Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent (23 page)

I mailed off the letter but received no reply from Mom, in either a letter or a conversation. And as free and open as I’d felt while I was writing the letter, whenever I’d get on the phone with Mom my throat would close in on itself and I’d lose my nerve to ask her what she thought of what I’d written, and we’d go entire conversations without addressing a single point I’d brought up in the letter. Maybe it had been too much for her, I thought. Maybe I had been unfair. It was all well and good for me to sit by myself with my pen and paper at my desk, where I could safely pour out my thoughts, and then hide my head when I lobbed them over to Mom like a grenade. Mom hated confrontation, she’d had so much of it growing up, and I knew that, but it hadn’t stopped me from trying to get through to her.

But finally, when we were talking about my plans for Christmas that year, I drew up my courage and said as nonchalantly as possible, “David would love to come home with me. He’d love to meet you and the rest of the family.”

And without missing a beat, Mom said, “Well, that would be nice.”

“Great,” I said, careful not to display too much relief. New anxieties quickly followed, though: What if they didn’t get along? What would Anne and Ken and Roberta and Rachel think? Would Mom let us sleep in the same bed in her house? Would the holiday be unbearably tense and difficult? But I didn’t air any of those concerns, and Mom and I, as usual, didn’t speak any more about it.

My anxiety proved to be groundless. Mom and David sparked to each other readily, although I imagined Mom had prepared herself to remain distant. But even if she had, her reserve melted in the face of David’s rare and easy charm. He was exceedingly well-bred and had a kind of primal knowledge of how to socialize, how to chat and joke and compliment and listen attentively, all while eagerly sitting up straight, his face bursting into raucous smiles, his strong, clear voice resonating in all the right ways. He was a few years older than I and a real gentleman, and I watched Mom begin to take him into her heart, her eyes glinting during their conversations.

We had Christmas dinner at Roberta’s house, feasting on a gorgeous meal she and her husband, Bob, both of them master chefs, had prepared for us. I felt almost giddy with relief as I wolfed down their food (they had been careful to provide vegetarian selections for me) and observed Roberta and Bob welcome David into their home and our family without a shred of reservation on their part. I should have known I’d have allies in Roberta and Bob; she’d always been a freethinking, self-made, slightly bohemian woman, and though I didn’t know Bob well, I imagined she’d never allow herself to marry anyone who viewed life more narrowly than she. I also loved watching Mom quietly relax into a sweet, satisfied glow while she was in Roberta’s presence. They were best friends, best sisters, soul mates, with what felt to me like a complete and utter understanding of each other’s very being, even though they couldn’t be more different at first glance. Mom was forever quiet and small, while Roberta was often boisterous and large. Mom had a cultivated sense of propriety, while Roberta had little, happily cursing her head off when she felt like it. Mom shrank from arguments, while Roberta seemed hungry for a good, chunky debate. Mom abstained from substances, including alcohol, while Roberta drank plenty of wine with dinner, even allowing herself to generate a healthy buzz, loosening her tongue and laughter even more than usual. And yet I never sensed any disapproval emanating from Mom toward her younger sister; I sensed only deep love, and an abiding connection and trust. I envied Roberta for that.

Little five-year-old Rachel glommed onto David with her usual zeal, begging him to repeat again and again their impromptu game in which he swung her around the room by her arms and legs, her chirpy squeals cascading out of her, her adorably chubby-cheeked face overwhelmed with joy. I watched Mom watching their game to see if she disapproved in any way of David’s contact with Rachel, but Mom just beamed with pride at her child. After the fifth round, Mom said, “Oh, Rachel, you’re going to make David fall over from exhaustion,” to which Rachel replied, “No I’m not!” to which Mom said, without a tinge of reprimand, “Oh, Rachel, you’re so silly,” and then she settled into an easy laugh in response to Rachel’s endless squeals.

I was proud of Mom and proud of David and proud of myself for the way the visit went between all of us. But as time went on I lost confidence in sharing our relationship with Mom, especially as it started to sour, and our fights grew more and more common (a pattern reminiscent of my relationship with Keith). A little over a year after bringing David home with me, I broke up with him to be with Marcus, whom I’d met while David was away on a German tour of
West Side Story.
I was fast becoming what one friend called a “serial monogamist,” and I felt ashamed to tell Mom that David, this wonderfully engaging, sweet man, whom she’d perhaps begun to think of as a possible son-in-law, had not been enough to sustain me, for reasons that I couldn’t articulate even to myself. (Was it that I was too proud to admit that I was young and immature and didn’t really know the first thing about maintaining an adult relationship?) All I knew was that David and I had grown apart and that Marcus and I seemed to be more of a match. I halfheartedly told Mom about breaking up with David and about my new relationship with Marcus. She listened, but as our conversation went on to other topics, I could feel a shift in the landscape between us, I could feel old anxieties of hers resurfacing. And for the next three years my old, familiar constraint and fear ruled any talks I had with her about my romantic life.

Joliet seemed to be undergoing some sort of boom, I noticed as I drove into town from O’Hare airport on July 1, 1996: generic, identical new homes were sprouting up everywhere in newly minted subdivisions, and there were more five-store strip malls dotting the landscape than I’d ever seen. As always during my brief visits home, I was grateful that I had gotten out of Joliet’s culturally anemic suburban sprawl.

