I Have Somewhere To Be by Alaina Hammond

I Have Somewhere To Be by Alaina Hammond

I am not a pre-school teacher. I want to make that very clear. A pre-school teacher works harder than I do, and many more hours. So. Many. Hours. I would not claim that heroic title for myself; to do so would amount to stolen valor. I have simply not done the work to earn that cardboard crown.

I’m a part-time pre-school music teacher. As in, I work four hours a week. My job is wonderful, fulfilling, and easy as Hell. I’d never claim to be a “real” teacher, but the kids and I have fun.

I like to teach my three-year-olds a variety of Scottish folk songs, censoring myself only when I think it absolutely necessary. Sure, Scottish folk songs can get dark, but so what? As if three-year-olds don’t intuit how dark the world is!

This is upper class Long Island, though. So who the fuck knows? I live here, and I barely understand the nuances of the culture. It’s the wild west with nicer cars.

Speaking of cars. My husband, Caleb, picks me up from work in our Mercedes. His Mercedes, but I’m married to him so it’s technically half mine. (checks the legal paperwork) What?? Oh, well fuck me then.

 Fine, so the Mercedes entirely belongs to Caleb, the only person in this marriage with a driver’s license. The point is he picks me up, at the school where I’m a part-time music teacher. And totally considered cool by all the toddlers.

Our twin sons are in the backseat.

My son Lucas says, “Hi Mom. Guess which one of your sons I am! I bet you can’t tell.”

I say, “Lucas, you and Jeffrey are fraternal twins. Exchanging glasses will never fool me. Because you literally have different eye colors. And beyond that, you’re not identical. Like, at all.”

My sons are VERY fraternal. Yes, “very fraternal” is technically redundant. But in their case, it definitely applies. They’re barely twins; they’re more like siblings of the same age who happened to have gestated together. On a genetic level, they’re no more closely related than any pair of full siblings. But beyond that, their personalities are dusk and dawn.

The fact that they’re not particularly similar doesn’t mean they aren’t close. They’re very close. And I envy them that. Also, the circumstance of their birth was not at all scandalous. Boy do I envy them THAT.

You’re welcome, boys.

“OK, but maybe play along with our game? Because it’s funnier that way?”

“Right. Who the Hell are you? Who are you people? Where am I?”

“Mom, you’re ruining the joke!”

“Am I? Or am I improving it?”

The silliness continues for a few minutes until I decide it’s time to get serious, and lead a family rendition of “Loch Lomond.” The three of them are even better than my three-year-old students, in my professional opinion.

They drop me off at the airport. Well, “they” is generous; Caleb did the heavy lifting. Caleb, Jeffrey and Lucas declare their love for me, and send their love to my parents. Their love for my parents will travel with me, contained within my carryon suitcase.

So as soon as I go through security, I head for the bar. A blessed moment for myself before the chaos returns.

As I drink my one wine, I try to look busy on my phone. “I’m too distracted to talk to anyone” is an energy I’ve cultivated. It’s not that I never enjoy engaging with strangers. It’s just that I’ve had this interaction enough times to know how it ends.

It ends with the stranger sitting next to me buying me at least one shot. And as much as I appreciate the gesture/shot, I want to keep my head straight.

Seriously, people hear about the circumstance of my birth—which inevitably comes up—they want to buy me alcohol, just to diffuse the tension. And then, when I tell them the specific reason I’m traveling to my hometown, they want to hug me. Even when they’re not hitting on me. When they find out who my dad is, I might get a marriage proposal.

And it’s fine. It’s sweet. It’s harmless. I’ve just…had so many variations of this conversation. I’m tired of the script. Like an actress in a long-running play who just wants to retire. Just let the thing close already, kill it while it’s lukewarm.

The flight to Buffalo is brief, as far as flights go. But then there’s the Uber to my mother’s house, which is roughly an hour away. I thank my driver for helping with my luggage, then immediately don my heavy headphones.

