Prairie Tale: A Memoir

by Melissa Gilbert

  After a few months of getting nowhere, we abandoned the search on all fronts. Our lives got too busy, and the PI was ridiculously expensive. However, in the back of my mind, I knew that one day I would pick the search back up. I might not find them or get the answers I wanted. But somehow I understood that just asking the questions could be equally if not more beneficial.

  Soon after, while I shot Without Her Consent, we leased a lovely house in Sherman Oaks. Bo packed up our belongings in New York and drove them to the white house with blue shutters and a white picket fence, previously owned by my pal Tracy Nelson. It was in perfect condition, and we were able to move right in, along with our new nanny, Rosa, her daughter Linda, my dogs, Sidney and Maggie, and my cats, Sylvester and Christmas. Soon we added a stray Lab that Rosa found and named him Brando. I don’t remember if I knew how much Bo drank or if I overlooked it because that was easier while I was working long hours on the movie, but life was pretty manageable.

  In the fall, I got ready to leave for Hong Kong, where I was starting my next project, Forbidden Nights, a big-budget movie for CBS about an American schoolteacher who takes a two-year assignment in China and must confront major cultural obstacles after she falls in love with one of her students. Talk about being out of your element. Production actually began outside of Hong Kong, in one of the new territories, about an hour outside of the city. Everything was either a mall or it was still turn-of-the-century backward. Aside from me, the cast was either Asian-American or Asian, and the crew was mostly Brits and Australians. One man seemed to control everything from the equipment to the trailers; I suspected he was connected to the Triad mob.

  I had a nice bus to change in, but unlike the luxury Winnebago I had on my previous picture in L.A., this one didn’t have a bathroom. Instead, I was directed to a porta-potty, except this one was sans potty; it was just a squat hole. I wasn’t ever going to be known as a prima donna, but I drew the line at a squat hole. If I needed a toilet, I asked to be driven to the nearest hotel.

  Others felt the same. Being fish out of water, the Aussies and Brits got together every night in someone’s hotel room for a meeting of what someone dubbed the RPPS, the Rape, Plunder, and Pillage Society. Basically, it was the name given to the room where everyone would gather to eat, drink (not me, since I was still nursing), carry on, and unwind after a day of really impossible shooting, crowd control, and culture shock. They were a fun group of people who served as a social life raft, and ultimately they did provide much-needed support.

  One day we were shooting in the middle of some small town’s square that was doubling as Beijing’s Tiananmen Square. Like others on the crew, I was dispirited from feeling isolated and adrift, lost in a foreign country where not even the Chinese takeout tasted like the Chinese takeout I was used to. All of a sudden I looked up and saw Monty Python’s Terry Jones walking toward me. I thought I was hallucinating. What would he be doing out in the middle of nowhere in China?

  I had always been a devoted, or rather devout fan of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. From behind me, I heard one of the English grips shout “Oy.” Without missing a beat, Terry drifted over to our encampment, eager to say hello to people who spoke with an accent similar to his. He spent the rest of the day with us and stayed through that night’s RPPS gathering. We traded lines from The Holy Grail and The Life of Brian, and he did the Silly Walk with us. One of the highlights of my life will always be the memory of standing in that room with Terry and singing “The Lumberjack Song.”

  Bo, who was on location with me, had a great deal of time on his hands, so he found a tailor who made him a new wardrobe of custom suits and shirts, complete with his name embroidered in his signature on the cuffs of the shirts. One night I was eating dinner with Rosa and Dakota when Bo returned and said he had a surprise for me. He had me close my eyes and hold out my hands. When I opened my eyes again, I saw a Cartier box in front of me. Inside was an eighteen-karat gold ladies’ panther watch. I had carried on about wanting this watch for years, ever since Rob had gotten the men’s version years before. Unlike Rob, I didn’t have the stones to pay that kind of money for a watch. I have a feeling that when Britney Spears got engaged to K-Fed, she felt the same way I did at that moment: I had the watch I wanted, but I was also concerned that I had just bought myself the watch without my knowledge.

