You’re not just the Queen of the Stars, darling. You’re the only star in my world. Love, Veronica. PS - the carnations the first night were from me.
And in a flash, I remember the white carnations with no card that appeared in my dressing room. I kept meaning to ask someone about them but kept forgetting to write it down. Damn me. Damn my memory—damn time.
“I’m so sorry, Veronica,” I weep. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Bristol sits down next to me, holding on.
There’s nothing else to say about a woman who pulled her death crashing down upon herself.
Seventy-Eight
Evangeline
Simon, Bristol, and I are sitting in our lawyer’s office with mutual looks of astonishment on our faces. “She wanted us to do what?” Simon’s the first one capable of speech.
“Ms. Solomone was explicit in her wishes.” Eric glances down at his papers to review them one more time. “One hundred percent of the assets of her estate was to be donated to a charity as determined by Ms. Evangeline Brogan for individuals who are recovering from drug and alcohol addiction.” A faint smile crosses his face. “She even sold her condominium to add to her assets.’
“That’s why she was living in an apartment,” Bristol says faintly. “I thought…”
“Exactly what you were supposed to think, Mrs. Houde. She didn’t expect to go the way she did.” His eyes are sad. “But she knew she was dying. She had been diagnosed with a somewhat advanced case of cirrhosis of the liver just after Mrs. Brogan passed away. She came in to see me not long after.” He folds his hands together. “When you found out about your birth father, Ms. Brogan—”
Impatiently, I snap, “Evangeline. Christ, Eric, we’ve known each other for years. We were at the same college at the same time.”
A smile briefly touches his lips. “I remember. If I get caught calling you that by my colleagues…”
“Then I’ll handle it. I can’t handle the ‘Ms.’ and ‘Mrs.’ formality crap right now. What did Veronica actually say?” My heart is thumping harder than any dance routine Veronica put it through.
“That you were rightfully angry with her. If she could have made better decisions, she would have. She should have listened to her angel that she was blessed with instead of the devil that ended up killing her. But maybe you could rewrite history in her honor.”
I shove to my feet even as the first tear falls down my face.
“I have another letter for you to read, this one much lengthier than the one I gave to you the other day.” Eric’s voice holds great sorrow. “She explains her behavior in the last few months in great detail. She was trying to make this easier for you, Evangeline. She knew your feelings would be conflicted between getting to know your father and her…well, she liked to call it her transition.”
“It wasn’t her right,” Bristol interjects quietly. I nod. That’s all I can manage.
“Maybe not, but it was her decision.” I close my eyes in pain because he’s just communicating Veronica’s wishes. She couldn’t save herself, so in the end, she tried to save me.
In less than a year, I’ve watched people I love drown their demons and grief, and others pay the sins for doing so. And in the end, I’m left doing what I was doing exactly what I was doing at the beginning of it: searching for answers to questions I may never be able to solve. But there’s one thing I can do. Tuning back into the conversation, I hear Eric say to Simon and Bristol “…took it upon myself to research some charities who would benefit from a donation of this sort.”
“No.” The word flies out of my mouth. “It’s not enough. Not anymore. It doesn’t honor her enough. Not Mom, not Veronica.” And not Monty, I think silently.
“What are you thinking, Linnie?” Bristol crosses over to me. She reaches for my hand and grips it.
I grapple with putting what I’m thinking in perspective. “They needed help. Who was there for them? Your dad was there for Mom, but who was there for Veronica to stop her from going down this path?”
Bristol looks thoughtful. “Are you thinking about setting up a clinic? Therapy?”
I shake my head. “Not just therapy.” Frustrated, I begin to pace back and forth. “Where were her mentors—not just Mom? Where was the support to guide her? It can’t be just the two of them. Surely, this is happening more frequently than this.”
“What do you want to do, ask everyone we know?” Simon jests, but I’m not in the mood.
“Yes! Why wouldn’t we? These are our friends, our colleagues, who won’t talk if we don’t ask.” I’m shouting, and I don’t care.
Simon frowns at me thoughtfully. “What you’re suggesting is going to be next to impossible.”
“Then let’s make it possible!” I cry out. “Because I can’t go to sleep one more night knowing there’s someone else out there we might have been able to help in our extended family, Simon. Can you?”
Slowly, he shakes his head back and forth. “No, I can’t. Not anymore.” Turning to Eric, he asks, “What do we need to do?”
Eric doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up his phone and punches a number. “Mr. Dalton? Yes, can you come downstairs please, sir? Ms. Brogan, Mr. and Mrs. Houde are in my office. We’re going to need your assistance.” He pauses briefly. “Thank you.” Hanging up, he warns, “This isn’t the kind of law Watson, Rubenstein, and Dalton does, Evangeline.”
“Then tell us who we need to hire. We’re doing this, Eric,” Bristol warns him. Simon slips an arm around my sister and squeezes.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I stalk up to his desk and slap my hands down on it. “We’re not just doing this; we’re going to wake up the world by doing so.”
“We’re going to make history, Linnie,” Simon says quietly. My head turns to face him just as Eric’s boss walks in the room.
