by Dianne Dixon
“I did feel pushed aside.”
“—and then there were the drugs, and the acting-out. The wild friends. I brought you counselors, and mentors, and tutors, and changes of scenery. And finally—that summer, when you’d left me no place else to go—I stepped away. Tell me, Micah, what else was I to do?”
“I don’t know,” Micah tells him. “But you could’ve done better.”
This comment seems to knock the breath out of her father. It takes him a long time before he says: “That isn’t a judgment you’re qualified to make, Micah. You have never for as much as a day been anyone’s spouse. Or anyone’s parent.”
Although he is keeping his voice low, it’s evident he is upset. “You dealt with two of life’s most demanding challenges by avoiding them. You shirked the hard work of marriage—the labor of dedicating yourself for a lifetime to another human being. And you turned your back on the demands and sacrifices of being a parent.”
Her father’s voice sounds as if it’s about to break. “To my knowledge, you’ve never even had a pet, or a house-plant. You’ve never taken responsibility for the welfare of a single, living thing other than yourself. You have no right to criticize me, Micah. I was fighting with all that was in me to do my best as a husband. And a parent. I was battling, head-on, with trials and obligations you’ve never had the courage to go anywhere near.”
Micah is watching her father struggle to keep his composure while he’s explaining: “I was married to someone I greatly loved, who happened to be terribly gifted and terribly flawed. A woman that sang like a siren-goddess and had the soul of a needy little girl. I was the father of a daughter bursting with talent and consumed with arrogance, and anger. A young woman who refused to blossom until she’d succeeded in forcing me to let go of her.”
He’s brushing at his sleeve—at the place where earlier he had broken the spider’s web. “Perhaps I did everything wrong, but I did the best I could.”
Her father has shown Micah a version of their story—truths about his life, and hers—that she has never acknowledged before. She wants to say she’s sorry. And can’t. She has let too much time pass. She isn’t capable of forming the words.
“I don’t think it’s me you’re really angry with, Micah. I think the problem is that you keep using people up and wondering why they don’t love you.” Her father hesitates, as if sorting through his thoughts as he’s speaking them aloud. “You wanted to be famous, to prove to everyone around you that you were the best. It became your life’s work. And you let it blot out everything else.”
He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is soft with pity. “I don’t think you understood that being revered isn’t the same as being loved.” Her father sighs and says: “Awe is reserved for gods and film stars. Creatures that keep themselves separate from the rest of us. Out of our reach. Behind stained-glass windows and cinema screens.
“Micah, you were the one who separated yourself from me. I never for a moment wanted to leave you.” Her father is standing perfectly still, seeming as if he’s struggling to know what to do next. “I’m here,” he says. “I’ve always been here. And you’ve always been my girl.”
His head is bent. The breeze is ruffling his hair. It’s thinning, and as white as snow. And there is space, all around, between the frayed collar of his neatly pressed work-shirt and the sallow, ropy muscles of his neck.
Micah is seeing that her father is old. That he is full of regret.
When she drives away. In the late afternoon. Micah kisses her father good-bye.
Wanting to tell him, I love you.
Saying nothing about her cancer.
***
On the third floor of Micah’s Boston brownstone, there is a large, carefully arranged room. The room is cool, dark, and spare. Much of the time it’s silent—except for the occasional rustle of ghosts.
This is the last stop on Micah’s journey. The final person she needs to settle things with. Before she decides whether to battle her cancer, or surrender to it.
Micah is holding on to the doorknob. Has been holding on for several minutes. And still—she can’t turn it.
She’s too afraid.
She’s not ready.
Not yet.
AnnaLee
Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986
“AnnaLee! Are you ready yet?” There is excitement and happiness in Persephone’s shout.
AnnaLee is thrilled by the sound of that happiness. She’s hurrying down the hall. Seeing that the door to Persephone’s room is open, and that the latest version of the hand-lettered sign simply says “Persephone’s Realm.”
