In Pieces(50)

I’d always kept the thought of Steve tucked safely in my back pocket, like a return-trip ticket if I ever needed to go home. I loved Steve, was comforted by his presence, and I was waterlogged with loneliness. But I didn’t want to get married. I needed away from his passions and emphatic opinions that would send mine into hiding. Plus, there was a sliver of me that felt like he was breaking into my house again, determined to be in my life whether I wanted him there or not.

No family photos of the trip, only a picture from a 1968 issue of TV Radio Mirror, another fan magazine.





“Marry me, Sally, or I’ll marry someone else.”

When Jocko threatened that I might not work again if I didn’t do The Flying Nun, I agreed to do the show not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid. When Steve told me that if I didn’t marry him then he’d marry someone else, I accepted for the same reason. I was afraid.


The year before, I’d been the maid of honor at my friend Lynn’s big fairy-tale church wedding—a memory I will always cherish. Everything was white lace and pink rosebuds, with a gaggle of bridesmaids covered in lavender tulle floating around, and Lynn’s mother dressed head to toe in mauve satin, her eyes overflowing with tears. All of it an elaborate celebration of my friend’s marriage to a man she’d met during her first year of college.

I’ve always loved ceremony and tradition (except birthday parties), but I never even considered planning some kind of wedding event. I felt uncomfortable, underplaying everything. Don’t worry about an engagement ring. Who cares. It’s no big deal. I wasn’t feeling celebratory or excited about building a life with the man I loved, only glad that Steve would be waiting for me when I got home from work, and that was enough. I didn’t even bother to tell my father or Joy about our decision. And even though my brother and Steve had always been best friends, I felt awkward when I called Rick, never expecting more from him than a distracted, half-hearted congratulations, which is what I got. Steve’s relationship with Princess hadn’t changed one bit over the past year—if anything they were closer. She had grown up with him in the family, so the idea of my marrying him didn’t change a thing.

But nothing felt real until I told Baa. Her opinion was so important, affected my own so powerfully, that many times I was afraid to hear what she had to say, afraid that if she disagreed, I’d begin to equivocate on something I had felt certain about moments before.

I don’t know why my voice turned into a defensive plea, don’t know why I felt embarrassed or ashamed or what the difference is between them. I only know I felt relieved after telling her of my decision and then tried to dismiss my disappointment when she reacted with understanding instead of joy. Did I want my mother to feel excited? Was I hoping she would make me feel something that I did not?

A few days later, I was sitting in my bubble of a dressing room waiting to be called to the set when I heard a soft knock on the door, followed by a sweet “May I come in?” Because she rarely visited the set, and never without a plan, an electric jolt of oh no ran through me. As Baa stepped into my cramped, overheated space she fumbled her words, instantly revealing to me that she was nervous, which made me nervous. Quickly scooping up the pile of stuff stacked on the worn upholstered chair, I stashed it on the floor, and as I was sitting back down on the equally worn love seat, she handed me a needlepoint kit she’d purchased. She was always getting me little gifts, poetry books or rose-scented hand cream, but needlepoint had become my secret weapon against the lure of the craft service table. After a moment of silence, she said, “I miss you, Sal.”

“I miss you too,” I answered, but suddenly wasn’t sure if I did. Since Steve had been back in my life, my need for her had dissipated.

“Sally, listen. I don’t want to butt into your life… but I’m your mother and I love you… and have to tell you what I feel… even if you don’t want to hear it. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. You can’t marry Steve. You can’t.”

I felt smacked in the face. I’d made a decision, thought she’d agreed with me. I had felt comforted by her acceptance.

“How can you be saying this? You’ve known him since we were kids… you love him. What are you saying to me?”

“I’m sorry, Sal. But he’s just not right for you.”

“How do you know? How do you know what’s right for me?”

“Because I just do. I know this makes you mad at me. I wish you wouldn’t be… but I just have to tell you what I think.”

“I don’t want to hear what you think. I don’t want to know.”

“You can’t marry him. I had to tell you.”

If she had suggested that we wait awhile, that it wasn’t the right time for me, for either of us to get married, I might have agreed, might have even felt relieved. But she was saying that Steve was not the right person, that after all these years she could see that he was not the man I should marry. Why? Was there something she knew about him that I didn’t? Why wasn’t she asking me about what I was feeling, about my loneliness? Why didn’t I ask her to tell me precisely what was causing her to say this? I asked her nothing. I pushed away from her, filling in the blanks with my own answers as clearly as if I’d heard the words: She feared that if I married Steve I would no longer need her. She needed me to need her and I always had, turning to her instead of making friends, so ultimately I had no friends. She wanted my allegiance. But was that really the truth? Why didn’t I ask any of this, ever? Neither of us ever asked the questions that needed to be asked.