by Cara Mentzel
“Is everything all right?” Dee asked when she answered the phone. That was often her first question when I called.
“I told Jon to leave,” I said. “He left.”
Lesson 8
HOW TO LOVE A WITCH
Wicked opened at The Gershwin Theatre on October 30, 2003. Dee was starring as the misunderstood green witch of Oz, Elphaba—affectionately referred to as Elphie—in a musical adaptation of Gregory Maguire’s novel Wicked. The theater boasted close to two thousand seats, the most on Broadway. Before me hung a formidable dragon that spanned nearly the width of the stage and hovered over the first few rows of the orchestra. The dragon appeared to be made of armored scales layered together with steel pins like medieval suits of armor. He was a massive puppet, a marionette, with visible strings that held up his batlike wings, claws, neck, jagged teeth, and crocodile snout. Behind him hung a massive parchment map that depicted the Lands of Oz, with the Emerald City at the center lit up in a green spotlight. The innards of a giant clock, its cogs and gears, surrounded the map, suggesting an emotionally deadened, manufactured landscape.
I sat between Mom and Dad, as I so often did for Dee’s performances, and as I had almost eight years earlier for the opening night of Rent. I felt those eight years; I felt older. There had been an innocence in me, an idealism back then that was now elusive as I sat before the stage and admired the set design. A couple of months had passed since I’d asked Jon for a divorce. I’d lost fifteen pounds—if the gentleman in the seat behind me had sneezed, the force might have sent me flying into the front row. At night when I lay in bed asking the universe for guidance, whatever divine portal had once brought me access to my purest inner voice had shut. I’d once believed people when they said, “God never gives you more than you can handle,” but it was starting to smell a lot like bullshit. I’d believed “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” bullshit. “Everything will be all right,” bullshit. But the truth was that things could be worse. In fact, if someone had said, “It could be worse,” I wouldn’t have called bullshit. I was jaded. I knew it. And I didn’t like myself that way.
But some things never change, like those potent minutes before Dee makes her entrance onto the stage. Mom’s hand in mine, Dad’s wide grin and glassy eyes, the heightened awareness of my heartbeat, and the way I shiver, a product of air-conditioning and anticipation.
I pictured my sister in her dressing room a couple of hours earlier, in the tiny bathroom with the toilet a mere foot or two from the plastic curtain of the standing shower. I imagined hearing her sing scales of “Ave Maria” in the steam, just like she had when we were children, back when I drew hearts in the fogged bathroom mirror.
This time her makeup artist would be there to greet her when she emerged from the shower. Dee had explained to me the lengths to which the makeup artist had gone to find the best way to transform her into the green witch. Initially there was experimentation with airbrushing, but then, after much trial and error, it was concluded the best option was to use a just-add-water green makeup by Mac. He used a wide brush with soft bristles from Japan, I’m told. Like he was painting with watercolor, he would dip the brush in water, then the flat paddy of makeup, and gently paint Dee’s face, then her ears, neck, hands, and wrists like she was a work of art.
The lights dimmed. The orchestra began. The ensemble celebrated the “death” of the Wicked Witch, and then a bedazzled Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda shimmered as she descended over the stage in a bubble-like contraption. She greeted the theater, “It’s good to see me, isn’t it?” Then, after an ensemble performance of “No One Mourns the Wicked,” Glinda began to narrate the story of Elphie. Soon, Dee emerged from backstage, a bespectacled green girl in a dark blue beanie, her black braid draped over one shoulder. She wore a matching blue blazer, knee-length skirt, and combat-like black boots. She held a vintage briefcase. Everyone cheered. I wondered which was more exhilarating, to be Dee and take that first step onstage or to be me and watch her do it.
Her first song was “The Wizard and I.” By opening night, I had already heard her sing the song a handful of times—once at the San Francisco tryout and a few more times during Broadway previews. But the first time I’d heard her sing it was so early in the creative process that she’d barely sung it before and it was still being shaped. We were in Wicked composer Stephen Schwartz’s apartment. I’d never been there before, and in fact was quite shocked to be there at all. Stephen had written Godspell and Pippin and I hoped he wouldn’t ask me about either show because, while I knew of them, I hadn’t seen either.
