Mom: Oh, that’s right. Have a fabulous time. That’s Tennessee Williams, right?
Me: Chekhov.
Mom: The Seagull . . . didn’t Tennessee Williams write something about a bird?
Me: Um . . .
Mom: A pet bird or an evil bird? Something with a bird . . .
Me: No, I don’t think so. Are you thinking of Suddenly Last Summer?
Mom: Does it have a bird?
Me: Well, sort of. It has this really disturbing scene where this guy is running away from these vagrant kids and the kids attack him and eat his genitals and then the guy’s cousin—I think she was his cousin—finds him and he’s all bloody and there are all these birds picking at him and stuff . . . is that what you’re thinking of?
Mom: Kids ate his genitals? They ate them?
Me: It was this whole thing like he was gay, and nobody knew it, of course, and he would take these vacations and find young boys to have sex with . . . I don’t remember exactly how the whole thing happened, but I think he was eating dinner with his cousin and these boys, who he’d sodomized, were begging for food and he wouldn’t give them any food or anything so they followed him out of the restaurant and they killed him.
Mom: No, that’s definitely not the play I was thinking of. I never knew of any play where kids ate genitals. This is really going to bother me now . . . maybe it wasn’t a bird . . . maybe it was a—
Me: I really should go. I need to finish packing. Talk to Dad about the vaccine. Gregory said the list is filling up fast. Dad really needs to get going on this if he’s going to do it.
Mom: Well, I can’t force him. He’s going to have to make this decision on his own. How long is the trial?
Me: From beginning to end it’s about two years, but it’s not like he’d be getting injections that whole time. I think for the first couple months he’d get shots every week, but then, after that, every couple weeks. He’d probably have six months of shots and then about a year and a half of follow-up, something like that.
Mom: That’s a big time commitment.
Me: So is death. Not when you consider that it could save his life. We’re talking about his life here! Jesus. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you guys are fucking it up!
Mom: You get so upset with me . . .
Me: Yeah, because neither you nor Dad seems to understand the severity of the situation! I feel like Dad thinks now that the operation is over, he’s all better. He has got to be proactive. I don’t think you guys have done all the research that I’ve done. I know what he’s up against. Doesn’t he want to do everything within his power to beat this?
Mom: Why don’t you do the trial?
Me: Oh my God! I don’t fucking qualify! Jesuschrist! How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t qualify! There are very specific qualifications for these trials. I’d do it in a second if I could—trust me. Dad qualifies; he may not get another chance to do something like this. With the depth of his melanoma, the odds of him having a recurrence are—
Mom: Very high. I know.
Me: I don’t think you do. Or else you don’t care.
Mom: I can’t make him do it, Hillary! We’ve talked about it; I’ve told him I think it’s something he should try. He’s got to make the decision. I can’t force him.
Me:
Mom: Your father’s got a lot of pride.
Me: What the fuck does that have to do with anything? He’s being stubborn. You have to stand up to him . . . you’re always so worried about upsetting him—
Mom: I don’t care about that.
Me: Yes, you do. You really do. How can you say that? You never stand up to him. You’re so worried you’re going to make him upset, but honestly, who gives a fuck? Of course he doesn’t wanna do the trial. It’s a pain in the ass, it would be a lot of travel, he would have side effects, but it could save his life. If it were me, I’d do it in a second.
Mom: You and your father are very different people.
Me: I’m just one of those “crazy” people who would like to live as long as possible. No shit.
Mom: He’s a very private man.
Me:
Mom:
Me: Get back to your show. I’ll . . . I’ll call you when we land.
Mom: You get so worked up.
Me: Yeah . . . well . . . I’ll talk to you later.
Mom: I love you . . . I’ll talk to your father.
Me:
Mom: I love you.
Click.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER:
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello?
Mom: You wanna call Gregory and set up an appointment for when we’re in town, or should I?
Me: Wha—
Mom: He’ll meet with him. I can’t guarantee anything beyond that.
Me: What . . . what did you say?
Mom: I told him he had to do it.
