by Abby Sher
I did some more research about timelines for terminal illness, which was not only depressing but also totally inconclusive. I needed more information about how this was all going to happen and how long we were going to be suspended in this horrible limbo.
“Let’s try this!” yelled Julian, breaking through my reverie from the back row of the theater.
We now had a total of three monologues and four dance pieces, plus Becca’s ballad of devotion. Only nobody could remember the words or the choreography. We had to keep stopping and starting. Julian was shouting out everyone’s cues and Marty was making us take emotional inventory. By nightfall, they both looked frazzled. Julian had now inserted himself into every dance so at least there was someone onstage to follow. Our turkey-baster piece was the finale at this point because it was at least well-rehearsed and concise. Marty looked pretty distraught about the rest of the acts. She kept lunging around the auditorium doing a sort of word association—“Freedom. Femininity. Fury. For all future.”
I felt bad for her. She had poured so much of herself into this fiasco. I thought of telling her that no one in the end-of-life data I’d read had valued work over family. She knew that, though. Every time we were on break, I saw her sharing coconut water with Oscar or going over chord progressions on the piano. I had to thank him for that healing amber he’d given me. Nobody in my family had noticed it yet, which made me really happy for some reason. I wanted to tell Oscar that every day around five it turned the den into this warm sunbath. I was sort of saving that conversation for a reward once rehearsal was over.
Except Marty kept us there until eleven on Monday night. At which point Julian said he was getting in his car and either I came now or he’d see me in Georgia’s vajayjay. I was exhausted too, but more than that I was scared to go home and see how much was left of my dad.
When I walked through the door, he and Mom cheered. They were so excited to see me and tell me all about their Batmobile adventures. They’d gone all the way up to a beach in Connecticut where the seagulls had wingspans a yard long. Then on the way back, they’d stopped at some petting zoo and fed a blind elephant. Mom kept on trying to tell me something about the elephant’s trunk breath, but she dissolved into giggles.
“Guess it’s working,” said Emma, holding up Dad’s pot vaporizer. I realized the whole house had a skunky funk to it now, and I was jealous and hungry, but all I could do was plop myself on the couch and close my eyes.
So my dad did not die on Monday. Or Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, for that matter. He actually had a fabulous week, zipping up and down the Hudson Valley with Mom and sometimes Emma. I was worried they were getting high all the time, but Emma assured me she’d only brought home a little and Mom and Dad were ridiculous lightweights and never drove while under the influence. Dad was high on life, though. Tuesday night he told me about getting a watermelon ice pop that touched every one of his senses. Wednesday, it was the view from West Point that took his breath away. Thursday morning, while I was saying goodbye before school, Dad saw a squirrel carrying a hoagie roll back from the deli on our corner and laughed so loudly I thought he was choking. But he wasn’t. He was just thoroughly amused.
Thursday’s VaGeorgia escapades were extra ridiculous. With twenty-four hours until curtain time, Becca announced in the locker room that she was quitting because Marty was trying to make us all look like fools. Four of her minions threw down their burlap ensembles and said they’d go too. Then a ninth grader named Nikki said she’d never felt like she had female role models or a group before this and if the show didn’t happen, she didn’t know what she’d do. A lot of tears and accusations after that. Marty said we could all take a ten-minute break while she tried to sort through our options.
I sent Dad a message: Still at rehearsal. U up?
He wrote back: Take your time. Watching Honeymooners.
Marty was dancing out her aggression onstage. There were clutches of girls in different levels of hysteria all around the auditorium. I thought of taking a moment to thank Oscar for his present, but he was all the way on the other side of the room listening to Julian rant. So I took my notebook and went to sit on the hill outside the auditorium.
I’d never been cool enough for sitting on this hill before. At lunchtime, it was reserved for the stoners and the kids who belonged to yacht clubs. At ten thirty at night it was completely empty, of course. I could see all the way out to the little forest preserve a few miles away where Emma and I once caught a turtle. We put it in a metal soup pot and fed it Apple Jacks, but it ran away.
