A Mother's Will ariZoni Nomination for Best New Play Excerpt from Scene I
Lights fade up slightly in the living room. Silhouettes of MAN, WOMAN, BOY and SPIRITS are seen sitting in the living room. They are each holding rosaries in their hands and chanting the rosary in Spanish very fast and almost inaudibly.
Lights up on MARY sitting at the kitchen table with her daughter RACHEL They are sipping coffee silently and staring intently at each other. After a couple of beats, MARY breaks the gaze and looks toward several bottles of prescription medicine perched near her end of the table. She grabs one of the bottles, shakes it, listening absently to the rattling pills, opens it, pours out a few of the pills and inspects the color and textures, and then puts the pills back one at a time, unknowingly keeping rhythm with the chanting of the rosary in the other room. The distant SOUND of a whistling train is heard in the background. RACHEL sighs heavily. She doesn’t hear the train whistle, but MARY pauses to listen. She is hearing it for the first time. The MAN, WOMAN, BOY and SPIRITS also hear it. It is familiar to them. After a moment, they return to silently fingering the rosaries.
RACHEL (trying to get Mother’s attention) Mom. (a long beat) Mom! Are you listening to me?
MARY (wearily, still listening to the train whistle) I’m listening. (strains to hear the train again but it’s gone) I know…you don’t want to see me suffer. (a beat) Do you think la familia de Jesus wanted to see him suffer tambien?
RACHEL reaches across the table and grasps her mother’s hands.
RACHEL Isn’t it enough that you’re…well…that
MARY I have cancer, Rachel. You can say it. I’m dying. It’s part of life.
RACHEL I know it’s okay to say it. It’s just that I say it so much at work. I hate having to say it about my own mother. (beat) Mom, you’ve lived a good life. That’s all God expects. (pause) Mama…I heard you crying last night…
MARY (abruptly) That wasn’t me. It must have been Maura’s cat next door. That pinche cat’s always in heat.
RACHEL Mama, you need to sleep. Take the medicines I have for you, they’ll help you rest.
MARY stares at her daughter intently a few seconds, then reaches across the table to brush the hair back from her daughter’s forehead, before slowly rising from her chair, obviously in pain. Mary then picks up the pill bottles one at a time, walks slowly to the kitchen trash can near the back porch door and throws the pills way.
RACHEL
Mama! What--
MARY
(a quiet anger)
The pills help you sleep.
RACHEL
What are you talking about?
MARY
I know your brother and sister put you up to this.
RACHEL
Since when do I even talk to them, Ma, much less listen to anything they say.
MARY
I’m not stupid Rachel.
RACHEL
I never said that. I’m just trying to help you. I’m a doctor, and it just so happens that I know about these things. If you ask me, you should be in the hospital.
MARY
I didn’t ask.
RACHEL
But if you won’t go, the least you can do is take your medicines.
RACHEL crosses to retrieve the pill bottles from the trash canister.
MARY
(sternly, stopping Rachel in her tracks)
Dejalos!
RACHEL
Ma, these prescriptions aren’t cheap.
MARY
You’re putting a price tag on your mother’s life?
RACHEL
Aye, don’t be ridiculous! Okay, okay…don’t take your medicine. But come with me to the hospital--
MARY
I’m not going to be hooked up to bunches of needles and drugged up like some kind of a jerkie.
A beat as Rachel considers what her mother just said.
RACHEL
Jerk---….Junkie, mother…It’s junkie--
MARY
Junkie, jerkie, whatever…I want to know who’s coming or going. I’m not going to be your science experiment. Voy a murir con dignidad! I decide how I’m going to die!
RACHEL
Stop talking about dying!
RACHEL’S vehemence catches Mary off guard.
RACHEL
(short beat….)
Ma, there’s nothing shameful about taking pain medication.
MARY
No entiendes. Just because you’re a doctor, it doesn’t mean you know everything. I prayed to God and I told him I was ready to feel pain and suffering, the way Jesus did. Look. (indicating an 8x10 print of Jesus on the wall, does the sign of the cross…) Look at how he suffered. He did it for you. For me.
RACHEL
Ma, don’t you think one martyr every 2,000 years is about our limit?
MARY
That mouth of yours is going to send you to hell, mijita. (MARY crosses takes the picture off the wall and returns to the table.) All I want is to suffer with dignity and courage, the way he did it for us. (does the sign of the cross, then clutches the picture to her chest)
RACHEL starts to stalks off toward the living room.
MARY
And I want you to make sure my wishes are obeyed. (angrily) That’s the last thing I’ll ever ask you to do. (Rachel stops. After a pause, then calmly) Promise me... You know I can’t trust anyone else to do that for me.
RACHEL
(pause)
I can’t.
MARY
Yes you can.
RACHEL
No! I can’t.
MARY
Of course you can.
RACHEL
I can’t. It goes against everything I stand for.
