction, but everybody wanted Martin’s President Bartlet in the room, too. A woman came over to see what the problem was, and within minutes we were all inside.

  Walking into that room, you could feel the power just radiating off people. Alan Greenspan and Andrea Mitchell. Madeleine Albright stopped me to say she was a fan. But wait—I was the fan. Then someone announced the president was on his way.


  The door swung open and there stood the president and the first lady. I’d first met the Clintons in 1994 when President Clinton appointed me to the Corporation for National Service board of directors, which I had been so honored to be involved in.

  I went over to speak to the first lady, who looked at my belly and said, “I see there’s a baby on the way.” We were smiling and Jack snapped a photo. Then I shook the president’s hand—another snapshot. He told me, “I have so much respect for you,” which always just makes me feel so humble that I’ve found myself in a position to hopefully make a difference along the way.

  Then the cast of The West Wing gathered around the president—snap, snap, snap, more photos!

  After the dinner everyone was off to another party. I got separated from the rest of the group and slipped into a quiet room that had a fireplace and a couch, where I could rest for a few minutes. It was so restful there, candles everywhere. A couple of attorneys came over to meet me, then suddenly one said to Jack. “You’re on fire!”

  He was—literally—a spark from the fireplace had landed on his jacket. It was put out with little damage—although Jack was trailing smoke for a while. As the parties were winding down, we walked out with Rob Lowe, Martin Sheen, and Aaron Sorkin. As late as it was, a crowd was waiting outside, cameras and autograph books ready. I expected the fans to scream for one or all of the guys, but a chant started rising: “Blue’s Clues, Blue’s Clues.”

  The guys looked confused, I looked shocked. We had walked into a crowd filled with mothers who recognized me from the popular kids show on which I occasionally made a guest appearance. Sometimes what touchs the fans are things you least expect.

  I finally made it back to the hotel around 1 a.m. with a flight out just a few hours later—all in all, an absolutely grand night.

  LATER THAT SPRING, David wrote me into an episode of The Practice, the newest of his prime-time series. The drama put him back in the courtroom, where he is a master storyteller.

  I played a woman who kills the man who had raped and murdered her seven-year-old daughter. It’s one of my favorite pieces of work, also one of the toughest.

  I was seven months pregnant and the script was emotionally heavy all the way through. I was terrified of doing it.

  Knowing that David had written it, I wanted to do a great job so that he would be proud of my work and glad that he had featured me in the episode.

  In this script, he pushed me to tap into all the darker emotions—anger, hatred, remorse, sadness, pain, retribution.

  In one scene, Camryn Manheim, who plays one of my attorneys, and I have a heated argument. Camryn, like my husband, Kevin, had learned sign language in college. As a starving actor she would pick up extra work interpreting at hospitals, usually in delivery rooms when one or both of the parents were Deaf, so she is fluent.

  In the scene, neither of us ever speaks, we’re both signing furiously, faces and bodies expressing everything that needs to be said. The silence made the exchange even more potent.

  But the most difficult scene for me was in the courtroom. Bill Pugin, who was interpreting for me on that set, remembers, “In the script it says that Sally Berg, Marlee’s character, breaks down on the stand and cries. Marlee said, ‘I’m not going to cry here. I mean, there are not going to be tears here.’ And the director said, ‘But it would be great if you could.’ She said to me, ‘I just can’t do it; I can’t give them what they want.’

  “I looked at her and said, ‘You are not going to like what I’m going to say.’ She looked back at me and said, ‘Then don’t say it.’

  “All I said was ‘Sarah, Sarah. When you do it, you have to think of Sarah.’ She got onto the stand and it was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever witnessed, her ability to break down on that stand, in that way. There was not a dry eye. Grips. cameramen…

  “Oh my God, when they called, ‘Cut,’ Marlee couldn’t stop crying. Tears were streaming down my face. Camryn turned around and called for makeup and said, ‘Thank God the camera wasn’t on me.’”

  David E. Kelley knows how to write for me. I earned two of my four Emmy nominations, one for his show Picket Fences, and one for this episode of The Practice . Here I am opposite my friend Camryn Manheim in a tense courtroom moment. ( © Vivian Zink/American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.)

  One take. It was a wrap. They got everything they wanted and more. I was nominated for an Emmy for that performance for Best Guest Actress in a Drama Series.

  Aaron Sorkin sent me the sweetest e-mail the day after that episode aired. Here’s a bit of what he wrote:

  The scene in the holding room with you and Camryn demonstrated a level of communication and emotion that spoken words usually only serve to reduce, and your scene on the stand, of course, was as honest as it was gut wrenching. I can’t imagine there was more than one take of that. It’s still very much with me today.

  I can’t wait to get you back on The West Wing.

