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  The next day, the producer called Ryan. Before Ryan could apologize, the producer said, “No, I’m calling to apologize. Also, I have a script.”

  Ryan said, “What is the role? A German SS officer?”

  The producer said, “No, not for you. For Tatum.” The movie was called Bad News Bears. The role was a Little League pitcher, and this time, since it was my second movie, Ryan was determined to get me a good deal. The producers made a first offer of $150,000. Ryan turned it down. He flatly turned down every subsequent offer the producers made until they got to $350,000 and a percentage of the gross profits. It was a major deal, but the whole thing hinged on whether I could pitch.

  Ryan and I played a lot of Frisbee on the beach. I could throw a Frisbee sixty yards, but we had never played baseball. So Ryan got me a glove and we threw ball after ball as he tried to teach me how to rotate my shoulder. The big test was going to be at a park at the base of Coldwater Canyon. A bunch of Paramount executives were going to show up in their suits and ties to watch me attempt to throw a baseball.

  The day before my tryout, we went over to Peter Bogdanovich’s house. Peter showed me a series of small motions that a pitcher would go through—but not the ones you would expect. He didn’t show me how to wind up and throw. He showed me how the pitcher would look at the catcher and shake off his signal. But the batter would be watching, he told me, so I had to shake off the catcher’s signal without changing my expression. Once I had that down, Peter handed me a piece of gum and told me to do it again. Chew gum, shake off the signal, no expression, now agree with the catcher without showing the batter. The next day, the tryout was a piece of cake. My throw was no good—it soared out onto Coldwater Canyon, but I looked exactly like a Little League pitcher. The deal was done.

  Of course it wasn’t the case, but at the time it felt like I was the only child actor in Hollywood. I was certainly the only one at all the grown-up parties. I started dressing up, becoming a mini-starlet. When I did The Cher Show, the costume designer Bob Mackie made me a silver gown to wear when I imitated Cher. The show let me keep it, and I wore it out on the town with my beloved platform heels. When I went to the premiere for Tommy, the movie based on the album by the Who, the press said that in my sequined gown and heels I looked a little too mature for an eleven-year-old. But I was in heaven.

  My father was the center of my world. He was physically affectionate, draping his arm around me, holding my hand. He was loving and nurturing, and I ate it up. For the first time in my life, I felt truly safe and like I belonged. That gift didn’t last forever, but a little goes a long way. From it I grew enough baby roots to survive.

  It is the father I met then—or the security that came with him—that I longed to have back. That fresh stream in a desert, assuring me, when I was so thirsty, that there was a reason for me to be alive.

  IN SPITE OF our years of conflict, my father had also sort of saved me once as an adult. After the tragedy of 9/11, I couldn’t take the fighting with my ex-husband anymore. I was losing my battle with him, and, not coincidentally, losing the battle with my own addiction at the same time. It was lose-lose. I fled New York, missed my drug test, and in doing so relinquished custody of the kids to John. This was a devastating blow to my soul and spirit. I wanted desperately to die and only survived because of divine grace.

  In L.A. in 2001, my life spiraled out of control. I was moving from hotel to hotel, using drugs, before I rented a house in Venice. And there, I lost it. The doctors call it cocaine-induced psychosis, but in layman’s terms, I was just plain out of my mind. I became convinced that people were trying to break into the house. I had locks installed all over, inside and outside all the doors and windows, locking myself in and out. Then I had all the locks changed. Finally, the day came when I called the police on myself, convinced that someone had broken in through the windows and was about to get me.

  When the police showed up, they saw the state I was in—clearly not healthy. They wanted to bring me in on a violation called a 51/50, which is a code meaning someone is potentially a danger to herself or others. The cops offered to call a family member first—they were willing to release me to someone who would take care of me. I gave them my father’s number. I don’t know how I still had that number—probably from Griffin. When they called my father, he said, “She can come home to my house.” My dad was there for me. He had a home for me.

