by Anthony Rapp
Spring had arrived in Joliet with full force, bringing balmy breezes and clear blue skies and myriad buzzing insects and singing birds. Gael Drive looked almost picturesque on days like this, were it not for the drab uniformity of its houses’ architecture, and the too-wide, unseemly expanse of its cracked and faded pavement. I pulled into our driveway and cut the engine, pausing in the car before I got out, steeling myself as much as I could without creating too hard a shell.
“Hello,” I called out as I opened the door. I put away my groceries and headed to Mom’s room. There I found Terry, one of Mom’s hospice workers, beginning to shampoo Mom’s hair. She smiled as I walked in.
“Hi there,” she said. A small plastic bin filled with water rested on the bed next to Mom’s pillow, and her head was gently propped up by another bin, there to catch the sudsy rinse. Mom regarded me as steadily as always, her large brown eyes looking even larger without her glasses on, the effect of which was augmented by the tightness of her skin over her skull. She weakly said, “Hi, Tonio,” as Terry softly massaged shampoo into Mom’s hair. I sat at the edge of her bed and watched, holding Mom’s hand. Terry went about her task with care, tenderness, and love, and Mom simply gave herself over to the comfort. I looked up at Terry’s face and noticed that she was crying softly as she finished rinsing the last of the suds out of Mom’s sparse, thin hair. I wondered whether she felt such sadness for all of her patients, or whether Mom was special.
When Terry was finished she kissed Mom delicately on the top of her head, wiped her eyes, and said to me, “Have a nice visit,” before she left the two of us alone.
“Hi, Momma,” I said.
“Hi, Tonio.” I wondered whether there was any part of her that was ashamed that she couldn’t perform the simple task of washing her own hair. “How was your flight?”
“Fine,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m tired,” she said.
“I can imagine.”
“I’m glad you’re here, though.”
“Me too, Momma,” I said. “Me too.” She seemed to be farther away than before, less tethered to her body. I gripped her hand tightly, but not so tightly, I hoped, that I caused her pain. “Momma,” I said, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“Remember how I told you about the wall at the Nederlander?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if you could write something for it, so I could put what you wrote there.”
“Of course,” she said.
The wall had begun early in our previews on Broadway, when celebrities had started to attend our show. Our doorman had decided to ask them to sign the alley wall that led to the stage door. They obliged, and right away, the cast extended the invitation to friends and family as well. Now, over a year after opening, barely any empty space remained. Since Mom had only come to the show on opening night, in the flurry of activity before and after the performance, I had forgotten to bring her backstage to sign the wall. Now I could laminate whatever she wrote and affix it to the concrete.
I noticed a small stationery box on her bedside table. “Maybe you could write on the inside of this,” I said. “It’s sturdy.”
“Sure,” she said.
I carefully cut open the flaps of the box and handed it to her.
“I have to write with this pen,” she said, pointing to an oversized, extremely light pen resting on her bed tray. I handed it to her.
“Thanks, Momma,” I said, and I rose off the bed so I wouldn’t be hovering over her. I sat on the floor in front of her large bookcase, busying myself by looking through her collection: Anne Tyler, Raymond Carver, Barbara Kingsolver, and shelves full of others. I wondered how many of them she had read. One of her favorite T-shirts had the words SO MANY BOOKS, SO LITTLE TIME emblazoned on it.
For many minutes I sat there, occasionally glancing back at Mom to see how she was doing. She was lost in concentration, focused entirely on her note. I envisioned taking it to a laminator and proudly sealing it to the wall, sharing what she’d written with my cast mates and friends who would stop by the theatre. It seemed to be taking her an especially long time; she must have had a lot to say. Finally, as I was flipping through her copy of Ellen Foster, I heard her quietly say, “Okay, Tonio, I’m done.”
I eagerly got up and headed over to her bedside and took the piece of cardboard out of her hand. And as soon as I looked down at what I held, I saw that she hadn’t taken so long to write it because she’d had a lot to say; she had taken so long because it had been a physically draining and difficult task. Her normally pristine handwriting had been reduced to almost illegible, wavering scribbles. I gasped, the heat rising in my face; I had not thought that what I was asking her to do would be this difficult. I felt selfish and inconsiderate, stupid and ignorant. And then I read what she had written.
Dear Anthony,
My heart is filled with so much joy, pride and happiness in this wonderful production that you truly deserve to be an important part. I can’t express the joy in my heart I felt when you stepped onstage on opening night and let us have what you have to give to the audience. I’ve dreamed of this for you and knew you would achieve it. I’m also happy you were a part of the show from the onset to opening night.
All our trips to Chicago in our “beaters” were fun because you are fun, full of interesting info.
As your Mom, I felt like my heart could go up to the ceiling giving off spangles of light and gold stars. I know good things will come to you and that you’ll honor them with your talent. AND I’LL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU! I LOVE YOU FOREVER.