Me: O . . . kay. Yeah, I’ll call Gregory’s office on Monday and get something set up.
Mom: You didn’t think I could do it.
Me:
Mom: So, now it’s up to your father, I guess.
Me: I guess.
Mom: You’re awfully hard on me sometimes.
Me: I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
Mom: You always were the instigator.
Me: I thought I was the peacemaker. Kidding.
Mom: Your sister was the peacemaker. You were the instigator. I’m gonna head on up to bed.
Me: I love you.
Mom: I love you too.
Me: I’m really proud of you. I think it’s really important that he do this trial.
Mom: I know. I know. ’Night.
Me: ’Night.
Click.
I am the instigator—a title coined by my sister some fifteen years ago and one that I have since earned with blood, sweat, and tears . . . tenfold. I openly admit that I have a tendency to incite, agitate, provoke. Yes, I often officiate, dictate, even dominate. But it’s who I am. It’s what I do, what I’ve always done. And now, with my most important mission at hand, I must continue full speed ahead. I won’t wait for the miracle to happen. I won’t waste time hoping and dreaming and telling myself everything is going to be okay. I will do what I do best. What I was born to do. I will fight. I will fight my battle and his battle—simultaneously—if I have to. Because someone has to. Someone. Some one. Me.
A Taste of the Big Apple
I saw Meryl Streep do a cartwheel! My life is now complete.
I’m still reeling from the blessed event. Poor Adam may never fully recover, but for different reasons. Once he noticed that the rustic theater seats lacked anything even resembling a headrest, he was so petrified I was going to suffer a massive panic attack in the middle of “I’m the seagull. No . . . I’m an actress” that he spent the whole play focused not on the brilliant stage happenings but on my beaming mug. He kept squeezing my hand, whispering, “Are you sure you’re okay?” Every time I made the slightest adjustment in my seat, he nearly shit himself. When I had to crack my neck in the middle of the third act, I kept one hand wrapped tightly around the armrest just in case he got overzealous and decided to throw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and lug me from the premises.
Regardless, it was truly a remarkable night. For two and a half hours, I sat mesmerized. And aside from the four panic attacks I had preceding the show, attacks brought on by an unrelenting fear of losing the irreplaceable tickets, I was cool as a cucumber.
There was something about the show, a feeling I was left with, that I can’t seem to shake. All of Chekhov’s protagonists, all his pasty “artists” struggling to find meaning in their lives—whether personally or professionally—they all seem to be questioning the point of things. I mean, we’re all headed to death, the unavoidable end. And so we’re just supposed to keep pushing and struggling and sweating it out until . . . what? Until we’re happy? Fulfilled? Until we’re . . . dead?
I’ve read The Seagull more times than I’d like to admit, butc
hered it, watched it open-mouthed as I sounded out the words, and yet this was the first time I really felt connected to “the struggle.” I think that’s the point Chekhov’s trying to make: Life is about the struggle. It’s that struggle, and our need to persevere, that make life worth living.
I’ve always focused on the end result, the final act, questioned what all those crazy Russians were ultimately fighting for, but I’ve been at it all wrong. It’s not about the end, maybe not about the result or the finish line. It’s about the middle. Because the end is the end, and it’s all the same, for all of us. It’s only the middle stuff, all the crap between point A and point B, that we have some say in. The middle—that’s where all the action is. That’s where we really find out what we’re made of. It’s about the race. It’s all about how we choose to get there—the process, not the result. It’s about going through the process . . . the middle. Huh.
I guess I’m in it, then. The middle. And that’s exactly where I should be.
The Parents Are Coming! The Parents Are Coming!
Adam’s been rolling his eyes all morning as I race to complete the parental-visit cleanup regimen. His contribution to the effort at hand: heavy sighs, head shaking, and the occasional grunt. But with or without him, I’ve practically got it down to a science. With limbs working independently on their preassigned tasks, I’m able to dust, Windex, and polish the hardwood floors all at the same time. I work with a duster in my left hand, paper towels in my right (Windex bottle conveniently hanging from my right hip), and rag booties on both feet that I’ve rigged out of an old pair of cotton leg warmers. When time permits, I plan on creating a battery charged “emergency cleanup” belt I can wear, which will include a holster for a toilet bowl brush along with an outlet for a vacuum. This way I’ll be able to avoid all the plugging, unplugging, and cord-swinging nonsense that wastes so much fucking time. Plus, I’ve always wanted to be my very own power source.
