***
Looking towards her bedroom window, Hannah’s eyes made out what appeared to be a spotlight shining into the room through the window. To her astonishment, she saw John in the spotlight. He was visible only from the shoulders up. The rest of him was hidden in shadow. He was speaking to her, but Hannah could not hear him. She wanted to speak to John, to touch him, but she could not move. The light increased to show John cradling a baby in a pink blanket. He looked lovingly down at the child as a tiny hand reached up and grasped the end of his nose. He kissed the baby, then turned so Hannah could see her. Hannah gasped as she saw that the baby was Rosebud; not still and lifeless, but very much alive. Able to move now, Hannah rose from her bed. She reached out and touched Rosebud’s cheek, pink and warm. Rosebud regarded Hannah for a moment with a pair of bright blue eyes identical to John’s, then smiled. As Hannah moved to take Rosebud into her arms, Rosebud and John disappeared, the spotlight winking out and retreating back out the window.
Hannah woke with a start, weeping and trembling, her heart racing. She lay still for a few minutes, her conscious mind gradually taking over from her subconscious. As it did, the meaning of what she had just dreamt became clear. Hannah now knew her little girl was with John now, and that she had another child who loved and needed her and soon a grandchild. For the first time in many months, she realized how much she still had to live for.
Hannah was headed down the stairs to the subway when she stopped and returned to the street. The morning was still cool and pleasant, so she decided to walk. Adjusting her purse and shopping bag more securely on her arm, she proceeded to Park Avenue, then headed north.
On 95th Street, once again in front of St. Francis de Sales Church, the soft summer breeze ruffled her hair. She slipped quietly into the vestibule. To her relief, no one else was there. She lit a candle and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to know that Rosebud was safe in her father’s loving care. Hannah took from her shopping bag a pale pink votive candle and a glass holder. She lit it from the flame of the candle she had just lit and placed it on the floor in front of the statue of St. Anne with the child Mary. She then took a single pink rosebud on a long stem from the bag and placed it next to the candle. Hannah knew that it was time to lay down the burden of grief she’d carried for thirty-two years. Her heart could now begin to heal.
The next day, when Sophie returned for their next session, their mood was subdued. “I half expected you to phone me and cancel,” said Sophie. “In fact, I even wondered if you might pull the plug altogether.”
“No,” Hannah said. She took Sophie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ve committed myself to this and I’m going to see it through. Yes, my son and I ‘had it out,’ as it were, not only about the baby but many things that should have been brought into the open long ago. I still can’t say that everything is completely resolved; for one thing Matty is still skeptical about this project, but our relationship is on much better ground now.”
Sophie turned on the recorder. “How were you able to go on with your life after such a traumatic loss?”
28
August 1983:
I turned to the two things I had left – Matty and my work. I spent all the time I could with Matty, reading to him, playing with him, and taking him places. I wanted to disrupt his life as little as possible.
Dr. Bennett told me at my follow-up visit that since I’d had one placental abruption, I was higher risk for a subsequent one. I decided then to have a tubal ligation. I couldn’t take even the smallest chance of another loss like this. My mental and emotional stability was severely shaken by it and I wasn’t at all certain that I could withstand another such blow. Anyway, my dream of a family with John was now just so much dust.
About the middle of the month, I began an earnest search for a movie or TV project to score. I phoned everyone I knew to inquire. I had several lunches and meetings and the situation looked hopeful. The evening before one of these meetings, I had a call from Danny. He was excited about his upcoming exhibition. “Patrick and I are having a joint show. It’s going to be ‘The Pat and Dan Show.’ I wish you could come.”
“I do too, but I’ve got to get back to work. I haven’t done anything for months and I’m going stir crazy. Promise you’ll send me the catalog and clippings of any write-ups.”
“Will do.” Danny paused for a minute. “Speaking of work … I ran into John at Paramount the other day. If you don’t want to hear this …”
“No. Go ahead, little brother. How is he?”
“Not too good. He was down because he’d just been passed over for another role. He hasn’t gotten anything good in months. Any ideas?”
“I have a meeting tomorrow with a director about doing the score for his next movie. I could mention John’s name.” Even as I said this, I wondered what would happen if John moved back to New York. It was so much easier to bury my feelings for him when thousands of miles separated us.
At the meeting, I hammered out a deal with the director to score his movie. Out of curiosity, I inquired whether casting was complete.
“Yes, we have everyone we need and we start filming next month. Why? Thinking of a career switch, Hannah?”
I laughed. “No, but I know someone who’s looking for a role. He’s in California now but he’d move to New York, I believe, for the right offer.”
“Well, I know Jerome Wilkinson is producing a new series, Mean Streets, and is looking for someone to cast as a character they plan to introduce mid-season. Who did you have in mind?”
I gave him John’s name and a list of his credits. I also gave him Ron Cooper’s name and phone number. I didn’t have high hopes that anything would come if it, but I wanted to do what I could because honestly, I still loved John.
