Voice Lessons

by Cara Mentzel

  But Oz didn’t like Elphaba, and as Elphaba, Dee became a target again. It didn’t matter that she was acting, it wasn’t easy to have people shouting “Kill the witch!” at her repeatedly in rehearsals. And the first few times Elphaba got teased for showing up to the dance at Wicked’s Shiz University wearing a pointy witch’s hat, it wasn’t easy for Dee to dance surrounded by Elphaba’s bullies, who also happened to be professional Broadway dancers with impeccable posture and enviable foot arches. (Despite years of tap, jazz, and ballet Dina didn’t consider herself a dancer.) Dee felt as self-conscious and uncomfortable as Elphaba did. By that point, her self-esteem was so tattered she could barely tolerate fictitious rejection from a cast she knew and loved.

  “It’s like I have no defenses,” she told me one night in tears. I wanted to hold her, but we were on the phone.

  “But that’s how he wants me to be,” she added. She was referring to Joe, her director.

  “I don’t understand, Dee. What do you mean?”

  “He wants me to be raw and vulnerable all the time. But that means my guard is always down and when he—or whoever—is hard on me, or questions my approach to a scene, I can’t handle it. I end up in the bathroom, fuckin’ crying.” She paused and I couldn’t tell if she was crying right then, but then she added, “I try to cry it all out so I can get back and focus again, hopefully.”

  To me, Dee had always been the embodiment of strength, from her athletic build to the way she persevered. But just then I couldn’t imagine there was anything I could say to revitalize the strength I’d always seen in her.

  “I’m so sorry.” I could imagine how awful she felt, but I couldn’t come up with my own words of wisdom so I offered up someone else’s. “I have one of those cheesy inspirational cards on my bulletin board right now,” I told her. “It says, ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’”

  “Nice,” she replied.

  “You just have to keep going, Dee. And you can. You’re the strongest person I know.” It seemed all I had to offer were clichés.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  In search of better counsel, I dug deeper.

  “The thing is, if you have to draw on Elphaba’s vulnerability, then can’t you also draw on her strength, you know, when you’re having trouble finding your own?” My advice seemed hokey and analytical, but it made sense and I was a little proud of it. “You are, after all, the girl who defies gravity.”

  “Maybe,” she answered. By her gentle tone I gathered that Dee thought my idea was worth consideration, which brought me some satisfaction.

  “Dee, if you can’t pull this off, nobody can.” Ugh. Where were all the clichés coming from?

  “Pfft. Right,” she said.

  “I sound like Mom, huh?” I admitted, and she laughed. “You’ll get there, Dee. I have no doubt you’ll get to the other side of this and it will have been worth it.”

  “Part of me knows that,” she said.

  “Well, when you doubt yourself, know that I’m over here with the clarity you may not have, and I can see audiences falling in love with the fierce yet delicate green girl who can sing the roof off a theater.”

  “Thanks, lovey,” she said.

  “You’re gonna kick ass. I’m sure of it.”

  Dee wasn’t favored to win the Tony, and she felt conflicted about the possibility of winning. I remember Mom had told me about a meltdown Dee had had on the phone with her in the week before the awards. Dee had squeezed a blackhead on her chin and it left a crater—“a huge crater,” Dee had said, in tears. Apparently some green makeup was stuck in it. It had been days and Dee still couldn’t get the makeup out. The stress snowballed and Dee was sobbing, “I’m ugly. I’m literally a witch with a big green wart. I shouldn’t want to win. I’m too competitive. But part of me really does want to win and I’m scared to want it. I’m scared to write an acceptance speech. I don’t want to be let down.”

  On this point, Mom offered some of what Dee deemed her best advice.

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to win. And there’s nothing wrong with planning for it. How could it hurt?” Mom asked. “What’s wrong with living in that joyous place and dreaming? If you don’t win, at least you enjoyed the process instead of negating it the whole time.”

  The thing is, Mom and I were certain Dee would win. In one of her dreams Mom had seen Dee onstage with the Tony. But a little insurance couldn’t hurt, and Mom also believed that positive thinking and imagery could sway fate. “See it as you want it to be,” she often said to us, and sometimes Dee and I would scoff and roll our eyes. Mom believed that her prophetic dream paired with nightly visualization was the winning combo for the Tony. Not only for Dee but for all of us. “See the announcer say her name, Cara,” she said to me. “Just keep picturing it in your mind.” And so I did. Every night for weeks. It was easy. For me, Dee’s Tony win was already a fact, a truth just waiting for time to catch up with it.

  Dee speaks affectionately about Taye being very supportive during that time, too. One of her fondest memories of him was the night before the awards ceremony when he listened to her share her mixed feelings about winning and helped her prepare an acceptance speech.

  Dee was flawless in lavender again, as if she’d never transformed into the green girl. She and Kristin had performed and were back in their seats when Renée Zellweger, who had recently starred in the movie adaptation of Chicago with Taye, and Rob Marshall, the director of the movie, walked out onstage to present the award for best actress in a musical.