I’ve gotta hurry up and finish the cleaning because I’ve yet to put together a list of planned activities. I must be ready and waiting with an abundance of scheduled “doings,” or else my father will inevitably start tinkering with anything around the house that happens to be too tight, too loose, or the least bit askew. And if he has time to adjust the sliding mechanism on the bottom drawer of my bedroom dresser, my mother surely has time to load the dishwasher and vacuum the entire downstairs. See, they don’t come to visit; they come to work. I usually find myself running around yelling, “Stop that” and, “Would you please sit down for two seconds!” It’s like having kids in the house. I need eyes in the back of my head. They sneak around whispering, plotting, scribbling to-do lists on the back of napkins.
My mother is the worst offender. From the moment she arrives, I’m entangled in some sort of strange cleaning competition. She’ll tiptoe around with a dust rag tucked under her arm, and when she “accidentally” spills something on my kitchen floor, she’ll subsequently have to disinfect the entire kitchen. She’ll sneak into my bedroom at 7:45 AM and make my bed. I honestly don’t know how she does it. She’s like the Tasmanian Devil. In the amount of time it takes me to walk the two steps to the bathroom, pee, wipe, and walk back, she has the ability to make my bed, perfectly arrange the throw pillows, and be downstairs, innocently sipping her reheated, lukewarm coffee.
So, I must have every minute filled. Because even with my dad’s back in its early stages of recovery, I’m sure he’s found alternate ways of doing all the handyman work he so passionately adores. And in light of recent events and the amount of stress my mother’s been under, I’m sure she’s more possessed than ever.
TWO HOURS LATER:
Me: Babe, you should go ahead and hop in the shower. My parents are gonna be here any minute.
Adam: I will. I just want to see this shot.
Me: Babe. Shower. Please.
Adam: Why don’t you take the first one.
Me: Because I still have a few things to do around here.
Adam: What’s left to do? You’ve done everything. Twice.
Me: I’ve gotta put the gate up so the dog stays in the kitchen so I can do one final Swiffer.
Adam: You’re crazy. You know that, right?
Me: Yeah, I know.
Adam: Okay. Just so you know.
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello? Mom?
Mom: We made it. We just pulled out of the airport.
Me: Great. We’ll see ya soon.
Mom: Do you need us to pick anything up?
Me: No, I think we’re fine. We’ve got everything we need.
Mom: Nothing from the market?
Me: No. I went this morning.
Mom: What about your dry cleaning? You want us to grab it on our way?
Me: Nope.
Mom: Okay, then. If you’re sure you don’t need us to stop—
Me: Nope.
Mom: So, we’ll see you soon. We’re going to stop at In-N-Out-Burger on the way. Do you want us to order you guys anything?
Me: No, that’s okay. We’ll eat the lunch meat and stuff I already picked up.
Mom: Oh, well . . . we can have that. We don’t have to stop.
Me: No, it’s fine. Take your time.
Mom: Are you sure? You went to all the trouble of—
Me: It’s fine. We’ll see you soon.
Click.
Knock, knock.
Me: Coming . . . hold on. The dog is freaking out. Barrow, sit! No jumping! No jumping!
Me: You made it.
Mom: Hi . . . you look so skinny. Have you lost weight?
Me: Hey, Dad. It’s so good to see you guys.
Dad: Hey, babe. The house looks beautiful.
Mom: I bet you were down on your hands and knees all morning. You work too hard.
Adam: Welcome.
Me: Here, let me take your bags into the guest room.
Dad: I’ve got them.
Mom: Jon, you know you’re not supposed to be lifting those. Let Adam help you. Is this a new rug? Every time I come here you have something new. Oh, what a life.