MOM
By the time I got to the end, tears had sprung to my eyes, my breath had tightened, and before I knew it, I was gripping my mother’s hand tightly, while turning my face away. “Thank you,” I said through my sobs. “Thank you so much.”
She just gazed at me with peace and love and stillness. “You’re welcome, Tonio,” she said. I looked at her, unable to stop my tears, and as she held her gaze, she gently raised her free hand and ever so lightly rested it on my forehead, softly stroking my hair. She didn’t say anything more. She just watched me as I wept, holding my hand and soothing my brow. I had been so afraid of letting go in front of her, of burdening her with my sorrow, but of course my weeping wasn’t a burden to her. She was my mother, and this was one of the things mothers were supposed to do: provide comfort and love to their children when they were in pain.
“Thank you,” I said again.
Later, Roberta stopped by. She enveloped me in a bear hug in the kitchen. I hadn’t seen her since Rent’s opening night on Broadway, although we’d spoken a couple of times since then when I’d wanted to know how Mom was doing without asking Mom herself. Roberta and her husband, Bob, had moved from Southern California to a Chicago suburb a couple of years ago to be closer to Mom after she got sick, and Roberta had become Mom’s primary caretaker, as well as assuming the role of executrix of Mom’s small estate.
“How are you holding up?” I asked her.
“Okay.” Her big eyes were wider than normal and a little hollow, but strength was, as always, emanating from them. “I’m going to see how our Mary Lee is doing.”
When she left the kitchen I stood there, not sure what to do in this house that had been mine but no longer felt like mine. Especially with its pervasive, stifled air of illness. Restless, I grabbed the phone and checked my messages, discovered there were none, and then found myself staring at the wall. I thought about calling Todd, but, even though we were in a relatively calm moment together, I never knew how he would be on the other end of a phone, so I decided against it.
Mom slept the rest of the day, and I spent some time just sitting with her, watching her shrunken chest softly rise and fall with her shallow breath. I gazed at the bone tumor that had emerged on her forehead, just below her hairline, her pale skin taut and shiny over the bump. I considered her Demerol pump for long moments, and contemplated disobeyin
g her handwritten sign and pushing the button. I rose and looked at the plastic bag that was collecting her urine, lashed to the end of her bed. The urine looked dark and murky. What did that mean? I wondered whether she was dreaming, and whether her dreams were drug-addled fantasies or calm visions of what might be waiting for her in the next life, if there was a next life. Or was her body so wrapped up in its battle against her disease that it could spare no energy for dreaming or anything else, leaving her in a state of total blankness?
I wanted desperately, selfishly, to be there by her side for her final moments. To live that dramatic deathbed scene from so many movies with her, where I would tell her I loved her one last time before she closed her eyes forever, and I would watch her breathing slow and slow and slow and then stop, and I would witness that beautiful transcendent moment when a soul leaves its body. I could practically hear the orchestral accompaniment. I wanted to have that experience with my mother, with all of its melodrama and beauty.
And I wanted this to happen sooner rather than later. How much longer could she possibly hold on? She had already confounded everyone’s expectations by living for over four years after her initial diagnosis. Her mind even seemed to be starting to slow down. All signs were pointing to the end. So what was she waiting for?
The next morning after I awoke, I went to her room and sat next to her for a long while. She barely stirred, even when I said hello and squeezed her hand. She seemed to be smaller and smaller every time I looked at her.
“Momma?” I said, louder than before. “Momma?”
Her eyes finally opened, taking a long time to focus. “Hi, Tonio.” Her voice was faint.
“I want to stay,” I said, not knowing before I said it that it would come out of my mouth. She looked at me and considered this. What I didn’t say, but what I think she knew I meant, was I want to stay because I think you are about to die, and I want to be here when you do.
“Are you sure you can?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “My understudy can go on for me. I want to stay, Momma.”
She blinked slowly several times.
“All right,” she said.
I took a deep breath. “Do you want me to call Adam and have him come home now?” What I didn’t say was Maybe if Adam comes home, and he and Anne and Rachel and I are all here with you, maybe then you will finally be able to say goodbye and let go.
She looked away, her brow furrowed, and said, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you want to see him again?”
“Yes…”
I tried to swallow down the guilt that was now crowding its way into me as I pressed forward; I was uneasy with the idea of forcing my mother’s hand in her own death. But I kept on with it anyway, trying to engineer as much of an opportunity as possible for the end to arrive. “He can come as soon as you want him to, Momma.”
She looked at me again, and I felt keenly that she knew what I was saying. She blinked slowly, holding me in her gaze, then blinked again, the vein in her forehead pulsing, her eyes so sad. And then finally, she said quietly and clearly, “Okay.”
When I left her to sleep some more, I braced myself against the wall of the hallway as a fresh wave of tears flowed out of my eyes. I had bawled so much already—wouldn’t all these fucking endless tears eventually get used up? Wiping my face, trying to control my breathing, and without thinking, I stumbled to the phone in the kitchen and dialed Friends In Deed, asking for Cy.
“This is Cy.”
“Cy, it’s Anthony,” I said, managing to speak around my sobs.