Near the end of September, John phoned me. “I’m back in New York, Hannah,” he said. I was offered an audition for the role of Detective Joe Walker on a new series, Mean Streets. It came right out of the blue. I was even more surprised when Ron told me only two days after the audition that I got the part.” He paused as if he were waiting for me to say something; perhaps he suspected I’d done something to help him get it. I said nothing, however. I didn’t want him to think he needed my help and besides, I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that I had anything to do with it.
That evening, we went to dinner and John told me some more about the series, his character and how difficult it had become to find a place to live in Manhattan. He came home with me and stayed all night, but my emotions were still raw from losing Rosebud and I couldn’t open myself to him the way I always had. I knew he sensed this, and I could feel a certain sadness coming from him. The next morning, I watched him from my window as he walked up the street. As I saw him turn the corner out of sight, I was sure then that what we once had together was gone, probably forever.
***
Over the next seven months, I kept busy. As always, work proved to be an effective therapy. I completed the movie score I was working on and then began searching for a new project.
All this time, I never heard from John save a Christmas card he mailed me. So, when he showed up at my apartment one evening in late April, I couldn’t help but wonder why, after months of silence, he suddenly wanted to see me.
“I want to tell you something and I want you to hear it from me, not through the grapevine,” he said. He looked down at the floor.
“Well, what is it, John? Spit it out.”
“I’m getting married on May 5th.”
I hoped he didn’t see me wince in pain as I felt the wind knocked out of me. I groped for the sofa and sat down. “What do you want me to say, John? Congratulations?”
He sat down next to me and took a photo out of his wallet. I didn’t really want to look at it, but curiosity got the better of me. “Her name is Rachel Kingsley and she’s an actress. I met her when she did a guest part on Mean Streets. She’s been on several daytime programs,” he said.
I took the photo and looked at the
baby doll face framed by thick black wavy hair. She had wide blue eyes and a small pouty mouth. Maybe I was envious, seeing how much prettier she was than I, but the thought that came first into my head was ‘non-threatening.’ I couldn’t imagine her making John nervous, challenging his fragile self-esteem. It didn’t look as if there was much behind those baby blues of hers.
“She’s a nice sweet girl,” John was saying as I handed back the photo. “The wedding is going to be in Charleston, South Carolina, where she’s from …” His voice trailed off as I got up from the sofa and began mixing myself a drink. I gulped it down as he came and stood behind me. Before I could refill my glass, he took it from me and turned me around to face him. He stroked my cheek, then bent to kiss me. In anger, I turned my face away. “I’m sorry, Hannah. What else can I say?” Then, he let me go and quietly left.
I poured myself another drink. “A soap opera actress! That’s who he wants for a wife?” I thought. Rage built in me as I gulped that drink then poured another. For a moment, I looked into the glass. Then, I hurled it against the front door.
29
I made a concerted attempt to sever John completely from my heart and my mind. The way I chose to do this was to radically change the course of my life and career. I published all the songs I had remaining from the last several years of writing. For one song, however, By My Side, which I’d written when John and I were drifting apart, I had a specific artist in mind. I’d heard Tina Benjamin, known as Tina B., perform on the radio and was impressed with her voice and the passion in her singing. I bought her latest album and listened closely to it. When I heard her concert in Madison Square Garden, I knew I wanted her to record my song. I contacted Tina’s manager. It took a little while, but I finally overcame his reluctance. I made a demo tape, but was told that Tina wanted to meet me personally and hear me play the song.
I was thrilled to do this of course, though it took a lot of emotional discipline to perform the song for Tina, her manager and her band. I was even more thrilled when they liked the song enough to include it on the album they were then recording, bumping another song to do so.
After that, I wasn’t quite sure where I wanted to go to forget the past. One hot afternoon in late July, when Tony had taken Matty to a movie, I pulled out some photos and notebooks from my concert tour and looked at them. Finally, the answer came to me. While in Europe, I’d become fascinated by the Medieval and Renaissance churches I saw and tried to imagine what the music of the time sounded like. I bought several albums of early music and filled notebooks with what information I could gather and musical ideas I jotted down as they came to me. I knew that I wanted to compose and play this music, but although I studied music history at Performing Arts, I realized that I lacked the in-depth study and research necessary to even begin to compose such pieces. I applied to Columbia for acceptance into the graduate music program. By the end of the summer, I had been accepted and I enrolled. I was excited to be returning to school. I felt like a whole new world was about to open up for me just as it did when I began at Performing Arts.
In spite of this, I still couldn’t shake John from my consciousness. I’d be at school, at the market, anywhere and I would see something that reminded me of him. I would see him in my dreams. One evening in October, I went down to SoHo to see a concert by the New York Consortium for Early Music. I loved it and afterwards, I just had to tell the musicians. One performer, a tall willowy woman named Kathleen, seemed especially friendly, so I approached her. When I told her that I also was a musician embarking on academic study of Early Music, Kathleen convinced me to attend the group’s next rehearsal.
“But I don’t know how to play any of your instruments, at least not yet,” I said.