The subtext, as always, is clear: I don’t want to talk about why I’m traveling to this tiny town near the Canadian border. Why bore him with my backstory? Or worse—intrigue him? That conversation is even more awkward in an Uber than an airport bar. In the latter, at least there’s booze, and easy exits. In an Uber, you’re trapped with the discomfort and/or intrigue. Hence, the headphones.

We pull up to my mother’s house. It’s not as big as my dad’s mansion—very few houses are. Very few MANSIONS are. But it’s nice enough, and it’s worth much more than what my father paid for it, 44 years ago. My mom was twenty and pregnant with me. My dad was 35, married, and living in his mansion with his wife. He still lives there, with that same wife. My beloved stepmother, Sylvia.

Again: I don’t tell any of this to my Uber driver. Instead, I reiterate my thanks for his help with my suitcase, and truthfully promise to rate and tip him well.

I enter the house and AWW CRAP WHY ARE THREE OF MY COUSINS HERE? It’s close to midnight!! I am NOT in the mood to be social!!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my cousins, but I’m seeing all of them tomorrow. For hours. So…this feels a bit redundant.

Then again, I’m glad they love my mom so much, live close and visit often. But…I just want to sleep!

Oh well. I rally. I accept my mom’s offer of a glass of wine, and make a point of socializing for a full half-hour. Then, I hug my cousins and my mom, bid them farewell until the morrow, and go upstairs to crash in my childhood bedroom. I fall asleep to the sound of their laughter, which is actually pretty comforting, even in its loudness.

And, I’m awake again. If I’m honest with myself, I sometimes hate sleeping in my childhood bedroom, even though it’s been renovated and redecorated into a guestroom. Still, I awake with the ghosts of adolescence and childhood.

But for two nights, it’s not so bad.

My mom and I have a quick coffee, and then my Uber arrives. The driver is in a talkative mood, and actually so am I. Must have been the strong coffee. So we do the verbal dance of exchanging basic information.

He’s from Buffalo, born and raised. What brings me to town? Oh, I’m visiting family and friends. Which is both true and vague.

And then he asks me what I do.

To the complete truth—I’m a part-time preschool music teacher, a part-time musician, and a part-time actress—inevitably leads to questions I might not want to answer. And the questioner doesn’t actually want answered. No, you haven’t seen me in anything. Yes, I can play you my music. But only if you really want me to.

So the easiest thing is to say I’m a pre-school teacher. Which is technically true in the broadest sense. Yes, it’s stolen valor. But I’m not actively misrepresenting myself so much as keeping the conversation light. I’ll know this man for ten minutes, and then he’ll forget me. I’m a passenger, not a full-on fraud.

We arrive at my dad’s house. Up the long, impressive driveway, he comments. He can’t help it. “Wow.” Succinct, he is.

“Yeah, my dad’s rich. Which is not why you’re getting a big tip. You’re getting a big tip because you deserve it.” He laughs politely. As I exit his car, we wish each other a good day. And, implicitly, a good life.

I open the door, with the third key on my keyring. I call out, “I’m home!” Technically I’ve never lived here, at least not full-time. But it feels right to say it. And I still have my own room.

“Hi Megan,” I’m greeted by their longtime helper, Gladys. “Your dad’s not here. Sylvia will explain. She’s upstairs.”

“Thank you, Gladys,” I say as I press the elevator button. Yes, they have an elevator. They had it installed shortly after Sylvia got her wheelchair.

I walk to their bedroom, to find Sylvia sitting up in bed, a few books beside her.

“Hey Sylvia!”

“Darling, give me a hug and then take a seat.” I comply. My stepmother feels very frail in my arms, even worse than she was when I saw her two months ago.

“Your father’s at the hospital. He had…an episode, last night.” Sylvia gives me what details she can, then falls asleep mid-sentence. I put the blanket over her, and kiss her cheek.