  The police helped me to a taxi. I fell asleep on the way to my dad’s. I was exhausted after not sleeping for five nights. When I rolled out of the car into the beach house, I was pretty wrecked. The veins in my arms had collapsed and were inflamed. I probably weighed ninety pounds. Things could not have been worse. I was literally dying.

  My father was shocked to see my condition. I think he was slightly afraid of me. But he took me in, and I was grateful. I’d been on my own for so many years that I’d forgotten or doubted that there was someone I could turn to, someone who would care for me no matter how low I’d sunk. Oh right, I have a dad. I can call someone. I do have a house I grew up in. That time, my father was there for me. Once again, he saved me.

  I CALLED MY father from the parking lot of Whole Foods because at last I felt ready to reconcile the savior my father sometimes was with the man who incited my rage and disappointment. I wanted to rediscover the charming man I’d once known. I wanted to focus on the father who had sometimes been there for me, not the one who usually hadn’t. The Paper Moon Ryan. If what Sean was experiencing was real, Ryan seemed ready. I wanted to believe that my father was good. He didn’t have to be perfect. He was funny and charming enough to get away with a lot less than perfect. More than anything, I hoped we O’Neals could be a family again, whatever the heck that meant.

  My father returned my call. Through Sean, we made plans for all three of us to meet for lunch at a little Greek restaurant called Tony Trattoria near Ryan’s beach house in Malibu. Three generations of O’Neals, together at last. I wondered if the restaurant needed a permit from the city for that.

  A few days later, as I left my new apartment in West Hollywood to head toward lunch in Malibu, I was running a little late. All I could think about was how awkward and scary it used to be years ago when I arrived late to meet my father. He would be outside Farrah’s house, busying himself by watering the plants, but always waiting, and when I drove up, he’d shout, “You’re fucking late.” I prayed that it wouldn’t be like that now, or worse.

  I pulled up to the valet, gave my car to the attendant, took a deep breath, and walked into the restaurant with my head down. Tony, the owner of the restaurant, led me toward a back table, and there he was. Him. Ryan. Dad. He gave me a huge beautiful smile and opened his big arms. It was just amazing to see him. He looked so handsome and seemed so well. I ran over, wrapped my arms around him and hugged him for a long time. I smelled the cologne he’s worn since I was a little girl, and my heart just felt like it took a different type of beat—one it hadn’t taken in some twenty-five years. I felt like I was home. I was whole. It was a dream come true.

  Sean was there, sitting next to my father. He rose to greet me, and I gave him a big hug. Sean is six foot three, with unruly brown hair, freckles, white skin, and blue, blue, blue eyes. He has his father’s physique, but he looks a lot like my father. Sean—my brave boy, the conduit who facilitated this scary reunion. I was so grateful to him for this moment. Three generations of O’Neals. And nobody was getting arrested. That alone was cause for celebration. Cake, please!

  Eating lunch with my father and son was surreal. We didn’t address the years of absence head-on, and I never expected to. That definitely wasn’t my dad’s style. He doesn’t like to get to the heart of matters unless it’s on his terms. He talked about Farrah mostly. The loss was still fresh—she’d died just a month earlier—and her memory was comfortable ground for him. She had loved him unconditionally for years and years.

  Later, we said good-bye outside. He gave me a kiss. We promised each other we’d get togeth
er again soon.

  On the way home, I had butterflies in my stomach. What was I getting myself into? Was it the right decision? Would it pan out, or would I end up wondering why I ever went down this road?

  Back in my apartment, I lay down and wondered what the future would hold. Reconnecting with my dad felt incredible. By now the butterflies were mostly gone, and there was a comfort in my chest, like a warm blanket settling over me that said I was home. I had my daddy back.

  Or did I?

  Chapter Six

  The New O’Neals

  SOON AFTER THAT first reunion lunch at Tony Trattoria, I had my third neck surgery in July 2009, and I went to stay at Ryan’s beach house to recuperate. The house is huge and impeccably clean. The bedroom I was given was cushy, with a comfortable bed, lots of space, and its own bathroom. The sea air made me feel like I was recovering faster. It appeared to be a perfect environment for healing.

