Dancing in the Light (7 page)

So the development of my discipline in early life was in direct ratio to the emotional need I felt to express myself. My “discipline” was not difficult for me. On the contrary, it was my support system for being heard: because my parents were clearly the stars of our household, co-starring with each other, Warren and I were the supporting players constantly working for a chance to star ourselves. Considering the refined, high-level art of manipulation exhibited by my parents with one another, it was inevitable that Warren and I would go into a business where, we could confidently apply what we had learned. Show business was a profession made to order for us. And self-expression became as necessary as air.

It wasn’t that they didn’t allow us to express ourselves in the home. Not at all. It was more that
the level of their expression overpowered our capacity as children to express ourselves. They were our teachers by example and inspired us by triggering our sense of survival. We were forced to step into the spotlight just to assure ourselves that we were real. And our desires to be recognized were lovingly acknowledged and supported—that is, whenever Mom and Dad took a little time off from their own starring drama.

As I said before, I believe now that all of it was karmically preordained by the four players involved. And
that
interested me more than anything I had explored in a long time.

“Well, I really like your book, Monkey,” said Dad. “I don’t think the metaphysical stuff will be any problem. But I do see another problem.”

“Oh?” I asked. “What is it?”

“The love affair with that British politician. He’s still married, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s had several other affairs since me.”

“Well, I think the people are going to want to know about that, because after all, his wife is still around.”

“You really think that will cause an uproar?” I asked.

“Well, it’s something to think about. By the way, who is Gerry?” Daddy asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Margaret Thatcher.”

Daddy’s stomach undulated as he laughed.

We talked long into the evening about how and why I had written the book. Karmic overload came around midnight. We all went to bed. As I was falling asleep, I heard Mother say to Dad, “Ira, I wish you had heard what Shirley was talking about.” Daddy seemed astonished.

“What are you talking about, Scotch? It’s you I can’t hear because you don’t want me to.”

Leaving them to their own karma, I fell asleep,
wondering if Dad had been right about the “Gerry” relationship.

The week the book was published in America, Margaret Thatcher called an election in Britain. An enterprising English journalist based in New York City read it, saw an opportunity to have some fun, and spiced up an otherwise dull election by sending his editors in London the juiciest chapters relating to the love affair I had had with a Socialist M.P. who wore a newsprint-stained trench coat and socks with holes in the heels, and had lost the tip of one finger. The story hit the front pages of every newspaper in London and the campaigning English politicians were called upon to hold up their five fingers and remove their shoes, the implication being that if they did qualify as my British lover, they’d get votes, not lose them.

Gallant M.P.’s claimed sadly they didn’t qualify, but wished they had. One said he’d chop off a finger if it would help. Another said he was happy it was only the finger missing. Another said it must have been a Tory, not a Socialist, and his name was Marble because that was clearly what he was missing.

When members of the London press tracked me down in Dallas, I countered by regretting that Fleet Street cared more about my “in-body” experience than my “out-of-body” experiences, but that they could rest assured the gentleman’s real identity would go with me to the grave—unless I decided to incarnate very soon again to help elevate a future British election.

Dad, in his old-fashioned country-boy wisdom, had hit the nail on the head more accurately than he realized.

Chapter 3

S
achi and Dennis and Sandy were busy dressing for my show when I got back from Bantam. As I walked into the living room. Simo stopped me.

“Your mom called,” he said. “I think there might be a problem. She didn’t want me to say anything to spoil your birthday, but I think you should know.”

“What kind of problem?” I asked with a twinge of fear. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. She just came from the doctor,” he answered haltingly.

I tried to stay calm. It was one of those moments you have thought about, and expect, but are never ready for.

I reached for the phone and dialed. Mother answered. “Mother?” I could hear myself pleading for good news. “What’s going on? How are you?”

“Happy birthday, darling,” she said. “Are you having a nice day? You know I sent your present to Malibu.”

“Yes, Mom. I know,” I said. “Thank you. I loved the lavender color, and the fabric of the sweater is really soft.”

I waited.

“Well, listen, darling,” she began. “I don’t want to upset you with all you have on your mind, but I just got home from the doctor’s office. He did an
EKG on me. I thought it would be routine, but in the middle of the EKG my heart started to go. They did an X ray and found a clot on my lung moving toward the heart. So the doctor is putting me into the hospital to try to dissolve the clot. I don’t want to mince my words, but it’s serious.”

Actually she had never made a drama over her health and aches and pains, even while steadily, in old age, pursuing a course of broken bones. I could feel the honest concern in her voice; she wanted to prepare me for the worst.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, what does the doctor think?” I asked lamely.

“He just says I have to go to the hospital immediately. So I’m leaving in five minutes. I’m glad you called back before I left, so I could tell you myself what it’s all about.”

“What time did the heart trouble happen?” I asked, not really knowing why. “I mean, when did the machine register the problem?”

“Oh”—she thought a moment—“I remember I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes before four, about one and a half hours ago. Why?”

Then I realized why I had asked.

“Because, Mom, that happened at exactly the moment I was born fifty years ago,” I said.

She thought a moment. “Oh, I’m not surprised,” she said casually. “I’ve always known I’ve lived my life through you. You’ve done what I always wanted to do, so that makes sense to me.”

I felt myself gasp slightly over the implications of what she said. I didn’t want to ask if she was feeling it was, therefore, time to die, but I could sense she was considering it.

“Now listen, darling,” she said rather commandingly, “whatever will be, will be. I’ve led a wonderful life and if it’s time, it’s time. I want you to know how much I love you, and do real well tonight on the stage. You just remember I’ve been working
hard on my broken shoulder so that I can come up to New York and see you before you close. And I mean to do that. So don’t you worry.”