I order an Uber, which won’t arrive for at least ten minutes. No need, then, for the elevator. I stroll my way down spiral marble stairs, lingering a bit toward the middle. I say a quick hello/goodbye to the staff—some of whom I’ve known since childhood—then wait outside in the gazebo. I used to perform here, for the squirrels.

Well, this isn’t how I’d plan to spend my morning, but OK. My event isn’t until 3pm, so I should be fine.

This time the Uber driver and I don’t talk at all. He’s taking me to the local hospital; best not to ask questions.

At reception, I give my dad’s name, and the room number Sylvia provided. I show my ID, then hospital security escorts me. This isn’t his first stay at this hospital; unscrupulous “journalists” have pretended to be his children. As a result, my name and photo are saved to the short green list that allows me access to my father.

His personal security guy, Ray, is sitting by his bed. They’re angrily watching a baseball game. As soon as I enter the room, Ray turns off the TV. “Fuckers won’t redeem themselves, at least not today,” Ray snaps. Presumably referring to the team they’re both rooting for.

“Ain’t it the truth. Baby girl, come give Daddy a hug!” I comply, at almost the same angle I hugged his wife less than an hour ago.

“So what happened?”

“Absolutely nothing,” says my dad.

“Megan wasn’t asking YOU,” says Ray, accurately. “But they’re not sure yet. Maybe a mini stroke. They’re still running tests.”

“Got it. Thanks, Ray.”

“Ray, be a mensch, go get me some cigarettes if you’d be so kind.”

“Sure thing, Boss.” Ray leaves the room, and stands outside the open door. He can still hear everything we say, but now my dad has the dignity of Pretend Privacy. In hospitals, dignity is especially precious.

My dad asks about my mom, not wanting to hear the answer. I say, “She’s doing fine” and then we’re both happy to change the subject.

He asks me about my sons. This is a question with genuine interest behind it. Although he saw the twins in person less than three months ago, he’s delighted to look at pictures taken within the last week. Typical grandfather.

“Megan, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t listened to your album yet. I’ve been meaning to. I just haven’t had the chance to give it the attention it deserves, because this week has just been crazy.”

“No problem, I understand.”

“I seem to have some down time. Can I listen to it now?”

“Sure.” I rummage through my backpack, to grab a pair of headphones and my extra phone. (I have more than one phone; long story.) I set everything up to play, then hand both objects to my dad. He seems alert and his hands are working—I won’t infantilize him by placing the headphones myself.

“So it’s what, a combination of…”

“Bach on the piano, and my own piano compositions. No lyrics, no singing. No one playing but me, no composers but me and Bach. Arrogant, I know. I had fantastic sound recorders and my producer knows what she’s doing”.

My dad nods. “A good producer is priceless. Which song would you like me to listen to first?”

“Thank you. Track one is my personal favorite. I did that in purpose. Hook the listener early.”

“Boy, do I get it!”

As my dad listens to my album, I occupy myself with my (main) phone. I deliberately avoid looking at him as he listens, because that’s way too much pressure even for someone who ISN’T in the hospital, possibly having suffered a mini stroke.

It seems as if the entire internet is boring, today. My mind wanders to my childhood, which is natural given where I am.

I rarely experienced the cruelty of other children. “You’re an affair baby” loses its teeth as a playground taunt, eventually.

 When I was in fourth grade, a couple of third graders convinced a first grader he owed me money because he sang a song my dad wrote at the talent show. Which, to be fair, was an odd choice for a six-year-old. Nothing explicit in its lyrics or anything like that, it was just in a minor key. Anyway, the first grader came to me crying and apologizing, saying he’d get the money soon.

 I was really mad. Not at him, but at the third graders for making him cry. Anyway, I wound up co-leading an anti-bullying assembly as a direct result of this incident, which sucks for me because I actually hate public speaking. I’d much rather be singing, stripping, reciting Shakespeare, something that requires less metaphorical nudity than speaking as myself, without the protection of a fourth wall.

