In Pieces(41)

The nuns discuss the facts of life with Irving, the pelican.





I spent every day with those actors, laughing and easy. I knew I was the star, but I didn’t want to stand out any more than necessary. I wanted to be a part of the team—though not necessarily friends with anyone. Even when I went with Alejandro to the Factory, a club located in Hollywood—and the only club I’d ever been to—I spent most of the time submerged in the dark herd of gyrating bodies, completely lost in the thunderous music, never actually talking to Alejandro. Whenever any of the cast made a move toward me, I felt myself lean back, wondering if it was a genuine offer of friendship or if they saw me as a coin they all wanted in their pocket. I was suspicious, always, of everyone, no matter how hard I tried not to be. I’m sure that everyone thought I was friendly and open, because part of me was, while a more significant part wanted to hide in a dark, safe closet with the door closed, waiting for my mother to talk to me.

The most difficult task of all was simply getting through the day, every day. Even in my high school drama class, whether in scene study or a term play, I’d been sublimely lost in the work, connected to myself, completely unaware of time as it slid by. But now every minute seemed to repeat itself, never ticking away as minutes are supposed to do but ticking up and down in the same place. To stay alive, not to mention awake, I created little games for myself, just as I’d done at the racetrack with Dick. I stopped reading the scripts beforehand, would wait until I was called to the set, then stand beside the script supervisor to look at the current scene and try to memorize my dialogue instantly. The game was to see if I could do it all in one take, then it evolved into seeing if I could do it in one breath. Both are valuable exercises for an actor, but I sure as hell didn’t know it.

Many of the directors we had on the show—a different one for each episode—literally pushed and pulled me into place, like I was a bowl of fruit, and by then I’d gained so much weight I looked like a bowl of fruit. After they’d yank me to my spot, I’d take a lungful of air and play the game, saying every line in one breath, give or take a paraphrase or two. I would do other takes if they wanted—and they usually did—which meant the distraction of my games would wear off, and I’d be thrust headlong into deadly boredom.

I couldn’t make myself numb no matter how much I ate, which ultimately made it worse. Then I was bored, ashamed, and fat: the poster child for self-loathing. Maybe I was only feeling the young adult in me pushing to emerge. Maybe I would have been struggling no matter where I was or what I was doing. Certainly, I was earning a living, and I can’t imagine what I would’ve done if I hadn’t been. Maybe it takes the distance of so many years to feel grateful. At the time, all I could see was this character, a one-dimensional girl whom I was embarrassed to be playing, and an endless string of days in which I was powerlessly trapped inside her.

One afternoon toward the end of that first year, I was standing in the mother superior’s office surrounded by all the other nuns—something I had done countless times before. Just like every other day, I started to say Sister Bertrille’s chirpy words, when suddenly I hit a wall, stopped midsentence, and flat-out couldn’t continue. I put my face in my hands and sat down, begging the feeling to pass so I could jump to my feet, dust myself off, and start all over again with a big plastered-on grin. But I couldn’t. A tiny voice inside my head whispered, then pleaded, Suck it up and get on with it. I just couldn’t. I was stuck behind my fingers like they were glued to my face, couldn’t look up, couldn’t look at everyone looking at me, couldn’t even release enough to begin crying. I sat on the floor in front of the mother superior’s big desk with my legs crossed and my body bent into my lap. As if I didn’t really want to be heard, I quietly mumbled, “Please let me go home. Please let me go home. I’ll do better tomorrow. Please let me go home.” I kept repeating it, rocking forward with my palms mashed into my eyes. I don’t know what the rest of the actors were doing or how they reacted to this sight. I only know I felt a strong, unapologetic hand grab hold of my arm, seeking not to look in my face but to guide me. It was Madeleine, the mother superior. I wasn’t completely sure she was my friend. Then I heard her quiet, clear demand, never raising her voice but stating with a kind of force that no one questioned, “Get her a car and a driver. She’s finished for the day. Now.”

If anyone said anything in reply I didn’t hear it, and I couldn’t force myself to look for fear I would see the dismay or disapproval on their faces. Madeleine placed her whole body around me—though not really in a hug. She didn’t make cooing sounds or try to be reassuring, she simply encased me as I walked blindly forward. And as she guided me toward the huge sliding stage doors, I heard the loud honking sound announcing their movement, heard the clacking as they parted, and felt the sunlight when she led me through. I never took my hands from my face as she pressed my head down, only slid onto the front seat of some vehicle—I have no idea what—and was silently driven home.

The next day, I energetically propelled myself through the work as if nothing had happened, while fleeting looks of sympathy and out-and-out bewilderment shot from everyone, including the crew. Late in the afternoon, Madeleine took hold of my arm, pulling me into a dark corner. She lowered her head to mine and whispered, “You’re going to meet me at this address after work next Tuesday,” and stuffed a folded scrap of paper into my pocket. “You’re doing it. It’s not far from here. You can go right from work.” I looked at her, not knowing whether I felt warmed or repelled.