The hostile teenager who arrived at the beginning of the summer is now entirely gone, replaced by a new Persephone—a vibrant, caring girl who has captured AnnaLee’s heart. Completely.
“How come you’re still in your robe? AnnaLee, you need to get dressed. You’re my creation tonight. I want to see how you look!”—is the excited greeting AnnaLee is receiving as she’s entering the room.
Persephone, perched on the edge of the bed with Bella in her lap and an open makeup case at her side, is putting on a headdress, a towering arc of rhinestones and apricot-colored feathers. As soon as the headdress is in place, Persephone quickly slides Bella out of her lap and onto the bed.
“What do you think?” she asks AnnaLee.
Persephone is standing up now. Showing off her costume—a snug bodice of glittering beads in hues of gold and apricot, and a shimmering diaphanous skirt, shaped like an inverted, exquisitely petaled flower. Each ruffled petal is flawless—each one a different, muted shade of coral-colored chiffon.
“What do you think? Do you like it? Do I look like a Ziegfeld girl?” Persephone asks.
“You look like a dream,” AnnaLee says. “I want to complain about the skirt being too see-through. But it’s too lovely…I can’t.”
“Great! Now get your costume on, we’re running out of time. Rebecca will be here to pick me up in a few minutes.” Persephone is hurriedly tossing a tube of lip gloss into her purse. “We’re going to Mrs. Jahn’s early, in case there’s any last-minute stuff to do on the decorations or—”
She looks around, suddenly frantic. “The camera. Where did I leave Rebecca’s camera? She’s putting together a scrapbook—to get new clients. It was my job to photograph the work while we were doing it and tonight I’m supposed to take pictures at the party, with everything all perfect and finished—and now I don’t know where the camera is. Shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
Bella, who’s still on the bed exploring the contents of Persephone’s makeup case, looks up, interested.
AnnaLee shoots Persephone a warning glance.
Persephone winces. “Sorry, Bella. I didn’t mean to say shit.”
AnnaLee does her best not to smile.
She’s sorting through a pile of clothes on the floor near the bed. Unearthing the missing camera, handing it to Persephone and saying: “I think what you need to do right now is calm down.”
“But what about your costume, AnnaLee? I want to see how it fits.”
“It’s fine, and besides, it doesn’t sound like you’ll have time to make any alterations.”
“I will. Really. Rebecca’s coming early but we’re having sandwiches here, before we go. Because we’ll be crazy-busy at the party and won’t have a chance to eat anything once we get there.”
Persephone is excitedly pushing AnnaLee into the hallway. “I can chew and baste at the same time, I swear. And I really, really need to get a look at your outfit before I leave.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll see it at the party.” Her costume is the least of AnnaLee’s concerns at this particular moment. She’s worrying that Jack isn’t dressed yet and wondering if he has told the babysitter what time they’ll be dropping Bella off.
Persephone is tugging at the sleeve of AnnaLee’s bathrobe, explaining: “I had tons of help from Rebecca when I made my outfit. But I did all the work on your costume by myself. Yours is my first ever, sta
rt to finish, totally on my own sewing creation.”
There’s an earnest seriousness in Persephone as she says: “I didn’t make that costume for just anybody. I made it for you. I want to be sure it’s totally perfect. Don’t you understand?”
AnnaLee is overwhelmed with affection, and pride. “I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”
As AnnaLee is brushing Persephone’s forehead with a kiss, Persephone is pointing to the bed. “Maybe you ought to give yourself more like ten minutes.”
What AnnaLee sees makes her laugh.
Bella. Gazing into Persephone’s makeup mirror. Studiously coating her face with bright red lipstick.
***
AnnaLee, with Bella perched on the bathroom countertop, is using a fresh washcloth to wipe away the last traces of the lipstick. The ones she has already used are in a pile nearby, all of them stained with blotches of brilliant, fire-engine red.
