I'm Glad My Mom Died(25)

“Yeah.”

“He makes me laugh. I was hoping he’d make you laugh too.”

“Thanks, Poppy Seed.”

“?’Course,” he says with a nod. “You know, I hope you remember to have fun. Life should be fun for a kid.”

Grandpa bends down, picks up the hose and starts watering the grass again. I look down at Mike, running my thumb over his rubbery skin while I think about what Grandpa said.

Fun isn’t a thing I’m particularly familiar with. Life’s a serious thing. There’s a lot going on in this place. Being prepared and working hard and doing well are far more important than fun.

I tuck Mike Wazowski into my pocket and go back to my Russian accent.





24.


I’M LOOKING DOWN AT THE papers in front of me. The stack of 110 freshly printed papers filled with size 12 Courier New font. This is Henry Road, my first screenplay.

I printed the screenplay out because I can’t wait to show it to Mom. I know she could use a pick-me-up since she’s in the hospital right now. It can’t be easy for Mom, to be in the hospital as often as she is—typically several times a year. Even though sometimes the reason she’s in the hospital is unrelated to her cancer (like this time when she’s there for her diverticulitis—or diverticulosis, I’m never sure which one it is), the fear is always there… the fear that maybe when she’s having an exam or a test or a surgery, the doctor will find a recurrence of her cancer.

Grandpa drives me to the hospital in his beat-up, dark-blue Buick with the Bush/Cheney bumper sticker. I sit in the back seat thumbing my pages.

“Be careful you don’t get a paper cut, hun,” Grandpa tells me while he drives through a light that’s in the middle of turning red.

We get to the hospital. I’ve been to a lot of hospitals for Mom’s various health conditions, but I’ve never been to this one. This one’s small, boutique-seeming. It’s less daunting than they usually are, and less mazelike, so we find our way to Mom’s room quickly.

She’s resting, but when she hears my footsteps, her eyes flutter open and she beams. “Hi, Net!” Her smile makes me smile.

“Hi, Nonny Mommy!”

I sit down in the chair next to her bed and take her hand in mine. I notice that our wrists are the same size.

“What did you bring with you?” Mom asks, gesturing to the stack of papers tucked under my other arm.

I can hardly contain my excitement. There’s a wheeled food table that’s rolled up to Mom’s bed—much more luxurious than the white folding mat we eat on at home. The food tray on top of it—the turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes, side of chicken noodle soup, and crackers—are uneaten. I shove the food over a bit to make a clearing and then I plop my pages on top of the table proudly.

“It’s my screenplay. Henry Road.”

“You wrote a screenplay?” Mom asks. I’m sure she’s impressed. But then a concerned look crosses her face.

“Have you been going outside every day for twenty minutes to get your vitamin D?”

“Of course,” I say, reassuring her.

“And you’ve been going to your dance classes?”

“Yep.”

She thumbs the cover page, but not with the pride I have when I thumb it. Her thumbing has a sadness to it.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s just…” Mom looks down and smiles wistfully. This is one of her most rehearsed-looking expressions to me. I’ve never once seen her do this expression and felt like it was really coming from her in that moment. It always feels forced.

“It’s just what?” I ask.

“It’s just… I hope you don’t like writing more than you like acting. You’re so good at acting. So, so good at it.”

Suddenly I’m embarrassed I gave Mom my screenplay. I’m ashamed. How could I be so stupid? She would never support this.

“Of course I don’t like writing more than acting. I could never.”

Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I think I sound fake, with the feigned innocence of the characters on the Leave It to Beaver reruns that Grandma insists on watching even though I hate them so much.

Mom doesn’t notice that I’m lying, even though it feels so obvious in my bones that I am. I absolutely prefer writing to acting. Through writing, I feel power for maybe the first time in my life. I don’t have to say somebody else’s words. I can write my own. I can be myself for once. I like the privacy of it. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s judging. Nobody’s weighing in. No casting directors or agents or managers or directors or Mom. Just me and the page. Writing is the opposite of performing to me. Performing feels inherently fake. Writing feels inherently real.

“Well good,” Mom says as she eyes me, as if she’s deciding whether or not she can trust my response. “Writers dress frumpy and get fat, you know? I would never want your little actress’s peach butt to turn into a big, giant writer’s watermelon butt.”

Duly noted. Me writing makes Mom unhappy. Me acting makes Mom happy. I pick up the pages from the food table and tuck them back under my arm.

As an afterthought, Mom asks what the screenplay is about.

“It’s the story of a ten-year-old boy and his best friend as they try and pair their single parents together.”