We arrived at Stephen’s door so casually he might as well have been my neighbor and I might as well have asked him to borrow an egg. But my stiff grin belied my anxiety. Holy shit, I’m in Stephen Schwartz’s apartment! I tried to hush this thought at the risk of actually saying it aloud. Inside, I saw his black grand piano shine like patent-leather Mary Janes, standing regally against floor-to-ceiling windows, its lid propped open wide like a giant mouth.
After introductions, I became the proverbial fly on the wall—I literally leaned against the wall, my eyes wide. Stephen—I’ll call him Stephen, but I didn’t assume we were on a first-name basis—sat on the piano bench, and Dee stood next to him. He handed her sheet music. From a short distance away, I could see the music staff, the suggestion of a time signature, and notes sprinkled across the pages. Since my childhood piano lessons I’d retained little to no ability to play, except for the first few measures of the boisterous “Spinning Song,” which I found odd to have remembered of all the songs I’d played. Stephen played a chord or two, gently setting his right hand over the keys, the way you’d put a hand on a friend’s shoulder. Dee started to sing, tentatively at first, tiptoeing over the notes of a relatively new melody. The tempo picked up and Stephen’s left index finger bounced steadily over an ivory key and Dee began, “When I meet the wizard, once I prove my worth.” Dee stopped occasionally to confirm or correct herself, at which time Stephen sang the part for her, and repeated the measure or verse for clarification. He wasn’t a singer—his singing lacked beauty—but he had pitch and managed to land on each note accurately, even the ones he strained to reach.
I wondered what it must be like in Stephen’s head. To hear the melody and to have chords play spontaneously from your hands. For a piano to be a living, breathing part of yourself. And to be a creator, to know the whole composition and define every fraction of music within it. To place Dee’s voice at the heart of his art.
Dee gained confidence as the song progressed, but she wasn’t perfect. When she came to the lyric, “No father is not proud of you, no sister acts ashamed…” the melody unexpectedly changed a bit and she tripped over it. He played the part again, but this time he omitted the chord and struck each note of the melody individually for emphasis.
Every now and then, they stopped and talked about the song. He was animated and spoke similarly to the way he played. He moved his hands through the air in sweeping motions or fingered an imaginary keyboard. Sometimes he rested his hands casually on top of the piano the way one might rest an elbow on the arm of a chair. I stood quietly, not wanting to chime in and say something stupid that I’d perseverate about for the next month. But mostly I was mesmerized. Before me were two enormous talents converging into a fixed point in the center of the universe—or, more accurately, the center of New York City.
The tempo slowed again, and Stephen’s fingers lightened on the keys. He repeated the same notes over and over, a circle of sweet, twinkling notes, and then Dee sang, “Unlimited, my future is unlimited.” The music had a magnetic quality. Dee’s voice was crisp and lucid. Nothing hides in her voice. It’s as if every emotion has a wavelength and she projects each one.
That night, apart from Stephen, I was the sole member of her audience, and I liked it that way. I felt special. Sometimes I struggled to be just one of Dee’s many fans; though I wanted the whole world to be a fan of Idina Menzel, occasionally I felt possessive.
There was still a little girl in me who wanted her big sister all to herself. But my selfishness was easy to override because I was proud of Dee. I knew she was meant for the masses. She was meant to be heard. How could you sing like that and not be heard?
Dee finished the final verse and turned to me: “What do ya think?” I wiped a fresh tear and said with a smile, “It sucked.”
Back in the Gershwin Theatre, Dee was once again singing about how her future was unlimited. It was hard not to be aware that the fictional character looked and sounded exactly like my sister—even green paint can’t conceal the broad sweeps of Dee’s eyebrows, her dramatic cheekbones and jawline, her full lips. As I listened I remembered when my future seemed unlimited. A time when I had a long braid, wool socks, and was proudly counting the days since my last shower. I remembered how I used to light up with perpetual optimism. I felt young Elphie’s optimism that night—if only briefly—and I missed the girl I’d been.