MARY
(offhanded)
Aye, don’t be so dramatic. (a beat) And now that I think about it hay otra cosa mas.
RACHEL
Naturally….aye ya aye. You always have otra cosa.
MARY
I’ve decided it’s you who has to keep the family together.
After a beat, RACHEL starts laughing hysterically.
MARY
Que? (As Rachel continues to laugh). Why are you laughing?
RACHEL
(finally composing herself)
You’re joking, right? Me?!
MARY
Do I look like I’m joking?
RACHEL
Ma, I can’t even get them together to make tamales. (another burst of laughter) Remember that Christmas a few years ago when I bought all that masa and no one came over to help with the tamales.
MARY
They wanted to come. It was just that they were busy. Annette has just gotten that new job. If you ask me, it was nice, just me and you together.
RACHEL
Ma, it was you and me and 60 pounds of Mission masa. We couldn’t even get through it all. Remember?
MARY
Of course I remember. The cancer isn’t in my head, mija.
RACHEL
I know where the cancer is Ma. And for your information, we didn’t finish the masa. I had to go knocking door to door in the neighborhood, giving it away like a pendeja, and telling people, “You wouldn’t happen to need some extra masa, I accidentally bought about 30 pounds too much atFood City.”
MARY
Mija, it was a nice time. And everyone loved our tamales. We made them so gorditos, remember? Don’t be so negative.
RACHEL
I’m not being negative. I’m being realistic. Aye, Mama, I’m the last person that’s going to keep us together. (off her mother’ s look)
MARY
Ya, basta. You’re the only one who can do it?
RACHEL
You’re serious? Ma, you’re asking me to do the impossible.
MARY
Mija, I’ve never asked you to do anything you can’t handle. (beat)
RACHEL
Ma, it won’t work. Everybody hates me.
MARY
They don’t hate you. They’re just jealous. (beat) Mija, I know you can do it. What about when you said you wanted to be a doctor. You said you couldn’t do it. But I knew different. And fijate, you graduated at the top of your class. The smartest one, like always.
RACHEL
I wasn’t the smartest one. I was only in the top five percent.
MARY
And me, I was the proudest mother in Arizona--
RACHEL
If you think I’m so smart, then trust my judgment….Take your medicines.
In the family room, the MAN, WOMAN AND BOY renew their chants.
MARY
Mija, it’s you who needs to trust what your mother-- (turning abruptly toward the living room) Sshhhhh!
RACHEL
When did I ever say I don’t trust you?
MARY
Sshhhhhh!
RACHEL
Oh, now you don’t want to talk
MARY
Who’s that talking?
MARY walks feebly toward the door to family room and peers into the darkness.
RACHEL
What are you talking about? There’s no one talking besides us. And aren’t listening to a word I say.
MARY
There. There it is again.
RACHEL
Ma, you’re scaring me. (crossing to the back porch door and peering outside) It was probably his royal highness out there talking in his sleep.
MARY
(puzzled and a little frightened)
No…No, I heard someone saying the rosario.
RACHEL
(suspiciously)
Oh…I see what you’re doing. Ma, don’t try to change the subject. You need your medication--
MARY
--Te estoy diciendo…Someone’s saying the rosary, and it’s in Spanish.
RACHEL
Sure, mom.
MAN, WOMAN AND BOY notice Mary’s attentiveness and stop chanting.
MARY
It stopped.
RACHEL
Thank God. Now, will you take your medicines?
MARY
(preoccupied by what she heard…)
Forget about that! It’s up to me.
RACHEL
(beat)
Look, if you don’t care about yourself… What about us, your precious family. Do you think we enjoy knowing you’re in all this pain?
MARY
(considers it)
Maybe not you or Mikey, but ese Annette wishes I was already dead.
RACHEL
Mother, that’s not true.
MARY
No? The other day she called to ask me if she could get her inheritance early.
RACHEL
Really? Why would she--
MARY
She tried to put it all nice. Something about she wants to start a business babysitting people’s cats and dogs.
RACHEL
(surprised)
She hates animals.
MARY
“Mama” mi dijo. “If you give me my inheritance now, you’ll get to see me achieve my dream to be an independent woman.”
RACHEL
You’re right. That’s a little weird.
MARY
Ya! No more talking. I’m going to go rest. (exiting) I have a right to rest. And I have a right to decide what I want to put in my own mouth. It’s my life and I’m gonna finish it the way I want.
RACHEL
Now who is the one being all dramatic? Go ahead and rest. We can talk when you wake up.
MARY enters her bedroom. We can see as MARY pulls out a box from a hiding place in the closet. She sits on her bed and goes through the box, examining its contents as if lost in time. Meanwhile RACHEL crosses back to the trash can, peeks at the pills, but before she can reach to retrieve them she is distracted by the sound of her father MIGUEL stirring from his slumber, coughing, on the back porch. She cracks open the porch door and peers outside. MARY, hearing Miguel rise, quickly closes and locks the door to her bedroom.
