I'll Scream Later (No Series) Page 12

  Fans were crowding to get as near the red carpet as they could, and as I made my way along it, my mother remembers them chanting my name.

  Happier times for Bill and me, Golden Globes, 1986

  Tables at the Globes are always hard to come by, and the Hollywood Foreign Press uses just about every available inch of space so there is little room to move around. I sat with Randa and Jack at one, with my parents not far away.

  We were definitely not at one of the prime tables—I remember because the walk to the stage when they announced my name was like making my way through a maze. That was a good thing; it gave me a few minutes to collect myself. I was truly shocked, just kept saying over and over to myself, I can’t believe this, I can’t.

  Others in the room couldn’t believe it either.

  As Jack and I made our way past one of the tables near the front, at least one big-name celebrity was saying to his companion, “Who the fuck is Marlee Matlin?” I’m just as glad I couldn’t hear that. Instead I felt completely surrounded by support. I could feel the applause. I could see so many faces smiling encouragement.

  Jon Voight and Whoopi Goldberg were the hosts that year, and Jon had pulled Jack aside before the show started to ask him how to sign “We love you,” in case I won. When I did, Jon delivered it with gusto!

  When Randa leaned over and told me that they were calling my name, everyone at my table jumped up. “Oh my gosh!” were the first words out of my mouth.

  When I say that I hadn’t written a speech beforehand, I really mean I hadn’t written a speech beforehand. All the way to the stage, I kept saying over and over, “I can’t believe it!”

  Jon handed me the Globe statuette and kissed my cheek. I held on tight and hoped that would help steady me as I said one more time, “I can’t believe it!” I needed to buy myself a few moments more to collect my thoughts. As I looked out at the audience, this popped into my head: “Thank you, thank you so much. I’m not much of a speaker—he is,” I said, pointing to Jack. The crowd roared.

  I managed to get out a few thank-yous, to Randa, the producers, Paramount, my parents, Liz, and the cast and crew. It was short, simple, and truly all from the heart.

  Backstage in the pressroom, it’s just a crush of photographers and reporters, with a short window for questions and photos before you’re whisked off and the next winner is marched in. It’s fast, live, and you really don’t want to make a mistake—a slip of the tongue can easily land on one of those endless video loops that haunt you forever.

  One of the advantages at times like these of having someone interpreting what you’re saying is that you have an extra breath between your signing and the interpreting, so meanings and words can be smoothed out. Over the years, Jack and I have done it so often that we have it down to a science.

  It was a wonderful night and I never wanted it to end. Of course, it did, and Betty Ford was looming on the horizon.

  I WOKE UP to a bright California morning not wanting to crawl out from under the covers. Even when the decision to go into rehab is completely and totally yours, as it was in my case, it’s not easy. Even if you’re stone-cold sober and it’s been twenty-two days since you’ve used any drugs—me again—it’s not easy.

  No one else in my life was there that day. No one offered to take me, no one offered to go there with me. I was hoping that I wouldn’t just crumble and disappear.

  A late-afternoon flight to Palm Springs had been booked for me. My parents, and my Golden Globe, had headed back to Chicago; Jack had caught a flight back to New York where he was in graduate school still. I took a car to the airport alone with doubts and endless worries running circles around my brain. I spent most of the flight trying to rip off the rest of those damned red press-on nails.

  When the plane landed, the old guy in the blue vest and the smile met me. It was late enough that I would soon have to go to sleep by myself in a strange place. That thought was terrifying. I felt empty.

  I knew when we passed the Eisenhower Hospital that we were there. As I walked toward the entry, I kept telling myself, “Don’t cry, don’t cry.”

  Two counselors were waiting inside for me—Bill’s, who to this day reminds me of Rock Hudson, and Jane, short with dark hair, pretty, serious. I remembered them from Family Week, and when I saw them, I just lost it.

  I was crying, sobbing, shaking—then I stepped back. I must have looked as if I were planning an escape because they both came to me, reassuring me. Both of them said it was okay—to just let it all out. So I sobbed until there was nothing left.