I squeezed Mom’s hand as Dee plunged into the final verse, her voice growing into an explosive crescendo. I looked over my shoulder for a second and followed Dee’s voice over a dense forest of darkened faces and into the mezzanine, then back to the stage where Dee stood, arms outstretched, like she held the entire audience within them. She was captivating. She delivered one final extended note that traveled through the crowd, leaving chills in its trail. I couldn’t have been more proud. That’s my sister, I wanted to shout through the subsequent uproar. My sister!
At the end of Act I, Dee sang the show-stopping power anthem, “Defying Gravity.” Again, my mind drifted away from Elphie’s story to my own, to remember Avery and Jacob and a future waiting at home too opaque to trust. “Something has changed within me, something is not the same…” Dee sang. “If I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free…” I could relate.
As I listened to Dee, I realized that I was more comfortable with her when I was a member of her audience than when I was next to her just the two of us. The crowd that surrounded me mollified the tension I often felt when alone with her. I’d always wanted Dee to pay more attention to me, and yet it was so much easier when she didn’t, when I could focus on her without having to work for her approval. From the stage, Dee understood me. From the stage, she inspired me. And when she rose over the stage and sang, “No one is ever gonna bring me down!” she silenced the victim in me. Through Elphie, Dee took my breath away and with it my grief and failure—at least temporarily—as only a sister—and Idina Menzel—could do.
Act I ended and members of the audience were still applauding as the lights came back on. Some people remained seated, some stretched, and still others squeezed through aisles toward bathroom lines and concessions. Mom, Dad, and I eavesdropped on a conversation between two women in some seats behind ours.
“That girl,” the first said.
“Which one?” the second asked.
“Well both, but I meant the one who plays Elphaba.”
“She’s unbelievable, right? What a voice.”
Dad stood up, rested his hands in his pockets, and scanned the crowd, hoping for an opportunity to boast about Dee—I knew his tricks well. This time he didn’t wait for the opportunity, instead he turned around. “That’s my daughter,” he said to the women.
“Who?” they asked.
“The green one,” he answered and then introduced himself. “Stu, Stuart Mentzel.” Then it was awkward to keep our backs to them so Mom and I turned around and introduced ourselves, too.
I was proud, but embarrassed. I preferred covert spying during intermission, especially on the ladies’ bathroom line.
I looked at Mom. “I’m heading to the bathroom. Did you need to go?” Mom knew this was code for Do you want to come spy and see what people are saying about Dee?
“Yeah, I was just thinking that,” she said to me. “So nice to meet you,” she told the women as we scooted out to the main aisle. Then Mom and I rushed toward the bathroom without a word, sweeping up fragments of conversations and as many Idina Menzel compliments as possible along the way.
Wicked was a triumph—in every way it exemplified the best of Broadway. From the costumes to the lighting and set design, the music and the performances, Wicked was fabulously entertaining.
That night, I was well aware that Dee was literally flying at a career high, and I didn’t even have a job. I was aware that Dee’s purpose had been reaffirmed, while my purpose was waiting for reinvention. And it’s true that seeing how high someone you love can soar does magnify just how far you’ve fallen, even when you try not to look at the disparity between the two. I felt both inspired and inadequate at the same time. I wanted more for myself and I expected more of myself.
I don’t remember feeling envious; with Dee, envy never had a sharp bite. I’ve always assumed that was because her happiness meant as much to me—if not more to me—than my own. The way my boys’ happiness was more important to me than my own.
I remember Dee telling me that because the green makeup was prone to getting trapped in the folds of her ears and the creases near her nose, she’d negotiated biweekly facials into her Wicked contract. I was desperate for self-care and relaxation, hot steam, the smells of lavender and apricot, someone’s gentle fingers tracing the orbits of my eyes and circling my temples. One facial would have been spectacular, biweekly would have been a dream. And so, while I’d been curious about the glamour and attention of fame, I was mostly envious of those facials. Relaxation and clean pores had far more appeal to me than fame.
