The trip was arranged so that my mother could spend a few days in her hometown, Los Angeles, before heading to Vegas to see Céline Dion perform at Caesars Palace. I had taken repossession of the Hollywood Hills guest house, but the cozy one-room cottage was too small for me, my mother, and Danielle. Besides which, it was perched on the top of a hill and required climbing thirty stone steps to reach the front door—not an option for my mom. My mother’s oldest childhood friend (and next-door neighbor), Roberta, had moved to the other side of the proverbial tracks—she now lived in the fancy part of Beverly Hills. It was decided that I would stay in the guest house, while Danielle and my mother stayed with Roberta.
Roberta is rail thin, her hair raven black, her skin soapy white, and her lips perpetually bright with pink or red lipstick. My mother often remarked that Roberta was in a time warp: She dressed in tight, tiny getups like she was still in high school, had a cheerleader’s “rah, rah!” personality, and talked about their girlhood adventures as if they’d happened yesterday. Roberta was a housewife who would occasionally moonlight as a nurse; she had a simple sweetness and adored my mother. Her favorite hobby was line dancing, which she did religiously every week, dressed in a cowgirl outfit. Roberta lived in a doll’s house in Beverly Hills—literally. She had a vast collection of china dolls that were displayed in glass cases in every room.
My mother was ecstatic to be back in Los Angeles. She rented a car and drove me and Danielle around the neighborhood where she grew up. “That’s my high school, Hamilton High—I used to cut school all the time and go to the beach. I’d throw my bathing suit on and drive barefoot—I always drove barefoot. I’m a real California girl!”
Roberta and my mother had gotten married on the exact same day in 1965, and they left their husbands around the same time thirty-five years later. Roberta was now dating a real estate agent named John whom she’d met line dancing. Once back in LA, my mother’s dream house in Southampton seemed to fade from her memory. All she could see was home. “I love California—what if I move back? I never meant to live my whole life in New York.”
At my mother’s urging, we piled into John’s car one afternoon to go on an unlikely house-hunting expedition. After showing us a couple of duds, John brought us to a beauty with sweeping views in Marina Del Ray. My mother was suffering from stomach pain that day and had trouble climbing the stairs to the second floor, though she pushed herself. Once upstairs, Roberta leaned on the window ledge in her teeny jean skirt and turned to my mom with bright eyes: “So, Steffy, what do you think?” My mother was mesmerized. In the moment, everything else had fallen away—her house, her doctors, her chemo treatments, her cancer. She was temporarily lost in a fantasy of the future. For a moment, we all blocked out reality and joined her. She turned to Roberta, full of wonder: “I love it. My girls and I can live here on the beach. I can finally come home.”
Calista Flockhart is one of my best friends from my theater days, and my mother hadn’t seen her since she’d moved to California and adopted a baby. We scheduled a time for me and my mom to drive over for a visit. Calista lived with her boyfriend, the actor Harrison Ford, but I didn’t expect him to be there. We had been hanging out with Calista and her son for about an hour when Harrison walked into the den and joined us. He knew my mother was ill. She was curled up in an overstuffed armchair, wearing her new wig. He sat down on a sofa right beside her. He turned his full attention to my mother as if no one else existed, asking her questions about her business and her new house. My mother transformed into a blushing ingenue before our eyes. She spoke coquettishly about the antique dishes and Depression-era glassware she stocked in her store. As she described the room in her house she’d built solely for the purpose of hosing down her dogs, she giggled and tilted her head demurely. When it was time to leave, Harrison Ford escorted my mother to the car and held the door open for her like a proper suitor. I will never forget what a gentleman he was. For the rest of the day and night, my mother forgot her stomach pain and hair loss and mouth sores—that day, she was a princess.
The next morning, Danielle and I took our mother to Cedars Sinai for her next chemotherapy session. She’d begged for a chemo vacation, but her CA-125 numbers had been rising and her doctor felt that missing even one treatment was not an option.
THE LAS VEGAS TRIP was to be an extravaganza—no expense spared. I suspect my mother chose the Venetian from all the hotels on the Strip because it housed a branch of Canyon Ranch—a spa famous for its fitness programs. The Canyon Ranch in Tucson, Arizona, was my mother’s favorite place in the world. Though she could no longer partake in spinning or step classes, she liked the idea that there was a Canyon Ranch right in our very hotel.