Dad: Your mother doesn’t let me do anything anymore.
Me: Um, yeah, new rug. Here, Dad, I’ll get this bag. You take the carry-on.
Mom: It’s so unique. I’m sure it cost a fortune.
Me: So . . . after lunch, if you’re up to it, I thought we’d go for a walk around the neighborhood. Thought you guys might want to get a little exercise after the plane ride.
Mom: Don’t you want to rest? You do too much. You run yourself ragged.
Me: What are you talking about? I’m fine. I want to do whatever you guys want to do.
Dad: I’m up for a walk.
Me: How’s your back?
Dad: Fine.
Me: How does it feel?
Mom: The plane was tough. All the sitting.
Me: I bet. Those airplane seats are the worst.
Adam: I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m starving.
AFTER LUNCH, CLEANUP, AND A BRIEF DISCUSSION
ABOUT THE BEST STAINLESS-STEEL CLEANER:
Me: You guys ready?
Mom: Yeah, let me just find my sunglasses. Jon, have you seen . . . never mind . . . I found them. Hillary, you should try this sunscreen. It’s from Australia. Actually, I’d love for you to see if it has all the right ingredients. You should try it, though—it’s not greasy at all. It soaks right in.
Me: I’ll try it later. I’ve already got stuff on. Dad, you ready to go?
Dad: You bet.
Me: Ad, you ready?
Adam: I’ve been ready for the last fifteen minutes.
Me: Mom . . . Mom! Let’s go.
Mom: I was just getting a hat. You need a hat?
Me: No. I’ve got one. Let’s go.
Mom: Anyone want sunscreen?
Me: We’ve all got it. Let’s go. Dad, you have sunscreen on, right?
Dad: Yep.
Mom: What did you put on? I didn’t see you put any on.
Dad: I u
sed that stuff in the blue bottle.
Mom: I didn’t bring that bottle with us.
Dad: I’ve still got some on from yesterday. I put it on yesterday.
Me: Jesuschrist, Dad! It only lasts a few hours! How long do you think it stays on?
Dad:
Me: You have to put it on every day. And why aren’t you using the stuff I got you? That stuff you have in the blue bottle isn’t even any good. It doesn’t have a UVA blocker.
Dad: All right. All right! Jesuschrist! I’ll go put it on. We’re never going to get out of here.
Me:
Mom:
Adam:
Mom: It’s a struggle. Every day I have to remind him. I have to treat him like a child to get him to do anything.
Me: How can he not wear sunscreen? And it’s not like it’s such a hard thing to do. I mean, how much time does it really take to put on?
Dad: Okay, let’s go.
Me: Did you put it everywhere?
Dad: Yes. Let’s go.
Me: Did you put some on your ears?
Dad: Yes.
Me: And on the back of your neck?
Dad: Yes yes yes. Let’s go.
Me: We have to wait thirty minutes for the sunscreen to soak in.
The Trial
My mother says she and my father make me nervous. She’s right. I have chewed my nails to the quick, and my cuticles, well, I’m just hoping they’ll grow back someday. Everything turns into a struggle with them. Why is everything always a fight? We argued for twenty minutes this morning over who was going to the hospital with my dad, which car and/ or cars were to be taken, who’d ride with whom, and what time we needed to leave in order for my dad to get there early enough to feel on time.
To make matters worse (and in a desperate attempt to keep us from fussing over him), my mom and I were assigned the “late” shift. We weren’t allowed to leave with him because he didn’t want to “inconvenience” us. We were instructed to wait at least half an hour after his departure before heading to the hospital. We were told to proceed to the third floor. If upon our arrival Father Figure was not done with his appointment, we were to immediately proceed to preassigned meeting place for lunch. If upon arrival at lunch place we had not heard from Father Figure via cell phone, we were instructed to order, eat, and then go about our day as if none of the above had ever happened. Father Figure would “catch up” with us at “some point,” and then we would all live happily ever after . . .
Pale Girl Speaks Page 18