It was a tough Christmas. I overcompensated for the boys’ difficult autumn with a mountain of guilt gifts for Jacob and Avery: a book titled Moon, filled with black-and-white images of the moon, K’Nex Big Air Ball Tower, Snap-Circuits, bristle blocks, new train tracks, Hershey’s Kisses, marshmallow Santas, gelt (leftover from Hanukkah), and Jacob’s favorite toy, toilet paper. His preferred pastime was to sit under the toilet paper dispenser and unroll the tissue until he sat in its pile like it was his personal cloud.
My guilt was heavy during those months. I felt as though I’d been swimming in a down coat. I wished I could convince myself that finishing a relationship and failing at one were different experiences, but with Jon they felt the same. I’d failed at family.
One morning Avery told me what he’d do the next time his dad tried to hurt him. “I’m gonna go like this,” he said, and pulled his knees against his chest, tucked his head between them, and locked his arms around himself. “See?” he added, the word muffled because his face was still wedged between his knees. I told him he was brave but that he didn’t need to worry because keeping him safe was my job. I told him that I’d messed up, but I wouldn’t mess up again. “Okay, but just in case,” he concluded and then uncurled himself and stood up with a big smile. He was proud of his plan.
I decided to go back to CU to earn my elementary-education-teaching certificate. The program was only a year-and-a-half long, and according to my lawyer, I’d likely get two years of alimony. Between alimony and the opportunity to take out student loans, there seemed no better time to return to school full-time and pursue a career as an educator.
It wasn’t the first time I’d considered a career in education. A lot of my childhood role-playing involved teaching; I used to give spelling tests to my stuffed animals. I’d set them up in a semicircle on the floor around my chair and read that week’s spelling list to a frozen, fluffy audience with unblinking plastic eyes. As an adult, I often thought that once the kids got a little older, I could take some education classes. Dee really wanted me to. She was always coming back to that time I was a T.A. “You’re a natural,” she liked to say. “Why aren’t you teaching?” I’d enjoyed the little bit of teaching I did in college, and I was good with kids. Teaching had been a “down the road” prospect, and suddenly that road wasn’t as long as I’d thought it would be.
Also, Avery had struggled in preschool and the first half of kindergarten—and let’s face it, no child should struggle in preschool a
nd kindergarten. At the behest of the school, Jon and I had taken him for some testing and learned that he was a twice-exceptional student. The psychologist explained that in Avery’s case, “twice exceptional” meant that he was gifted. “He hit the ceiling on the IQ test,” the doctor explained to me, but he also had severe ADHD. The gifted part of his assessment wasn’t a shocker. But having read more than a handful of articles on the overdiagnosis or misdiagnosis of ADHD in children, I was reluctant to believe the doctor. I still had a preference for alternative medicine and didn’t trust what I deemed a mainstream medical diagnosis. “He’s like a Ferrari without the tires,” the doctor further explained. I appreciated the simile, it was helpful, but I was also offended by it. I didn’t want anyone suggesting that my five-year-old was missing anything, especially “tires.” Avery was too young to be confined to a label.
But diagnosis aside, it was evident that Avery would need an advocate at school and I wanted to be fully equipped to advocate for him. Becoming a teacher meant I’d be able to see behind the curtain of the public-school system. I’d learn what services were available to Avery, how to get those services, what role the classroom teacher played in supporting him, and so on. I wanted to know everything, official and unofficial. I wanted to help Avery and other kids like him.
In the more than four years I’d attended the University of Colorado as an undergraduate, I’d never set foot in the School of Education building. It was located on the western edge of campus off one of Boulder’s main thoroughfares, Broadway, and across from the heavily student-populated Hill, with its student rental apartments, tattoo parlors, taco and pizza joints, and the Fox Theatre.
