It took us weeks to decide on a name for the theater. My favorite was “the Long-Haul Theater Company” because that summed up my expectations. But some members thought it sounded like a trucking company, so that didn’t make it. Other suggestions included “the Actors Forum,” “the Theater Lab,” and someone even suggested we name it after Louie and me. The Dukakis/Zorich Theater: talk about hitting people over the head with ethnicity!
In the end, the company named itself. We had broken up the entire company into committees to handle various aspects of the theater. People were always asking, “Is this something for a committee, or for the whole theater?” By 1973, the Whole Theatre was up and running.
For the next several years, we built our lives in Montclair. The kids had friends, liked their schools, and were happy. The theater was building an audience and a reputation. Thanks to my teaching at NYU and Carl Commercial’s continuing work, we were even paying the mortgage. There was still no money to decorate or renovate the house, but I made a wonderful discovery. The front door looked like a plain, ordinary front door, but I discovered that behind two sheets of wood, front and back, was a beautiful turn-of-the-century door with wide panels and an inset window that let in the morning sun. I refinished that and then went on a frenzy with my putty knife, scraping everything to see what lay underneath. Chip, chip, chip. Here was a double fireplace that had been blocked up. Chip, chip, chip, there was beautiful golden oak under the white paint that covered the beams in the living room ceiling…and the window frames, the doors, the banisters…all beautiful, painted over oak. Louie would say, “There she goes, chip, chip, chip.” I spent the next year uncovering the treasures hidden in the house.
In Montclair I had work, home, and family. It felt good to be living in the same town as Apollo and Maggie. Then my parents decided to sell their home in Arlington and move to New Jersey. Initially, they were to live with us, and when Apollo’s tenants left, they were to move into their duplex. We made an apartment for them on the third floor and they settled in. Within a short time, my father had two accidents: first he slipped on the icy snow in my driveway and injured himself. Then he had a serious fall at my brother’s house. He was hurt so badly that he couldn’t get out of bed. At that time, I had been seeing a masseuse who specialized in shiatsu and believed she could help my father. He agreed to one session with her as long as I came along.
I sat in the outer office and could hear him moaning while she worked on him, but when it was over, the pain was gone. This lasted three days, and on the fourth, the pain returned, but he wouldn’t go back to the masseuse. “I’d rather die than go through that again,” he told me. He did what he always did when he was sick: he called his brother Panos, the doctor. Panos recommended an operation; he said it was the only way to alleviate my father’s chronic pain. I tried to convince him to continue with the massages—the last time he’d been operated on, he’d developed a dangerous blood clot—but he wouldn’t listen to me. In early May 1975, my father had back surgery.
He sailed through the operation without complications. To avoid another blood clot in the future, his doctors put him on blood thinners. For the first few days, his recovery was routine; he was already out of bed, getting around the hospital with a walker. Then they discovered he had a pulmonary blood clot. I remember going to the hospital and feeling helpless at the look of fear in his eyes. I reminded him that he had been through this once before and would get better. He nodded and smiled tentatively.
Late that night the phone rang, waking me up. It was his doctor. “It looks like we’re losing your dad,” he said to me. Since that time, I have discussed with family what I did then; I’ve discussed it with therapists; I’ve discussed it with friends. I’ve come to understand why I did what I did and I’ve even had dreams in which my father forgave me. But I’ve never lost my deep sense of regret, nor have I forgiven myself for hanging up the phone and going back to sleep. I didn’t wake Louie, or call my mother or brother. I refused to react to what the doctor told me. Early the next morning the hospital called to tell me my father had died. Alone.
“God has hit me!” my mother shrieked when we told her about my father. She repeated this over and over again while making a chopping motion with her hand. “If only I had been there,” she went on. “Costa died alone…” Apollo, who was weeping, held my mother while she lamented. I stood by, dry-eyed. I felt I had done something terribly wrong and I couldn’t bring myself to confess. I spent the rest of the afternoon making funeral arrangements, then went to work at the theater.
The funeral took place in Lowell, where my father was laid to rest alongside his parents and his brothers. So many people came to say farewell to my dad that we held two viewings. I was overwhelmed by stories of my father’s many kindnesses—I had no idea he had been so important to so many people. Apollo and I were able to spend a few minutes alone with our father, and I slipped a photograph of my children into the breast pocket of my father’s suit. Apollo did the same, with a picture of his son, Damon. At the cemetery, my mother, overwhelmed by her grief, fainted three times. Apollo held her up while she drifted in and out of consciousness. How would my mother recover from this and what would be expected from Apollo and me?
My mother retreated from us and surrendered herself to an intense, very private period of mourning. I could not forget that because of me, my father had died alone. I know I’ll never have an easy answer for this. I know I was angry at him for not taking my advice about the surgery, but more than that, I wanted to punish him. For all the nights he didn’t come home and left us alone. For not protecting me from my mother. For being so secretive about what was really going on in his life. The list goes on but does not justify what I did. I also loved my father very much and I certainly did not want him to suffer, especially at the end of his life. I finally told Apollo, and without a word he put his arms around me, hugged me, and forgave me. I was never able to find the courage to tell my mother.