MARY
No, Rachel. No more talking about any medicina!
RACHEL
(hearing her mother’s bedroom door closing…)
Please, Ma. Why are you ignoring my advice?
MIGUEL
(O.S. It’s clear he has been drinking)
Why should your mother listen to you?
RACHEL
Be quiet, Dad.
MIGUEL
You be quiet.
RACHEL
Ma, are you listening to me?
MIGUEL
Why should she? What’s so special about you? She doesn’t even listen to me. She doesn’t listen to the doctors. She doesn’t listen to nobody.
RACHEL
(holding her head)
Dad, I’m trying to talk to mom.
MIGUEL
Y tu! Te crees tan-- You fly into town from New York--
RACHEL
Philly, Dad. How many times do I have to tell you, I live in Philly.
MIGUEL
Who cares? You come here and you think you’re in charge. Like you’re gonna fix everything. Mujeres estupidas! You deserve each other.
MARY
(from her bedroom, without opening the doors)
Dile a tu papa que se calle la pinche boca before the neighbors call the police.
RACHEL
Dad, Mom says--
MIGUEL
I hear her. I don’t care if they call the police. It’s my house. This is my porch. If I want to sit on my porch and drink beer--
RACHEL
(yelling…as she rushes back to the trash can)
Dad! Please, shut-up!
MIGUEL
Please, mi dice. Please.
RACHEL
Drink you’re life away, I could care less. But right now I’m trying to talk some sense into Mom. (staring into the can…) And besides (as she sifts though the garbage in the can), you should be ashamed of yourself. All you do is sit around and drink beer and watch TV!
MARY
(from her bedroom…)
Rachel! Don’t talk to your father that way.
MIGUEL
Aye, let her run her mouth. She’s a big shot doctor. That’s the way big shot doctors talk to their father. What does she care? Tomorrow, se va a New Jersey--
RACHEL
Phi-la-delphia! I live in Philadelphia, Dad.
MARY
Mija, he’s your father. He deserves your respect.
RACHEL
(as she pulls a beer bottle gingerly from the trash)
Mom, all I’m saying is Dad could do more to help. Instead, he’s all is time watch those stupid animal shows on Discovery.
MARY
(from her bedroom, without opening the doors)
He loves you very much.
MIGUEL
(O.S.)
I don’t love her that much. (he chuckles hysterically)
MARY
Miguel! She’s your daughter.
MIGUEL
Aye, can’t anyone take a joke. I love you Rachel.
RACHEL
(muttering to herself)
Yeah, yeah, if you say so. (to MARY) Mom, please come out here and let’s finish talking.
MARY
(from her bedroom, without opening the doors)
I’m resting!
RACHEL
You’re not resting. You’re avoiding me. I understand how you feel.
MARY
No, you don’t! You just want your way.
MIGUEL
(O.S.)
Rachel always wants to get her way.
RACHEL
(screaming)
Dad, stop interrupting. Oh my God!
MARY
(from her bedroom, without opening the doors)
Rachel, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. (a beat) Especially right now. I’m in the middle of praying.
RACHEL
(to the painting for Christ)
Jesus, help me. I promise to return the favor.
MIGUEL
Has anyone ever told you that you’re a control freak, mija. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are. My daughter the control freak. (he laughs)
RACHEL
(to no one in particular)
I’m a doctor! It’s my job to be in control.
MIGUEL
(laughing outside)
RACHEL
And you don’t like the way I turned out, remember you guys made me this way.
The phone in the kitchen rings.
RACHEL
(to the Jesus painting)
Thank you! I hope it’s good news. I got it. (on the phone) Hello? (deep sigh) Oh, hi honey. I’m so glad you called. (beat) That’s a silly question? Let’s put it this way, I’m at my parents. So, no, I’m not having a good time. And meanwhile all I can think about is the work piling up at home. (beat) Dad? The usual. He’s been drinking beer since all day. All in all, I can’t imagine a more pleasant way to spend my vacation time.
MIGUEL
(from offstage)
If you want to go on vacation, go back to your pinche flithy-delphia with that pinche gringo husband of yours.
RACHEL
(cupping the phone)
Dad!
MARY
(opening the doors to her bedroom)
Miguel. Que tienes?! Rachel’s husband is a good man.
As RACHEL lowers her voice and cups her mouth to talk on the phone, MARY and MIGUEL yell at each other from offstage. ***These conversations occur simultaneously. MARY
Eres un burro. I don’t know why I married you. You yell at your daughter. You yell at your wife. If Jesus were here, you would yell at him, Tambien, and embarrass your whole family. Dios mio, help me por favor.
MIGUEL
We got married because I was drunk at the time. We’re still married because I’m too drunk to drive to the courthouse and get a divorce. And if I want to yell at my daughter, es mi (beat) ca-sa! And este es mi porch. Mujer mensa.
