Reinventing Mona (25 page)

I was able to close my eyes and enjoy a few more minutes of quiet before I heard the doorbell ring and female voices chattering downstairs. I’m sure Greta would keel over with shock if—just once—I were dressed and ready to run right when she showed up. “Be down in a sec!” I shouted downstairs.

As the familiar Pacific shoreline scrolled past us, I told Greta I was planning to take singing lessons. I’d always loved the times when my mother sat us kids around the piano and asked us to match the notes she played. It was like that scene in
The Sound of Music
where Julie Andrews is carting the von Trapp kids all over Salzburg, assigning each of them a note, belting that when you know the notes to sing, you can sing most anything. Mom would play six notes and we’d repeat them for her. Then she’d play longer sequences until I was the only one left singing alone with her. Within a half hour the other kids lost interest, but I always ultimately wore out my mother. In some ways, it was like musical
Survivor
, the only way to get one-on-one time with her. But I really truly loved it. The most at peace I’ve ever felt was sitting on the hand-loomed rug beside my mother’s piano carefully maintaining a song’s melody while she harmonized with me. Sometimes now, when I sing alone in the shower or in my car, my voice sounds hollow to me. My ear misses the fullness of my mother’s accompaniment.

“I hope this isn’t another way to appeal to Adam,” Greta said.

“Not really,” I said as an ocean breeze washed across my body. “I’ve always loved singing, but never pursued it.” Just saying those words brought a smile to my face. I felt like leaping as I ran.
I’ve always loved singing
.
I’ve never pursued it. But now I am.

“Mona, you just did this fairy skip thing,” she teased. She leapt through the air and fluttered her hands, imitating me. “Do tell what’s got you so giddy.”

“I don’t know,” I playfully denied. “Vicki’s redecorating the house, which is pretty exciting. I’ve got my first private boxing lesson this afternoon, which I must confess I’m a little more giddy about than I should be. And, I don’t know, I’m feeling good about my decision to take singing lessons. I feel, um, hopeful, I guess. I don’t remember the last time I felt this hopeful.”

I lied twice. I remembered exactly the last time I’d felt like life was a clear road ahead of me. It was a week before the accident, the first time I ever beat Todd in chess after six month of straight defeat. Before I checkmated him, I looked at the dark wood grandfather clock in the corner of the common room. It was just before midnight and the sky was sparkling with stars and a thin slice of moon. I told myself to remember this moment.
The world is wide open for the girl who is about to take down the boy genius
, I said silently. I felt as though beating Todd at a game of strategy and intelligence initiated me into a secret club of high achievers. I smiled smugly, knowing that I could do anything.

The second lie was that my singing lessons weren’t partly to impress Adam. I definitely wanted to learn how to sing, but I’ve wanted this for the past fifteen years without acting on it. It wasn’t until I did another Internet search with Adam’s name that I was reminded of his love of music.
Savings and Loan Magazine
did a two-page profile on Adam’s impressive career, which I thought was odd since he was still fairly young. In any event, he told the reporter that his first love was Julie London, the sultry, bluesy singer who crooned “Cry Me a River” so soulfully, he actually did. There was more to Adam than I was seeing on our dates, I realized.

“Greta,” I said as we switched from running to walking. “Yes?”

“I’m a total fraud.”

“Why do you say that?”

I sighed. “Part of the reason I want to learn to sing is to impress Adam. It’s not the entire reason, but it’s definitely a factor. It’s just that you’ve been so opposed to this whole thing with Adam, I’m almost afraid to tell you anything anymore because I feel like you’re going to judge me as some shallow, manipulative little twit.”

“Wow,” she said sadly. “I wonder if my patients ever feel like that.”

“I’m sure they don’t,” I quickly apologized. “I’m sure it’s just me, and like I said, it’s ʼcause I feel like a total fraud.”

Greta stretched her leg in front of her and leaned into it. Not looking at me, she said, “We’re all frauds to a certain degree.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Listen, Mona. I’m sorry if you feel judged by me. I really don’t mean to come off that way. I think it’s great that you’re taking singing lessons, and the boxing is cool, too. It’s a great way to work through some of your rage.”

“My rage?”