If I were my mother, I would say that 1977 was the year “God hit me.” I was diagnosed with cancer three times. One night I woke up with a terrible pain in my pelvis. Early the next morning, the doctor diagnosed an unidentified “mass” in my belly and wanted to perform emergency surgery. I got a second opinion and was told it was an inflammation in my small intestine and could be treated without surgical intervention. A few weeks later, I was diagnosed with cancer of the thyroid and had to have a partial thyroidectomy. I awoke from the surgery with Louie’s sweet face close to mine saying, “No cancer! There’s no cancer!” There were just two cysts and a benign tumor. I went to the hospital a third time because I was bleeding vaginally. I had been through this and the doctor suspected cancer again, but after a D & C, I was told that it was the final stage of my menopause.
That year was also the year that we moved the Whole Theatre Company into a bigger, more centrally located space in Montclair. We were opening with a production of Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage, a scathing indictment of capitalism and war. Mother Courage is a great role, because she is a woman who is not courageous at all, at least not in the classic sense, but she is determined to both survive and prevail. She drags her children and her business—a wagon of goods for sale—all over the battlefield. I was cast as Mother Courage herself but I had no idea how bitterly ironic playing this part would prove to be.
Chapter Nine
ONE AUTUMN NIGHT in 1977 I received another phone call. It was about midnight and the kids were asleep. An emergency medical team was calling from the site of an accident on Route 3. Louie was very badly injured and on his way to the hospital.
A drunken teenager, who was driving an uninsured rental car with his father at his side, had smashed his car through the divider that separated east-and westbound traffic on Route 3 in New Jersey and caused a five-vehicle pile-up; and then he fled the scene. Of all those involved, Louie was by far the most seriously hurt. His long legs were crushed beneath the dashboard of the compact he was in when it crumpled on impact. I
saw the wreckage on the way to the hospital and was terrified. I found Louie in the hallway in the emergency room writhing in agony, waiting for a doctor. The place was chaos. The nurses were on strike and patients were being tended to by nurse’s aides. No one seemed to know where anything was, or who to ask. I lifted the sheet that covered Louie’s legs. His left knee was a large pool of smashed purple flesh: it looked like an overcooked eggplant. I sprang into action, searching for a doctor. “My husband is in shock; we need some blankets!”
The doctor said, “You’ll have to wait.”
I grabbed his coat. “Where are they, I’ll get them myself.”
“I don’t know where they are,” he yelled. Then, more softly, he said, “If you want to help your husband, get him out of here. He won’t get the care he needs here.” It was two A.M. In a blind panic I ran to the nearest pay phone and started calling our doctors in Montclair. I couldn’t even get an answering service to pick up. In desperation, I called the doctor at NYU Medical who had seen me through my partial thyroidectomy. Unbelievably, he answered the phone. He referred me to an NYU orthopedic specialist who I then woke up, and he agreed to meet us at NYU Medical Center. The dark stretch of road that led through the Lincoln Tunnel and into the city felt endless and bleak.
We were met at NYU by the medical team led by the orthopedic surgeon. He immediately prepped Louie and took him into surgery. Five hours later, the doctor emerged from the operating room and told me that Louie was doing okay. That he was stabilized. And that we could see him.
Louie was sleeping soundly, surrounded by monitors. I kissed him and headed for home.
I had just walked into my kitchen and had barely put my bag down when the phone rang again. A blood clot, a pulmonary embolism, had lodged itself in Louie’s lungs. I called my brother and together we made the trip back into the city. I couldn’t believe this was happening again! My father had died of a blood clot and now this.
We stayed with Louie for several hours, until it was clear he was safe. As we were leaving, the doctor took me aside and told me about the operation. He had set Louie’s fractured and dislocated hip, reconstructed his shattered left knee, and spent hours repairing as much nerve and muscle damage as possible. He then very gently told me that though Louie would get better, it would be a long and painful process. He was paralyzed from the knee down and would have to wear a brace for the rest of his life. He doubted Louie would ever walk again without the aid of crutches or a cane.
Louie remained hospitalized for three months, first in traction, and then going through painful, intensive physical therapy. I brought the children in to see him as often as I could, and this helped keep all our spirits up. At the time of the accident, the children were still very young; Christina had just turned twelve, Peter was eight, and Stefan was six. The first time they saw Louie in the hospital, it stopped them in their tracks. Louie’s shattered knee was exposed—it had to stay uncovered—and there was a large metal rod going right through it. The rod was hooked up to the traction mechanism to keep the leg stable. It was a frightening sight. Without saying anything, the kids went to him, kissed him, and held on to his hands.
