Page 76 of What We Had

I powered my phone down. Tossed it off the bed where it tumbled onto the rug beneath.

Nothing would stop me from putting all my attention on Bennett.

I placed my hands on the side of his face. Held him so that we were eye-to-eye. “Love you, Benny.”

That beautiful smile of his. Bright and true. “Love you, Conny.”

Epilogue

THUNDEROUSAPPLAUSEFILLEDthe theater as the audience rose to their feet when the curtain lifted. The noise rumbled through the playhouse as whistles and cheers burst from random people arrayed before me. I stood in wide-eyed wonder as the blinding stage lights filled the periphery of my vision with coruscating stars. I let the sound fill me up not in vainglory, but in commemoration. This was for her, not for me. I closed my eyes. Fought back the urge to cry. Lifted my head, as if she could see me. As if she smiled down upon me from wherever she rested eternally.

“This is for you, Ma,” I mouthed, then smiled as I pictured her grimacing up in the clouds.

My fellow actors flanked either side of me, seven strong. Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me lightly. More hands rested on my back, my hip. Whispers in my ear I couldn’t entirely hear as the unbelievable cacophony of a standing ovation boomed around us. This marked my first time acting on stage. The role filled me with a sense of purpose I never had with film and television. It was something I could get used to.

The line of actors bowed together. I stepped back, vanished behind the row of those who helped bring my mother’s greatest work to life. I took a moment to look about me at the setting of the final scene. A bed wedged into a corner, a window overlooking a field of green. I had been sitting on that bed in character, a son who had lost his mother—it wasn’t hard to play the part. The woman playing the mother had stood beside the bed, a ghost to the son but visible to the audience. I delivered the monologue, a sorrowful eulogy to the woman who shaped her son’s life. The actress’s nonverbal reaction to my character’s dialogue was worthy of an award.

The line between reality and theatrics was blurry. I could pour my soul into that role and not lose myself in it. In fact, playing that role was the single greatest acting accomplishment of my life.

The actors finished bowing and parted to let me step forward to center stage as a renewed vigor of clapping took hold. I looked offstage to Rachel, who stood in the wings wearing all black. I could see the tears in her eyes from here. I waved her out. Her face showed horror, denying my request. It wasn’t customary for the director to appear during the bow. I didn’t care. She was as much a daughter to Cordelia as I was a son. I waved again, then started to walk toward her.

She came out on reluctant footsteps, wringing her hands in the process. The audience boomed louder. I pulled her with me to the center stage and slung my arm around her waist. Pressed a kiss onto her cheek. We bowed together. On my way up, I dimmed my brow to target the front row, to see through the blinding lights and directly at the only unfilled seat.

Bennett sat to the left. Walt to the right. A sign was pinned to the empty seat. “Reserved for playwright,” it read. Never to be filled.

I mouthed anI love youto Bennett. I couldn’t make out his face but I felt him return the gesture. Rachel vanished back into the wings after gesturing to me one final time. More whistling, calling out, an applause that never seemed to end. I bowed as deep as I could and pressed both hands to the center of my chest.

I walked backward as the curtain fell. The houselights went up then and I could see a perfect snapshot of Bennett on his feet, hands pumping together as tears rolled down his cheeks.

I wanted to pull him on stage with me. To show them, show the world, that the obstacles he had overcome made mine seem like nothing. Wehadended up pressing charges, but not against the studio or Holt. The statute of limitations in Massachusetts was fifteen years and Bennett’s abuse fell within that window. We brought allegations to his coach and Bennett had the courage to make it public. Others had come forward, from before and after their limitation dates, to stand in solidarity with each other. The coach was already in prison, but he was about to be in for a lot longer and for a lot worse.

I had my own courthouse issues. I never went through with my threats of slander against Winnie; I had no appetite to see the issue drawn out. No, my uncle James formally contested my appointment as executor to the trust. Prue assured me we’d win. But that was a fight for another day.

The summer went by quickly. Bennett and I went to our spot by the river every chance we got. He sold his house and moved in with me. (Yes, Patches came, too.) We hired a home care aide who stopped by Walt’s three days a week to help him out. I splurged and purchased for him the greatest bed that money could buy. Now, good ol’ Walt slept on a ten-thousand-dollar adjustable mattress instead of that recliner.

Bennett and Rachel helped me make arrangements at the end of the summer when my mother went gently into the night. Her service saw attendance from many an old friend back in LA. Rachel’s words about Cordelia had everyone wiping their eyes, especially when she said she was finally fired.

Rehearsals for Cordelia’s last play—ours, ultimately—came in late fall. The opening night, the second week in January, aligned well with a play titled “Through the Winter.” The story revolved around a mother’s struggle with her son’s sexuality, reaching a beautiful reconciliation on Christmas. My mother had the foresight to write about her own death and left the denouement, the falling action, for me to write. I let my heart say all the things it needed to through the character of the son.

She had spoken to me through that play. I read it together with Rachel and Bennett at my side. The unspoken words of a mother, manifested on paper for her son to read, to understand. I rediscovered her through that final masterful work and knew that so long as I had that play, she’d never truly be gone.

Bennett’s palms went to his heart as the curtain lowered. I kissed the fingertips of both my hands, released it to him.

The curtain closed. Opening night had finished.

But it felt like my life had only just begun.