I'm Glad My Mom Died(56)

During these last few months of Mom’s life, her request has tormented me. I’ve been thinking about it constantly. I even practiced the song every night last month until my neighbor taped a piece of paper to my door that read: NO MORE BETTE MIDLER.

Due to some lingering Mormon beliefs, I think this means Mom will be looking down at me today, disappointed, from her throne in the Celestial Kingdom—the highest kingdom of heaven in the Mormon faith. No way Mom wound up in the Terrestrial or Telestial trash kingdoms. Gross.

I’m whipped out of my train of thought when Sara starts pulling out all the stops on that final chorus. You know what? Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should be brave. Maybe I should sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Mom’s funeral. For Christ’s sake, literally. My afterlife depends on it.

Marcus turns into the parking lot of the Garden Grove 6th Ward of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the church we grew up in. We walk up the front steps and in through the back door. I haven’t been here in years, but it looks and smells exactly how I remember it. Carpet cleaner and burlap, baby. White tiles in the entryway, blue carpet in the hallways, pictures of Christ in various settings with disciples plastered everywhere. (Long hair on a guy does nothing for me, but the man does have a great jawline.)

Marcus and Elizabeth peel off to greet people so I’m left alone. I head to the family waiting room and take a seat next to bleary-eyed Dustin, Scottie, and Grandma. I reach in my purse and pull out the “Wind Beneath My Wings” sheet music that I printed out last night, just in case. I thumb it and go over the words to make sure I have them memorized. I’m mentally singing it to myself, cringing when I get to the chorus. Shit. I know in my heart that I’m incapable of singing this song, but I feel like I have to. I can’t break the last promise I made to my dying mother.

I see the pianist walk by and I’m about to hand her the sheet music, but just then, the pallbearers show up to bring Mom’s casket into the room. They are milking their moment. Pallbearers love the spotlight. My brothers are crying. Grandma’s wailing. “There aren’t enough cold cuts! We underestimated the turnout!”

I’m the headliner of the eulogy lineup, so I have all the eulogies to sit through while I go back and forth on whether there’s any way I can attempt the song. I would say I could bring the whole song down a step or two, but then the verses will be too low. I would say I could tweak the chorus melody, but let’s be real, you don’t “tweak” a Bette Midler melody. Bette knew what she was doing.

It’s my turn.

I walk up to the podium. I’m shaking. Since I didn’t give the sheet music to the pianist, my only option left to sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Mom’s funeral is to just blurt it out a capella. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and then I just… start crying. It’s a guttural cry that puts my Hollywood Homicide audition to shame. I keep crying. And keep crying. Until the Bishop taps me on the shoulder.

“We only have the chapel for another fifteen minutes. We have to prep for John Trader’s baptism.”

I walk offstage. No Bette Midler.





58.


“THANKS FOR BEING SUCH A good sport,” our assistant director tells me with a pitying, appreciative glance.

“Uh-huh,” I say monotonously while two children bounce on me as we get ready to rehearse this scene for the seventh time so the kids can get their marks right. I’ve seen The Creator fire children for little reasons, like if they lose a line or don’t hit their mark, so on rehearsal days like today, our directors like to be extra sure the kids know what they’re doing so that they don’t lose their jobs.

I hear that phrase a lot these days. “Thanks for being such a good sport.” I hear it on a daily basis: not only from our assistant director but from my managers every time I’m on the phone with them, from a writer or producer at least once a week, even from a network executive who sent me a five-hundred-dollar gift card to Barneys with that very phrase inscribed on the attached note.

I know why I’m hearing this phrase so often. It’s because my co-star Ariana Grande is a burgeoning pop star who misses work regularly to go sing at award shows, record new songs, and do press for her upcoming album while I stay back and angrily hold down the fort. I understand on a surface level why she has to miss work. But at the same time, I don’t understand why she’s allowed to. I booked two features during iCarly that I had to turn down because the iCarly team wouldn’t write me out of episodes to go shoot them.

I’ve tried to calm myself down by thinking the whole situation through. Okay, fine. Maybe they couldn’t let me shoot the movies because they would’ve had to write me out of episodes completely, whereas for my co-star, they let her do her music obligations because she’s just missing rehearsal days and parts of shoot days but not entire weeks.

Then this week happened. The week where I was told Ariana would not be here at all, and that they would write around her absence this episode by having her character be locked in a box.

Are you. Kidding me.

So I have to turn down movies while Ariana’s off whistle-toning at the Billboard Music Awards?

Fuck. This.

There was a time when I took the “Thanks for being such a good sport” comment as a true compliment. I took pride in it. Mom always taught me to be one growing up, always wanted me to be one so I’d book more roles and build a good reputation to help my acting career grow. So when I was called one, I knew I was doing something right. Yep. I’m a good sport. I’m a good egg. I’m the good one, the one who’s not difficult, the teacher’s pet.