  I said thank you and let Bo know I was thrilled. The deed was done. I owned the watch. But then he said, “Look what I got.” He pushed up his sleeve and revealed a brand-new Rolex. Although smiling, I thought, Oh my God, I am working my ass off in a foreign country with nothing but a port-a-squat toilet and this guy is spending the money I’m making as fast as I make it.

  Bo’s drinking was more of a problem than his spending. At the next night’s RPPS, he had a little more than he should have and, thinking he was funny, snatched a stuffed dog from the daughter of one of the crew guys. After saying “We have a beagle and sometimes he drives me crazy,” he began punching and stomping on the toy dog. He was out of control, and the little girl was in tears. Embarrassed, I dragged Bo out and sent him back to our room.

  After a couple more awkward episodes, he was banned altogether from the RPPS gatherings. That’s when he decided he would have his own fun, and then things really got out of control. One night I went to the RPPS, hung out for a bit, then went to my room. When I woke up in the morning, Bo wasn’t there. Nor was he back at the end of the day.

  After dinner, I went to the RPPS and asked the guys what I should do. A bunch of them who knew Hong Kong said they would make calls and find him. That reassured me, but when I woke up the following morning, Bo still hadn’t returned. At that point, I panicked. I was in Hong Kong, breast-feeding my kid, depleted of strength and energy, and now I was also sick and nervous. It was surreal. Almost like I was living in one of my Lifetime movies.

  When I walked back into the hotel that night after work, Bo was waiting for me. I didn’t know whether to hug him or hit him. He said he had hooked up with some British sailors and ended up on a two-day bender. Though relieved he was safe, I told him that I couldn’t handle dealing with him or even worrying about him. I wanted him to go home and get sober. He broke down in tears, said he was sorry, and agreed he needed help.

  “I’ll leave,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s get you on the next flight.”

  Then it was as if a switch went off inside him. What about his suits? He insisted he couldn’t leave until his custom-made suits were finished. He phoned the tailor and found out they wouldn’t be ready for a couple more days. Rather than argue, I said fine, he could wait for the suits. But he couldn’t stay with me. He had to find another hotel. I couldn’t work, take care of Dakota, and worry about him.

  I felt horribly guilty, hateful, and hurtful for sending him away, but he seemed to understand. In hindsight, I think I did the right thing. I received nothing but support from the crew that night at the RPPS. A few of them generously said their wives would take turns with the baby if I needed help. Around ten o’clock, I went back to my room and began to get ready for bed when the phone rang. It was Bo, and he was out of his mind, screaming at me.

  “You’re not going to take my son,” he said. “I know what you’re planning to do, you fucking bitch. I know this is just the beginning of the end. You’re sending me away so you can divorce me, take everything…”

  I don’t know whether the conversation escalated or de-escalated, but Bo accused me of using him solely to father a child and swore he was going to see me dead before I took his son. He was quite graphic about it.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he said. “I’m going to take our son. And I’m going to leave. And I’m going to leave you dying in a pool of blood.”

  Even though I knew that rage was fueled by alcohol, or maybe because it was, I took Bo seriously. I called in several producers and members of the crew with whom I was close and told them what had happened. They phoned the police. They moved Dakota, Rosa, and me to a new sui
te, and stationed guards outside the door and at the hotel’s various entrances. Then, in case Bo managed to circumvent all those barriers, our key grip, David Nichols, slept on the floor at the foot of my bed.

  As it turned out, Bo never showed up. After a thorough search, the police found him passed out in some hotel room with a large samurai sword next to him. They basically ushered him out of the country, and my godfather, Charlie, met him at the airport in L.A. and checked him into rehab.

  Somehow the tabloids got wind of the story, which I denied for months before finally admitting to a TV Guide reporter with Bo at my side that he had a “tendency to lose control of himself” when he drank and that following a difficult time, “I asked him to leave Hong Kong and get help.”