  Everything went swimmingly until my housekeeper, who was helping out, tried to defrost the freezer of the refrigerator in Ryan’s bedroom. When my father walked into his room, he found water streaming across the floor. Ryan called for me, and when I came to his doorway, I saw him standing in a puddle. Ryan was mad. He said, “That’s my freezer, my private place, my area. Why don’t you have her clean your freezer? Keep her at your house. This is my place, where I live, Tatum.” I kind of yelled back. I said, “Come on, Dad. It’s just a freezer.”

  I’d just had neurosurgery. I was wearing a neck brace. If ever there was an appropriate time to be mad at me, especially for my housekeeper’s defrosting skills (or lack thereof), this was not it. As he vented, I felt a painful tingling up and down my torso, which I would later find out was shingles, activated by stress.

  I’d been feeling strong and independent, and already he was getting to me. I realized I had to protect myself, take care of me. I packed up my stuff, wrote a note saying, “Bye, Dad. I love you,” and left.

  Ryan apologized and sent flowers. I called him. We were both still committed to preserving the ground we’d gained, so we swept the incident under the rug. But I finished my recuperation at my own home, in my own space.

  WHEN SEAN GRADUATED from Occidental in the spring of 2010, he moved in with my father. At first, I was a little apprehensive. However, I hoped and trusted that Ryan would rise to the occasion. Sean’s lease was up, and he loved the beach, the sound of the ocean, the sunsets. He is my most poetic child. That year after you graduate college is always tricky (not that I would know). Even more so if you want to be an actor. What better place for Sean to live while he figured out his next move? After all, my dad was an established actor, which was what Sean aspired to. Ryan was happiest when he was working, and he was busy shooting episodes of the TV dramas Bones and 90210. I hoped this might inspire Sean in his career. And, by all accounts, Sean and Ryan were having fun, going to dinners and beach parties, getting along well.

  As spring turned into summer, I traveled back and forth to New York to shoot the finale of Rescue Me. In L.A., I was practicing my lines for an independent movie—another indie (I had five in the can, waiting for release). A movie I’d shot the previous year, The Runaways, starring Kristen Stewart, Dakota Fanning, and Michael Shannon, was opening at the ArcLight in Hollywood, and we all went to that together: me, Sean, and Ryan.

  I went out to the beach house on weekends to visit Ryan and Sean. The Malibu beach house, where I’d spent much of my childhood, had gone through major changes over the years. There had been a great pool table. And, of course, this was where I learned to pitch for Bad News Bears and to ride horses for International Velvet. Factor in the Frisbee games with Ryan and I was a little like those girls in the olden days who could play the spinet, stitch samplers, and not much else. In that house, I excelled at recreation.

  At some point, my dad and Farrah had renovated the whole house, and it was transformed into a very special place, with simple, clean furniture, orchids in bloom, and big picture windows looking out at the sea. That summer, it was a wonderful, calm setting, and I spent lots of my free time there.

  Ryan and I read lines together, and he helped me a lot. We read my part over and over. He said he wasn’t hearing something, though he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He said, “Deepen your voice. Speak with authority, Tatum.” Finally, I lowered my voice and found a certain toughness for the character. He said, “That’s it. You found it. Now I can let you go,” and released me to go work on the lines by myself.

  We weren’t all work and no play. Sean and my father played Frisbee and paddleball every day. Ryan and I took walks on the beach and let my dog, Pickle, run up and down the shoreline. It was nice. I was reminded of the funny, familiar, everyday details of my father’s life. He exercised every day, then took a sauna. He is the neatest person in the world and super well-groomed. He always smells great, and his hair is always perfect. Whenever he passed a mirror, he’d stop, fix his hair, and shadowbox at his image. So handsome! It cracked me up.