RACHEL
(on the phone)
Are you hearing that? Home sweet home. It’s a beautiful thing. (to her father) Dad, please SHUUUTTTT UUUPPPP! (to her husband, calmly, too sweetly) Honey, can I call you back? (to her father) If you insist on being the man of the house, then act like it. Don’t call us mensas.
***End of simultaneous conversations. ENTER ANNETTE from the living room door. She is dressed ostentatiously Mexican: a cross between a folklorico dancer. Frida Kahlo and Madonna—the pop star, not the virgin. Her clothes are meant to be an ethno-political statement. Instead, she comes off as kitsch, even garish. MIKE enters with ANNETTE. He is smartly dressed, contemporary, the look of an educated professional.
ANNETTE
There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. Why did I ever leave?
RACHEL
(as she hugs Annette, awkwardly)
Welcome home, Annette. (to MARY) Mom! Mike and Annette are here.
MIGUEL
(O.S)
God, take me now.
ANNETTE
(bugged)
How many times have I told you, I’m not Annette anymore. I’m Maria Isabel.
MARY
(cracks open the door…)
I don’t want to talk to them either. (slams the doorshut)
MIKE
(barely noticing his mother’s outburst)
She’s a regular welcome wagon. Gawd, Rachel, we could hear you and Dad screaming halfway up the street. What’s up with Mom?
RACHEL
She has cancer, Mike. Didn’t you get the memo?
MIKE
Hey, I’m on your side, remember.
RACHEL
Sorry, it’s been hell today.
ANNETTE
I thought you said she’d listen to you. (indicating his mother, then mocking Rachel) “I’m a doctor…this is what I do.” That does not sound like a woman on morphine.
MIGUEL
Oiga! Is that my sweet little Annette I hear? Or is it ese Lola Beltran on steroids.
ANNETTE
(after a beat)
I hate him. Of course, tomorrow he won’t remember any of this. (she peeks in the refrigerator) I see Dad’s been grocery shopping again. (she pulls out a six-pack of beer, then to her father) Dad, there’s a sale on chicken in Albertson’s.
MIKE
(to Annette)
You could show a little respect. Gawd, you’re so rude. (Almost an aside…) Except, of course when you need to borrow money from him.
ANNETTE
I always pay him back! (beat, then as if keeping a secret) And you… you should talk about respect. (to Rachel, offhanded) So how are you big sister? You look a little (tapping her chin), shall we say….rattled. I thought you always stayed cool as a cucumber.
RACHEL
Don’t start Annette.
ANNETTE
(sharp)
Maria Isabel, dammit. (overreacting) Why can’t anyone in this family get that straight?
MIKE
Lighten up. Tell you what, you don’t make us call you Maria Isabel, and I won’t make you call me master. (indicating Annette’s clothes) Just because you’ve decided to start dressing Frida Kahlo on LSD, don’t expect us to be in your little play. (to Rachel) Next thing she’ll have us all taking tango lessons.
ANNETTE
What’s wrong with tango?
MIKE
(pleased)
I knew it! I knew that was your Honda parked outside of that Arthur Murray studio over on Broadway. Anything to get a date, huh?
ANNETTE
Shut up, Mike. I don’t criticize your lifestyle. (then abruptly, to Rachel) So how’s Mom doing with her new medication?
RACHEL
She’s not.
ANNETTE
What?!
RACHEL
She tossed them in the trash.
ANNETTE
Why!?
RACHEL
She says she wants to suffer, the way Jesus did.
ANNETTE and MIKE look at each other, a beat, then they start to and laugh.
RACHEL
I’m dead serious.
ANNETTE
(trying to contain her laughter)
She said that? (beat) Christ, Catholics are so messed up! Why couldn’t we be Mormons or Lutherans or something?
****Nearly simultaneous conversations
MIKE
That’s not funny?
ANNETTE
Oh, shut up.
MIKE
So what now?
ANNETTE
I thought you said you could convince her.
****END simultaneous conversations
RACHEL
Well, I couldn’t. I’m not perfect.
ANNETTE
You’re telling me.
MIKE
Okay, don’t you two start.
ANNETTE
(coy)
Rachel knows I’m kidding. (to Rachel) Don’t you, Rach. (off Rachel’s look) You take everything so personally. (goes on) So how’s Jordan? The dogs? Your two-point-five kids. The mansion in Pennsylvania?
RACHEL
(calmly)
Everything’s great. And I never take anything you say personally….Annette.
ANNETTE
(taking it personally)
Maria Isabel. (a long beat) Where’s Mom?
MARY
(from her bedroom)
I’m trying to rest. Are you girls done fighting?
ANNETTE
(crossing to the bedroom)
We’re not fighting, Ma. Rachel and I worship each other. And, of course, I know you love us both just the same. So what if she’s a doctor and I’m just a lowly dental hygienist? At least my teeth are beautiful and sparkling and I actually have time for a life.
