"You don't like your body?"
"Are you kidding? My hips are too big, my thighs are too fat, and my skin is too white."
"You have a great body."
"Not if you saw me naked."
"You'll have to show me sometime. Let me judge for myself."
I laughed and she smiled and I blushed thinking how this was just like we were actually flirting with each other. I felt like having a piece of that cake. Too bad it was gone now. I took a long sip of latte and then decided to tell her.
"My sister," I said quietly, "she died four years ago. She killed herself."
Kelly looked at me, suddenly quiet. "How?"
"Drug overdose."
Diana had once told me, jokingly, that she would never do herself in by cutting again—it left such unsightly scars (ha ha).
Kelly's face made me tear up again. The sympathy. I hate that sympathy. It was right there next to pity. Sorrow. Horror. Dread. It was right next to Please God don't let something that bad happen to me.
As if it was my fault. It wasn't my fault that she died!
"How old was she?"
"Twenty-three."
"God."
"I was twenty-one."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
We both stared down at the remains of the frosting and crumbs left on the plate. I wondered if she would ask me more. Most people didn't. Too uncomfortable.
"Did you see it coming?" she asked.
In other words, I thought, did you know she was suicidal but failed to do anything about it?
"She had a history of being manic-depressive," I said, in a clinical tone I sometimes get when I'm talking about her. "And she took lithium for years. But she wanted to get off it. She said it was making her hair fall out. And making her forget things all the time, like her lines, which was freaking her out. Or maybe she was freaking out because she started not taking it. I'm not really sure."
I flashed on the last time I saw her alive. We were at the coffee shop at the Edison Hotel, a hangout for actors near Times Square. We were sharing a piece of cheesecake and guzzling coffee. She was in rehearsals for an Off Off Broadway play. It should've been a wonderful time for her. And up until that day, it was. She had the best part in the best production she'd been cast in since moving to New York. And she was in love with Gerold, the playwright. And they were having a very hot affair.
Gerold was British, and she had a whole fantasy going that she would move with him to London and be Marilyn Monroe to his Arthur Miller (but with a happier ending).
The only problem was, he had a wife back home and a baby too. Diana knew about them, but was able to believe they would be deleted from the picture. But then the wife arrived, with the child, a week before opening night.
"Suddenly he's acting like he doesn't know me."
"That's rough."
"If he thinks I'm going to keep my mouth shut—"
"You're going to tell his wife?"
"She should know the truth."
"Forget about the affair, Diana. This is a great part for you. They have reviewers coming. Don't blow this!"
"Forget about the affair?! You see, you have no idea, Jennifer, you just don't. I'm fighting for what I want, and I love Gerold."
"Then you're being stupid, because he's obviously a jerk."
"Because he's having an affair with me? Thanks a lot."
"That's not what I mean."
"You should see his wife. She's an idiot. And he's madly in love with me. And I'm not going to let him give in to her just because he's afraid."
"Fine. It's your funeral."
Two days later she called me in tears. The wife had been sitting in on a rehearsal, which made Diana tense. When the director criticized something Diana was doing, she blew up at him. When Gerold wouldn't back her up, she blurted out about the affair. The wife threw a fit, Diana threw an even bigger fit, and the director fired Diana.
"There will be other plays," I said, thinking that even if there were, she'd have some variation on the same problems all over again.
"None that are written by Gerold."
"He's not worth it."
"But I love him."
I wanted to get off the phone. We'd been on the phone for three hours already going in circles, and nothing I could say was making her feel better and I just wanted to get off the phone.
"You'll get over him, Diana, you know you will."
"No I won't. He wrote that part. That part was perfect for me. It was me. How could he let this happen?"
"I don't know. Look, why don't you get some sleep? It will be better in the morning."
"No it won't. It will never be better. You don't understand. Gerold means everything to me."
"I'm sorry. But I have to hang up now. Okay?"
"You don't care, do you."
"I do care. But I'm really tired, and I don't know what else to say."
"Fine. Go. Sorry to keep you up."
I could hear the icy tone in her voice. I can still hear it inside my head. "Call me tomorrow," I said.
"Good night, Jennifer."
She didn't call me the next day. I tried her once from work, but got the machine. I was relieved she didn't answer. I didn't want to have to listen to her go on more about Gerold.
When I got home from work, I set up a nice dinner for myself on the table. A turkey sandwich (with very little mayonnaise) from my favorite deli on
Ninth Avenue. A bag of potato chips. And a can of Diet Coke. I had a copy of that day's Post with a juicy story about Madonna on the cover, and I was just about to sit down to eat when the phone rang. I picked it up with dread, assuming it was Diana. Now I'd have to hear about Gerold and his wife, or tell her to call back later, which would annoy her. It was my mother. She'd spoken to Diana the evening before, after she'd hung up with me.
"She was inconsolable," my mother said. "I told her to call me today, but I haven't heard from her. I want you to go down to her apartment."
"Now?"
"Right now. Take a cab."
I looked at my turkey sandwich. I couldn't eat it now. I put it in the refrigerator. I never would eat it. As a matter of fact, after that day, I wouldn't eat much of anything for weeks.
