Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter Page 5

  Mrs. Sandberg had never commented on my clothes before, or anyone else’s. I didn’t know what to say. Mom squeezed my hand hard.

  “Thank you,” I piped up.

  “This should get her through the next two weeks. After that, you’ll have to come back for more. I’m sure keeping up won’t be a problem, but we’ll miss her.” She tugged the bottom of my braid gently.

  So I’d be gone for more than two weeks. That was news. I looked at my friends Mike and Christy and wondered when I’d see them again.

  An hour later, we pulled up to the Van Nuys airport and got out of the long black limousine they’d sent for us.

  “Just stay with me and be good, okay?” Mom said, her voice sounding strained. I’d never seen her this nervous.

  The driver got out and ushered us through the airport and onto the tarmac, where a small jet waited with an even smaller staircase leading up to its door. I’d flown on planes a few times before, but they had been big and we’d had to wait with a bunch of people before getting on them.

  Now just Mom and I mounted the stairs, and when we ducked inside, I saw a boy sitting there with his father.

  “I’m Jason. Jason Bateman, your new brother,” he said officially. He had shiny reddish brown hair that fell to his collar, with a curtain of bangs, bright blue eyes, and freckles that covered his cheeks and nose.

  He had a playful spark, which I welcomed, since it seemed clear we’d be the only two kids for a while. He was older than me, which would normally mean he’d ignore me, but I knew since it was me or nothing, I had a shot.

  Just then a booming voice filled the plane. “Hey, kids! What do you think? Not bad, right?”

  This was the man I’d seen at the audition. He ran his fingers through his long wavy hair and tugged on the front of his blue chambray button-down shirt. His tight jeans gave way to weathered tan cowboy boots. He laughed a big, bellowing laugh that made his eyes glint. It was impossible not to love him immediately.

  Even though he stood a few inches shorter than the pilot behind him, he was larger than life. He had the magnetism of God and Santa Claus rolled into one. I looked over at Mom, who had been struck silent. He seemed to get a kick out of that.

  “I’m Michael Landon,” he said, his lips curled up into a smile.

  For once, Mom had nothing to say. She seemed to just melt.

  I had no idea that this man was the creator and director of Little House on the Prairie, which was by then one of the most successful family dramas on television. Much of Middle America, especially in the Bible Belt, loved watching the tear-jerker about a pioneering family carving out a tough but wholesome life a century earlier.

  The premise was popular, but it was wearing thin after seven seasons. Jason and I had been brought in to add fresh energy. The original Ingalls children were grown-ups now, and they needed younger actors to fill the void.

  I looked over at Mom, who still appeared oddly paralyzed.

  “Hey, Mr. Landon!” Jason piped up, immediately taking advantage of our stunned silence. “This is awesome! Can I fly the plane?”

  Michael let out another thunderous laugh and slid into the seat next to Jason. Mom recovered long enough to look disappointed that he didn’t sit next to her.

  “It’s Michael. Call me Michael. Are you both ready?” He swiveled his head to the pilots in front. “Warren? You ready to get this old heap of bolts into the air?”

  We looked around at the fine leather seats and even finer flight attendant waiting with small, filled glasses.

  “Champagne?” she offered. “Orange juice?”

  The plane lifted into the air gracefully like a bird taking flight in the morning. I felt weightless. My stomach dropped, but I couldn’t tell if it was the plane or the whole situation. This airplane ride seemed very special, but then again, it represented about a third of my flying experience to date, so maybe it was normal.

  Michael chatted with Jason and his dad, and for the first time, I noticed the blonde woman who had come on board with him. She looked like the Barbie dolls I’d sold in commercials.

  We were at least halfway into the flight when Michael started to laugh devilishly. “I have something really fun for you. Warren? You know, like last time?”

  The pilot looked back from the cockpit and nodded.

  “Here, take this. You won’t believe it!” With that, Michael handed me a glass of orange juice, even though I didn’t like juice and hadn’t joined in the first round of drinks. Mom nodded at me enthusiastically as if he’d given me a gold bar.