My mom rented a lavish suite and invited Roberta and her daughter, Robyn, to join us. Robyn, in contrast to her mother, dressed in conservative, preppy clothing. She worked as a nutritionist at Cedars Sinai and had a vanity plate on her car that read FAT FREE. Like Roberta, Robyn loved my mother. Over the past few years, she had made annual trips to New York to spend a few days with her in Southampton, biking and Rollerblading.
We arrived in Vegas the night before the main event—Céline Dion’s concert, A New Day. The show had been sold out for months; it had required a lot of effort and many connections to snag five house seats, and the tickets cost a fortune. My mother and Roberta were giddy about seeing Céline Dion live; Robyn seemed a bit excited; Danielle and I cared to see Céline Dion about as much as we would have cared to see Wayne Newton—that is, not at all—but we were thrilled that our mother was happy. We were also relieved that we’d pulled the whole thing off.
In our suite, there were two king-size beds and a cot. Robyn and Roberta claimed one of the kings, Danielle took the cot, and my mother and I were back in our role as bed fellows. Before falling asleep, my mother chattered on about all the different kinds of food she was craving. “A hamburger’s floating before my eyes,” she said. “Tomorrow I want a hamburger at the Hard Rock Cafe ….” In the past week my mother had scarcely been able to eat. Nibbling on a piece of bread could trigger violent stomach pain and land her on the bathroom floor, head hung over the toilet. She’d always loved food, but now she was obsessed. At heart she was an optimist; she believed that tomorrow this problem would pass and she’d be able to eat again, so she planned her fantasy meals. My mother’s stomach was once again distended and had grown to an alarming size. As she lay there, talking to me about noodle kugel, fierce gurgling sounds rose from her belly. “Hear that?” she would ask. “That’s not normal.”
The Big Day arrived. Danielle and I lounged around the room, keeping my mother company as she rested up for the evening’s event. My mother made us try on all the outfits we had brought so she could tell us which she liked best. She happily chattered on about how we all had to look gorgeous for the show. My mother had not eaten in days; that afternoon she asked Robyn to bring her some chicken broth. She took a few swallows of soup. It might as well have been poison. She was overtaken with nausea and a stabbing pain. Danielle held her hair back as she retched in the toilet. In between gasps she insisted: “I’m going to see Céline no matter what.” She stood up. She pulled on a pair of leggings and a black stretch tank top with a silver embroidered dragon studded with rhinestones. “You can’t go to the concert if you’re sick,” we told her. “Please, lie down. Relax.” But my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She clung to the walls as she made her way back to the bathroom to put on the wig-concoction of ponytail and bangs sewn into a baseball cap. “I’m green—I can’t even put on my makeup—I don’t care. I came all the way to Las Vegas and I’m not going to miss Céline Dion.” This painful scene continued for another forty-five minutes. Finally, back on the bathroom floor, my mother admitted defeat. She started hollering at the rest of us to hurry, otherwise we would all miss the concert. When we insisted on staying with her, she became hysterical and swore she’d never forgive us if we did not go see Céline. She allowed only Roberta to remain behind and pushed me, Danielle, and Robyn out the door.
We entered the mayhem of Caesars Palace in stunned silence. A mother and daughter were trying to buy tickets from a scalper; we amazed them by handing over our two extras and refused to accept money. The mother thanked us and said it was a special gift because her daughter had just recovered from brain cancer.
Our seats were fantastic—seventh row center. The show began with an explosion of blue—a vista of feathers and flashing lights. Céline Dion alighted, her voice filling the arena, and Danielle and I began to sob. In the middle of the second song, Danielle had an idea. She turned on her cell phone and dialed our mother. The call went through and remained connected. Our mother and Roberta took turns listening to Céline Dion live from her bed in the Venetian.
That night in the dark, my mother lay awake next to me; her energy was very different. She was quiet and loving. She said it had been a mistake to travel, that this would be her last trip. She told me she knew she didn’t have much longer to live. I began to cry, and then she cried, too. But for the first time in our late-night talks, she focused solely on providing me, her child, with comfort. “God gives and he takes away. He does. He’ll give you a baby, Jessica. Like you’ve always wanted. He’ll give you someone to love. And I’ll always be with you.”
The next day, my mother possessed an unfamiliar calm. Robyn and Roberta had taken an early-morning flight back to Los Angeles, leaving the three of us alone. My mother linked arms with me and Danielle, and we strolled slowly past the gondolas and other Vegas-style approximations of Venice. She would gaze at one of us for a long time, then turn and look at the other. She kept saying, “I’m so lucky. I have the best girls in the world.” She said that she was finally at peace because last night she realized that she would not outlive her money. “Whatever happens now, I’ll be okay.”