Chapter Five Elise
“Think The Wolf of Wall Street meets Shakespeare’s Macbeth but with an Chinese American woman taking over an international marketing conglomerate,” I say in one breath.
This is the first time I’ve actively workshopped my play Blood Will Have Blood. I’ve written, edited, revised, and generally obsessed about it privately for years, but it wasn’t until I got an honorable mention for a literary award that I had the confidence to ask local artist friends for critique.
This is my year to get it produced. If I say it repeatedly, that might actually come true.
Imagination Ohio, a collaborative community theater that’s served the area for fifty years, received a public grant to expand their summer offerings to include world premieres by Ohioans. In this context, “world premiere” is a fancy way of saying plays that have yet to see the light of day.
I’ve worked with the arts organization in various capacities before, as a stage manager once and as assistant director last summer. However, this is my first attempt to add my play to their lineup. I’m officially submitting it to the theater’s artistic director next week.
My theater buddies are gathered at my mother’s living room to iron out final details. Sienna, Ma’s coworker and best friend, has also volunteered to be a sounding board. I’m grateful to be within a circle of people who are here to support my dreams. Or maybe they’re here to eat Ma’s homemade dumplings. Both can be true.
“Why did you make the three witches pasty looking white men with indecipherable accents?” Woody asks.
“It’s obviously a direct reference to billionaires with space rocket fetishes,” Lily answers for me. She’s not wrong.
“The commentary on the way capitalism enables and curtails racial identity is fascinating.” Hailee is our resident PhD student. Every artistic friend group has at least one member who’s sacrificed her life to the altar of academia.
It goes on for a while, this discussion about themes and dialogue and characterization.
Should the prologue be shorter? No, they decide.
Is the lead character losing her mind or pretending to? Both is the resounding conclusion.
What’s the line between biting commentary and pedantic parody? Eh, fuck if anyone knows.
I don’t talk much while frantically jotting notes. Most of what they say is positive. I’ll be reading my notebook for an extra morale boost before I attach the manuscript to the email and press send.
“It’s an amazing play, Elise. This is going to be the highlight of the summer,” Sienna says generously.
“About time they did something with Shakespeare that doesn’t require codpieces,” Hailee says, referring to the 1600s equivalent of the jockstrap. “Although the history of codpieces is a fascinating commentary on the intersection of masculinity and—”
“OK, that’s our sign to wrap up,” Lily interrupts. “Intersection of masculinity with anything is always a sign to wrap up.”
“I second that,” Sienna says with a grin.
“Hey!” Hailee complains but she’s laughing, too.
“Did I hear wrap up?” Ma calls from the kitchen.
“We’re coming!” I call to her.
I’m a twenty-nine-year-old single woman who lives with my mother. When my father died over nine years ago, I was living in New York, faltering through my half-ass pursuit of a comparative literature degree. I finished. Barely, but I finished.
Yet every visit back to Ohio made it clear that we needed each other. My mother’s social network of friends and neighbors was no match for the grief she endured at the loss of her husband. He was the love of her life and the best dad in the world. I, on the other hand, was too worried about her to be of any use to myself or my shitty job as a props assistant off Broadway.
So, I moved back to Columbus, redecorated my old bedroom, and took the job at the local community college theater department as an adjunct. The pay is shit, the grading load crushing, and the student body’s disinterest often demoralizing. But I get most of my evenings free to take jobs with local theater companies and, occasionally, the students blow my mind with their talent and insight.
“Geraldine, this is too much!” Hailee says to my mother, who has outdone herself once again. We’re greeted with the aroma of sizzling garlic and ginger, instantly transporting me to my childhood.
“Are those your famous dumplings?” Woody asks, knowing they are.
“They’re not famous.” She brushes off the compliment. “You liked my lo mein so much last time, so I made it again.”
“And it’s Sienna’s favorite,” I add.
“That it is,” Sienna agrees, giving Ma a wink.
We take our seats and grab chopsticks. “Everything looks so colorful and delicious,” Lily states.
“Thank you for having us,” Hailee says.
“Thank you for coming over. I made some mapo tofu and steamed fish with ginger and scallions.”
“Mapo tofu! Mapo tofu!” Lily and I say together in a singsong chant with chopsticks over our head like antennae. It’s a stupid ritual we adopted since we were kids.
She’s my oldest friend. Lily never left my side during the darkest times and has always been a second daughter in this house. My ride or die, this girl with the sass of a diva and a heart of gold.
The table is adorned with an array of dishes, fragrant steam rises from the pots, and all is good in the world on this fine Sunday evening. That is, until Lily begins her usual disturbance. It’s like she’s allergic to a normal gathering without some kind of conflict. Drama queen to the core.
“Geraldine, did Elise tell you about the hot hockey player she met last Saturday?”
I’d kick her under the table but that’s only ever resulted in my unfair punishment.
“No, she did not. What’s this about?” Ma asks with a lilt in her voice. She’s intrigued, just as Lily planned.
I don’t explicitly share my social life with my mother, but it’s not a big deal either. She’s easy to talk to and the coolest fifty-seven-year-old woman in the city. Might be because she looks like she’s in her forties but takes care of everyone as the unofficial neighborhood mom. Who doesn’t adore Geraldine Chen? Most of my friends would move in with her, if I let them.