MARY
Mija, you need treatment.
MIKE throws up his hands, and exits to the living room, sits on the couch and starts reading the newspaper. RACHEL takes the opportunity to rush to the trash can again before going through her phone messages. ANNETTE and MARY are talking from the bedroom.
ANNETTE
Nice. After I come all this way to see how you’re doing. (a beat) So how are you doing?
MARY
I have cancer, Annette.
ANNETTE
Maria Isabel.
MARY
What?
ANNETTE
(nearly yelling)
My name is Maria Isabel.
MIGUEL
My name is Pancho Villa
ANNETTE
I’m ignoring you, Dad!
MARY
Annette, mija, Los Angeles is doing something to your head. Maybe it’s all that pollution. Your name is Annette. That’s how we baptized you. And that’s that. Come and help me out of bed. I want to go to the front room.
ANNETTE
Do you need your walker? (she rummages through things on the dresser) Oh, Mom, are those the pearls Dad bought you. I love those pearls. I just have fake ones. You don’t want these anymore do you, Mom? (yelling, her voice straining as she tries to lift her mother) Rach, come help me with Mom, would you. I thought cancer was supposed to make you lose weight.
MARY
Maybe you should get get the cancer, too, mija, your dress looks a little tight.
MIKE
(from living room)
Annette, don’t talk that way to mom.
RACHEL goes to the bedroom to help ANNETTE. MIKE rushes to the kitchen and starts rummaging through the trash can. Reacting to a clamor of beer cans on the porch, he rushes back to the family room.
ENTER MARY, RACHEL and ANNETTE. RACHEL is helping support MARY. ANNETTE is trailing behind, not helping at all, but busy examining her mother’s pearls. RACHEL helps MARY sit at the couch in the family room and turns on the TV. Mike is fidgeting.
ANNETTE
(suspicious)
What’s going on, Mike?
MIKE
Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just sitting here.
ANNETTE
You are acting a little funny, that’s all. You’re not funny, are you Mikey?
MIKE
Drop it, (sarcastically) Maria Isabel.
MIKE goes back to reading.
MARY
Did you guys all come over just to get on each other’s nerves? Or did you come just to get on my nerves?
ANNETTE
(a nervous laugh)
Oh, Mom, you’re so funny. That’s why we all love you so much.
MARY
Yeah, you guys crack me up, too. Can’t we be nice to each other? Why don’t we talk about something pleasant? (then excitedly) Hey, I got a new can smasher! Want to see?
MIKE
(after a long beat, trying to break the tension)
Sure, why not?
RACHEL
(to Mary)
Are you still doing that?
MARY
(to Annette)
As much as your father drinks, why let the cans go to waste. I’m saving up for something nice. Annette, go under the sink bring me my new can smasher. And bring me some cans, tambien, so can smash cans just like when you guys were little and needed lunch money.
ANNETTE stands, staring silently at her mother for a long beat.
MARY
Que? Que te pasa, Annette?
ANNETTE
Maria Isabel.Maria Isabel. Is that too hard to remember?
ANNETTE exits to the sink, but stops along the way to inspect the trashcan, pulling something out.
MARY
You guys are really gonna love this one. We got it at the Super Wal-Mart on 51st Avenue. Rachel, do you remember how we smashed enough cans to buy a new birthday dress that time.
MIKE
(reveling)
Oh…oh, how about when I smashed like 200 cans and went to see Star Wars the night it opened. That was cool.
RACHEL
Not cool. Remember how you learned to impersonate Darth Vader, then you scared the hell out of me every night after Mom turned the lights out by doing that stupid breathing sound. I had nightmares because of you.
MARY
Mikey, did you do that?
ENTER ANNETTE with the can smasher.
ANNETTE
This is a weird contraption.
MARY
It’s not weird, it’s easy. (a sudden burst of energy, excitedly) Help me crush some of the beer cans your dad found last night.
RACHEL
He didn’t find them, Mom.
MARY
Have some respect, Rachel. Without him, none of you would have gone to college. He worked hard to help you get a better life. (shouting to Miguel) Miguel, por favor, bring us some cans so we can smash them. (to the kids) Your father’s a good man. (to Miguel) Miguel, por favor, some cans!
MIGUEL
(annoyed)
Como friegas, mujer! Stop bothering me. That’s why I can never get anything done around the house.
MIKE
He’s blaming Mom for not getting the lawn mowed. Maybe if the lawn sprinklers were connected to a keg, he could get more work done.
The kitchen door opens and a grocery bag filled with empty cans flies into the room.
MIKE
(a little embarrassed)
Do you think he heard me?
ANNETTE
Now who’s not showing Daddy any respect?
RACHEL goes to the kitchen and returns with the bag of cans. As RACHEL exits the kitchen, MIGUEL reaches his hand in and grabs the trash can. We hear him mucking around in it, before he puts it back inside.