  I had my legs crossed tightly, as I’d recently been made aware that my gauzy black dress was transparent in flash photos. (Some people learn the hard way that nude undergarments are preferable to black ones when wearing black.) The top of my dress was a wraparound halter. I made sure that I crossed my hands over my knees, and covered as much of my breasts as possible with my upper arms. Excited and tense, I sat like a knot—legs crossed, wrists crossed, fingers crossed.

  “This has been an extraordinary year for women on Broadway…” Renée began.

  Mr. Marshall read the nominees from the teleprompter: “The nominees for best performance by a leading actress in a musical are…”

  Suddenly I started to question myself. What if she doesn’t win? Picture her on that stage, Cara. “Kristin Chenoweth, Wicked,” he said. “Stephanie D’Abruzzo, Avenue Q, Idina Menzel, Wicked.”

  When he said Dee’s name, the crowd cheered markedly louder than they had for anyone else, a good sign. I saw her face on the jumbotrons. She sported an uncomfortable smile. Mom untangled one of my hands and gave it a good squeeze. I peeked at Dad. I think he was holding his breath.

  Mr. Marshall finished, “Donna Murphy, Wonderful Town, and Tonya Pinkins, Caroline or Change.”

  It was Renée’s turn again: “And the 2004 Tony for best leading actress in a musical goes to…” Idina Menzel Idina Menzel Idina Menzel. Renée opened the black-and-gold booklet and lifted it so Mr. Marshall could see. Idina Menzel Idina Menzel Idina Menzel.

  “Idina Menzel, Wicked!” they announced in unison. I was already sobbing when Mom and I launched out of our seats. Dad took an extra few seconds, clearly in shock. He covered his face with his hands, then helped Grandma up. Horns burst from the orchestra and played an instrumental excerpt of “No One Mourns the Wicked.” A female voiceover said, “Idina Menzel takes home her first Tony Award…”

  I watched Dee’s reaction in the jumbotron. She absorbed the shock and maintained her poise. She leaned over the seat to kiss Kristin, who sat in the seat in front of her. Then she kissed Taye and made her way to the stage.

  Ours was a loud row. We shouted, screamed, hugged, and proudly lost all our composure (so what if my Doogie Howser longtime crush was right over there). I clapped with my hands high in the air the way I did whenever I wished I could make them clap louder.

  Is it possible for the best moment in someone else’s life to double as one of the best in your own? Because that’s how I f
elt at that moment. I was blathering-idiot happy. With the exception of holding my children for the first time, I’d never been happier.

  Dee took the stage, and this time was different than other times I’d seen her onstage. She didn’t perform. She wasn’t in character. She was Dee. Gracious, humble, and beautiful Dee. She managed to remain composed. I managed to wipe the snot from my upper lip without anyone seeing.

  She stood in front of the mic, the Tony between her hands. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and said thank you. Before she could say anything else, someone in the audience, an audience that by now was unabashedly cheering, shouted, “We love you!”

  “I love you too!” Dee shouted back and swallowed. “I, I, I … am so proud to be in a musical that celebrates women. That celebrates their strengths and their differences…” She alternately held her hand over her heart and held it up by her head to help her pull from her memory the names of people she wanted to thank. She stammered, she giggled a nervous, overwhelmed giggle, she gasped for air, she cried. She was an elegant mess, and I loved her desperately.

  With actors it can be hard to tell what’s real. But onstage that night, with the Tony in her hands, the world saw my sister in her truest form. The woman who was still trying to tease apart humility and insecurity. The woman who wanted to win, but didn’t want others to lose. Who was genuinely grateful and gracious. A woman brave enough to take the stage with no facade. I think people knew then—if they didn’t already—that it was Dee’s authenticity that came through and made her a good actress, and not good acting that made her appear authentic. Dee was more beautiful than ever that night because when she accepted the Tony, she accepted both her talent and her imperfections, her strength and her vulnerability, and in doing so she set an example for all women. I’d never been more proud.

  She continued, “… and my mother, my father, my sister Cara, and my grandmother…” I heard my name. A few syllables in a run-on sentence filled with many names, but the sound of “my sister Cara,” from her mouth, sent an extra spurt of adrenaline through my body. It was a big deal that she said my name. And I get that maybe it shouldn’t have been. That I should have known she loved me and she was thankful for me without her saying it on national television. And I did know. Still, the honor of her acknowledgment on such a grand scale was significant. Hearing my name helped validate the pride I felt in her accomplishment. That I was a meaningful part of Dee’s life. That it was okay I felt like I’d won, too, because of course: I was a part of her, and she was a part of me. And vicarious or not, it felt good to win.

  Lesson 10

  HOW TO MAKE MISTAKES

  To a good girl from Woodbury, nothing says rock-bottom like a mug shot.

  Jon and I had an altercation. Apparently, if the police are called to the scene of a domestic dispute in Broomfield, Colorado, where he lived, by law one of the parties must be arrested. I was at my wit’s end juggling school, student teaching, and nearly full-time parenting. Winter break was around the corner and was supposed to be my saving grace. It was Jon’s night to pick up the boys. He’d planned to come straight from work, but had forgotten the car seats. He asked if I could do him a favor and bring the boys to his apartment, a twenty-minute drive.