Bella is squirming. Turning her head from side to side, making a game of trying to avoid the swipe of the washcloth. And AnnaLee—still concerned about Jack, and about being late for the party—is telling Bella: “Not now, sweetie, we’ll play later. We’ll play tomorrow. Tonight we have to get Daddy where he needs to go—”
AnnaLee has stopped short—struck by a thought she has been avoiding for weeks. There is nothing set in stone about this evening. There’s no guarantee that Mrs. Jahn will hire Jack. No guarantee that tonight AnnaLee’s life will change—that it will ever change.
There is a sensation in AnnaLee like she has just stepped out of an airplane. Parachuteless. Into midair.
Without realizing it, she has dropped the washcloth she’s been using to wipe Bella’s face. Bella is picking it up and trying to hand it back to her.
AnnaLee, adrift, has forgotten about the washcloth. She’s staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, but talking to Bella. “Love isn’t enough, Bella. Promise me, when it’s time, you’ll find someone who is strong—who can stand beside you in holding up the roof over your head. Promise me you’ll choose somebody who knows how to help you fight the battles your life will bring.”
She rests her cheek against Bella’s and whispers: “No matter how much in love you are, or how pure his soul is, don’t choose a man like your daddy. His helplessness will hurt you—it’ll hurt so much you’ll think you’re going to die.”
AnnaLee straightens up—abruptly aware that she and Bella aren’t alone anymore. Someone else is in the room.
Even before she has turned to see who it is, AnnaLee knows it’s Jack.
He’s dressed in his old tuxedo, with his hair slicked down. A reddening flush is spreading high across the tops of his cheekbones, leaving the rest of his face as white as his shirtfront. He has the lonely, startled look of someone who has just been murdered.
AnnaLee is devastated.
“I can’t survive without you, Lee,” he says.
“You won’t have to,” AnnaLee promises him.
His reply comes slowly, as if he’s distracted, as if he’s being shown some ominous part of his future. “If you leave, how will I stay alive?”
“I love you, Jack. I’ll never leave.”
The sadness in Jack’s smile is excruciating. “Never is an awfully long time, Lee.”
***
While Jack is gone, driving Bella to the babysitter, AnnaLee is leaning in close to the mirror. Applying the finishing touches to her makeup. Following Persephone’s scribbled instructions to the letter.
She’s brushing her lashes with a coat of shiny black mascara. Dabbing a hint of color onto her cheeks. Lighting up her mouth with a swipe of fire-engine-red lipstick. And—as the final touch—she’s tucking her hair up, concealing it under the thrift-shop wig that Persephone has shaped into a sporty, 1920s bob.
As AnnaLee is looking into the mirror she’s seeing an altered, boldly rendered version of herself—one that’s fascinating and dramatic. Undeniably beautiful.
This person in the mirror—this woman that Persephone has created—is spectacular.
Simply looking at her is lifting AnnaLee’s spirits, making her think, Maybe tonight really will be something extraordinary. It’s not impossible that everything could go perfectly—that Mrs. Jahn could see the potential in Jack and give us the chance to begin a new life. And—
A clattering noise is coming from the kitchen. Followed by shouts of laughter—Persephone and someone else. Probably Rebecca Wang.
It’s time to go downstairs and see the girls off to the party.
But AnnaLee, reluctant to turn away from the mirror, is double-checking her makeup and mascara. Delaying her departure from this enchanted place where she’s someone so different. So glamorous and full of possibility.
***
When AnnaLee arrives downstairs, Persephone is at the kitchen table sharing a turkey sandwich with Rebecca Wang. Both girls are wearing aprons to protect their Gatsby-era costumes from any accidental spills.
AnnaLee is met with a smile from Rebecca and an outraged howl from Persephone. “You’re still in your bathrobe! Why aren’t you in your costume?”
“I am. Under the bathrobe.” The admission has caused AnnaLee to blush.
“And you’re doing the bathrobe thing because…?”
“Because I’m used to being in ‘mom clothes,’ Persephone, and this dress is shorter and a lot slinkier than I’m comfortable with. I feel a little awkward.”