And now, here I was, sitting with Kelly, looking down at a plate of crumbs from a cake I couldn't eat. Kelly was silent. I looked up at her. She smiled with sympathy and waited for me to say more.
"She was pretty unhappy. But that wasn't exactly unusual. And two weeks before she died, she was high as a kite. So how do you know when this unhappiness is going to be, you know, the unhappiness."
Kelly looked at me with such compassion. "You couldn't know," she said.
Again the tears. The stupid tears. I wiped them away as quickly as I could.
"I'm surprised it still gets me so upset."
"Are you kidding? Four years ago is like yesterday. That's asking a lot of yourself to be over it already. Who could have that kind of perspective?"
I wondered. Was she saying that as a sideways—or not so
sideways—criticism of my play? Was that why she had only said it was "good" not "great" not "fantastic"? Because she didn't think I had perspective? I hated feeling so insecure. It shouldn't have been so important for me to know she liked it.
"I think I do have a lot of perspective on it," I said. "Just maybe not as much emotional distance as I would want."
"Yes, well, that's why the play is so passionate. Your feelings are there. It's powerful."
I stretched my mouth into a smile, acknowledging the compliment though it didn't really feel like one. "It's ridiculous how insecure we can all be about our work."
"I'm not insecure about my work," she said. "I know I'm talented."
She didn't say it like she was bragging. She said it like she was saying the simple truth.
I went home feeling utterly exposed. I never should've told her about my sister. Now I felt naked. Naked and unattractive. I went home wishing I could be more like Kelly. So i
ncredibly self-confident. So well equipped to take on the world. Why did I have to be me? I was boring. Repressed. Uncool. And now I'd written a play about my uncool, boring, repressed self. Why did I think anyone would be interested in anything I had to say? For that matter, why did I write when I hated hearing the sound of my own voice?! So my play must be a piece of garbage. Instead of sending it to Peter, I should've dragged the whole file to the trash icon on my computer and clicked on EMPTY. But I didn't, so now we were all wasting our time on my moronic, stupid, idiotic play.
I let myself into my apartment. My "very own apartment in New York City." My "glamorous" Hell's Kitchen dump. And I got out my dustbuster and vacuumed out all the dust balls from under my bed and every corner. And I thought about all the negative thoughts I brought down on myself, and wondered why I did that. Kelly certainly didn't say mean things like that to herself. She said nice, supportive, affirming things. When I was done vacuuming, I got in bed and burrowed down under the covers. I didn't feel very lucky to be me. But at least, I reminded myself, I wasn't dead.
Chapter 5
Kelly's talent was obvious to everyone in the production. She was great at bringing out the sexuality and the aggression that were part of Julia. She had no discomfort with those qualities, and no inhibitions.
She also could take the passages where Julia talks about her own pain and make them very powerful. This made me feel good, because I had some worry that I'd slanted the play from the younger sister's point of view and I wanted the audience to feel for both sisters and see both points of view.
Annie was having more trouble with her role. She was still having a hard time making Melanie a worthy opponent. She tended to be too passive. To let Julia win too easily. I worried the audience would just think she was a loser and wouldn't care about her.
I listened as they worked through the second scene of the play. A year has passed, and Melanie is engaged to be married. And unsure if she can go through with it.
Melanie: "I'm just not sure what I want anymore."
Julia: "You can't get married for them. You have to put yourself first. You have to be selfish."
Melanie: "But all the planning... the expense."
Julia: "You can't think about that!"
Melanie: "It would hurt George incredibly!"
Julia: "Wouldn't it be worse marrying him when that's not what you really want? Wouldn't that be hurting him much more?"
Melanie: "I don't know. I don't want to hurt anyone."
Melanie paused there and looked at Julia intently before continuing.
Melanie: "Why does it feel like whatever I do, someone is going to get hurt?"
Meaning Julia, I thought. I hoped Annie understood I meant Julia would get hurt.
Julia: "If you want, I'll tell Mom and Dad. And Dad will tell George, and then Mom will call everyone, and it will be just like it was never going to happen."
Melanie: "But it's crazy."
Julia: "It's okay. If you need to be crazy then be crazy."
Melanie: "Okay."
Melanie was supposed to take a pause before responding to that. But Annie didn't take a pause at all. She said it way too casually. She wasn't feeling it. I looked at Peter to see if he was picking up on this. But I knew to keep quiet. It was too early in rehearsal for me to say anything, probably too soon for him too. We had to give the actresses time to find their way.
Kelly, as Julia, went to stand right behind Melanie. She put her hand on her shoulder. Don't touch her, I wanted to say. They wouldn't touch now.
Or maybe they would. Maybe that was just me who wouldn't have touched. But my sister would've. Maybe Kelly's instincts were right. I kept quiet.
Julia: "Are you sure? Because this has to be your decision."
Again, Melanie should've taken her time there. But Annie responded too easily.
Melanie: "Yes."
Julia: "Fine. I'll go tell Mom and Dad."
Kelly walked to where the door would be.
Julia: "I'm glad that I'm here to help. After all. That's what sisters are for. Right?"
Annie suddenly stood up and broke character. "I'm having a big problem with this."