It ran away, and I never went looking. I never went back to the preserve and checked to see if it found its way home to the marshy inlet. Or maybe we’d caused it to get horribly sick with sugared cereal. I never thought about how slow it all could be—life and death and waiting. I opened my notebook and tried to get back to the research I’d been working on all week. Some of it was from what I’d read. The rest was kind of just what I hoped could be true.
“Packing list?” I heard behind me. This time I knew it was Oscar’s voice right away. I felt a tear catch the page and automatically slammed my notebook shut. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”
Turning around to face him, I felt shy but also so grateful he was here. He had a bandana holding back his hair and it looked like a cartoon halo, glittering in the security lights from the parking lot.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You can look if you want.”
So he sat down next to me and read what I’d written. I didn’t try to explain which was fact or fear or wish or wonder.
I closed my eyes as Oscar read, hearing his breath get slower, and then the tiniest pwaa as his lips parted into a smile.
What to Expect When You’re Expecting (to Die)
Long, shallow breaths with pauses in between
Rattling sound
Yellowish film over the irises
Tunnel vision with mysterious “light”
Hallucinatory tastes, smells, touches
Gasping, choking, bleeding from mouth
There is no day or night
There is just loud or soft or itchy or cool
You love peanut butter for the first (and last) time
You feel music under your fingernails
You fall in love with Italian ices, squirrels, and the color turquoise
You know it will continue. Somehow.
Probability:
100 percent
Preventive measures:
none
Chapter 20
AND SO IT BEGINS
“And so it begins!” called Marty. She charged through the backstage area and had us form a lopsided circle. We held hands, eyes closed, and listened to the packed auditorium. Becca’s mom was always the loudest in a crowd. I heard her gushing over Emma’s new hair color and talking about how “our girls weren’t just girls anymore.” Mom wasn’t much quieter. I’d made my family vow they’d sit toward the back so I didn’t have to look any of them in the eye or hear Mom yell, “Delicious!” when she liked something. I also really wanted Dad seated near an exit sign in case he was too uncomfortable in one of those ancient auditorium folding chairs.
“Okay, now let’s bring our focus inward for a moment,” Marty said. She chanted something really eerily beautiful in Sanskrit.
“I just asked our foremothers to bless the energy of this group and to thank the universe for this incredible night,” she said. She looked around the circle, catching each of us with her swirly gray eyes. “You have all gone above and beyond my wildest dreams for this production. Saying yes to this astounding artist. Yes to this groundless space of fruition. Yes to yourselves.”
Becca got a special wink after that statement. The nth-hour truce between her and Marty had involved a lot of cathartic venting and both of them admitting they had issues with their moms and felt stifled in their youths. Marty then asked the cast if she could perform a “kinesthetic poem” based on the life of O’Keeffe instea
d of people trying to memorize monologues. There was a resounding yes to that one. The burlap sacks were trashed and people were allowed to wear whatever they wanted. Becca had on a spandex one-piece that opened in the back and was a little see-through. Most of the other girls had on variations in Lycra.
I’d been planning to just stick to my scratchy hay-infused shift, but Emma said that was unacceptable. She took a few hours yesterday to find me a billowy green shift and awesome orange tights. She even got me a black leotard to wear underneath that had some boob padding in it for “shelf life.” I could tell she was getting pretty restless being home and also that she was not used to doing things like waking up before ten on the weekends or listening to music below DEFCON levels. I was so grateful to have her back, though.
I was also in awe of how incredible she was with Dad—giving him long scalp massages and reading through the newspaper to him so he didn’t have to strain his eyes. Most impressive to me was watching her gently ease his body into a new position when he was feeling nauseous or uncomfortable. Sometimes he just needed to stretch his legs and she helped lift him up and sort of swayed with him like they were slow dancing. It was so gorgeously sad I had to turn away.