Her voice became low and intense. “How are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my words tumbling out. “I’m home and my mom seems like she’s going, it seems like it might be the end, maybe, and I thought I was ready, but I don’t know…”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yeah, she’s conscious, but I don’t know, she seems like she’s fading, and I can’t stop crying, you know? I just can’t stop crying. I feel like my heart is breaking, like it’s breaking out of my chest.” I sighed deeply. “It’s so hard.”
“Yes,” Cy said. “It is hard. But that’s what hearts do,” she said. “They break. But if you let them, they break open.”
I caught my breath, trying to let in what she was saying, concentrating on her soft, soothing voice. “Yeah,” I said.
“That’s what’s happening to you. Your heart is breaking open. You have to let that happen. Don’t stand in its way.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Of course you can,” she said. “It’s already happening. There’s nothing more you have to do except let it continue. The only way out is through.”
“What do you mean?”
“There will be another side to this, I promise you, but you can only get there by going through what you’re going through. It might not seem like that’s possible right now, but trust me, it is. The only way out is through.”
I rested my head against the wall as I listened to her lovely, calm voice, and twisted the phone cord in my hand. I breathed in, swallowed, and managed to say, “Okay.”
“Just take good care of yourself, and be there for your mother. That’s all you have to do. That’s all you can do.”
“Okay,” I said again.
“Your heart is just pouring out some of the love that’s in there. That’s all that’s happening. You have a lot of love in there. You will come through to the other side of this.”
“Okay,” I said again. “Thank you, Cy.”
“Anytime, honey. I hope you know that. Anything you need, you let me know.”
We said goodbye, and then it was a matter of calling Adam and arranging his travel. I was relieved to have a task to focus on.
“I think she’s going,” I said to Adam, trying to maintain my composure.
“Are you sure?” His voice was steady.
“Well, I don’t know, but I asked her if she wanted you to come home, and she said yes.”
He sighed. “Okay,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, I sat across from a travel agent, my eyes raw, my nerve endings ablaze, watching as she clicked away at her keyboard looking for a reasonable last-minute fare for Adam. A bereavement fare, it was called. I might need to supply some sort of a note from a doctor, she told me; she’d have to check into that. She was chipper and efficient, and her chipperness, which would usually be a comfort, set me on edge. Didn’t she realize the magnitude of the reason she was booking this travel? Couldn’t she tell I was sitting across from her in extreme pain?
As she was typing, I heard the opening chords of R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts” piped in over the office radio, and it took everything I had not to break down right there at the travel agent’s desk. I was turning into a sentimental fool, unable to function normally. I had to get ahold of myself. But Michael Stipe’s reedy, expressive voice had never felt more resonant, his words more true.
I picked Adam up from O’Hare, relieved to be out of the oppressively silent house, grateful to have another task to accomplish. Adam’s huge six-foot-three frame looked absurdly comic emerging from the jetway. We gave each other a brief hug and said our hellos, saying little else on the trip home.
Late that night, when Mom and Adam were asleep—my brother slept so much when he came home, as if the atmosphere in the house was infused with opium that affected only him—I finally decided to call Todd and tell him what was happening. While I dialed his number, my stomach locked up in dread. I listened to the rings and hoped for a helpful response.
“Hi, honey,” he said. He seemed to be in a good mood. That was a relief.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m going to stay longer,” I said. I braced myself to hear how disappointed he was; he often resented my being away from home, away from him, even for important reasons.
“I think it’s near the end,” I said.
But he wasn’t disappointed. Or if he was, he didn’t s
ay so. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” he said. “I’ll take care of the cats, you don’t have to worry.”
I’d been steeled for a bad reaction, so I had to adjust to what I was hearing. “Um, great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Just be there for her,” he said.
“I will.” Disarmed by and grateful for this lovely moment of kindness from him, I stuffed down tears. It was these moments, and my hope that they would become more common, that sustained me through our rockier times. I said, “I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too,” he replied.
Later that night I still couldn’t sleep, so I busied myself with responding to e-mails. As I sat at the kitchen table in the middle-of-the-night silence of Mom’s house, listening to the low hum of the refrigerator, basking in the glow of my laptop’s screen, I felt the return of my old sense of productivity and comfort. Night had always been my favorite time when I lived at home; there was no one to bother me, nothing to heed but my own will.
I became centered and clearheaded as I typed, glad to get caught up, glad to keep the connection to my life in New York alive. But in a pause in my finger’s rhythm, I heard a tiny sound from very far away. I froze. It was muffled and high-pitched, a plaintive cry that I realized was coming from Mom’s room. I leaped out of my chair, my heart thudding, and her words reached me as I headed to her room.
“Somebody? Somebody? Help? Somebody?”
I made it to her doorway, where in the moonlight I could make out her darting eyes, and her bony hands clutching at her bedspread. I rushed to her side.
“Momma, I’m here,” I said. “I’m here. What’s the matter?”
“I’m…thirsty…” she gasped.