I returned home to a talkative son. It’s as if his words and syllables had been released from their long hibernation, at least for a short time.
“I know I screwed up. I promised you I’d be responsible, and I wasn’t. I’m really sorry. I’m not just saying that. I am embarrassed and ashamed, and you deserve more. I know you’re dealing with a lot right now and I don’t want to add to your burden.”
He was talking. He was being thoughtful and considerate. I knew my sweet boy was still in there somewhere. Maybe Marsden needed the threat of suspension to get the words flowing again.
I didn’t want to let him off the hook too easily though. I tend to parent from a wishy-washy-open-minded-acceptancy-it’s-okay-honey place, but yesterday I invoked an authoritarian tone.
“You promised me you could stay here for a few days by yourself. Explain to me what happened.”
He said he skipped school to work on his applications.
“Really, Marsden, you skipped school to work on your applications?”
“Really, I did, Mom. Maybe I smoked some weed too, but only ’cause it helps me write, and I know you like it when I write.”
“Don’t try justifying getting high as a way to please me.”
“Did you know that Shakespeare got high?”
“I’ve heard that. He probably experimented a bit. I doubt he could have been as productive as he was if he smoked regularly. Are you comparing yourself to Shakespeare now?”
“No, I’m comparing you to Shakespeare. You should try. It might help you finish your play.”
He’s smart, my son. When he talks, he knows the right words to say. He looked so sweet. His limby lankiness and sleepy eyes that somehow twinkle even when he’s high. I asked him for a hug. I overstepped. We’re not at hugs yet.
Then Elliot came over. He insisted on having a family meeting, as if we were still a family.
The three of us were standing in the kitchen and Elliot was aggressively lobbing questions at us.
“Why didn’t you tell me you went to New York?”
“How come Marsden stayed here by himself?”
“Marsden, why didn’t you come over and stay with me and Midge?”
“Elise, how did you think this was going to end?”
“Did it ever occur to you that something really bad could have happened?”
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, Marsden. Is this the kind of thanks we get?”
It was one question too many. Something in me snapped—that sounds cliché—but it’s what happened.
“That’s enough, Elliot! Stop with the questions and get out of my house!”
I have never yelled at Elliot in front of Marsden. I rarely yell at Elliot in front of Elliot. My biggest fights with Elliot have been without Elliot. I have yelled and hit and thrown things at him, but not when he’s around. It’s not that I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of my pain, it’s not that I didn’t want him to know how heartbroken and angry I was. I didn’t yell at Elliot in front of Elliot, and especially in front of Marsden, because if I did, I would become my mother. I felt like I was seeing him clearly for the first time since our divorce. I was no longer looking at him through the lens of my misery and desire for him. I wanted him out of my house.
I did the math. Three days left to finish Deja New, and one of them is Thanksgiving. I have failed. I was never going to finish. From the day I accepted the commission, I embarked on the excruciating process of coming to terms with the fact that my place in this world is not as a playwright.
From day one, this has been an exercise in letting go, of understanding that the forces around me are greater than the forces within me. The purpose of these Morning Pages was not to help me finish writing Deja New, it was to plot out the points of why I cannot and will not finish. My Morning Pages are my map to failure. My husband cheated on me, then cheated with me, and my writer’s block defeated me. This morning ritual of writing three pages has not served up the focus to finish, but rather has become a journal of a playwright doomed to failure—not because of big and magnificent events, but because of daily distractions. All the moments when I’m focused elsewhere. The moments when I’m dealing with Mom, or worrying about Marsden. The moments when I’m not writing. There are so many moments. All the moments in a day of fighting the distractions of life instead of writing.
Moments + moments + moments + moments + moments = time escaping, time not finishing.
My heart might have missed a beat or put in a few extras. I’m not sure which way it went, but it was doing something it surely shouldn’t have been doing and I started sweating. Soon I was dripping wet and smelled like under-boob stink.
I’ll have to pay back the commission. Sammy Ronstein will hate me. I will be gossiped about.
Did you hear that Elise Hellman couldn’t finish writing her play and had to return her commission with interest? How much interest? Her future as a playwright. She had to forfeit it all.
I’ll be written about in cautionary “What Not to Do” articles that will be widely available online.
The former playwright, Elise Hellman, put family first, friends first, the mutterings and mumblings inside her undisciplined headfirst, and she never wrote again.
“Mom, are you okay?” Marsden asked.
“I want you out of my fucking house! Elliot, get out of my house!” It was tree-toppling, full-throated screaming.
“Calm down, Elise.”
No, Elliot—I will not calm down! Why would I calm down?
“So, this is what’s going to happen,” I announced. “Marsden and I are going to go on a college tour.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Elliot said.
“But before we go on a college tour, we’re driving down to New York and we’re going to pick up Grandma Trudy.”
I paused because I wanted to watch their faces. The flickering of the eyes, the frowns, the deepening lines of confusion cutting through Elliot’s forehead.
“And we’re going to combine Marsden’s college tour with an assisted living homes tour for Grandma Trudy.”
“What?” Marsden asked.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Elliot said.
“The two of you both need to start thinking more seriously about the future.”
“But?”
“Elise?”
“I’d like you to leave now,” I said. No ambiguity.
“Who?” asked Marsden.
“Both of you. Marsden, pack for a week. Make sure you have a few pairs of clean khakis and nice button-down shirts and a few sweaters. Then go spend tonight at Dad’s. I hope you have a good Thanksgiving dinner with Dad and Midge tomorrow. I’ll pick you up after dinner is done and we’ll drive to the city.”
“You’re not going to join us for Thanksgiving this year?” Elliot asked.
“No, Elliot, I won’t be joining you.”
That’s how it played out. I spent the rest of the day making appointments to tour colleges and leaving messages at assisted living homes.
I may not have finished my play, but this trip will be my tour de force.