MARY
(peering into the bag, glowing)
Look at all of these cans. (MARY grabs one of the cans, then reaches into a nearby ashtray, pulls out a pebble, and drops it into the can.)
RACHEL
Mom, you’re still putting rocks in them. You should be ashamed of yourself.
MARY
You weren’t ashamed when I bought your birthday dress.
ANNETTE
If you ask me, I think it’s great. Mom’s just getting one over on the man.
MARY So, what do you all think of my fancy, schmancy can crusher?
MIKE
It’s great, mom. And it’s a lot safer than when you used to put the cans under the wheels of the car and run ‘em over.
MARY
This works a lot better.
MIKE
And it saves gas, to boot.
MARY
(as she crushes a can)
I love the sound of smashing metal in the morning.
MIKE
I’m glad it makes you happy, Mom. But I gotta be honest, I don’t understand why you’re still crushing dad’s cans for him. The man laid concrete for 40 years, he can crush his own beer cans. And while you’re at it, maybe you should tell him how miserable he’s made your life with his drinking.
MIGUEL
(from offstage)
Shut up, Mikey. You don’t know nada about your mother and me.
ANNETTE
(to Mary)
His ears are amazing. (whispering) Mike’s right. I don’t know why you put up with him?
MARY
Ya! So what if he drinks. He never missed a day of work and he always provided. How do you think we got this house? That should tell you how much he loves you. And besides, drinking is a sickness. You should feel sorry for him. The way you feel sorry for me.
ANNETTE
I feel sorry for us.
MARY
(goes on)
Me, too. This family needs to stay together. When I die, who’s going to take care of your father?
MIKE
Dad can take care of himself.
MARY
Not forever. If I know Rachel, she’s the only one who can do it.
ANNETTE
Of course, leave it to Rachel. Rachel, the martyr.
MARY
(to ANNETTE)
Do you have to ruin everything? (to Rachel) Mija, hand me some more cans.
RACHEL pulls two more cans from the bag and hands them to her Mom.
ANNETTE
Wow, she transplants hearts and fetches cans.
RACHEL gives ANNETTE a dirty look, but says nothing.
RACHEL
Mom, why are you still crushing cans. Jordan and I send you a check every month. That should be more than enough to make ends meet.
MIGUEL
We don’t need your pinche charity.
RACHEL
I wasn’t talking to you, Dad.
MIGUEL
It doesn’t sound like it, mija.
MARY
I like to do it, Rachel. (indicating the wet spot on her dress) Of course, your father’s suppose to make sure all the cans are empty when he puts them in the bag. He could at least do that. (to MIGUEL) You could at least do that for me!
MIGUEL
(O.S.)
What are you complaining about, mujer? You’re always complaining.
As MARY passes the trashcan, she peeks in and notices the pill bottles are missing.
MARY
Donde estan?
RACHEL
What?
MARY
Las botellas. The medicine I threw away.
RACHEL
What are you talking about?
MARY
(screaming)
The pills. I threw them in here y no estan.
MIKE
What in the hell--
RACHEL
Calm down, Mom.
MARY
The pills. Where are they? They’re not in the trash.
RACHEL
And you’re blaming me?
MARY
I’m not blaming anybody. I’m just asking, where are the pills? (to ANNETTE AND MIKE) Who took them?
ANNETTE
Don’t look at me. I just got here.
MIKE
I don’t know anything about pills.
RACHEL
Why are you so worried about them? You’re the one who threw them away.
MIGUEL
(from offstage, laughing.)
Que paranoia. (laughs some more) Relax, mujer. I emptied the trash in the alley. Whatever you threw in there, I’m sure the homeless people took it already. Tu sabes como son. They’re probably getting high on tu medicinas right now.
ANNETTE, RACHEL, MIKE
(after an awkward beat…ad lib)
You see, mom. Dad tossed ‘em out. No big deal. Dad’s right, some bum’s probably out have a good time….
MARY
(visibly relieved)
Oh… my God. What’s happening to me. I’m forgetting how to trust people. (to all) I’m so sorry. I guess I thought you kids wouldn’t let me die the way I want to. (to RACHEL)Ya te dije que no quiero medicina y no lo quiero. I hate all of that pain management fregada. This is my choice. (pause) It’s the last thing I can do for myself. It’s all I have left.
ANNETTE
(after a long pause, each of the children obviously affected, then…)
Okay, mom. If your mind’s made up. I just think it’s a little selfish.
MIKE
What the hell does that mean?
MARY
She means it’s too much work to watch me suffer. Sometimes I think all of you wish I was in a coma until the cancer kills me.
MIKE
We (looking at ANNETTE) just don’t want to see you suffer. Remember that time I broke my arm. You hated seeing me in pain. I can still remember the look on your face. I don’t think you’re selfish, but I just don’t get it.