“No, they are. We’re just their voice to do it.”
Seventy-Nine
Montague
August
I’m determined to do the right thing even if that means ignoring the incredible overture made by the one person I want in my life more than any other in this world or the next.
My love for her hasn’t abated; if anything, it’s become stronger in the time I’ve spent away. And yes, in the darkness of the night I dream of her. If it weren’t for Linnie, I wouldn’t be standing here at a window admiring the view of the mountains.
I’d be in a cell.
But I’m ashamed of the man I was: the man who hurt her.
The man I’ve become is afraid to approach the woman I’ll love for eternity. Because how do I begin to ask for forgiveness for the secrets, the lies? Even if the only person who should have been hurt was me? Even though I never meant harm to come to anyone else?
I can’t because words won’t heal what I carelessly shattered in the blackness of night.
She’ll always be everything to me, and that’s not enough.
And she survived loving me.
I want her to be happy. So, I pray for her happiness every time I see a star, all the stars.
Even the sun.
* * *
A few days later, I’m packing to leave the facility when there’s a knock at my door. Victor walks in with a manila envelope. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
I nod. In the last few months, I’ve embraced the urgency of having facilities of this nature, doctors of Victor’s importance. “Who knows if it will work out?” I shrug.
“Well, if it doesn’t, it’s not because of what’s in there.” He hands me the envelope. “You’re well prepared for what’s outside these walls, Monty.”
“Because of your help.” Switching the envelope to my left hand, I hold out my right to shake his.
“Because of your determination to get well. You’re an alcoholic, and you know what to do to counteract the triggers,” Victor counters.
Catching sight of my Mom and Dad climbing out of Dad’s SUV, I swallow hard. “Maybe.”
“I have no doubts. I’
m so certain, this came in the mail for you, and I think you should go.” He reaches in his pocket for another envelope. After he hands it to me, I can see it’s in Linnie’s perfect penmanship.
Carefully pulling out the letter, I unfold it. “I’d like for you to join us,” I read aloud. Flipping the message over and finding nothing else in the envelope, I scowl. “What’s missing?”
Victor reaches back into his breast pocket for a ticket. Holding it up between two fingers, he hands it to me. “This.”
And in my hand I read, Broadway Against Drugs and Substance on Stage - A charity event benefit those who fought alone but whom we will fight for going forward — hosted by Evangeline Brogan and Simon Houde.
It’s dated for three days from now.
“Do you think I have a right to interfere with her life again?” I ask the man who brought me back from hell to the land of the living.
“I think you owe it to yourself to see her again if for no other reason than to close the chapter on your life.” Making his way to the door, he spots Forgiveness wrapped up, ready to be transported to the farm. “If that’s what you both choose.”
No, I think as Victor leaves, I’d choose to live forever in a world that would allow me to orbit her in it in some way. The question is—I smile at my parents as they walk into my room—did this much time and distance between us with my ignoring her overtures cause her to wish I did?
Eighty
Montague
Instead of a Playbill’s usually vibrant appearance, the program is dark and somber much like my mood. I flip through it absentmindedly, passing over the enormous sponsor list until I see her official headshot and bio. And other than it being a glammed-up image of the woman haunting my dreams the last six months, her official bio gives me no indication about where her mind is at.
My hand slips into the pocket of my jacket so I can pull out my cell to scroll through the photos reminding me our time together wasn’t something I dreamed up when my fingers brush the encouragement coin in my pocket—the coin celebrating my sobriety.
I did it for the right reason: me. I’ll earn the next one for the same reason. It isn’t because of Linnie or my family I stayed in rehab; it’s because after I got through detox, I hated the man facing me in the window’s reflection. It wasn’t just the destruction I caused to those around me, but the harm I was causing to myself that helped me scale the mountain to get to the other side. Don’t get me wrong; I can still scent out a good brandy or whiskey at thirty paces. But the pain I was causing to myself and those I loved was a motivator to shove away the crutch the alcohol was giving me. But while I’ve tried to explain that in letter after letter to Linnie, I’ve never been able to send them. I truly meant to let her go, even though she gave me Forgiveness. That was, until the ticket arrived for tonight’s event.
The lights overhead begin flicking on and off. “Distinguished guests, please take your seats. The show is about to start. As you are aware, this is a live broadcast. You have consented to be videotaped. In the event you need to leave your seat, we kindly ask you to wait until in between acts. A seat filler will take your place if your ticket has been marked with a special indicator.” Reaching into my pocket, it’s stamped with the words “SEAT FILLER REQUIRED.”
The lights begin to dim. The theater goes black except for two spotlights aimed at either wing. I don’t know where to look. My head is flying back and forth like it would at a tennis match. Nerves mix with excitement in my veins.
And then there she is.