Persephone is immediately upset. “You’re not going to wear it to the party? You’re not even going to let me see you in it?”
“No, sweetheart, of course I am. Just give me a minute to get my courage up.”
“What do you need courage for? You look fantastic.” Persephone is insistent. “The 1920s hair, and your makeup—it’s like totally off-the-charts great.”
AnnaLee is buying time by taking a glass from one of the kitchen cabinets. While she’s filling the glass with water, she’s noticing Rebecca Wang’s expression. It’s evident Rebecca has an opinion about what’s being discussed but is maintaining a well-mannered silence.
AnnaLee is fascinated by Rebecca Wang. The girl has a self-possession that’s unusual in someone her age. A Zen-like quality that makes her appear to be perfectly calm, perfectly centered.
Which, perhaps, is why AnnaLee feels the need to explain herself to Rebecca. “I know it sounds like I’m being silly. But Persephone has done almost too good a job on my costume. I’m in a dress that belongs on a Hollywood sex symbol, not a Long Island housewife.”
Rebecca’s response is enthusiastic and genuine. “I’ve seen the sketches. Honestly, you don’t have any reason to be nervous about your outfit. It’s perfect for you.”
Persephone immediately adds: “Rebecca knows what she’s talking about. She’s graduating from the Rhode Island School of Design next year. She’s like the most gifted person they’ve ever had.”
Rebecca Wang is leaving the table, taking off the apron she has been wearing, giving an embarrassed laugh while she’s telling AnnaLee: “Persephone’s just saying those nice things about me because we’re friends.”
Persephone’s mood abruptly shifts. She pushes away from the table, hurrying out of her chair, muttering: “I need to go upstairs. I have to make a phone call.”
Rebecca is looking at her watch, saying to Persephone: “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”
And AnnaLee is asking: “Why waste time going all the way upstairs? Use the phone in here.”
Persephone seems to be unable to decide whether to stay or to go. Almost as if she’s in a mild state of shock. Then all at once she’s running to the phone that’s on the wall near the refrigerator.
While she’s lifting the receiver and dialing, she’s calling out in a self-conscious chirp: “Rebecca, tell AnnaLee about the master of ceremonies Mrs. Jahn hired…the guy Johnny Carson keeps inviting back as a guest on the Tonight Show.”
“He’s terrific,” Rebecca says. “He’s insanely funny…”
As Rebecca
launches into her story, AnnaLee sees that Persephone is putting her mouth close to the receiver. As if she doesn’t want to be overheard while she’s whispering: “Forget what we talked about. When I said I’d do it, I was still making up my mind, but things are different now so—”
“There’s this one routine involving the audience where he…” Rebecca Wang is continuing her story about the comedian who’s such a favorite on The Tonight Show.
The next thing AnnaLee hears is Persephone saying: “Call me as soon as you get this message. Bye.”
“Is everything all right?” AnnaLee asks. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Persephone says.
And she seems fine. Seems relieved, like a great weight has been lifted from her. She’s taking off her apron, picking up her purse and Rebecca’s camera.
While Persephone is following Rebecca out the door, Rebecca says: “There’s only one exposure left, we should put fresh film in the camera before we get to the party.”
Persephone stops short, whirling around to AnnaLee. “The party. Your costume! I can’t go without seeing your costume.”
“I…I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“AnnaLee, I won’t be. And besides you have to lose the bathrobe to go to the party. An hour from now, two hundred people will be seeing you in that dress.” The vulnerability in Persephone is sweetly childlike as she’s telling AnnaLee: “I just want to be the first.”
Persephone is asking AnnaLee for a gift; asking for her trust and approval.
AnnaLee can’t say no.
She’s reluctantly shedding the bathrobe, letting it drop to the floor.
Persephone’s reaction is a startled gasp.
It flusters AnnaLee—embarrasses her.
She takes a quick step backward. Retreating into the shadow of the dining room doorway.
There is the sudden whirr of a camera.