MARY
(angrily, yelling)
I don’t care if you get it! This is my will. It’s the way I’m choosing to die.
After a long beat.
MIGUEL
Respecto. Kids today have no respect at all.
After another long beat, everyone, including Mary,starts laughing.
RACHEL
(Looking at her watch)
Dads favorite drunk line. I give him 10 minutes before he passes out again.
MIKE
I say five tops.
ANNETTE
(still laughing)
Remember how we always knew it was safe to come out of the closet when he said that. (an aside to Mary) I’d always go raid his pockets for all the loose change. (indicating RACHEL) Scaredy cat over there was too afraid to join me.
MARY
(feigning her surprise)
Mija, you stole from your own father?
ANNETTE
That’s what he gets for not giving us an allowance.
ALL STILL LAUGHING.
RACHEL
God, it’s taken years of therapy to get over all of that. Remember Dad’s annual Christmas ritual?
MARY
(laughing hard…)
Aye, no!
MIKE
I remember, I remember. He’d get drunk out of his gourd and toss the Christmas tree in the front yard!
MARY
(trying to suppress her laughter)
Aye, que verguenza…With the neighbors watching y todo.
ANNETTE
Oh… yeah! I remember that. And the tinsel and the lights would still be on it…
MARY
Aye, dios. Doesn’t anyone have any good memories about your father?
Everyone looks at each other.
MIKE
Not off the top of my head. Can I have a year or two to think about it?
MARY
Mijo, you make your father sound como un monster.
After a long beat as the laughter dies down.
RACHEL
I’ve got one.
Even Mary is surprised.
RACHEL
Remember the monsoons. When we were little kids? Remember how when it rained.
MIKE
All I remember is how the streets would flood and it’d be like a raging river outside of our house.
ANNETTE
Ahh, our wonderful life of the barrio. Streets without a drainage system.
RACHEL
I’m serious. Remember how if it rained, and after school Dad would be there to pick us up. He always had that old black umbrella. Remember how he would carry us in his arms to the car so our school shoes wouldn’t get wet. And, for some reason, if it rained, he was never drunk. (a long beat) I use to ask God to make it rain everyday.
Sound of beer can dropping out of Miguel hands. Annette, Rachel, Mike and Mary start to laugh. Mike peers outside. He looks at his watch.
MIKE
He’s out.Rach, you’re losing your touch.
MARY
Mikey, go make sure your father’s okay. I’m going to take a nap. Rachel, ayudame.
As RACHEL crosses to help her mother to the bedroom, MIKE exits to the porch, ANNETTE sits on the couch.
RACHEL
Annette, take dad a blanket would you?
ANNETTE
(mouthing the words almost inaudibly)
It’s Maria Isabel. I paid good money to get my name legally changed.
RACHEL ignores her as she helps MARY into the bedroom. As Annette crosses to pick up a blanket on the living couch, we hear the train whistle. MARY pauses to listen. RACHEL doesn’t hear it, but ANNETTE does.
ANNETTE
(a warm feeling overtaking her…)
The train. Oh Gawd I’ve always loved the sound of that train. (calling outside) Rach,Mike, did you hear the train?! (ANNETTE exits the living room and shuts off the lights. As she exits the kitchen door to the porch, the ghosts return to the living room. We see them in silhouette. They seem to be looking for something.)
BLACK OUT.
In the Box A Short Story An Excerpt
We call it the Room of the Dead, but no one’s really afraid of it. I head straight to it as soon as I come through my grandparents’ front door and I try to forget that he called again, that he’s waiting at Sky Harbor Airport right now, that he swore he’d wait for me until the last plane left. I didn’t answer.
It’s late morning and I’ve promised my grandmother that I’d help her get ready for the bridal shower today. My bridal shower. Carrying my bag of cosmetics, I make my way to the Room of the Dead, crossing through the living room that hasn’t been updated since 1966. That’s when my Nana splurged on a new living room set, with a blue crush-velvet couch and chairs. She also bought a baroque hanging lamp where a Grecian woman in a clingy robe sits caged in by plastic fishing lines that drip tiny beads of oil when turned on. The woman always seemed so sad to me, and when I was young, I thought about setting her free by clipping the fishing lines with my grandmother’s sewing shears.
The Room of the Dead is cool like San Francisco, and it sits at the end of a narrow hallway, which has had the same plastic runner ever since I can remember. As I walk across it, I can hear and feel the brittle, yellowing plastic splintering, like my resolve. No one openly talks about why this one room is so much cooler than the others. We all know, though. It’s because of the white shoebox that Nana keeps shut tight on the top shelf of her closet. It welcomes the spirits into the room. The box, forbidden to everyone, calls to me every time I’m in her room, but Nana has never let me open it.