  I couldn’t wait either—but a baby was about to be born.

  49

  WITH MY SECOND child, I wanted to have a natural delivery, Lamaze, breathing, no C-section. I talked it over with my doctor and he told me, yes, it was absolutely doable.

  With Sarah, I’d gained fifty-one pounds; with this second pregnancy, I had gained sixty-five pounds. Too much—and I’m lucky that I didn’t develop diabetes or other complications.

  I was ten days past my due date, enough that the doctor called his office over the weekend asking if they’d heard from me. He told me it was time for this baby to come, so we picked a day to induce labor—September 12, 2000.

  Liz got on a plane and headed to L.A. Connie, an incredible interpreter whom I’d first met at a parent/infant/toddler group and who was my on-set interpreter for The West Wing, said she’d meet me at the hospital. My mom and dad flew out, Kevin’s mom and stepdad drove up. Jack was there. Other friends kept arriving. We could have fielded a baseball team!

  This birth seemed completely different from the first; everything went much faster and I hardly felt the contractions. I was so tired at the end I could barely stay awake, and I was so uncomfortable. Someone bumped the bed and I must have looked as if I would tear his or her head off because Kevin immediately said, “I did it, I did it.” He was protecting my mom, who’d accidentally hit the corner of the bed.

  I started to push. And I pushed. And pushed. And pushed until I couldn’t push anymore. It wasn’t going well. Everybody in the room was tense, including the bunch of medical students who were observing. At one point the doctor whipped around and snapped, “Quiet, peds!” in their direction.

  The doctor came around to huddle with Kevin and me and said, “You have thirty seconds to decide—C-section or forceps.”

  I looked at Kevin. I was exhausted but we’d gotten this far. I looked at the doctor and said, “I’ll push.”

  “Okay, forceps it is.”

  I had no time to ask what risks might face the baby with a forceps birth. It felt like an emergency and I just put all my trust in the doctor.

  And boom, the baby came out and Kevin was bawling. He said, “It’s a boy. It’s a boy. Brandon, Brandon.” It was 6:09 p.m. when Brandon Joseph came into the world with a lusty cry. A healthy baby boy, my Brandon was fine.

  I wasn’t doing so well though. I looked over at the doctor and saw he was covered with blood. It was all over him, on his shoes. I lost 1,300 cc of blood, and they came close to having to give me a transfusion. Kevin recalls, “It was hard for me to tell how bad things were because I was by Marlee’s side, trying to comfort her. It wasn’t until after the birth that I saw the huge mess on the floor that they were trying to clean up.”

  After a frenzy of activity, everybody left the room but Connie. Everything felt as if it was moving in slow motion. I was having trouble concentrating. Connie told me later I was as white as a sheet and she was trying to keep me distracted. I remember Connie leaving and my father-in-law coming in and talking to me, then a
nurse came and whisked me up to intensive care. My blood pressure had gotten dangerously low.

  I spent five days in the ICU. The first few times I tried to get up, I felt so faint I couldn’t do it without support. The doctors would later start me on Synthroid, which helps boost the thyroid, and I’ll be on it for the rest of my life.

  The pain was excruciating—I’d never experienced anything like it, it felt as if my insides had been ripped apart. The medication they put me on to help with the discomfort was so strong that the doctors were constantly monitoring me so that I wouldn’t become dependent on it.

  The birth was extremely hard, and the doctor said if I had other babies, they would have to be by C-section, no debate. But Brandon was an easy, sweet baby; maybe he knew that I was too weak for him to be anything else. When the American Red Cross asked me to aid their blood-drive efforts, I was more than honored to lend my name, my time, and my support. I had come so close to needing a transfusion and couldn’t imagine how frightening it would be for anyone whose life is hanging in the balance not to have access to lifesaving blood.

  When Brandon was about six months old, I was suddenly offered a film. When I say suddenly, I mean they told me if I accepted the role, I would have to get on a plane the next day, the next day, to fly to an animal preserve in South Africa where they were shooting.

  It was insane, but the project sounded interesting and I knew we could use the money. So I got on the plane.

  Not too many hours later I learned one of the cardinal rules of breast-feeding—you have to stop it gradually or you will suffer. Oh, did I suffer. I hadn’t had any experience with breast pumps yet, and I had planned to just take a break for the three weeks I would be shooting.

  Thanks goodness Bill Pugin was with me. He could keep a goose entertained, and that’s just about the challenge he was facing with me. Bill says, “If you are going to fly to South Africa, fly first class on South African Airways. They make up a bed, a flat, beautiful bed with down comforters. We’re side by side and Marlee is in pain, tossing and turning. Finally she turns to me and says, ‘There’s too much turbulence, I can’t sleep…. Tell the attendant to tell the pilot to do something about it.’