I pulled into the tiny driveway of Mom’s three-unit condominium and parked, pausing behind the steering wheel to take in a few steadying breaths. I had no idea what condition Mom would be in when I went inside, and I had no idea whether we would be able to have a conversation about my new boyfriend, Todd, on this trip. Staring out the windshield at the new row of houses where there once had been a cornfield, I resolved to talk to Mom about Todd no matter what. I grabbed my overnight bag, got out of my rental car, and opened the door to Mom’s house.

The small house was full of people: Anne, five months pregnant, who stood in the kitchen chatting on the phone, wrapping its long cord around her fingers; eight-year-old Rachel, who sat in the living room on the lap of an older woman with long gray hair—a stranger to me, who I figured to be Mary, the woman sent from Joliet Hospice to help Mom take care of Rachel; and Mom, who lay in her usual spot on the couch, her thin legs bent in an upside-down
V
before her. No sooner had I closed the door behind me than Zelda, Mom’s probably-half
-beagle, maybe-half-Labrador, definitely-treasured mutt, let out her customary full-throated barks and leaped up onto me, attempting to lick my face off.

“Zelda Lou, no jumping,” Mom said from the couch as sternly as possible, but having little effect.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said, although a strong, heavy Zelda threatened to knock me over with the force of her affection. “Hi, Z,” I said. “Hi there.” Mom had rescued Zelda from an abusive family soon after Zucchini’s untimely death. She had lavished her with love and care, and Zelda had responded wonderfully.

“Zelda, get
down,”
Rachel said, her little-girl voice doing its best imitation of Mom. Zelda didn’t obey, of course, but I finally managed to shove her gently away so I could give proper hugs to my family. Rachel clutched me as tightly as always, Anne gave her usual half-second, lighter-than-air embrace, and Mom squeezed me into her with as much strength as she could muster, which wasn’t a lot. She didn’t look much worse than I’d seen her in April, though.

“Anthony, this is Mary,” Mom said. Mary didn’t get up out of the chair she was sitting in, but she smiled up at me.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, her voice mild. I hoped she’d heard only good stuff. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

Mom had made her little house into her cozy haven, surrounding herself with flourishing plants and shelves of books and her adored Charles Wysocki prints, and I perched myself on the sofa, taking it all in again. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. I was proud of her for creating such a comfortable environment for herself, even though I didn’t share her taste for countrified furnishings.

I chatted with Mom for a little while, extremely conscious of the brevity of my visit, and hoping for an opportunity to be alone with her. Rachel and Anne didn’t leave, though, and they began to talk intensely to each other, and soon Rachel whined, “No! I don’t
want
to go!”

I glanced over at Mom and asked her softly, “What’s going on?”

Mom worriedly watched Rachel talk to Anne as she answered. “Anne and Ken want to take Rachel up to the Smiths’ cabin in Michigan for the Fourth of July.”

“Why doesn’t she want to go?”

“She’s afraid of leaving me,” Mom said, her brow furrowed. “She’s afraid of being away in case anything happens to me.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” I said.

“Yes, but it’s important that she learns that she can go and that I’ll be okay,” Mom said.

“I guess that’s true.”

Rachel began to cry, her wails enormous and heartbreaking.

“Rachel, come here,” Mom said, her voice a blend of authority and compassion. Rachel reluctantly headed over to Mom, her face twisted up from her crying.

“I don’t want to
go,”
she said.

“Well, you have to go,” Mom said. “You’ll have fun.”

“I don’t
want
to have fun!”

“Oh, Rachel, yes you do.”

“Rachel,” Anne said, sounding like she was trying to control exasperation, “we’ll have a good time.”

“I don’t
want
to have a good time!”

I decided to step in, putting my hand on Rachel’s back, trying to soothe her. “Rachel, honey, you’ll be okay. It’s only for a couple of days.”

“Nooooooooo,” Rachel said.

“Well, Mom,” Anne said, “I’ve got to get going. Ken’s waiting for me.”

“Okay, Annie,” Mom said.

“Let me know if she changes her mind,” Anne said as she left.

Rachel’s crying had quieted down, and she stood staring mournfully at the floor. “Come here, honey,” I said. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her onto my lap, squeezing her tightly. She’d had so many difficult and transformative circumstances to get used to in her young life, and I figured Mom was often too weary to give Rachel the kind of attention that she craved. Rachel clutched me tightly and buried her face into my neck. I glanced over at Mom and saw how concerned and conflicted she was, but I didn’t know what to say to her, and so in my usual fashion I said nothing.

“Rachel, honey,” Mary said. “Why don’t we go for a swim?”

I could feel her sigh in my arms. “Okay,” she said. Part of me was sad to see her go, and part of me was relieved that I’d have time alone with Mom, and still another part was dreading that alone time.

“Have fun,” Mom said.

“Oh, we will,” Mary said, and then she and Rachel were gone. For the first time since I’d arrived home, there was silence in the house. I glanced over at Mom, my head spinning around, trying to figure out where to begin our conversation.

“So how are you, Tonio?”

“I’m fine, Momma,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, pretty good. I’m just tired a lot. The radiation makes me tired. But I’m basically pretty good.”

“That’s good,” I said, then sat in silence, waiting for the next move.

“How’s the show going?”

“It’s amazing,” I said. “I’m having such a great time.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah,” I said. And finally I decided to say, “I got my third-ever HIV test. Negative.”

“Well, you’d better stay negative, Anthony,” she said, quickly.

“Oh, I will, Mom, I promise,” I said, just as quickly.

“Don’t ever take any chances.”

“I won’t. I haven’t yet.”