She steps out in a similar outfit to the one she wore the first time she met her father. It has a little more pizzazz: the jacket and pants sparkle with a million lights, and the shoes are barely more than diamond straps, but it’s Linnie. God, I’m so close to her. I want to race up onto the stage and scoop her into my arms. But more than the orchestra and stage lights that separate us, my behavior is the reason I haven’t been with her every step of the way. My eyes close in pain as Linnie and Simon, now center stage, try to get everyone to take their seats. When they manage it, her voice rings out clear. “Welcome, everyone, to the first—”
“But sadly not the last.” Simon slips an arm around her.
Her arm goes around him as naturally as if it was made to. “Tragic but true. It’s unlikely the last event where Broadway comes together to present one show in support of our community. We have a problem.”
Thunderous applause greets her words. When it begins to die down, she continues. “For those of you who may not recognize us without our costume du jour, my name is Evangeline Brogan. And I am a BADASS.”
“I’m Simon Houde. I, too, am a BADASS. For those of you not aware, Linnie and I costarred together in the Broadway award-winning show Miss Me. And tonight, we are missing our colleagues and our friends who are not standing beside us.”
“Across every Broadway show tonight, we’ve dimmed our lights because we lost not one, but two, of our own. We lost them as a direct result of drug and alcohol abuse. Over the years, there were attempts by many of us to put those individuals on a better path. Tragically, we failed. We’re feeling that pain as individuals and as one community—one family. When their deaths occurred so close to one another, we were reminded this couldn’t continue. We can’t lose any more of our family this way. The brainchild for being a BADASS came shortly after the death of my godmother, celebrated choreographer, Veronica Solomone.”
My lips part as Linnie’s wounds begin to penetrate, but she forges on.
“As the cofounder of BADASS, or Broadway Against Drugs and Alcohol and Substances on Stage, and one of your hosts for tonight, it’s my responsibility to help you understand the truth. We all often feel alone, vulnerable, and even isolated from the world around us. People feel stress, highs and lows. They consume the parts they are acting, shows being worked on, the life they are living. But when the low hits—and sometimes they hit hard—people are turning to the cushion of drugs and alcohol to stop the pain instead of more constructive outlets.”
Simon takes over. “Tonight’s benefit will not only help the families of those whose lights have gone out, but we’ll help offer counseling for grief, dependency and depression free of charge.” The audience breaks out in tremendous applause. They wait for it to die down before it continues.
“We call patrons of the arts our angels, but I have an actual angel looking down over me. She taught me to give back, to see beyond the stage lights. And she was a recovering alcoholic who was sober for more than thirty years. My mother, Brielle Brogan’s, heart gave out last year. She abused alcohol in her early years to such a degree when it unknowingly damaged her heart. She was one of the lights I lost too soon. Way too soon.” Linnie tips her head back and swallows. “I’d like to think she’d be proud of us becoming BADASSes,” Linnie flashes a smile up at Simon, who has curled her into his side.
“I know she would.” Directing his comments to the audience of thousands at Lincoln Center, Simon says, “You all donated handsomely to attend tonight. You are our angels funding something much greater than a single show. It is our promise to you that you’ll receive a performance straight from our hearts—a show you will never forget.”
“A show that will mix who we are with what we do,” Linnie adds.
“If the spirit moves you, stand right up and sing along with us, but please keep the aisles clear for our amazing camera crews who are streaming this live,” Simon warns.
“And to our audience who is watching from the comfort of your homes, there are not enough words to say thank you and bless you. This type of tragedy hits all of our communities. The fact you’d take your time to grieve and celebrate with us is something we’ll never forget.” Linnie blows a kiss to the nearest camera tracking her movements.
“We’ll be back later. We promise.” Simon bows. “But for now, please welcome to the stage members of the cast of Miss Me singing Delta Rae’s ‘Morning Comes.’” Linnie and Simon saunter offstage as the curtain opens to a dimly lit stage. The
chords of the guitar strumming are soothing.
And then I listen to the words—really listen. The lyrics seem to have been ripped from my soul, tortured yearning overplayed with overripe jealousy. It’s a song about someone who’s been knocked down, but unlike the misery I buried myself in each time I chose to let the alcohol pass through my lips, they picked themselves up from their knees because a new day would come.
How often, I wonder, before that night when I blacked out and spewed such hate at the woman I love did Linnie wonder if I was going to fall? And was she prepared to catch me if I did? Almost as much as detox was, the thought is sobering. Settling back, I wait for the quartet to finish before leaping to my feet like the rest of patrons at the Koch Theater at Lincoln Center.
Simon strolls back out onstage. “Wasn’t that brilliant? Now let’s keep that energy going for the cast of Book of Mormon, who are a bunch of BADASSes themselves in this number for their Tony Award–winning show.” Applause greets his departure.
I settle into my seat to enjoy the phenomenal efforts on stage to see Broadway unite as one. And to bide my time until I can brush my fingers against Linnie’s face again.
If she’ll let me.
I thought seeing Linnie come on and off the stage as emcee was enough until I could reach out and lay my hand to her gently at the reception to help repair the physical pain I caused. That was until the curtains parted without a word and she stood there in a short dress that glittered the second the lights hit it. Her long dark hair cascades around her shoulders in waves, begging me to slide it to the side and make her gasp as I feast on the delicate skin of her neck.
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