I peeked out the side of the curtains one last time before the show started. Emma was leading Dad through the aisle while Mom cleared a path. Then Oscar opened the lighting-booth door and wheeled out a rolly chair with a pillow propped up on the backrest. The three of them helped Dad into the seat and he said something that made everyone around him crack up. I watched them sharing that hilarious moment, my skin tingling.
A few minutes later, the curtains parted and we launched into our opening dance number. It went fairly well, considering we had twenty-three people on stage and only one (Julian) who knew what he was doing. Just the fact that I didn’t run into any light poles or hanging murals felt pretty momentous. I heard Mom whisper, “Delicious!” after it ended, which made me giggle.
We were supposed to stay on stage for the whole show, so it could feel more “organically collective.” Originally I thought that was dumb and an invitation to have serious bladder issues. But now I saw how it helped bring these unfinished pieces together, even if there was a lot of fidgeting and picking at sports-bra stitching.
Marty’s poetry was actually pretty coherent and definitely fascinating. She talked about how Georgia O’Keeffe grew up in Wisconsin and drew her inspiration from nature. She segued into a treatise on how all of us were animals, often too scared to respond to our primal urges. She impersonated rams and undulating cattle, contorting herself around Oscar’s canvases. It was humbling to watch how fluidly she could move and to hear how much O’Keeffe had been a sort of artistic mother figure to her. She finished with a loud roar and the audience clapped a little nervously.
Then there was a long, gaping pause.
Becca was supposed to be singing her ballad to Kevin Kripps. The spotlight was on and her backup singers were arranged in their signature horseshoe behind her. But Becca looked stricken with sudden muteness. And nobody would dare start the song without her lead.
“I have … I have…” she stammered. Followed by some vicious throat clearing. “I have…”
The end of that sentence was obviously “no idea what to do.” She looked miserable, especially because she was surrounded by all these people who looked like they needed her to breathe.
I knew all of her lines, of course, but I didn’t want to make her look stupid. Maybe if it was an “organically collective” effort it wouldn’t be quite as noticeable. So I snatched up Nikki the ninth grader’s hand and started chanting, “I have … I have … I have but one desire.”
The mantra spread slowly across the stage. Everyone taking a hand and repeating the words, “I have … I have … I have but one desire.”
We threaded ourselves in a zigzag formation around Becca, saying it over and over again. Julian even picked up a bongo and slapped out a tribal beat. And I had to admit, when Becca did find her voice, it was bright and stunning. She sang those two lines in a gorgeous, velvety croon that I’d never heard before. There was no pretension or posing either. The audience cheered loudly, and I heard Kevin give a guttural, “Yessss!”
The best part of the show for me was waltzing with nothingness. I knew I wasn’t the epitome of grace, but I loved feeling like my only responsibility was to follow this set rhythm and glide. I loved that Julian had asked Oscar to play a little oompah tune on the piano instead of the canned ballerina music. It still sounded a little bit like Star Wars to me, but in a familiar way.
Oscar made the waltz go longer than usual, and when he stopped it was so abrupt that I was honestly surprised. I did my dramatic fall and heard a bunch of audience gasps, followed by Mom murmuring, “It’s an artistic choice. She warned me about that.” Embarrassing, but to be expected. Julian’s entrance had blossomed from a slow walk to a dazzling little solo for himself. I loved lying on the stage, watching him pounce, leap, and lunge. He was so agile and buoyant, the floor barely registered his feet touching down. I felt like a lake below him, absorbing his energy and rippling outward.
The audience reaction was pretty spectacular. There was even a standing ovation, which I blamed on my sister. It was a little absurd, but fantastic at the same time. After the final bows, Marty gave a tearful thank-you speech and invited everyone to come onto the stage and look at Oscar’s collages up close. I chose to hightail it to the locker room.
The push of sweaty shoulders and post-show trembles in there was intense. People were too jittery to change back into street clothes and there was a lot of running back and forth and swooning over bouquets. Kevin planted a kiss on Becca that made everyone squirm before we shut the door and let out a group shriek.