“No matter. Just come and meet us and if you like, I can teach you the recorder. I’ve taught a number of students, including several of our players.”
I was glad for the opportunity of watching the musicians practice and taking notes and asking questions, so I agreed. The following week, lugging notebooks and a tape recorder into an old church on Canal Street which had been converted into a rehearsal hall, I began my association with the Consortium and at last to realize a long held dream of playing and composing early music.
A week before Thanksgiving, my father phoned me. “Dad, I’m so sorry I haven’t called. Time just got away from me.” I’d been so busy with classes, working with the Consortium and taking my turn as a classroom parent at Sacred Heart, Matty’s school that I hadn’t talked to my parents or Danny for almost two months.
“It’s OK, Honey. I understand,” he cut in. “I have some bad news about your mother.” He could barely keep his voice steady. “Her cancer is back. It’s in her lungs now. For a long time we thought she just had the flu so we didn’t do anything until it was so bad she had to see the doctor. She’s going to start chemotherapy, but the doctor isn’t too hopeful.” I could hear he was weeping and I wished I was there to put my arms around him.
“I’m coming out there,” I said. “You shouldn’t be going through this alone.”
“No, Honey. Your mother will be sick and weak from the treatments. She’ll be in no condition to see anyone. Wait until she finishes the chemotherapy. She’ll be a lot better then.” He tried to sound hopeful, but I could tell my father was devastated.
No matter how busy I was through the holidays and into January, I phoned either Dad or Danny every few days for an update on Mother’s condition. The chemotherapy seemed to be working, but it left her too drained to do much and Dad had to hire help; a housekeeper and a nurse to take care of Mother.
In February, Mother’s condition deteriorated. I knew there wasn’t much time left. I asked Tony if he would keep Matty while I went to California. I fully expected him to complain about being inconvenienced but to my relief, he was sympathetic and agreed. He had moved back to Manhattan by this time and could easily get Matty to and from his school.
I arrived in Los Angeles on February 25th. Mother wanted to spend her last days at home, so Dad had her moved back. When I entered the guest room, I almost didn’t recognize her. She was a mere shell of the tall strong woman she once was. Her hair was just growing back after the chemo and formed a short tight cap around her head. It was no longer auburn, but steel grey. She was so thin and fragile, I was afraid to touch her. On either side of her bed were an oxygen machine and a morphine pump. I took her hand gently. “Mother, it’s me, Hannah.”
She opened her eyes. “You shouldn’t have come. I didn’t want you to see me like this.” A spasm of coughing wracked her body. I flinched.
“Don’t say that. I want to be with you now.” She smiled and closed her eyes. From then on, besides the nurse, either Dad, Danny or I was at Mother’s side. We talked to her, though because of the morphine, she slipped into and out of consciousness.
One night, while I sat by her, old memories flooded my mind. I remembered how once, when I’d fallen and hit my head, she kissed me and rocked me in her arms until I stopped crying. Yet, another time, angry because I was too slow packing my bags for a family vacation, she punched me in the stomach, then banged my head against the wall until I lost consciousness. I was nine years old then. I also recalled how she disdained my piano playing, saying it would be my downfall into sin.
The sound of Mother’s labored breathing jerked me back into the present. The nurse rushed over to help her. On impulse, I went to wake Dad and Danny. When we all returned, Mother’s breathing had calmed down some, but was irregular. Finally, it stopped and we all just stood there, not knowing what to do. The nurse checked for life signs, but there were none. She looked up at us and sadly shook her head. “It’s over,” she said.
At the funeral, I thought of how Mother’s faith had been her foundation, her rock. It never crumbled, never swayed. Mine on the other hand, collapsed completely when I lost Rosebud. I no longer believed God existed. If He did, He had abandoned me. Therefore I wanted nothing to do with Him. Other than letting Matty attend a Cath
olic school, I cut all ties with religion and the Church.
Sitting in church now, reciting prayers and going through the motions, I never felt more like a hypocrite. It was all I could do to keep from walking out of the church, but I stayed put because I didn’t want to upset Dad who, although he put on a brave face, was, I knew, a wreck inside.
The next morning, Danny came over to help Dad and me go through Mother’s things. Dad was still asleep, getting some much needed rest, so I made breakfast for us. As we ate, we went through a large crate of Mother’s paintings we had brought up from the basement. I pulled one out and examined it. It was a seascape, one of Mother’s favorite subjects, but this one was dark, the palette mostly greys and purples; it featured angry storm clouds and waves that looked as they were being ripped apart. I showed it to Danny. “Have you seen this? I never knew she painted like this.”
He was as perplexed as I was. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what to make of it.” He pulled out another canvas. This one depicted a young girl running along a wooded path, the branches of the trees reaching out, tearing at her clothes and hair. Again the palette was dark and gloomy. “She obviously never exhibited these. I wonder why.”
“Because they weren’t her best work,” my father said from the kitchen doorway where he stood, still in his pajamas and bathrobe. “She didn’t want to be known by these.”
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