Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent (18 page)

A week later the mood was jubilant and nervous as we headed into our first performances in our new home. And from the moment we stepped onstage at our dress rehearsal, the twelve hundred friends and acquaintances and associates who’d packed themselves into the Nederlander erupted in a collective cheer. The sound of that many people clapping and whistling and hollering had a heady force that stopped us in our tracks. We had become something like rock stars.

In the long moments it took for the audience to quiet down, I locked eyes with my friends onstage, each one suppressing a huge grin, their eyes gleaming. I knew my eyes were also gleaming, and when at last the audience was silent, I took a deep breath and began.

The audience didn’t stop screaming for the rest of the night, nor for any of our two weeks of previews. We all took well to our larger house, opening up our performances to fill it with our voices and passion and commitment to each other and to what we were singing. Any lingering doubts that anybody may have had about whether we were a bona fide Broadway show were eradicated.

I hadn’t talked to Mom very much over the past two months because I’d been so busy with the show, but along the way I had kept her abreast of our developments. She had been dismayed by Jonathan’s death, saying, “It seems like they should have known at the hospital that something was very wrong with him.” She had often shared stories with me about using her nursing skills to correct doctors’ misdiagnoses, saving several people’s lives in the process, which always made me wish there were more nurses like her working in hospitals.

Mom hadn’t been to New York for a visit since the Broadway opening night of
Six Degrees of Separation,
five and a half years before, so I was thrilled when she arranged a trip into town for
Rent
’s Broadway opening night on April 29, 1996. Accompanying her were her brother Chris, his wife Bonnie, Mom’s sister Roberta, and Mom’s old friend Phyllis. Phyllis lived in Portland, Oregon; she and Mom had met in 1978 when they were nurses together at Island Lake Camp. They had kept in touch ever since, talking on the phone or writing long letters stuffed with snapshots of their children. They had seldom seen each other over the years, but had managed to remain extremely close.

Because of my two shows on the day before opening night, I was only able to see Mom and everybody else on the day itself. We arranged to meet for breakfast, and Adam and I rendezvoused with them all at their hotel, eager to see how well—or how unwell—Mom looked. She had more energy than I’d seen in a while, although she did have a cane with her, just in case she needed it.

“I can’t walk that far,” she said.

“Well, we’ll go just a couple blocks away to a diner,” I said, eager to keep things light and easy and fun.

At the diner, Chris pulled out a copy of
The Advocate.
I glanced over to see Mom’s reaction, but she remained pokerfaced. It had been so long since she and I had talked about my sexuality, and I wasn’t sure what her current feelings on the subject were. I felt my cheeks redden.

“This was a very nice article,” Chris said. “A great picture.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Yes,” Mom said, “it’s a wonderful picture.”

Bonnie chuckled. “Just don’t let your Grandma see it.” Everyone, including me, laughed, although I was eager to change the subject.

“Tonight,” I said, “there are supposed to be a lot of stars coming.”

Phyllis perked up. “Oh, really? Like who?”

“Well, the list they gave us had Michelle Pfeiffer on it, and Isabella Rossellini, and George Clooney, and Kevin Bacon, and some other people. We don’t know if they’ll all show up, though.”

“Well,” Phyllis said, “that’s exciting.”

“Maybe I’ll just have to go up to George Clooney and ask him out on a date,” Roberta said, and everybody laughed. I was glad we’d gotten onto another topic, but I was still afraid that Mom was tense over
The Advocate.
I let it go as best I could, and tried to give myself over to the generally lighthearted, easy mood. Mom was sitting among people she adored and enjoyed, and I loved watching her take us all in as we laughed at Roberta’s joke. I was happy that she was still well enough to be there with us.

I left everybody at the diner so I could make my last-minute arrangements for the performance that night, which consisted mostly of writing cards to everyone in the cast, band, and creative staff. It was my ritual, and I made every effort to say everything I’d been storing up to tell my friends: about how much I loved them, and how much I loved their work in the show. By the time I was done it was already time to meet everybody again for dinner. We assembled at the theatre, where barricades were being set up to keep the paparazzi away from the stars, and I showed everyone the backstage area. Our attitudes were exceedingly midwestern; no one was overtly excited, including myself, but the sense of anticipation was palpable. Phyllis expressed the most excitement in her quiet way, her eyes glinting as she giggled and snapped lots of pictures.

Jonathan’s friend Eddie was putting together a video documentary about
Rent,
and I asked him if he wanted to shoot us at dinner and if he would interview Mom for my purposes. He agreed, and I asked Mom if she would mind participating.

“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s fine with me.”

As we all sat through our pasta dinners at the Italian restaurant down the street from the theatre, we chatted amiably enough, but didn’t talk about the significance of Mom being there. I wanted to tell her and make her feel how absolutely excited and thrilled I was, but since our family had never been inclined to express ourselves so openly, I didn’t bring it up.

As a result of the weight of all that was unsaid between us, I was relieved when it was time for me to head back over to the theatre.

Mom was to return to the hotel now, change into her evening clothes, and then meet Eddie back at the theatre so he could interview her. I double- and triple-checked that she and Eddie were both still willing to do it, so desperately did I want a record of her on that night. I knew that it was probably going to be the last opening night of mine that she would ever witness.

She arrived at the theatre right on time for her interview, decked out in the same outfit (but not the same Elizabeth Taylor hairdo) she’d worn to Anne’s wedding. I could tell right away that she had shrunk more than I’d realized; her clothes looked baggier on her now. She sat in the house with Eddie, and the cast gathered onstage with Michael. I tried not to cast my eye toward Mom, to see if I could tell what she was saying to Eddie, as all of us onstage joined hands in a circle.