“Yeah, Mona. It’s natural that you’ve got a lot of anger. My God, your whole family was taken away from you in a moment. Of course, you’re angry.”

“No, I’m not! How could I be angry at them for that? They were killed, how could I be angry at them?”

“For leaving you,” Greta said.

“They didn’t leave me, they were killed.”

“Maybe not angry at them, but you’ve got to be angry about what happened. You’ve spent half of your life without them.”

“I’ve never been without them,” I gulped, guilty for surviving. Guilty for not being where I should have been that day. I’ve never spent a day without them. Their absence has always been a presence.

Grammy’s friend, Captain John, jogged toward us, waving his hands to fan his sweating face. He stopped to catch his breath. “Morning, ladies.”

“Good morning, sir,” I said.

“Morning, Captain.” Greta smiled.

“Fine morning for a run, wouldn’t you say?” John panted.

“Yes, sir. A fine morning indeed.” I stood at near attention.

“I’d better keep moving. Keep the old heart rate up,” he said, awkwardly catching himself remembering that Grammy died of heart failure. “I’m sorry, Mona. What a terrible thing for me to say.”

“Please.” I tried to recast myself from the old role as the world’s eggshell. “I’m sure Grammy would’ve wanted to keep her rate up, too, if given the choice. And I’m sure she’d be happy you’re in good health, sir. Really, no offense taken.”

“Good day to you, ladies.” John ran off, still repentant of his faux pas.

A flock of seagulls flew against a clear blue backdrop, swooping down to the beach to sip crabs from their shells and leave tiny prints along the shoreline. How could Adam not love San Diego? And now that I finally had a life, did I really want to uproot it?

“Clarence! Clarence! Help me, Clarence,” shouted Tim as he stood on stage holding a soft book in one hand, shaking the other fisted one toward the sky. “Get me back. Get me back. I don’t care what happens to me. Get me back to my wife and kids. Help me, Clarence, please. Please! I want to live again! I want to live again. Please, God, let me live again.” My fictitious ex-boyfriend, Poison, was begging God for life.

“A bit overdone,” said a male voice from the audience. “Same level of passion without all the hype.”
At least he hasn’t destroyed any property,
I thought. “Try it one more time.”

Toby, my would-be purse snatcher, was perfectly cast as the timid angel second class. “You see, George, it really has been a wonderful life,” he said.

As much as I loved
It’s a Wonderful Life
, these two were killing it for me with their stilted delivery of lines and stiff bodies. And why was Clarence even on stage at this point?! By the time George Bailey wakes up by the bridge, Clarence is back in heaven.

“Where’s the goddamned bell?!” the director rose from his chair and shouted backstage. Suddenly a gong sounded from backstage. “Why am I waiting an eternity for the bell to chime?!” Some small independent theater companies are too hip and cutting edge to be appreciated by the mainstream. This one just sucked.

From the back of the theatre, I offered that Clarence doesn’t earn his wings until George is home with his family and friends—not at the bridge. “He needs to be with all of those people whose lives he changed. That’s when it all comes together and the angel earns his wings,” I said as though I were part of Frank Capra’s personal accuracy enforcement squad.

“It’s the very last moment of the movie,” I continued. “A bell from the Christmas tree jingles and Zuzu says that her teacher told her that every time a bell rings it means an angel just earned his wings. Then George winks and says, ‘Atta boy, Clarence. Atta boy,’ and that’s the end. After the bridge scene, they still have that whole part when George comes home and everyone starts coming over with all the money they collected.” As all eyes focused on me, I felt acutely aware of my appearance. Not embarrassed of my mere existence as I was just a few months ago. Not showcasing myself as Vicki often does. Just aware of my bohemian embroidered crepe blouse topping my denim skirt and blue canvas wedge sandals. I held a simple brown leather knapsack in my right hand and clutched my amber square sunglasses in my left hand. For the first time I could remember, I felt no discomfort from people looking at me. I felt no need to apologize or explain why I was there. I brushed a loose strand of hair from my face and stood quietly as the director wondered whom I was. “I mean, you can do it any way you want, of course, but if you’re going to be true to the original script, you should wait till he gets home before you ring the bell.”

