Unnaturally Green (31 page)

“Don’t worry. You and Marshall are
not
you and Matt.”

That afternoon, my Gentle Rambo came home from work with my belated birthday gift: a bouquet of flowers and a dinner invitation to Gary Denko, one of San Francisco’s best restaurants.

“I wanted to wait until the stress of your weekend was over,” he said, “so you could enjoy it.”

We donned our evening best and cabbed over, where we spent two hours indulging in medium-rare meats, sparkling wine (special occasion permitting), and cheeses (that we selected off a bona fide cheese cart). Marshall had gotten the restaurant recommendation from French Nic, who’d put in a good word with his hostess friend. This meant we got the dimly lit corner booth, replete with sequined pillows,
amuse-bouches
, and a complimentary dessert.

As we alternated decadent bites and puckered kisses, I was reminded of my early days with Marshall—when in spite of all his good qualities I still expected to see him plastered on the nightly news, branded a heart-and-banana-stealing convict. I thought of our first meeting at Serendipity, then of his oatmeal cookie surprise, then when the French woman prophesized our love as we ate chocolate cake. It had been a charmed beginning.

Since then, we had weathered unprecedented circumstances. As I’d told Neka, our “relationship steps” had been shuffled in San Francisco.

But that was our story—and so far, it had worked.

As Marshall smiled at me (candlelit, with tousled hair and wrinkled shirt collar) I knew in my heart that rules, relationship steps, and circumstances really didn’t matter. Love didn’t have a location or storyline.

Love was anywhere.

It was here, in the back corner of Gary Denko; at home, in fuzzy bathrobes; in airports, saying goodbye over shared muffins; in little yellow envelopes left on bathroom mirrors. Our backdrops kept changing, but together we stayed strong.

After dinner, Marshall and I rode back on an old-fashioned trolley car. As we picked up speed, I stood in the rear under the open sky. We sailed over the hills, the horizon raising and lowering with each dip and crest, while I felt the insistent wind against the side of my face.

The memory returned.

Matt 3.0 and I had broken up, over and over. Each time, I thought we’d get another chance—mostly because I couldn’t accept our truly fantastic failure. The kind of failure that washes over you and leaves you feeling drenched for weeks, months, even years afterward.

It’s time, Fel.

After our third or fourth breakup, there I was in Central Park, standing on the huge, jagged rocks. I put on my headphones and began listening to a very important song.

Time to defy gravity.

It was a song that had stirred me the very first time I heard it, as that surly and disbelieving English major, evolving her idea of a dream. The song cycled back throughout my life, many times: on my first solo trip to NYC (iPod, Metro-North), after sealing the envelope that contained my senior thesis (Bose speakers, dorm room), then later while auditioning for my dream role (piano accompaniment, neon green casting office).

After those final belted notes of “Defying Gravity” during my
Wicked
audition, I had started to cry. At the time, I hadn’t understood it. Was it nerves? Was it stress? Or: was I circling around a memory?

Julie had told me to recall something emotional. Somehow, what I thought I’d buried deep had boiled up to the surface. Each time I’d performed in San Francisco, the memory must have churned—of our final breakup on that windy day in Central Park, those many months ago.

As Elphaba, I could face the feeling of loss. But could I face it as me?

Closing my eyes, I stepped out to the edge of the trolley car and lifted my head. The wind, in its speed and chaos, tore at my hair; strands slapped against my chin and neck as the car dove through San Francisco’s valleys.

It’s over.

Our speed had picked up, but I kept my eyes sealed tight, waiting for something.

Never contact me again.

All the hurt, the pain, the regret that still lingered—it was time to let go.

Goodbye, forever.

Soon, the trolley came to a stop, and the air was still. I opened my eyes and sighed, then said out loud:

“See ya.”

Matt 3.0 wasn’t a ghost. He wasn’t an enemy. And he wasn’t Marshall.

He was a memory—nothing more.

And I had to stop being afraid.

Hopping off of the trolley, Marshall stepped toward me with an outstretched hand. Arm in arm, we walked, our shadows long and gangly from the low-hanging sun.

“Marsh,” I said.

“Yeah, Fel?”