"Okay,” Peter said. “Let's talk about it.”
"I find it hard to say these lines. My impulse would be to murder this woman, but Melanie lets Julia walk all over her."
"Yeah, well that's your own head, Annie, you have to get inside Melanie's head."
"I'm trying. It's just that she's so weak."
Annie glanced slightly at me, and I tried not to flinch.
"But she's not weak," Peter said. "She's quite strong. But it's an inner strength."
"An inner strength? She let her sister talk her out of getting married!"
"Even that, she's doing out of strength."
"I'm sorry, but I don't see it that way."
"She's doing it for her sister. To protect her older sister, who would be devastated."
"Why? I mean, it's not like it actually would devastate her."
"Melanie thinks it would."
"But she's wrong!"
I had to keep my mouth shut. This was Peter's job, to talk to the actresses. It was a special skill that I knew I didn't have. Some writers can, or think they can, and they direct their own plays. But there's a whole art to putting things in a way that will help the actors and not just sound like criticism. Plus a director doesn't have to feel defensive about the writing.
And Annie's objections to this scene made me feel insecure. Maybe the younger sister was totally weak, and therefore unsympathetic, like me, and so the play must be totally flawed, like me, and, in fact, the older sister was the only one who the audience would care about.
I looked to Peter for his response, wishing he would say something here that would answer her brilliantly. Explain the play, explain my life. Kelly, who'd been silent, also looked at Peter and waited.
"It doesn't matter if she's right or she's wrong," he said. "That's not for us to be able to know. The important thing is that's how she feels."
Annie said nothing to that. Unconvinced.
"Hold on to this frustration," he said. "And use it. Let it be there, beneath everything Melanie says. But you can't let it out yet. You have to hold it in until the last scene. Okay, let's go on."
I could see by the troubled look on her face that Annie was not satisfied. She didn't look at me as they went on. I wanted to tell her I got it. I knew Melanie could be frustrating. Give her time, I wanted to say, because she will get better before the end.
After rehearsal was over Annie took off right away. I glanced at Kelly thinking wistfully of cake and coffee, but she didn't meet my glance, gathered her things, and left with a quick good-bye.
I wondered if this was a bad sign. A lack of enthusiasm for the project. Or maybe they just needed some personal distance as they worked through finding their parts. Or maybe they just needed to get somewhere.
Oh well, it wasn’t like I should expect to get reassurance from everyone about my play after every single rehearsal. If I'd learned anything from my previous productions (and being around Diana) it was that actors were the ones who needed to be reassured. Writers get to do multiple rewrites before they show their work to anyone. Actors didn't have the chance to correct their mistakes before offering themselves up to the scrutiny of rehearsals.
So what happens when everyone needs to be stroked? Who is there to do the stroking? I looked for Peter. As director, he was the ultimate parental figure. Full of confidence and superior knowledge. I joined him and Carol. They were talking about transporting some lumber to the theater for building the flats. Once that was figured out, Carol asked if Peter and I wanted to go to Rosie O'Grady's for drinks. I would've gone if Peter had said yes, but he didn't, and I didn't want to go alone with Carol.
"No thanks," I said, hoping she didn't notice my initial partial nod.
She left, and I turned to Peter. "Maybe I shouldn't keep coming to rehearsals.”
"Why?"
"Annie didn't seem to have a problem with that, and I don't think Kelly will either when she feels the need."
"That's nice of you to say, but—"
"I'm not being nice. I want you to be at rehearsals. And you shouldn't be afraid to speak up. We're lucky to have you here. If we're screwing up, you can let us know. Listen," he said, "do you want to go out for a drink?"
"Sure." I tried not to let him see how pleased I was. Especially since he'd dodged Carol so we could be alone. "But I have to be at work in an hour."
"What do you do?"
"Word processing."
"Ahhhh."
"At a law firm."
"Mmm."
"Really boring. But the pay isn't bad. And I get to listen to music on my headphones when I type."
"There you go."
"And when it's slow, I can work on my plays and they don't even care."
"Sounds like a great job."
"Well," I said, "it's good for now."
It wasn't until we were down at Rosie O'Grady's, after I'd looked around making sure Carol wasn't sitting somewhere nursing a drink all by herself, that I couldn't help but ask. "Do you think there was some truth to what Annie was saying? That she should put up more of a fight in that scene?"
"Do you?"
My answer came fast enough. "I think she's not there yet. She's too inside the problem. She doesn't see what she lets Julia do. Or what she lets herself do, for that matter."
"That's what I think," he said. "Look. When you take a play apart—do one scene over and over like we're doing—it's natural for the actor to want to fit the whole play into that one scene."
"Yes." I agreed. That made sense.
"When she has a chance to run through the whole play, she'll be able to pace herself. Annie isn't very experienced so she's probably feeling insecure."
"On the other hand," I said, "Kelly seems totally sure of herself. And she takes direction well, don't you think?"
"We were lucky to find her."
"We really were."
There was an awkward pause. I was aware that I was championing Kelly to him again (as if she needed that) and aware of wanting him to approve of Kelly (but not too much).
Thoughts While Having Sex Page 5