Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir (20 page)

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Authors: Melissa Francis

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #Entertainment & Performing Arts

BOOK: Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir
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“Get off the phone,” she said one day, storming into my room unannounced. “Laura, hang on . . . ,” I said, not hanging up right away. She took the cordless phone out of my hand and threw it against the wall.
“How do you like
that
!” she said before stomping out. I never found out what got the ball rolling.
Other times she’d be quiet and sullen for days, and then suddenly turn sunny on a dime. I had no idea what to expect, and having Mom as a constant variable in the equation made life even more complicated than it needed to be.
Around this time, Mom let the house slowly go to hell. I noticed half-empty boxes and shopping bags filled with papers piling up in the family room. They’d appear one day, seemingly for no reason or purpose, and blend in with the furniture, taking up permanent residence.
Lulu, the housekeeper who had been with us for years, continued to come by on Fridays, but cleaned only the middle of each room while clutter piled up around the edges, like snow being pushed to the side of the road.
In the formal sitting room, which we’d never been allowed to use, the fabric and carpet had faded under the sun’s glare, frozen in time, like an abandoned dollhouse. The once bright and cheery Kelly green carpet that ran through the house now looked tired and tattered.
While Mom gained weight and lost energy, I assumed she didn’t notice or didn’t mind our home’s deterioration. Until I tried to invite my friend Cori over to go swimming.
“The house is a mess; you can’t have anyone over with it looking like this, for God’s sake,” she said, lying on her bed, her left arm curled under her head while she rested. She was wearing stretch pants and the same shirt she’d worn the day before.
“Okay, I’ll clean up,” I offered.
I scurried around the house with Ajax, cleaning the sinks and tub in my bathroom, finding the smell of the toxic cleaner oddly refreshing. I polished the faucets with Windex for good measure, and the bathroom sparkled when I finished. Then I vacuumed the halls to make the carpet—where it wasn’t worn down—stand up at attention like freshly mowed grass. I tucked as many bags and boxes behind the couch as possible, and scrubbed the kitchen with a mixture of Fantastic and Ajax as warranted. I was efficient and motivated, and the whole exercise took about ninety minutes.
I returned to Mom’s room, where she hadn’t moved.
“House is clean,” I said hopefully. “Can I tell Cori to come over?”
“No,” she said without moving her eyes off the small color television that sat on the table next to her bed.
“Why not? The house looks great.”
“There’s too much crap in the family room,” she said with an edge in her voice.
“Okay, where do you want me to put it? I could move it all out to the garage. Would that be good?” I offered.
“Don’t touch it. I have a lot of important papers in those bags. I’ll never find anything again if you move it,” she said.
I stood there silently, trying to figure out how to move this discussion forward.
“What if we don’t go through the family room at all? I’ll make sure we only go to the pool through the kitchen. Please? I kind of already invited her.”
“That was stupid of you. You didn’t ask
me
. The carpet is torn. We cannot have people in the house until we replace the carpet. And the walls need to be painted. You can’t have anyone over,” she ruled.
I stood there trying to wrap my head around the idea that I was basically never having anyone over ever again. I was the only one taking any action around the house, but I didn’t have the ability to reweave the carpet. That one was beyond me.
I left the room crestfallen, and went to my room to call Cori. I couldn’t figure out how I was going to explain this. I was embarrassed to disinvite her and ashamed that Mom thought our house was too much of a shambles to have friends over. It was worn, but who cared? Certainly not Cori. She was the nicest, least judgmental person I knew. She just wanted to hang out and swim.
I picked up the cordless phone, which I’d duct-taped back together, and dialed slowly. It rang twice and then I heard Cori’s voice on the other end.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hey, it’s me. You aren’t going to believe this. My mom says I can’t have anyone over. She’s mad at me for something, I don’t know what. I live in hell. She’s insane and I don’t want to subject you to it anyway. She says our house is a mess or something and not suitable for company,” I said.
“That’s okay. Our house is immaculate. I just squeegeed the shower. I’m not sure my mom’s beating yours on the sanity scale,” Cori said.
“I love your house. It’s so clean. I’d like to move in,” I replied.
“Bring a squeegee if you want to shower. Wait, scratch that. We’ve got like six.”
“I’m so sorry about today,” I said truthfully.
“Oh my God, don’t sweat it. You’re welcome to come over here if you want to swim. We’ll eat lunch, we can eat off the floor. I’m pretty sure my mom just bleached it,” she offered.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not sure I can even get out of the house now. I will keep you posted,” I said and hung up.
 
 
When I went back to school in the fall for my sophomore year, I was on the cusp of getting my driver’s license, which meant real freedom, and Mom knew it. The day I got the precious document, I borrowed her car and barreled off to an interview.
“This doesn’t mean you can go where you want, when you want, you know,” she threatened.
But, of course, that’s exactly what it meant. I had been dating a boy who lived on the other side of L.A. in Beverly Hills, and if I had my own transportation, I could see Oscar anytime I wanted as long as I had a good cover story, another fact that set Mom and me up to battle.
Tiffany had gotten a car for her sixteenth birthday, so in the months preceding my birthday I fantasized about owning the ultimate teenage dream car: a brand-new red BMW convertible. In what seemed like an act of extreme generosity, Mom went ahead and ordered it for me. The car was about to arrive when Tiffany came home from college for winter break, and I suddenly felt awkward knowing that she had a utilitarian Jeep and I was getting an expensive sports car.
 
Me around age four in my audition uniform. Boy, did I get sick of those overalls and puff sleeves. Don’t forget the bows!
 
Photo courtesy of the author
 
 
Tiffany, with her signature shy smile, at around five years old when she became a Barbie commercial favorite.
Photo courtesy of the author
 
Missy Francis
 
 
BIRTHDATE:
December 12, 1972
HEIGHT:
42½“
WEIGHT:
38 lbs.
HAIR:
Brown
EYES:
Hazel
 
 
Missy Muffin has a personality perfectly suited to her nickname. She is affectionate, effervescent and a constant joy. Missy has already earned fine commercial, photographic and modeling credits, attesting to her self-confidence and ability to take direction.
She has appeared on “The Young and The Restless” and was featured in “The Ghost on Flight 401”. Missy also appeared in the television special ”I Love You”.
She enjoys her dancing classes and playing with her big sister Tiffany-Ann and together they swim, horseback ride, ice skate and love animals.
 
 
My “composite” for auditions, boxes of which were kept in the back of the station wagon at all times. The photos were meant to show a full range of emotions so the casting agents could envision me in any role, from drama to comedy. Plus, I had a sister, just in case the production needed another kid!
Photo courtesy of the author
 
 
The cast of
Little House on the Prairie
when Jason and I joined the show. Melissa Gilbert’s character, Laura, was already the schoolteacher. Both Grace (the blond girl in front) and Carrie (next to me) were played by sets of twins, and I have no idea which twin of each set is actually in the photo.
Photo by: NBCU Photo Bank
 
 
Me with my fictional brother (Jason Bateman) and adoptive father (Michael Landon) on a rare day when I wasn’t in those Ingalls braids. The smiles are real; we had a lot of laughs.

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