Six years earlier, when Louie and I had made the decision to leave New York City, our children were still very young. We’d agreed that Louie would travel for work and I would work in and around New York until the kids were eighteen. We wanted a life that was stable and structured—not just for the children but for ourselves. Now here I was with a husband who couldn’t walk, let alone work, and three children under the age of thirteen. In addition to all our expenses, we had a mortgage—a mortgage!—that I would have to figure out how to pay. There’s only one thing more improbable than two actors with a mortgage, and that’s one actor with a mortgage.
Louie came home and settled into the hospital bed we had set up on the first floor in our dining room. That night, I sat at the kitchen table and wept. When he was in the hospital, everything felt like a temporary crisis. Our goal was just to get him home. Now he was here and I could see the years of struggle ahead. Louie, incapacitated and unable to work, faced with a long rehabilitation. My life, completely changed. Starting tonight, I would even be sleeping alone. I cried until I was exhausted. I couldn’t keep on at the theater—it didn’t pay anything. I’d have to take more commercial jobs—if I could find them. If I could only get out from under the weight of the mortgage, I’d be okay. We’d have to sell the house! But wait, this is our family home. The kids couldn’t take on any other major changes now—and neither could I. I wouldn’t sell the house. I wouldn’t quit the theater. Somehow, we’d manage. I’d figure out some way to hang on to all of it.
That New Year’s Eve, we all gathered around Louie’s bed in the dining room and had champagne. Louie and I stayed up late, holding hands and crying. We all looked forward to putting 1977 far behind us.
The next several years, I found myself in “high alert mode,” constantly prioritizing problems, solving them in turn, moving on to the next. If there was an obstacle in front of me, I’d climb over it. If I couldn’t scale it, I’d figure out how to go around it. And if I couldn’t do that, then I’d blow the damn thing to smithereens. Not the most elegant way to cope with things, but it got the job done.
I was working at the Whole Theatre and teaching two graduate-level acting classes at NYU. I’d get an occasional day or two on a soap or a movie. I was working as a private acting coach, but the monthly bills proved to me that I still needed another job.
Out of the blue, I got a running part in the soap opera Search for Tomorrow. I’d never been able to get a “commercial” job before and now, just when I needed it, I got this. It was a huge financial break for us. Weeks into the job, the casting director told me she was going to have to fire me. The TV audience didn’t find me likable enough. I’d been fired before, but now I was in desperate need of a paycheck. I did something then I’ve never done before or since: I talked my way back into the job. I told the producer I knew how to make the character appealing and lovable. I changed my wardrobe, my hair, my makeup, my entire demeanor—and it worked. At least until she herself was fired—along with everyone she had hired—just three days before Christmas.
People have asked me if I resented becoming the sole breadwinner for our family. I panicked, despaired, felt inadequate and overwhelmed, but I was never resentful. Louie (Carl Commercial) had shouldered the burden of being the main provider for many years while I had been free to pursue my own interests: the parts I wanted, producing and directing at the Whole Theatre, which paid next to nothing. Louie had taken his turn and now it was mine.
What I did feel was a huge sense of disappointment with how I acquitted my duties and responsibilities during that time.
I was always late. I was late for work at the theater, late for auditions, late for parent-teacher conferences, late getting dinner on the table, getting the bills paid, getting the kids to their doctor’s appointments. I was late getting up and late getting to bed. I was constantly checking my watch—how late was I?—checking my schedule to see what I’d missed, and always, always looking for excuses and new ways to apologize.
One freezing winter day it was my turn to drive Stefan and a bunch of his ice hockey teammates to a game somewhere out on Long Island. I had to do this for Stefan so that he wouldn’t be the only one whose parents were not participating. So there I am, driving out to Long Island with four boys and their enormous bags of hockey equipment. About halfway to wherever, my car died on the Long Island Expressway. By the time help arrived and my battery had been recharged, the kids were frantic: we were already fifteen minutes into game time. When we got there, the coach was so furious, he wouldn’t even look at me when I apologized.
As disastrous as this was, the game I got to on time was even worse. I was there for the face-off, sitting in the center of the bleachers, eager to show my support for Stefan and his team. The game began—I cheered and cheered, shouting such inspiring phrases as “Go team, go.” At halftime,
Stefan skated over to me, pointing to his jersey. “Mom! Mom!” he whispered. “We’re in blue! Montclair is in blue!” And then slowly skated off. I had been rooting for the wrong team.
On top of having so much trouble holding it together outside of the house, I started coming home to piles of the laundry I had yet to do, bills that were unpaid, and children who wanted to watch TV instead of do their homework. When I would remind them to do their chores, they would engage me in a debate until I just gave in.
“Okay,” I finally announced one night at supper, when everyone, as usual, was complaining about the food I had just slapped together in record time. “I need you all to help me.” The first job was to help Louie in the morning. He would rise and immediately start his physical therapy of rigorous exercise. He had to do his exercises every two hours. Peter helped Louie put on his support hose and tie his sneakers. Christina became the chief launderer, but that only lasted a few months because Louie protested that this was too sexist of an assignment (Louie was a born feminist). It was decided that everyone should be responsible for his or her own laundry.
Ask Me Again Tomorrow Page 14