  What I didn’t describe was the relief I felt after he left and how that subsequently opened up the floodgates of an Oh my God, what have I done with my life? string of questions. I couldn’t believe what I saw in the mirror. My hair was dyed black, I had lost weight, my eyes were permanently bloodshot, and I was alone with a baby and a nanny in this far-off land. I shook my head in disbelief. Who had I become?

  I needed a life preserver, and I found one in David Nichols. I hung on to him for the rest of the shoot. From Sydney, he had a sane but carefree attitude about life that I needed, and I might have had a complete breakdown if not for his joyful, peaceful, and reassuring presence. We talked endlessly about what I was going to do when I got home. His answers were always to the point. He said, “Figure out what you want in life, what you want for yourself, and what you want for your child. Nothing else matters. Where do you want to be? What do you want out of your marriage? What are you willing to put up with?”

  They were all excellent points. We would sit down after work and I would write list after list, trying to figure out what I wanted. I never got a chance to thank David for the help he provided, but I’ve remained eternally grateful. He helped me find the strength to stand up for myself. He also started me on the process of realizing that I, like many people, could have everything I had ever wanted in life but still be missing the things I actually needed.

  twenty-one

  NO, NO, NO, WE’RE NOT GOING TO DO THAT

  Bo was in rehab when I got home and we started to see a therapist together. I also began attending Al-Anon meetings. After he finished rehab, he moved into the Oakwood apartments, where he would have his encounter with Shannen Doherty. I was convinced that most of his problems stemmed from substance abuse, and if he stayed clean and we kept going to therapy, we could give Dakota a two-parent home. It wasn’t the best decision, but I thought for Dakota’s sake, I would do what I could to put our relationship back together.

  It seemed to be working. We were still separated when the holidays rolled around, and I took Dakota to my mother’s house for Christmas Eve. Despite my share of moments in the past when I wanted to strangle my mom, this was one of those times when her crazy zest for life and cockeyed wisdom made perfect sense to me, and I realized I would be absolutely lost without the love and nourishment she provided my soul.

  Buoyed and hopeful, I invited Bo to Christmas dinner. My whole family was there, including my grandparents, who, at my mother’s insistence, agreed to be in the same room together. We had a warm, wonderful night together. As Bo prepared to go back to his Oakwood apartment, I felt a swell of emotion in my heart and invited him to come back home with us after the first of the year. He was sober and doing well and I wanted to try and continue down this path and make our marriage work.

  That May, we celebrated Dakota’s first birthday while I was working on Joshua’s Heart, a movie about the effect of divorce on children. We relaxed with new friends Jack Scalia and his wife, Karen, and Sandy and David Peckinpah, all of whom had kids around the same age as Dakota. We went on walks together, arranged play dates, threw impromptu barbecues, and began the tradition of a rotating Christmas Eve dinner.

  Sandy and I developed a fast and intense friendship, almost like we had been connected in a previous life. To this day she remains my best friend.

  Life was almost normal. I had turned into a working suburban mom. We rented a way-too-large, way-too-expensive home in Hidden Hills, an exclusive community in the west San Fernando Valley that Bo had wanted to live in ever since going to a party there years before. That house was way beyond our grasp financially, but it meant the world to Bo and it was a fun neighborhood. Our doors were always open and we always had houseguests, mostly Bo’s friends and family.

  I also exercised my independence in ways I never thought possible. First, I fired my longtime manager, Ray Katz, and then I called my mother and told her that I was ending our contract. Splitting from Uncle Ray was scary and breaking away from my mother was unpleasant and gut-wrenching, but necessary if the two of us were going to have a good relationship. I was no longer a child. I needed to take control of my career, along with my life, and that’s what I did.

  That fall, Leslie Landon got married. Like me, Leslie had grown up considerably since our last days on Little House. She had earned a master’s in clinical psychology from Pepperdine University and practiced marriage and family counseling. I was so proud of her. And her wedding to Brian Matthews, held at a church in Westwood, was a beautiful affair.