  From there I went to the nurse’s office. She opened my suitcase in front of me. “What are you doing?” She was looking for drugs, but also Tylenol, mouthwash—she looked at everything. There was the urine test to take. I told them I wasn’t high, but they’d heard that before. And medically, they needed to know whether to put me through detox first. I tested clean.

  Then I went to my room. No frills, just two beds and a bathroom. I met my roommate, who hugged me and said. “This is your bed, the one by the door.” No one gets a private room, but I didn’t want to be alone anyway.

  I felt like a little girl who was so lost. I remember thinking that I was going to let them help me, yet that was terrifying, too.

  I was enough of a celebrity by then that I was getting recognized on the street, but I was hoping no one here would know who I was. I wondered if I would be the only Deaf person. I wondered if there would be anyone I could relate to—communicate with. I didn’t have Jack with me; instead I had two total strangers—one during the day and the other at night—interpreting the most painful and emotional experiences of my life.

  That night was my first AA meeting, too. An older woman was in the hallway outside my room, and Jane told her it was my first night there. The woman took my hand and said, “Welcome to the Betty Ford Center. I was a patient here once twenty years ago, and I’ve been sober since.” I remember telling myself that I was going to do that, too—stay sober more than twenty years, just like her. And I have. Now I’m working on doubling that figure.

  On that first day, late as it was, I was given a journal, and one of my assignments was to write about what I was feeling every single day—no exceptions. I flip through the journal now and can feel the ups and downs in my emotions as I moved through the treatment program:

  “Today was a beautiful day…when I received a telegraph from Bill I felt elated. Made my day.” On another day: “I was feeling a little worried about myself…will I understand all the things happening (and those that have happened) to me? I feel anxious, very anxious.”

  One frustrating day, I had to read aloud some of the work I’d been doing on the 12 Steps, the foundation of Alcoholics Anonymous, which anchors the treatment approach at Betty Ford. I felt Jane, my counselor, was being hard on me during that session. In my journal I tried to explain my feelings—it was not just a window into that moment, but my past:

  When I was asked to do the reading of my first step, I felt anxious, but concerned mainly about my speech…. All my life, when I want people to understand me, I have made a huge effort to speak clearly. I know you told me not to worry about the group…but I don’t quite understand how I cannot worry about people when they’re listening to me. As a child, I’ve been made fun of, teased, and pushed about my speech. It’s not easy.

  I also don’t want to minimize the pull of drugs. Although I quit cold turkey, that doesn’t mean it was ever easy. At my worst, I was probably doing an eight ball a week—that’s three grams of coke.

  I had nosebleeds. My heart would race, would beat so fast it would terrify me. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d stay up all night, then the sun would come up. I hated, hated that part. That was the worst, seeing the sun come up and thinking, Shit, I’ve been up all night.

  I still remember the taste of pot. I loved that taste. I loved Thai sticks, black hash, Red Hair, pot in any form. If you are an addict, you are an addict. It’s not that you’re never tempted again, you are
. I am. But then I look at my life, my children, all the people I love, and I get through that hour, that day.

  MUCH OF MY time in rehab was spent dissecting how and why I feel the way I do. That constant examination is never easy, but I was learning things about myself. I was also finding new ways to cope with situations that had hurt me in the past.

  One day a group of us were talking, and everyone else dissolved into laughter. I didn’t get what was said and asked the woman next to me what was so funny. “Nothing.” Whoa!

  I asked her again, to see if she would hear what she was saying. Again she said, “Nothing.”

  I told them, “I’ve taken nothings almost all my life, and I will not take that anymore.” When I wrote about it in my journal, I went on to say, “I hate my deafness, but I’ve learned to accept it. Of course, not totally, maybe seventy-five percent or so. That took a lot of courage for me to speak out today.”

  I would begin to build on that courage from that day on.

  THE WEEKENDS AT Betty Ford were hard for me; that’s when visitors could come and I didn’t have any.