  “Okay, here we go! Hold the drink and watch it, sweetheart.” Michael pointed to the glass in my hand.

  And with that the plane began to roll like a log, righting itself before a drop of juice spilled from my glass.

  The tiny, yippy dog the blonde had brought on board screeched in terror and leaped into Michael’s lap. He laughed as the blonde tried to pull the panicked dog back into her lap.

  Mom squeezed my arm so tightly, her fingernails dug into my skin and I wanted to cry. For so many reasons.

  “See? The G force kept all the juice in your cup. Not a drop spilled. Not a drop! That’s your astrophysics lesson for the day, kids. Stick with me. I will teach you everything you need to know, better than you’d learn in any boring old schoolroom!” Michael said.

  I looked at my mom as I tried to swallow my rising hysteria. But the hard look in her eyes told me to pretend we were having fun, even though what was happening flew in the face of everything she’d ever taught me about protecting my personal safety.

  When we finally landed in Sonora, another car met us and took us to the motel we’d be camping out in for the next two weeks. The Super 8 was modest compared to the Learjet we’d flown in on. Still, it was probably the best accommodations the dusty gold miners’ town had to offer. In the last century, glittering nuggets had lured prospectors seeking their fortunes. But it seemed as if they’d taken every fleck of prosperity with them when they’d left. Now the town limped along with farmers, a few tourists, and, this week, a huge television crew from L.A.

  Our room was located across the parking lot from Jason’s. I wanted to go see what he was up to, but I was still rattled from the death-defying journey, and Mom said I had a really early call the next morning.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be spending every minute with him. He’s your brother,” she said.

  The clerk directed us to a coffee shop for dinner. We headed down the street on foot, stopping at a drugstore on the way to buy an alarm clock. I picked a white digital radio alarm clock that Mom said I could keep and take home. I loved it. I hadn’t had anything but a watch until now, and this clock had an AM/FM radio too. It was very adult.

  As promised, the next morning the clock blasted local chatter at 5:30 AM. A man rattled off the weather for the next few days. He warned that the temperature wouldn’t reach into the fifties until after lunch, which was much cooler than I was used to in Los Angeles. I fell back to sleep thinking about the pink jacket I’d brought with me. I hoped they’d let me wear it when we were shooting.

  Turns out the clothes they put on me were nothing like the clothes I brought.

  “Look, the honey wagons are right there,” Mom said, pointing to the row of trailers that held small changing rooms with the actors’ names on the doors. She rushed me along, even though I was still half asleep.

  The wardrobe lady was right on our heels. She carried a lavender dress with tiny bouquets of flowers printed on the fabric and had another sleeveless dress with her, made of decidedly drab sackcloth. Around the neck hung a blue unstructured bonnet.

  “Hi, sweetie. Are you Missy? Our new Cassandra?” she asked following us up the stairs of the trailer and right into the room with MISSY FRANCIS on the door.

  Her fluffy brown hair was parted on the side and feathered over her ears. Big round red glasses attached to a gold chain that hung around her neck. She wasn’t much taller than me, and probably weighed about a loaf of bread more
than I did. Clothespins were clipped to the cuffs of her plaid blouse, and half a dozen safety pins were fastened to the hem. Her red Keds matched her glasses.

  “Put this on first,” she said, handing me the sackcloth dress and closing the door behind her. Now the three of us were jammed into the tiny room. “This is the petticoat. Put the dress over it.”

  I couldn’t believe I would wear both dresses at the same time. I guess it was even colder than I thought outside.

  “You can leave your underwear on underneath but nothing else. If you are too cold, I can give you a long john to wear under the whole thing. Then pull on these stockings, and slide these bands on the top and then roll them down with the fabric to hold up the stockings.”

  I looked at the weird itchy socks and the giant bands.