“I just want to say how enormously proud I am of all of you,” Michael said, radiant in his elegant dark suit, “and how proud of you and of his show I think Jonathan would be, and is, wherever he is.” I nodded to myself, closing my eyes, freezing this moment, trying to feel Jonathan’s presence, thinking that I could feel it, hoping that he knew what was happening.

By the time we were done with our onstage circle, Mom was done with her interview, and I brought Michael down off the stage to meet her. She looked tiny in her seat, her cane slung over the back of the chair in front of her. She didn’t get up as she shook Michael’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Michael said. He and the rest of the cast and crew knew that Mom was ill, and he’d asked me to introduce him to her.

“Oh, nice to meet you, too,” Mom said, her voice mild as ever.

“We’re very glad you could be here,” Michael said.

“Oh, I’m very glad, too. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She smiled, glancing up at me, and it was the first time all day that I’d really felt her pride and excitement.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” Michael said.

“Oh, I’m sure I will. I’ve read such wonderful things about the show. And I always love watching Anthony onstage.” Embarrassed and happy to be hearing this from Mom, I put my head down slightly and grabbed her hands in mine.

“It was great to meet you,” Michael said.

“You too,” Mom replied, and Michael shook her hand again and left.

I looked up at her, wanting to tell her how excited and sad and proud I was, but all I said was, “Well, I’ve got to get going backstage.”

“Okay, Tonio,” Mom said. “Break a leg.”

“I will, Momma,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And I gave her a hug and a kiss and left her sitting there in the audience.

Pandemonium ruled backstage as everyone ran around to everyone else’s dressing rooms with gifts and cards and flowers. We were already a hit, so all there was to do now was enjoy ourselves, and go out there and give a kick-ass performance.

Michael pulled me aside while I was getting ready and said, “I think tonight we have to start things off with a dedication to Jonathan.” I nodded, glad that he’d brought it up. I’d been thinking the same thing.

When we all stepped out onstage, the entire audience leaped to their feet, cheering us for a long, long time. I drank it in, trying to calm the shaking in my knees. I scanned the crowd, finding Cy, who blew exuberant kisses to us (she’d already seen the show several times, becoming one of our first “Rentheads”); the Larsons, who clapped with their hands raised high, seeming so happy and sad; and my mom, up in the front mezzanine, looking small and lovely in her turquoise suit, slightly dwarfed by my brother Adam’s hulking frame in the seat next to her. The vivacious, joyful, explosive cheering went on and on, and then finally, everyone took their seats.

I centered myself with a breath and said, “We dedicate this performance, and every performance of
Rent,
to our friend Jonathan Larson,” and the audience immediately leaped to their feet once again, clapping long and hard, cheering, sending their love and respect up and out to us and him.

And then they sat once again, and we began.

I had never felt more focused and alive onstage, knowing that this would probably be the only time Mom would ever see this show that I loved so much. I sang to her as much as I could, wondering how she was feeling through it, wondering if the emotional intensity of some of the songs was too much for her to take. Some of them were almost too much for me to take—in Act Two, when we sang,
“How do you measure a last year on earth?”
and I looked right at her up in her seat, her glasses reflecting light back at me, I had to struggle through the knot in my throat. By that time, the show had zoomed by so quickly that I was wishing it would just continue on and on. I imprinted the night on my brain, telling myself,
Remember this. Remember this.

In the reprise of “I’ll Cover You” and then “Halloween” and “Goodbye Love,” I battled with myself to keep it together, alternately stuffing down and channeling the swarm of grief and joy that had tangled itself up in my gut. Lines like
“Mimi’s gotten thin / Mimi’s running out of time”
kept doubling back on me, and it took everything I had to stay in the play.

I made it through all of it, though, as I had so many nights before, and, all too quickly, there I was at the end of the show, assembled onstage with my dear friends—my new family—holding on to them, singing
“No day but today”
with them, our hearts and voices unified, showering our friends and family with love and joy and grief. And as the lights faded on us on our final note, the audience exploded in a tidal wave of roaring, whistling, cheering applause.

During the curtain call, I finally started to let go, and tears streamed down my face, my chest heaving, as we bowed, and bowed again, and bowed again. I looked up and saw Mom joining the standing ovation and my heart burst open, and more tears sprang to my eyes. When we were finally done bowing I stepped back, sent my customary four strong claps up to Jonathan, blew kisses up to Mom, and walked off.

We all spent many, many minutes hugging each other tightly backstage, all of us spent and jubilant and alive, saying to each other, “I love you” over and over again. As I walked upstairs to my dressing room, a fresh blast of emotion hit me, and I braced myself on the banister, putting my head down, trying not to sob out loud as my cast mates passed by. Gilles stopped next to me, gently resting his hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said through my tears. “It’s just…I don’t know, I’m so happy. My mom was here tonight. I’m so happy she was here.” My chin trembled as I spoke.

“Yeah,” Gilles said. “I understand.”

“Thanks,” I said, and pulled myself together and went into my dressing room.

After I had glammed myself up for the party, I went back downstairs into the house so I could say good night to Mom; she’d already decided that she would skip the party and get some rest. When I found her she gave me a hug and said, “It was wonderful.” Her face glowed.

“Did you really like it?”

“Oh, I loved it.” She nodded emphatically, her eyes wide and bright. “It was very, very moving.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “I thought you would like it.”

She grabbed my hands. “Tonio, you were great. I’m so proud of you.”

I squeezed her hands, stuffing down my tears that were threatening to come at any moment. “Thank you.”