  Broadcast News was keeping Bill in D.C. I asked, but my brothers didn’t come. Gloria didn’t. Liz didn’t. Only my dad would come, and it wasn’t too successful. He started breaking down in the counseling sessions, crying and unable to go forward.

  My mom, still reeling from our fight during Family Week with Bill, refused to come. Here’s some of what she wrote me about her decision in a letter dated February 16, 1987:

  Just a little while ago, I talked with Jane, your counselor, and told her of my reasons for not coming…. I’m not feeling well and also your “sudden fame” has taken a toll on our family and the adjustment has been tremendous and also something I didn’t tell is that I or I should say “we” meaning Dad and I, cannot afford to just pick up and come because you say “Come now!”

  I have bowed to you for too many years and I know now that I haven’t been fair to myself or you…. I have lived through your deafness far too long. It has given me some importance. Now is the time to get on with my own life and stop trying to live it through you.

  I tried too hard for you—I should have relaxed and tried to enjoy you more and while I’m at it, given you more discipline, a good swift smack in the “behind” would have taken care of a lot of things.

  I love you no matter what.

  There is more. What this letter represents is the longest, most honest, in-depth discussion my mother has ever had with me. I wish that we had been able to use that as a starting point to create a different and better relationship with each other. It saddens me greatly to say that we haven’t.

  24

  IT SEEMED THAT a new face was showing up at rehab every day. When it happens, it feels as if you are starting all over again—a new round of someone else’s pain to share, someone else to share your pain. More stories of the awful struggles people go through, the bottom that they’ve hit—often many times. It will all live somewhere in your subconscious forever. I tried to embrace it, but some days I was frustrated.

  On day three, everything changed. Ruthie had arrived.

  I remember the first time I saw her. Into the cafeteria walks this regal, tall, tall, tall, beautiful black chick, just scoping out the room. She had attitude—I liked that. She looked about my age. Finally, somebody I could maybe relate to.

  Ruthie remembers, “I noticed Marlee was by herself and she seemed sad, really sad. I think I’m always drawn to underdogs. We just started talking—I was still bouncing—but the vibe from her was all this positive energy, and she was also very sure of herself, even in the sadness. I felt that energy, and I thought, ‘This is someone I want to know, someone I can confide in.’”

  Ruthie would become one of my best friends for life—we consider ourselves soul sisters and that’s truly what we are. So many times she’s just looked at me and known exactly what I was thinking, and I can look at her and decode her thoughts in a second. We got each other almost immediately.

  The days at Betty Ford were structured—every minute is scheduled from 6 a.m. to 9:30 p.m., with lights out at 11:30. One of the best parts was the time after breakfast—7:30 to 8:30—that was set aside for the morning meditation walk.

  The grounds are beautiful with a creek running through expansive, manicured, green lawns—you could mistake it for a country club. February was a perfect time to spend outside—the meditation in the summers must make you feel like you’re in a sweat lodge.

  Most mornings Ruthie and I would walk together—that is when you really get to know someone. You start telling them your stories, the gritty parts that you might not ever reveal in group sessions, and they tell you theirs.

  We’ve always said it’s a good thing we didn’t know each other when we were doing drugs—we would have been dead! We are very, very influenced by each other to this day. If I ask her to do something, she does it. If she asks me for anything, she’s got it.

  And a really deep mischievous streak lives in both of us.

  In the years since, we’ve done crazy things together. Mooned Sting and his wife Trudie on a winding Italian highway when our car passed theirs on the way to meet them for dinner. Spent two crazy weeks in St. Bart’s one Christmas in which the “Maa-Ruu” song, blending our names into one crazy rap, was born:

  The Maa-Ruus, the Maa-Ruus, the Maa-Ruus are on the island.

  We don’t need a mule, let the motherfuckers rule.

  Rule, Soul Sisters, rule!

  We sang this at the top of our lungs a million times in those weeks as we cruised around St. Bart’s outer reaches. Pure craziness! I’m sure everyone loved us!