  “Ha! You have no idea what I’m talking about. This is the prairie! They didn’t have elastic in those days.” She gestured toward the mysterious bands. “There’s no other way to make your hose stay up and look authentic. Don’t worry, put on the dress and I’ll do your socks. Oh! I left your boots outside. I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared and returned with scuffed brown boots that laced halfway up and then had hooks at the top like ice skates. There were so many layers to put on and fasten, I could barely walk when I was done. And everything itched.

  She smoothed my skirt over the petticoat, admiring the fit, while Mom watched from the sidelines. “There! Now let me tie the bonnet around your neck and we’ll get you to hair and makeup.”

  I carefully climbed down the stairs of my trailer, worried I’d slip in my boots, which didn’t bend at the ankle. They had a thin sole, but the thick hose added some padding. Unfortunately, the bands holding up the hose stopped the flow of blood to my feet.

  We walked a few paces and then climbed up another set of stairs at the end of the next honey wagon. The sign on the door said HAIR/MAKEUP.

  When I pulled open the heavy metal door, a flamboyant man with white hair and an odd white hat turned and looked me over from head to toe. He wore jeans and a crisp white shirt with the collar flipped up. The button holding the shirt closed over his paunch belly strained when he talked.

  “Oh, boy. Another one. Come on in! I’m Larry. I’ll be braiding your hair for the next decade. If you’re lucky.” I sat in his chair and looked in the mirror at my unusual costume, while he scraped my scalp with a punishing brush. I winced but it had no impact on his technique.

  “Her hair actually parts on the left. And I usually hold the bangs back on the right with a small barrette,” Mom offered.

  He rolled his eyes. “Mom, they don’t have barrettes on the prairie. Everyone else wears the part in the middle. Sorry.”

  This time, she wasn’t staying silent.

  She smiled and clucked. “Oh, I know you know best. You must deal with horrible stage moms everyday! Aren’t we the worst? Bunch of hens!” She poked his belly with her French painted acrylic nail. “Come on. Just a little bit to the side? What do you think?”

  She smiled in a way I’d seen her look at the Christmas tree salesman when she wanted him to deliver the tree to our house for free. She had always told me I looked terrible with my hair parted down the middle. But Larry seemed used to being the boss of his domain. I couldn’t wait to see if she could pull this off.

  “Just a little.” She smiled and winked at him in the mirror.

  He rolled his eyes again, but smiled and sighed deeply.

  “Fine. Just a little.” He hummed to himself as he moved my part two inches to the left of center. He then proceeded to pull my braids so tight, I could hardly open my eyes. He wrapped thin ropes of fake hair around the ends of the braids to hide the rubber bands, rather than finishing with red bows like Mom usually did.

  I stood up, feeling as if every hair on my head might be ripped from my scalp at any second. Next it was time for makeup. An older woman whose heavy lids made her look half asleep painted my face with a creamy orange foundation and then caked powder on top of it. I looked like one of Willy Wonka’s Oompa Loompas.

  I climbed down the stairs of the Hair/Makeup wagon in a daze, having just been run through a paint and body shop. Jason stood nearby talking to a grip. His face was the same disturbing brownish-orange color as mine.

  “Not a drop spilled out of my glass! We must have rolled ten times!” Jason was telling the assistant director the story of our harrowing flight. And, apparently, the trip wasn’t terrifying enough for him, so he was taking artistic license in retelling it.

  His eyes danced when he talked about our near-death experience. His voice had the slightest accent or maybe a lisp, I couldn’t tell which, but he had my attention. He was three or four years older than my current flame, Mike, and he had the second grader completely outgunned.

  Michael clanked down the steps of another trailer. He still had on high boots, but his skintight jeans were replaced by similarly tight brown woven pants with suspenders, and a soft white cotton button down open to the middle of his chest. White tissue sprouted from the neck of his shirt to protect his wardrobe from the orange makeup every one of us was wearing.

  In his right hand he held a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming hot coffee. In his left hand he held a broad-rimmed hat. He looked like he had just roared in on a covered wagon from another century for a cup of joe.