As I got changed, I heard Becca talking about how emotional she’d felt on stage and the momentousness paralyzing her.
“You were phenomenal,” Leigh assured her.
“Seriously,” added Madison.
Becca never recognized that I’d helped her out. The closest I got to a thank-you was Sylvie shyly turning toward me and giving me a half smile. I didn’t care. I already knew I’d done something great.
* * *
“Bravo! Bravissimo! Bravalavadingdong!” Dad yelled when I got up to the auditorium again. He was leaning against one of the big windows in the back, almost as narrow as the molding. When he opened his toothpick arms for a hug I stepped in, gingerly.
“Was that chair okay?” I whispered in his ear.
“Stop thinking about my ass and enjoy this night, will ya?” he answered.
Emma clutched me from behind and lifted me by the armpits. “You totally saved that girl’s ass,” she whispered. “And you were hot!” Her voice was so close and fierce that my ear got wet and ticklish.
Mom announced to whoever was listening, “My little Eleanor is delicious!” over and over again. She started hopping up and down. “Where’s the cast party? What’s happening now?” she panted. She smelled like Rice Krispies treats and I knew the sugar rush was making her extra loopy.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said warily.
“Don’t get scared.” Mom slapped me playfully with her program. “I’m not crashing your good times. I just want to make sure you’re going out and celebrating.”
“We will.” I looked around for confirmation, but didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. Julian was ensconced with some friends from his old performing arts private school who’d shown up unexpectedly. It was fun to watch him out of the corner of my eye, especially as he talked animatedly to a lanky guy with long sideburns. They were standing really close together too. I always thought it’d sting to see Julian be affectionate with a guy, but it didn’t. It was kind of thrilling.
“Party at the Ditmas house!” Sylvie yelled.
“Party!”
“Ditmas!” came the echoes.
I couldn’t commit to anything without checking in with Julian first. Also, in my secret pocket of secrets, I wa
s wondering what Oscar was planning for the rest of the night.
“Oh Lenny, it’s so good to see you!” That was from Sylvie’s mom. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Ditmas in at least five years. She had thick gray curls and even thicker bags under her eyes. She was twisting a tissue between her fingers and seemed very scared of looking at Dad, but she also couldn’t stop talking. She was saying how this summer she hoped to grow sweet potatoes in their backyard but there had been a lot of rain so maybe the ground was too moist but when she lived in Arizona the air felt so arid and yet the vegetation was extraordinary. She loved Arizona; had we ever been? she wondered.
Mom was now chatting with Mrs. Ditmas. Emma had cornered Marty to talk about gender identities. Dad said he’d driven cross-country once, but he had yet to visit a few key states. “Always wanted to see the sun set over the Grand Tetons.”
“Oh yes, you have to!” said Mrs. Ditmas. Then there was a giant cloud of silence as she realized there was no way he could. Dad’s wish just sat there in the middle of the auditorium with the leftover programs and candy wrappers. Untouched.
I felt like it was my job to say something.
“How about Wahonsett Bay instead?” I mustered.
“You got it,” Dad said. “Excuse me for a minute.” He stepped out of the circle of conversation and turned toward the window, breathing out through puckered lips. I noticed he was shifting his weight back and forth too.
“Dad? You okay?” I asked him quietly.
“Oh, ya know.”
“No, I don’t know. Can you tell me?” I asked.
“Nothing to tell. It’s just really painful sometimes.”
“Where?” I held his hand.
“All over.” He gave me one of those grimacey smiles.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
Dad stood up as straight as I’d seen him in weeks. “I’m going home. You are going out with your friends to have fun. That’s an order.” He didn’t even let me get out the word but before he clamped onto my other hand and looked me straight on. “Listen, I promise I’ll tell you if anything is happening. I will tell you everything I know. And you have to do something for me in return. Actually, two things.”