I slurp noodles noisily. “Huh?” I play dumb.
What is there to say about Randall, after all? We had sex, exchanged numbers, and flirt-texted through the week. Nothing serious. He said he’d call as soon as he got back from their team trip or whatever. I’m not holding my breath although wouldn’t say no to a booty call, either.
“Will you be seeing him again?” Ma asks.
“I’m not looking for anything serious. We had fun, that’s all. And I’ll be busy.”
My students’ spring performance is underway and if I hear positive news about Blood Will Have Blood, it will be a quick rush to assemble the production team and hold auditions. Once rehearsal begins, every waking moment will be dedicated to the play. And like most of my summer gigs, this is out of town. Imagination Ohio headquarters is in Cleveland.
“When is she ever going to take anyone seriously?” my mother turns to my friends. “Ever since Miles, she hasn’t brought anyone home for me to meet.”
Miles’s name turns the fish in my mouth into acid. Lily glances at me apologetically. I shrug, knowing she didn’t mean for the conversation to stray to my ex-boyfriend. Best decision I ever made was swearing off serious dating after Miles and I broke up.
Before the dinner becomes a referendum on my nonexistent dating life, I shift the focus. “As if you ever bring anyone home for me to meet, Ma.”
She nearly chokes on her drink. “I’m an old lady. It’s different.”
The table explodes with avid disagreement. “You’re not old, you’re a catch!” “You could be Elise’s sister!” “Girl, you’re still rocking it!”
My mother blushes and stands up to grab another pitcher of chilled mango-infused tea from the fridge.
“That’s enough. I’m not fishing for compliments,” she says with a wave of the hand. “Hailee, how about you. Any news about the job market?”
We all shift our focus to professional opportunities—or lack of them—in universities and colleges. As always, nothing interests my mother more than people with full bellies, wide smiles, and promising futures.
It’s just that, sometimes, when she calls herself an old lady, I feel the sting of it. She is not old. There’s a whole lifetime of adventures ahead. It’s as if my father’s death closed a chapter that she refuses to revisit.
When was the last party she attended that wasn’t a fundraiser? Antique shopping with her best friend or community center bingo might count for a decent social life, but they’re no substitute for true companionship. She used to love going out dancing or traveling with Dad. Now she barely leaves the state of Ohio.
After our dinner guests help clean the kitchen and take home the leftovers my mother packed, she and I huddle in front of the television with our tea and ginger cookies.
“What should we watch tonight? America’s Got Talent or The Tudors?” she asks, reaching for the remote.
I don’t answer right away, which draws her attention.
“What’s wrong, Elise? Is the garlic giving you gas again? The hot tea should help. Or get Tums from the pantry.”
“Ma! You do not have to worry about my gas,” I say with an amused snort.
One brow raises. “I’ll be watching TV with you for the next hour. Taking care of your gas is for me, too,” she teases.
Before I lose my nerve, I rush to ask, “Would you ever consider dating again?”
Shaking her head, she harumphs. “Where is this coming from?”
“You called yourself an old lady tonight, and that’s not true. You’re young and vibrant. Any man would be lucky to date you.”
She deserves more excitement, more variety, more affection. Geraldine Chen deserves more of everything, including a second chance at a loving relationship. Conversations like the one tonight remind me that I’m not the one who needs to ramp up my dating life. It’s been almost ten years. My mother needs to get her groove on.
“This again?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t get lonely.”
“I don’t get lonely,” she repeats stubbornly. For a brief instant, Ma looks like she’s about to say something but stops herself.
“What is it?” I attempt to prompt her.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Elise.”
“But aren’t you bored of the same things? No one will ever replace Dad; that’s not what this is about. Wouldn’t it be nice to try new things? New places?”
“I’ll go with you,” she states chirpily.
“I love spending time with you. Of course, I do. But waiting around for when I’m free is boring and you know it.”
The only reason I’m even home tonight with my friends is because we recently wrapped up. I won’t commit to anything until I get news on my submission to Imagination Ohio. But whether or not my play is picked, summers are all about outdoor theater or the destination camps I’ve taught at for years. It’s my busiest time.
“It is not boring to check out new places or vacation with my daughter!”
“Your daughter is busy with a dead-end job and a pipe dream. Stop pretending that you don’t know what I’m talking about. A date with a nice guy might be fun. Give it a try.”
She stares at me and realizes that although I’ve brought up this topic in the past, tonight I am stubbornly serious.
“Where would I meet a man my age to date, anyway?”
Bingo! Well, not literally, since she already plays bingo with a bunch of folks much older than her. I mean this is further than we’ve gotten in my past tries. The fact that she’s talking about any man—even a hypothetical one—is a step in the right direction.
“There are awesome online dating sites. Well-vetted and secure, so you don’t have to give your personal contact information until you’re ready.”
“How do you make contact if they don’t have your contact information?” she asks with a side pout, like she has her doubts but will save her full pouts for important topics. It’s an Asian mom thing.
“On the site itself. You put up a picture and a few bits of information you want to share. Let’s set it up and see what’s out there.”
“Maybe,” she says resignedly and presses the play button. That’s almost a yes.
I’ll start her profile tomorrow.