  “Hey, Jason, Missy . . . you guys ready to work?” His eyes settled on my hair. He frowned. Then he barked at the first assistant director, or “AD,” “Her hair is supposed to be down. She doesn’t wear braids until we get back to Walnut Grove and Caroline gets her hands on her and then she’s transformed into one of the Ingalls and looks just like a little Laura. Take her back to Larry and tell them to hurry. Now we’re going to be behind because they didn’t read my goddamn notes carefully.”

  Back to Larry!

  It wasn’t even 8 AM and I wanted to go back to the Super 8 and hide in bed.

  During my second scalping, Larry broke down and used a barrette from Mom to hold back the front of my hair, since I had no bangs. I looked in the mirror and admired the final look, even as my scalp pulsated from the abuse.

  This time when I emerged from the Hair/Makeup wagon, an AD rushed me to the set where Jason was already waiting, sitting in a chair by the craft services table with his dad.

  Michael sat thirty feet away behind the camera, perched on a stool, coiled like a cheetah gaming his prey. He stared intently into the lens with one eye closed. Then he sprang down from the dolly that held the camera and marched to the center of the action, where two stand-ins crouched in the back of a covered wagon in clothes vaguely resembling mine.

  Michael turned to the cinematographer, “Okay. I want you to start wide so we can see the whole mining camp. Those guys over there walk to the stream with their pans.

  “You!” He pointed at an extra in gritty miner’s gear. “You, cross from that campfire and land right here.”

  He indicated a spot in front of the wagon. “Here, we shift focus from him to the kids. And then . . . boom. I will come out from the driver’s side of the wagon and land here, we do the dialogue . . . I leave to talk to Uncle Jed. You go close on the kids in a two shot and cut. Got it? Let’s do it.”

  I didn’t have it. But I had focused in on what the girl stand-in was doing. And she was sitting in the back of the wagon. I could definitely do that.

  I also knew I didn’t have any dialogue in this scene, which was comforting for a first round with this crew. Mom had read the scene the night before, and explained helpfully that my pretend mom and dad would soon be crushed and killed in a harrowing wagon accident. I wondered about the logistics. How do you die in a wagon borrowed from a Western Pioneers coloring book? I had horses. They could kick you, or bite you, but death seemed far-fetched.

  But in this shot, Mom had explained, I would be happily arriving with my still-alive dead parents and meeting Michael.

  Jason and I walked over to the wagon to take our marks. He climbed in firs
t, and the AD lifted me in next. Jason took my hand and helped me settle in. He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. I scootched a little closer. Alone at last.

  “Don’t worry. Sit here with me. I have a line but you don’t have to do anything.”

  Michael yelled, “Action!” and the scene flew by in one take, no rehearsal necessary. This group didn’t mess around.

  That night, Mom wiped the orange sludge off my face. “You did a great job today. Don’t let Jason muscle you out of the way though. Make sure you keep your face toward the camera.”

  “But don’t look at the camera, right?” This was rule number one. The camera wasn’t there. Never ever make eye contact with it.

  “No. You can be aware of it without looking at it.” She took the rubber bands out of the ends of my braids and started to undo the plaits. My shoulders sank and I felt tired to my bones. My calves ached, unused to my retro footgear. My back hurt from riding in a hard wooden wagon with no suspension and my scalp just burned.

  “Let’s look at the script for tomorrow,” Mom said.

  Seriously? I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I followed her to the bed, where she had laid out the script as if it were a bedtime story. “This is the only time we can learn your lines for tomorrow. Even if you don’t say anything you have to know what’s going on around you. Acting isn’t just what you say, it’s what you do and how your eyes react to what’s going on.”

  She kept talking, but the last thing I heard her say was something about a big train. Then I was asleep.

  The enormous black steam engine roared toward us, smoke filling the sky and blotting out the sun. I had never seen anything so enormous move. It was magnificent.

  In the morning we had filmed a scene where Michael loaded us on the train and said goodbye forever. The covered wagon had gone out of control, fallen down a ridge, and crushed our parents to bits, but Michael’s character, Charles Ingalls, couldn’t afford to adopt us, so instead he shipped us off to an orphanage.