Every other room in my grandparents’ home is warm and stuffy and filled with the aroma of the pinto beans simmering on the antique gas stove and the homemade flour tortillas cooking on the black cast iron griddle, its stubby handle peppered with rust spots. The room is like this even during the blistering Arizona summers, when the rest of the barrio is so scorching that the kids beg the firemen to blast open the hydrants and let them play in the spraying water. I crack the room door open, bit by bit, pressing my nose between the gap, and letting the cool air slowly veil my face, like the San Francisco fog.
Shutting my eyes, I imagine I’m in the city again, standing at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, with Coit Tower and the lights of the Embarcadero calling me back. It was the first city I lived in after leaving my parents’ home, after being the first to graduate from college, after turning twenty-two. For eight months, I slept on a pile of covers in an empty studio apartment. Using army surplus blankets, comforters and bedspreads purchased from garage sales, I created a cot that was nearly six inches high. I didn’t care that two of bedspreads smelled of mothballs or that the comforters oozed fuzz through slits in the seams. I slept by the bay window and each time I turned in my makeshift bed, the ancient wood floors let out a low moan.
“Teresa, you live como una pobre!” my mother cried out the first time she visited my new home. To her, I seemed impoverished. She didn’t understand how rich I felt. Each night, I could see the fog rolling in. I could catch starlight between breaks in the mist and let the mournful foghorns lull me to sleep. It was a happy time. I was alone. Away from the obligations awaiting me back home.
I push the door just wide enough to see my Nana sleeping in her queen-size iron bed. The room smells like Nana. White Shoulders perfume, almond-flavored coffee and orange rinds. Always orange rinds. The windows are dressed with those thick vinyl-backed curtains that hotels use to shut out the sun’s rays or a bad view. Nana says they make her feel like she’s on vacation. Practically every inch of her bedroom walls are covered with framed photos that hang at odd angles and seem to be growing dust. There are a few pictures of the Virgin Mary. Baby photos from nearly every decade. People getting married. One of Jesus suffering on the cross and another where he’s being resurrected. Grandkids in their sports gear. Prom photos. Elementary school kids with teeth missing. When we were kids, we liked to spin around as fast as we could, drop dizzily to our knees, and watch the walls whirl. We’d pretend our lives were flashing by. My phone rings again and I can see my life whirling away.
I squeeze through the open door, careful not to let the hallway light shine on Nana’s face. My grandfather doesn’t share this room with Nana. I can’t even remember a time when they slept together. He can’t stand the commotion of the Room of the Dead. He sleeps in the next room over on a twin bed and lies there all day, in his peace-and-quiet, reading books.
Walking across the room, I sit on the edge of the bed. Nana is sleeping with her head at the foot of the mattress again. I reach out and touch her wiry hair, still dyed jet black. One of Nana’s rare vanities. She always reminds me how lucky I am to have no need for hair tints, even though at times I have wanted to dye it black or go red. That would be nearly blasphemous since I am the only one in the family to have inherited my great grandmother’s golden brown waves. “Pelo de oro,” Nana calls it. Hair of gold that falls nearly to my waist.
The clock on Nana’s bedside reminds me that I should be waking her. It’s already past ten o’clock and the lunch starts in two hours. Instead, I sit quietly beside Nana. She’s rolled up in a beige blanket and looks like a fat burrito with tufts of her hair flowing out one end and her sock-covered toes seeping out the other. She’s been sleeping with her feet at the head of the bed since I told her I was getting married last year, right before I moved to San Francisco. It’s her way of cheating death. According to Nana, when El Muerte comes to get you, it yanks your big toe and drags you away to heaven or to hell. “Si, es verdad,” she tells me. “Sometimes, he pulls so hard, he rips off your toenail.” She knows this because when her mother died, Nana and her sisters discovered one of her toenails missing.
I kick off my shoes, sit back into the bed, and set my feet at the bottom of it, right where El Muerte can find them. Nana says I’ve become too Americanized because I think of death as being more like the Grim Reaper. Solemn. Sickle in his hand. Shrouded in black. Cold, brutal, and swift. Not as someone who hauls you away by your big toe. It seems so undignified. Nana hates it when I joke about El Muerte or I tell her that El Muerte must be stupid not to look for her feet at the opposite end of the bed.
She’s also convinced that another reason she’s managed to evade El Muerte is because she wears thick, white, athletic tube socks to bed that hide her toes. Tube socks look strange on any grandmother, but mine especially. She’s never been the athletic type. Short and round with smooth dark skin, she reminds me of the black olives she uses to stuff her tamales. Until she explained it, I thought the socks were to absorb the globs of petroleum jelly she slathers on her feet every night before climbing into bed.
Another one of her fads. Nana is big on fads. They’re her link to the middle class and assimilated America. She was once on a green bean diet for more than a month. Green beans with eggs. Green beans with jello. Chorizo and green beans. Green bean tacos. Finally her stomach revolted. Like mine does when I think about my wedding next week.