  We went to Nobu for sushi, Tony Trattoria, or had mellow cookouts at home. Sometimes I’d cook . . . badly. I am capable of cooking well but, weirdly, not for Ryan. Maybe it’s because my dad’s house is a freaking bachelor pad. There are no ingredients to speak of. So I made the most of spaghetti and marinara. In the evenings I’d ride his stationary bike while we watched movies and sports together. For some reason I find documentaries about murder, death, and serial killers to be perversely relaxing, so I’d hop on the bike and my father would turn on the Investigation Discovery channel to find Dr. G: Medical Examiner. Then my dad would massage my shoulders and tell me funny stories about him and Farrah, like the time they were on the beach and thought a bunch of paparazzi were coming straight for them. They were kind of excited at the attention, he said, embellishing how they preened for their big-picture moment, but at the last second, the herd of paparazzi swerved and passed by, revealing their true target farther down the beach: Paris Hilton. As Ryan told it, he and Farrah both sat there in stunned disbelief, saying, “Who’s she? What does she have on us? We’re Ryan and Farrah!”

  Days and weeks went by, and there was no further sign of the man who had lashed out at me when the housekeeper defrosted the freezer. When I visited, we laughed often, about everything. I loved the way, whenever he greeted anyone, even an old friend, he’d shake their hands and say, “How do you do? Ryan O’Neal: Love Story” or “Ryan O’Neal: Peyton Place” or “Ryan O’Neal: Tatum’s father.”

  When my dad came over to my house, he teased me about how hard it was to park in my neighborhood—West Hollywood. “It’s okay, Tatum, I parked in Palm Springs.” It always made me laugh. He had pretty much adopted my cat, Wallis, and they had a speaking relationship. He liked to joke about how the cat was more respectful about getting on his bed. Little, silly things. He was so funny. I loved being around him. It wasn’t the stereotypical “perfect family” of a sitcom, but it was, finally, perfect for me.

  A CLOSE, STABLE family was something I wanted for as far back as I could remember. When my ex-husband and I were together, we built our unique version of a close family. We always brought all the kids with us when we traveled. Christmases we spent home in New York with a big tree, lots of presents, and a feast with ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, string beans, and stuffing—all recipes I’d learned from my mother and John’s mother. Those holidays were a new experience for me. I had a window into what having a big, happy family might be like. It was the first time I’d felt any real sense of family . . . and still I couldn’t stay.

  John and I were so young when we married—I was just twenty-two and he twenty-seven. There were ups and downs. We both brought our own issues to the marriage, and mine were more obvious, but what brought them all to the surface was the fading of his career. After having an amazing year in 1984, John lost his number-one ranking. Around the time Kevin was born in 1986, John took a six-month sabbatical. When he rejoined the tour, he had a hard time facing the young power hitte
rs Ivan Lendl, Boris Becker, and the up-and-comers who had adopted their new style of playing. John’s ranking started to slip. He was in his late twenties, which for tennis was a reasonable age to begin declining, but what professional athlete who has been at the top his entire life is prepared to start losing? I felt that he was blaming me for the end of his streak. I understand it better now—that kind of adjustment has to be horrendous for a world champion.

  From what I see and hear of him now, my ex-husband is a different person from the one I knew. He’s nice, gentle, caring. But at the time there was so much tension between us. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to John that I’d gone through so much before our marriage. We were young; we had little kids; we traveled constantly. It was a lot of pressure and I just couldn’t hack it.

  When I left John, I knew I was dissolving the family dynamic that had meant so much to me, but I had no idea how hard it would be to live alone and to raise kids by myself. The years that followed were the hardest, and the only ways I found to face my own darkness were illegal and destructive.

  By 2010, in my forties, clean and sober, I noticed for the first time that I still longed for that big, happy family. I even questioned my decision to leave, especially after watching John get married again and reinvent the family life we might have had together. Had I made a mistake in sacrificing that? I myself was hesitant to remarry, partly because I wasn’t sure I wanted to go that route again, and partly because I didn’t want my kids to have to get to know someone else. I had always felt displaced by my parents’ companions. And hadn’t I put my children through enough already?