My throat ached so painfully that I couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, my goodness,” I finally said. “Is Daddy taking you to the hospital?”

“Yes. Your daddy is going to take me.”

She gave me the hospital name, telephone number, room number, et cetera. Then she said, “Darling, don’t let this interfere with your work. If I’m supposed to go, that’s just what’ll happen. And that’ll be because it’s supposed to.”

I could apply my karmic understandings with no trouble at all in the abstract, but now I was getting the test of my beliefs personally. The impending death of the mother you love couldn’t be more specific.

Again, I found it hard to reassure her because of my own pain. I couldn’t find any appropriate words. I didn’t want to say, “Oh, it’ll be all right,” because she was beyond that kind of social inanity.

“I love you, darling,” she said, “more than I can say. And I always have. So say a little prayer for me.”

“I love you, Mother. I love you so much,” I said, my voice breaking to a hoarse squeak as I held back the tears and wished I had said I loved her so many more times than I had.

“So do a good show tonight and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

She gently hung up and I collapsed in the chair with the receiver resting on my lap. I wasn’t even aware I hadn’t hung up.

I felt Sachi walk into the room behind me.

“Mom?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

I began to sob.

“Grandmother had a kind of heart attack or something,” I said, crying. “I mean, there is a blood
clot on her lung, really close to her heart. She’s going into the hospital.”

Sachi’s face crumbled. She had not spent much time with her grandparents, and had been feeling lately that she wanted to make up for lost time before they got too old.

She put her arms around me and felt me fall apart. I could feel her identify with the situation, wondering what she would do if she had gotten the same news about me.

“What do you think, Mom?” she asked. “What do you sense?”

I blew my nose and thought about it. “It might be time for her to go now. There was something about how she said ‘whatever will be, will be.’ She’s never talked that way before.”

I got up and paced the floor. I tried to approach what was happening with objectivity. My mom had lived for over eighty years. The last five had not been easy. She had had an operation for an aneurysm, a broken pelvis, two cataract operations, a hip transplant, a broken arm, and she was diabetic. We had all openly commented that Mother appeared to be doing herself in. Either that or she was testing herself for a hundred-year run. This was only the latest crisis in her struggle to overcome.

I calmed down and breathed deeply.

“You know, it’s funny, Sach,” I said. “She’s been through so much with her health for the last three or five years that it became almost abstract to me. She never complains, yet she keeps doing these things to herself. I’m beginning to feel the impact of what she’s trying to tell us very strongly now.”

“You mean, you think she’s saying she wants to go?”

“Yes, but I think she’s conflicted about it, she’s worried about leaving my dad behind. She always says she hopes he goes first because he’d never be able to get along without her.”

Sachi blinked quickly.

“But wouldn’t Granddaddy go right away?” she asked.

“Sure, I think so. And I don’t feel he’s afraid of that. As a matter of fact, I get the feeling he’s just waiting for her to go, so he can go back to the white light with a clear conscience!”

Sachi laughed. I had told her about Dad’s out-of-body experience and she understood.

I blew my nose again.

“Mom, you’d better get dressed or you’ll be late,” she said. “Will you be able to work tonight?”

Sachi possessed a combination of sensitivity and practicality at moments of crisis. I remembered how she had passed her stewardess examination for Qantas Airways with a top score. What put her over the top were her reactions to the simulated crash-landing test. She had been the only one who stayed calm and collected. She was showing me a bit of that now.

I did a deep knee bend to see how my body felt.

“Sure, I can work,” I said, knowing that nothing would keep me from doing a show when the audience expected me to be there. A kind of inbred professional ethic always prevented me from canceling a show. It was literally impossible for me to indulge myself that way. I remembered the night I had done two shows in Vienna, when I was on tour in Europe, with a 106-degree fever. By the end of the second show, my temperature was normal. I had sprained my ankle on New Year’s Eve in Vegas. The doctor told me I shouldn’t even walk on it for three weeks, nor dance on it for two months. It was purple-black. But I went on anyway—and never missed a show for the rest of the engagement. When I was sixteen years old, I had
broken
the same ankle and danced a complete ballet on point rather than miss a show. I think I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I couldn’t live up to my professional obligations. It was my gypsy-dancing training, I guess. But really, I think it was more that I didn’t want to displease
anyone. I was my mother’s daughter, all right. So I really understood her sincerity in not wanting to upset me. I had come to understand that conducting myself according to what others might think was not a trait to be admired, but when it came to an audience waiting with the expectation of seeing me, some kind of workhorse professionalism took over.
I would be there.

“Mom,” said Sachi, “don’t you think you’d be more comfortable wearing slacks tonight?”

I wondered what she meant. “No,” I said, “I don’t feel like changing. I’ll just keep on this knit suit. It’s okay. Besides, why should I wear slacks to our dinner afterward?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said vaguely.

I didn’t know what that was all about.

Simo came in tapping his watch.

“Why don’t you put on some slacks so we can get going?” he said casually.

“Why does everybody want me to wear slacks?” I said.

“No reason,” he said. “Just thought with all that’s going on, you’d be more comfortable.”

I brushed it all aside, picked up my pocketbook, yelled for Sandy and Dennis, and we all piled into the limo to go to the theater.

The crosstown traffic was congested. With each red light and delay, thoughts of my mother crowded my mind. Sad childhood memories. How I would feel when I could never touch her again. What it would be like walking into the house without seeing her rush toward me, her long arms outstretched. I pushed the thoughts away. I had a show to do. But as we pulled up to the stage door, I realized I was quietly crying.

Crowds of people milled around the stage-door entrance. Many more than usual.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Well, it’s your birthday,” said Simo.

“Yeah, but why all this?” I asked.

I looked into the crowd more carefully. I saw three television camera crews.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m not Queen Elizabeth.”