  The first person I saw there was Michael Landon. Quite a few years had passed since we had seen each other, but we bridged that gap instantly with hugs and kisses. It felt so good to have his strong arms wrapped around me again and to breathe in that familiar Mike smell, and I was filled with warm memories. He asked about Dakota and said, “You know, Half Pint, in the weird world of Hollywood, he’s kind of my grandchild.”

  I knew what he meant and smiled broadly.

  “When do I get to see him?” he asked.

  “We’ll make plans,” I said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  He said they were skiing over Christmas, but we’d make arrangements when they got back. He wanted me to bring Dakota to the house and spend time. Like a parent, he gave me a stern look and said he needed to see me more often. In February, I called to schedule that get-together and spoke to Cindy, who said they still had a full schedule, but promised to call me back when they settled in. In early April, Leslie called and said she wanted me to hear some news directly from her before I heard it on TV. I stopped and braced myself for I didn’t know what.

  “Dad’s got pancreatic cancer,” she said.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Inoperable cancer of the pancreas and liver.”

  I sat down.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “You have to explain to me what that means.”

  I could hear her take a deep breath.

  “Well, he’s going to try every treatment possible, but Schmoe”—her nickname for me—“you have to know it’s not good.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “He’s going to fight,” she said. “You know he’s going to fight.”

  A few days later, Mike invited the press to his house and revealed his illness and determination to fight it. It was so characteristic of him to deliver the news on his own terms and try to keep the tabloids from printing rumors. I watched the press conference on TV. To me, he looked the same as he had at Leslie’s wedding. Maybe he was a little thinner. If he was, it was a negligible difference, perhaps the result of healthier eating and more exercise, which I thought might indicate he was winning his fight.

  May began yet again with celebrations: Dakota’s birthday on the first and mine on the eighth. The night after my birthday, a little weary myself, I sat up in bed with Bo and waited for Mike’s appearance on The Tonight Show. I’d heard he was going on to tell off the tabloids for the sensationalized and inaccurate coverage of his illness. If one were able to give the middle-finger salute on television, he would’ve done it. Instead, he came out and said, “It didn’t do a helluva lot of good to hold the press conference.” His good friend Johnny Carson agreed. Mike was most miffed about one particular stor
y that maintained he wanted to have another child, which would have been his tenth, so his wife would have something to remember him by.

  “I have nine kids, nine dogs, three grandkids, one in the oven, three parrots—and my wife, Cindy, needs something to remember me by?” he said.

  Johnny told Mike that he looked good.

  “I feel good,” Mike said.

  I didn’t buy it. He had lost a significant amount of weight since the press conference and much more since Leslie’s wedding. Though, in a turquoise shirt and khaki pants, he was as handsome as always, and he even professed to still work out, he looked completely different. His big, strong chest was gone. His voice was also thinner. Even his humor seemed forced to me, and that wasn’t Mike, though I did laugh when he acknowledged his alternative therapies included coffee enemas.

  “I invited Johnny over for one,” he cracked. “But he wanted cream and sugar and I’m not pouring.”

  Johnny then complimented his hair.

  “I had my roots done yesterday,” said Mike, who had been dying his hair since before his days on Bonanza.

  “You’re kidding,” Johnny said.

  “For this show?” he said. “Sure. Two blood transfusions and my roots done.”

  I thought the most poignant moment of the show came at the end when Johnny invited his other guest, George Foreman, back after his next fight in August and Mike said he would also come back then. I nearly burst into tears because I realized that Mike knew there was no chance he would be back then. Whatever he was doing to fight the Big C, as he called it, he knew he was going to die.

  I did, too, and that was beyond anything I could comprehend. As far as I was concerned, Mike was the biggest, strongest, toughest, most determined person ever. If I had done the math and counted up the cigarettes and vodka he had consumed, I would have seen it add up to liver cancer. But I had been in denial up till the point I saw him with Johnny.