Twisted in his red velvet theatre chair, the director stared at me for a full minute. He had pointy features, which would have made him a perfectly cast Potter. (Not until opening night of the show did I learn that the director actually did cast himself in this small role.) I stared back and folded my arms. “I’d also rethink the gong,” I said in a momentary lapse in comfort, a need to fill the dead air.

“You would?” he asked, raising a brow as if to ask who the hell I thought I was anyway. I nodded. “Are there any other suggestions you have for me, Miss, Miss—”

“Mona. Mona Warren. Please excuse the interruption. I didn’t realize you were rehearsing. Toby said you take a lunch break at this time.”

“May I ask who you are, and how it is that you think you’re so important that you can come into my rehearsal and inject your unsolicited opinion about my directing choices,” he smarted. I couldn’t contain my grin.
I
, Mona Warren, was being accused of arrogance.

“My apologies.” I smiled. “It’s just that this is my absolute favorite film of all time and when you snapped at your stage crew that they were supposed to ring a bell right then, I couldn’t help correcting you.”

If silence could make the sound “uh oh,” it did. A hush fell over the theatre as though I’d just committed a grave offense and was about to be drawn and quartered. “I am perfectly aware of when Mr. Capra chose to sound the bell,” the director returned. “I’ve made a different one.”

“Oh hey, Mona.” Julie scurried from backstage in a black-and-white party dress, her hair rolled like Mary Bailey. “I thought I heard you.” She shielded her eyes from the lights with her hand and thanked me for removing the fainting spell from her driving record.

“Please, it was the least I could do,” I shouted back from the aisle.

The director bonked himself on the head as though he were thinking he could’ve had a V8. “Is this the crazy woman who hired you kids to do all those stunts?” From onstage, three retro-dressed actors nodded affirmatively. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He stood extending his hand for me to come and shake. “Why don’t we take a break now? I’m busting with curiosity to see what Ms. Warren wants from our merry little band of players this time. Sit, sit.” He patted the seat beside him.

Julie, Toby, and even Tim took the seats around us and leaned in to hear why I’d stopped by. “Really, I just wanted to see that Julie’s driving record was taken care of.”

In his repulsive, sliding accent, Tim asked, “Still not budging on paying for the window, ay love?”

“Absolutely not!” I laughed. “I never told you to throw a brick through the diner window. There was no reason for you to do that.” I turned to the director. “Did you know he threw a brick through the window of a diner ‘cause that’s what rock stars do?”

Julie gasped then laughed. “Tim! You said her boyfriend threw the brick.”

“He
did
beat the stuffing out of me,” Toby said, defending any upcoming charges of exaggeration that might come his way.

“That is true,” I said, looking at Toby’s healed face, remembering the fresh pink bruises christened by his tears.

“That’s your problem in this show, too,” the director said to Tim. “He flies off half-cocked, spewing dialogue without any understanding of what the character has been through. Did you write up his life story like I told you to do? No. Did you think about how angry he was to be stuck in Bedford Falls when all of his childhood he dreamt of exploring the world? No. Do you have any idea who the people who shaped his life were? No. You’re a lazy actor, Tim, and that’s why rehearsals have been going so abominably poor.”

“Wow,” I said to the director. “You really think an actor needs to do all that?”

“I know so,” he said. “How is Tim going to really understand his character if he doesn’t spend time examining where he came from?”

“You should meet my friend, Greta,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s a therapist. She’s always talking about this kind of stuff.”

He unwrapped a sandwich and took a dainty bite. “Sometimes I feel like one,” he said, winking at Julie. “Was there anything else?” he asked hopefully.

“Well, I just realized that you could probably steer me in the right direction. I want to take singing lessons. Do you know anyone who could work with me? I’m a real beginner, but—”

They all laughed aloud for reasons I did not understand. “Ollie is
the
man,” said Tim. “If you can get him, that is. He’s not like us peasants, desperate for cash.”

“Wonderful! How can I get in touch with this Ollie person?”

“You are in touch with him,” the director said as he leaned toward me and placed his hand on my forearm.

“You do voice lessons?” I sounded surprised, then realized I shouldn’t be. A theater director who also taught singing. Logical enough.