  There was the David Copperfield–paparazzi incident…more on that later. And during rehab, we helped one woman escape—sneaking with her into her husband’s rental car, we all took it for a spin around the block. That was all she needed, not to leave forever, just for a little bit.

  A SHORT NOTE near the end of my journal from February 10 reads, “I’m feeling anxious about the announcement for nominations for Academy Awards tomorrow. Then I hope to ‘forget’ about it during my stay…I want to put it away.”

  I knew the nominations were coming, but I didn’t know what to expect. I had no idea how the process worked—between my näiveté and my seclusion from the real world at Betty Ford, I was completely oblivious of the industry’s Oscar craziness. For that month, I was just Marlee Matlin from Morton Grove, Illinois, trying to get better.

  Just after five thirty the next morning, my counselor Jane came in and woke me up. I remember I was startled: my first thought was that something had happened to my family. You know, that phone-call-in-the-middle-of-the-night feeling. My heart was beating so hard. “No, no, no, your family is okay,” she said. “You have a phone call from Jack.”

  Getting through to me was no easy matter. A strict procedure governed phone calls—and random phone calls for residents at off hours were simply not tolerated. This is one of those times when I was grateful that Jack refused to give up. He says:

  “I was watching the announcements on the little thirteen-inch TV in my dorm room at NYU, and they called Marlee’s name. No one else knew where she was. I knew I would start getting flooded with calls from the studio, her publicist, the media. I had to get through to her.

  “I called Betty Ford and said I have to talk to Marlee. They said, ‘You can’t.’ I kept trying to convince them this was really an emergency. Finally, I said that she had just been nominated for an Oscar and I really had to talk to her.”

  Jane motioned for me to come with her. I put on my robe and walked over to the pay phone. The TTY was ready, and Jack and I had this short conversation—I have the fading roll of TTY paper still. Jack says:

  “Is this Marlee?”

  “Who else?” (Sorry, Jack, it was early, I was still half-asleep.)

  “Well, I was looking for the actress in Children of a Lesser God who was nominated for Best Actress. Is that you?”

  My heart just st
opped.

  Jack went on, “The actresses in that category are Jane Fonda, Sissy Spacek. Sigourney Weaver, you, and Kathleen Turner. The picture got five nominations.”

  “Thanks for calling. I’m gonna scream later. I have to go, we’re not allowed phone calls….”

  This was the first time Jack and I had communicated since I’d checked in.

  “Marlee, Lois [who was handling publicity for me] said there’s something very important. She needs a comment from you. She’s gotten around thirty calls already. How did you feel when you were informed?”

  “I feel great, oh, God, this lady is telling everyone…. I feel great and elated and honored being in the same category with the other great artists. I feel good.”

  “You should, honey, you deserve it….”

  “I’m glad you’re the one to tell me. I think Spacek will win.”

  “You already won, Marlee, you already won.”

  That is one of the reasons Jack and I have worked together for so long—at times he knows exactly the right thing to say.

  Jane was standing right there and I looked at her and smiled, and she smiled. Later she wrote “Congratulations” in my journal.

  After I’d hung up, Jane asked how I was feeling—emotional moments, even good ones, can be tough on addicts, even recovering ones. I said, “Pretty cool, pretty cool.”

  “Great,” she said. “Now go back to your room, it’s time to get ready for breakfast.”

  I told Ruthie, and thanks to the woman who had overheard some of the morning back-and-forth, the news was out and others offered me congratulations.

  But it really slipped into the background pretty quickly.

  My February 11 journal entry is filled with feelings, but it’s all about rehab—the great group session when I was finally able to talk about the conflict I was having with someone else in the group; grief and sadness at one woman’s painful story; frustration at how work on the Valentine’s Day skit was going; more frustration at the AA lecture that night: “I’m so tired of hearing about alcohol. I’m a drug addict! I’m really looking forward to the NA [Narcotics Anonymous] meeting tomorrow.”