Good Riddance(82)

I could tell that Jeremy, like me, was pondering whether to disabuse him of all thoughts of Broadway, but we didn’t.

Kathi stood up. “Agree. Totally. Save the rest for opening night, wherever that may be.”

“Did I hear a vote for grabbing dinner?” I asked.

“Starved,” said my dad. “But first, I’d like a private word with Daphne.”

Both Jeremy and Kathi said sure, of course; they’d discuss where to eat and make a reservation.

Once we were alone, my father said, “Somewhere in the story, do you ever speak kindly of your mother?”

I couldn’t tell from his expression whether that would be a good thing or an unwelcome one.

“She wasn’t perfect,” he said. “But she had many wonderful qualities. Her students testified to that. I mean, seniors don’t dedicate a yearbook to a teacher unless she was everyone’s favorite. And, honey, you were so broken up when she died. Maybe you could think about that, the terrible loss, what you felt like when the call from the hospital came, when I told you she didn’t make it. And not that it’s my bailiwick, but wouldn’t it be a very dramatic moment on the stage, re-creating that phone call?”

I said, “It would be, for sure.”

“She loved her girls,” he said. “And I know you loved her back.”

What harm in saying that his fond wish had already come true, that there were beautiful lines toward the end about how we all loved one another despite bumps in the road? “Done,” I said.

“I didn’t want to meddle, but what a relief.”

Also ahead, still unaired, was a question it took a playwright in search of motivation to answer: Why did my mother want me to have the yearbook?

To Jeremy, her thinking was clear: She’d been younger than my dad and healthy. Surely she’d outlive him. He would die, then she would die, and I’d be an orphan, unlike Holly who had a husband and children. My mother would have wanted me to know that I wasn’t alone, that there was a spare parent on the bench. The yearbook was never meant to be a puzzle; she’d merely died before she’d had the chance to turn down the corner of Peter Armstrong’s page.

As soon as we were alone after dinner, Jeremy asked me what the powwow had been about.

“My mother. He was reminding me that I loved her.”

“I knew that.”

“I’d forgotten,” I said.





42


Sisters



The show was as fine-tuned as we could make it. We’d applied to every festival that had a reasonable submission deadline; we’d sent out what we thought was a charming and wry fund-raising appeal, and mounted a CrowdRise campaign that brought in $525.

Who did we know who had money to spare? “Any chance your sister would want to have her name on this as producer?” Jeremy asked me one morning.

I called Holly as soon as it was a decent hour in Los Angeles. First, I raved about the recent photo of her boys at their jujitsu-belt promotion ceremony. Then I asked if she missed work, not that I was discounting, no, not at all, full-time motherhood; but would she welcome an opportunity to flex her organizational and entrepreneurial muscles?

“I’m listening,” she said.

I explained that Jeremy had written a show starring me, and we needed a producer. And who better than a young, ambitious go-getter who lived in LA, had a year of law school, a nanny, and might welcome a new professional identity?

“Is this about money?” she asked.

“Somewhat. Plus the title, the prestige, and a very nice thing to have on your CV.”

“Let me talk to Doug,” she said.

We sent her Jeremy’s impressive credentials and the script, which she pronounced “cute,” an adjective we found slightly patronizing but not enough to turn down her first check. With it, she’d sent a contract stating that if her investment (postcards, my head shot, a portable projector, a case of wine for the reading) was a box-office hit, it would return to her 90 percent of the profits.

“It’s fine, since it won’t make a penny,” Jeremy said, handing me the pen. The assistant bank manager, acting as notary, asked if that was true.

I said, “We’re putting on a play.”

“Got it,” he said.



Dad, Kathi, Holly, Jeremy, and I dined together the night before the staged reading. I tried to talk Holly out of a get-together due to my superstition and nerves. But Holly was host and concierge, even in a city she didn’t know. She’d dropped her own name as producer of Dirty Laundry, scoring a table at Orso, chosen for its theatergoing cred.

We’d just been handed menus. Which daughter noticed first? Me. “Is that what I think it is?” I yelped.

Kathi looked down at her hand at the oval sapphire with its halo of tiny diamonds, then said apologetically, “It is.”

I jumped up, kissed her first, then my red-eyed dad. “It’s fine,” I whispered. “All good.”

“When were you going to tell us?” Holly asked.

“Day after tomorrow,” my dad said. “You’d come for brunch before you’d leave. We didn’t want to steal your sister’s thunder.”

“I considered leaving it at home tonight,” said Kathi. “I was picturing Holly meeting her father’s girlfriend for the first time, and boom, she’s his fiancée.” Her hand was splayed and she was gazing fondly at it. “But I can’t bring myself to take it off.”