I love you
, I wanted to say. Instead, I pointed forward.

“Look.”

Our shadows were like liquid, flowing across the sidewalk as we pressed on.

“You look like Gumby,” he said.

As we turned the corner, the shadows danced with us, glued to the bottoms of our feet. Soon they began to shrink, until they were fat and foreshortened. Compared to Marshall’s, mine was shorter still, but met his in the center where our arms were linked.

“Looks like I’m in a sidecar,” I said.

“It does,” said Marshall.

This time I said it out loud.

“I love you.”

Failure had become opportunity. I’d met Marshall, gotten cast in my dream role, and moved to San Francisco. The difficulties came and went, but now I had a better understanding of what to do—and how to let go.

Over a year later, in the Land of Oz, it was all starting to make sense.

(LL101:
You can overcome any challenge. No matter what.
)

Little did I know, my biggest challenge was waiting around the corner.

After my family’s visit, Eden told me she’d be taking another weekend off in a mere two weeks. This meant I’d get another shot at tackling four shows in two days.

Maybe I can redeem myself?

Once the news was official, I dialed my mom’s cell. She told me she was at the hospital. Yola had been readmitted with more breathing problems and, most recently, abdominal pain.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s been on and off,” said my mother. “But you know your grandmother—feisty as ever.”

It was true. My grandma had fended off sickness for years. In her checkered love story with disease, neither could commit or let the other go.

If anyone was going to give in, it wasn’t Grandma Yola.

She was a warrior in a senior-citizen disguise, surviving the untimely death of her husband (my grandfather) almost two decades ago, then withstanding hypertension, joint pain, and a recent two-year battle with lung cancer—which, of course, she banished into remission.

My mom explained over the phone that, despite the setbacks, Grandma Yola was gearing up for my cousin’s wedding that weekend; she absolutely refused to miss it, even if it meant being rolled in with an oxygen tank. Yes, wheelchair be damned—she’d be dressed to the nines (as always) in her freshly pressed, shimmery gold suit, with her hair impeccably coifed.

No, it wouldn’t be a wedding without her. Grandma Yola was an institution, a fixture at any family event—not just in her later life, but through all the years I knew her growing up. She was a steady constant—a homemade-pizza-wielding, advice-dispensing, opinion-thrusting spitfire who taught me about painting, balancing a checkbook, and protecting my favorite books with brown parcel paper.

She came to all my shows—the first to cheer, the last to stop clapping, the first to turn to her neighbor to boast, “That’s my granddaughter,” and the last to apologize for it.

“Maybe you should talk to her,” my mother said into the phone. “Make sure you talk to her,” she repeated.

“Hey, Gram,” I said.

“Hey, doll,” said Yola. Her breathing was heavy.

“I hear you’re going to Erika’s wedding? That’s exciting.” I hated myself for sounding chipper.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “And I won’t miss
Wicked
.”

After the cancer, her health had grown more fragile, but still she was the same Yola. The Yola who would stand up against anything. The Yola who was proud of her family, of her strengths, and of proving, time and again, that she was right. Nothing—not even sickness—could stop her.

“Listen, Gram, I miss you a lot. And when I go on as Elphaba next week, I’m going to be thinking about you the whole time.”

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

The following Thursday, I was on an escalator. Marshall was to my left. We had just gotten off the BART train, and were heading up to the mall for a special face wash I just had to have. A woman in front of us was wearing a black and orange San Francisco Giants jacket and stood next to a young boy in a sweatshirt.

Funny how you remember the small, stupid things.

The woman was petite, much too tiny for her sports jacket. The Giants were having a strong season, finishing May with five out of seven wins. The city had been giddy from the excitement. I stared at the block letters,
GIANTS
, in garish Halloween colors, as my phone started ringing in my jeans pocket.

“Hello? Mom?”

That Sunday night I stood in the dressing room shower, tears blending in with the stream of water that poured down my face. After Marshall helped scrub off the last bit of green, we met a car outside the theater, headed to the airport, and flew to Rhode Island to bury my grandmother.

I had accomplished my goal: four shows in two days. But I didn’t care.

I just wanted my grandma back.