In Pieces(92)

But this couldn’t be the reason I felt so frantic, so panicked and frightened. I’d been like this all my life.


I tried not to think about the Lincoln project as the years passed. I didn’t want to know how it was progressing because for every month it dragged on, for every year it was delayed, my loss of it was also delayed. With all my might I tried to not want it, as though the film were a hungry animal, and if it could smell my desire, it would eat me. Several scripts came and went, as did the writers, and the possibility of the film ever happening seemed to dwindle. Then it was announced that Tony Kushner, the Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright of Angels in America, had been hired to take a stab at it, and a year later, he delivered what I consider to be one of the finest screenplays ever written. Instantly, an elaborate table reading was assembled in the East Village’s historic Cooper Union and I was invited to participate, along with an extraordinary group of New York actors, including Liam Neeson—who was to play Abraham Lincoln. The producers kept insisting that my attendance wasn’t required, that the reading was “only” to give Steven and Tony a chance to hear the script out loud, and maybe that was true. But part of me, quieted for so long, refused to listen. That part knew very well that the reading would be more than that, no matter what they thought or said—as every reading is. Fortunately, during that week’s schedule of Brothers and Sisters—then in its fourth season—I happened to have a few days off, meaning I didn’t have to sell my soul to the devil to get to New York.

I could feel the battle going on inside me, one part repeating that this reading was dangerous, exposing me to an inevitable loss that I might not have the strength to get up from. While all the time another voice softly persisted, arguing that if this was truly my only moment as Mary then by God, grab it fully. And so I did. I worked to own as much of the text as I could in the forty-eight hours I had it, put on a blousy black dress, pulled my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, and without hedging my bet, launched myself toward Mary Lincoln. For two and some-odd hours all the voices in me came together, and I was lifted by the eloquence of the words, the skill of a huge tableful of actors, and the craft that had always been my lifeline. When I walked away on that glorious day, I knew that my work had been well regarded. But the further I got from the afternoon, the louder that frigging voice became, telling me that I’d better protect myself because the whole scenario had already been played out and I had failed.

When Liam dropped out of the film a few days later for personal reasons, I silently hoped that the whole project would fall apart and I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Then several months later, when it was announced that Daniel Day-Lewis had agreed to take on the role, I felt sure that this was it: my death knell. I was back to being a television actor, whereas Daniel was considered to be the finest actor in the world. I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself, to beat my mother to the grave so I didn’t have to feel any of it. Including my mother’s death.


During one of my sessions with Dr. Dan, he asked if he could show me the “Still Face Experiment,” a short video made by Dr. Edward Tronick and his developmental psychology team. The film shows a nine-or ten-month-old baby sitting in a high chair, open-faced and gleefully fixed onto the eyes of her mother, seated before her. The baby is preverbal but clearly communicating back and forth, in a joyous conversation of love with her responsive, playful parent. The mother is then told to turn her head away for a moment, and when she turns back, it is with a blank, lifeless expression, no longer responding in any way. The baby is immediately affected, confused as to why her mother is not reacting, becoming anxious as she tries to reestablish the attachment, at first babbling, then reaching out, then screeching with alarm, until finally the baby turns away, trying to escape from the discomfort, and starts to cry. If no one comes, if the mother still does not hear her distress, she begins to chew on her own hand, hoping to soothe herself. Then, after a few minutes—which seems like an hour for both the viewer and, no doubt, the baby—the mother comes back to life and the connection is reestablished. The bad is gone and the good returns, and if done with loving support this process can help the baby build inner resilience. It is a powerful and moving study of a child’s need to have an attentive parental connection and the hardwired reaction of that baby when the attachment is lost, even for a short time.

“But,” I protested, “parents and caretakers have to look away periodically—they’re human beings. And my mother was there, always caring for me, or making sure I was with someone who would, my grandmother and my brother. Baa was wonderful and loving,” I kept declaring. “I’m here because I don’t know how I’ll live without her. Not to tear her down. She has been my life!” Dan listened while I repeatedly told him he had it all wrong, nodding his head with acceptance, until he sat quiet for a moment. Thinking.

“A child instinctually knows that it cannot survive alone,” he told me a few days later, and I wanted to say, No shit. He continued, with a “be patient” look on his face, “But if their survival is dependent on someone who might be dangerous or deeply flawed, then the knowledge of that is too terrifying to accept, so the child creates a better scenario.” Even though I was tapping one foot against the other, giving off the appearance of being bored to death, he began speaking now for the imaginary child. “ ‘The problem can’t be my mother’s fault because I can’t live without her, so it must be mine. My mother is already perfect, she has to be, and I am not. I can fix me. I can make myself better.’”