  “I’m worried if I bring them to you, you’re going to bring them into the apartment,” I said. “And I don’t want them to get sick.”

  Jon’s brother was visiting from out-of-state and was ill. “My throat feels like it’s covered in sores,” he’d said to me on the phone earlier that day. But we still wanted the kids to see their uncle, so Jon and I agreed they’d go out to dinner instead of being together in the apartment, where the germs had been congregating for days.

  Jon promised me that if I brought the boys to him, they would not go into his place. But the minute I dropped them off, he started to walk them straight in.

  “It’ll just be for a second,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I am worried about it,” I told him. “Because I’m the one who takes care of them when they’re sick and I can’t have two sick kids over winter break. I just can’t.”

  “It’s only gonna be a minute,” he reiterated, then turned away.

  So I waited in my car. And I waited. I took a drive around the block and then waited some more. I waited at least a half hour, my eyes alternating between his door and the squared digits of the car’s clock. My jaw tightened a notch every time I saw a minute pass. When I could wait no longer, I walked up the flight of stairs to the landing in front of his condo door and knocked. I was trembling and as angry with him as I was with myself for taking him at his word, and so when he opened the door, I got straight to the point.

  “Give me the boys.”

  “Uh, no.” He raised an eyebrow and glared at me. I knew the look. It was the “you’re crazy, you’re overreacting” look.

  “Why are you all still here?”

  “’Cause we’re not ready to leave yet.”

  “But you promised.” I felt powerless. He’d dismissed my frustration and ignored our agreement.

  “It’s no big deal. We’re gonna leave in a minute.”

  “Give me the boys,” I insisted. I’m guessing he didn’t like me telling him what to do, because he got pissed.

  “They’re in my custody now,” he said and tried to slam the door in my face. Instinctively, I put the toe of my sneaker and then my upper torso in the way. He drew the door wide open, grabbed me by the shoulders, and forced me backwards until I could feel the outer railing against my waist. My anger quickly turned to fear and I needed to get away from him. Without thinking, I freed my arm and slapped him across the face. When he stepped back, I saw the kids in the kitchen and realized that they might be able to hear us, even see us, and so I gave up.

  I drove home and sat in the car, in the dark, in the parking lot of Self-pity Court trembling. My anger and fear were inseparable, filling every hollow in my body, every corner, every crevice.

  I was taking deep breaths, trying to purge the adrenaline in my system and calm myself down when my cell phone rang.

  “This is Officer So-and-So from the Broomfield Police Department.”

  His voice roused a new kind of fear inside me. Not about my own safety, but about a loss of control, a fear of being more powerless than I already felt. He asked me to come down to the station. My voice caught in my throat.

  “Do I need to be worried about something?” I asked.

  “Your ex-husband gave us a call and we just want to ask you some questions,” he answered. I was naïve. I’d forgotten all about the episodes of Law & Order I’d seen, the primary takeaway being, if you’re ever arrested, ask for an attorney and then shut up. It only made sense to me that I could tell the officer what had happened and everything would be all right, that I could never be seen as the perpetrator. A sudden nausea suggested otherwise and I remembered something my divorce attorney had once said. He explained to me that I could have been arrested for pouring water over Jon’s head a year earlier. When it came to the law, it didn’t matter why I was upset with him, my actions were considered aggressive and whatever altercation we had that night would be deemed my fault.

  I showed up at Broomfield’s new police station around 8:30 P.M. After some questioning and writing a statement, Officer So-and-So arrested me. Apparently, Jon’s passive-aggressive behavior was not a crime and I was culpable for our interaction because I was at his place. I put my foot in his door. The officer and his partner put me in handcuffs and a five-by-five-foot holding cell; I recognized the cinder-block walls from my apartment. An hour later they moved me to “processing,” in another location. The space looked like most police stations on television and film. A long and extra-tall counter ran the length of the rectangular room. Some chairs were grouped together in a U shape off to the side and reminded me of a dentist’s office waiting room. One officer shuffled papers and typed on the computer using only his index finger.

  I waited in a mauve fa
bric chair with a monstrous headache, certain that my pain resembled what it would feel like if large screws were twisting through my temples and my skull was cracking at its sutures. I didn’t want to cry in front of the officer, though he’d hardly notice. He’d barely looked at me since I’d arrived. Holding in my tears exacerbated the pounding in my head, and the fluorescent lights stung my eyes. I rotated my head slowly in an effort to loosen my neck and control my headache. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing, but it was too hard. I was destroyed. After half an hour, I stood up and stretched toward the ceiling. When I let my arms fall to my toes, the officer finally looked up from his desk. “Ma’am,” he said. “Ma’am,” he repeated, and I stood up to meet his eyes. “There’ll be no yoga in here. Ain’t no yoga allowed in here.” He definitely wasn’t from Boulder. Any Boulder police officer would know the difference between a P.E. stretch from elementary school and a sun salutation.