For my sixteenth birthday, my dad gave me partial royalties to one of his most famous songs. I personally get about two cents every time it’s commercially played. Which doesn’t sound like much, but given how often that song is played, it adds up. Oh boy does it add up. Even at sixteen, I knew how much those rights was worth. I was appropriately grateful to him. Also, for sentimental and aesthetic reasons, it’s totally cool. I mean is it my absolute favorite? No, but it’s got a pretty good guitar riff.

But still. I can’t really claim it as mine. I need to do my own thing. Nothing I personally create will ever be worth that much, in terms of monetary value, and I’m OK with that. But my art is mine, mine, mine alone.

Once, at a high school party, this guy told me “I don’t have a crush on your dad. I have a crush on his MUSIC.” Thanks for clarifying, very smooth.

I mean I still made out with him, because whatever. He was hot. Seventeen year old girls have made out with guys who liked them for questionable reasons since forever. If I eliminated every potential sex partner who was a fan of my dad’s, college would have been really boring.

I did make my husband sign a contract that he’d never think about my dad while fucking me. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Brian once said to me: “Your mom’s a selfish whore who should have aborted you, and your dad’s a rapist pedophile.”

“No, that’s—”

“MEGAN. You must not defend them. Anyone who puts you in that position of having to defend your parents is a total asshole, unworthy of your time. Let’s try again. Your mom’s a selfish whore who should gave aborted you, and your dad’s a rapist pedophile.”

“Cool, thank you for your opinion.”

“It’s not my opinion, it’s fact.”

“OK.”

“Also, you’re ugly.”

“OK.”

“Good. Much better.” Damn, that was some good big brothering. Solid advice from my older half-brother, born to my dad and Sylvia. Brian didn’t fully inoculate me from the cruelty I’d eventually encounter, on the internet and in person. He couldn’t; no one could. But he prepared me, a little. At least I had a script to follow.

When I was in kindergarten, my mom asked my dad to send her to interior design school. I get why she did it, but in retrospect she probably shouldn’t have asked in front of me. That was awkward. But then, the whole thing was awkward. My mom was doing her best.

My dad said yes, without hesitation. No jokes about the house not being enough. No cracks about child support. Actually I think my stepmother literally wrote the check. You can call Sylvia a martyr, or call her a saint, but you can’t say my dad and stepmom aren’t financially generous.

And my mom, to her credit? She succeeded in her dreams. She made her way from a working class background to the competitive world of interior design. By the time I was in high school, she was 100 percent financially independent from my father’s largesse.

I mean of course she still let him pay for ME. But that’s a totally different thing, right?

My legal last name is the same as my dad’s. But as an artist, I perform under my middle names only. Megan Miranda is a perfect stage name. It sounds faker than it is.

My legal name is Sylvia Megan Miranda Starkey. And yes, I’m aware how deeply fucked up that is. I can’t believe my mother agreed to that, for one. But then she was very young, and in over her head.

What’s far more shocking is the fact that my dad thought that was a good idea. But then he’s more prone to dramatic gestures than common sense. Google images confirms this fact. Did you see how he dressed in the 80s?

Still. I hope my dad doesn’t think I’m denouncing him, by not using my legal last name of Starkey on my art. I don’t think he does. I think he genuinely gets it.

Caleb straight up told me not to take his last name, when we were planning our wedding. “McDonnegan is an impossible name to spell, no one EVER spells it right the first time, and anyway I’m only a quarter Irish. I wouldn’t inflict my last name on anyone,” Caleb insisted. Our twins are named McDonnegan, because patrilineal tradition is hard to shake.

Where was I? Oh yes, I perform on Broadway—and off-Broadway, and off-off Broadway, and community theater on Long Island—as Megan Miranda. My records are produced under that name as well.

Because honestly, I spend enough energy away from Caleb and the kids as is, just by being an artist. To actively court fame—by exploiting my connection to my dad—would just be asking for trouble. Also, I’ve seen how cruel critics can be. Why put a target on my spotlight? The light is plenty bright as is. I don’t need to add a laser.

Most people in the performing arts world know about my famous parent, even before I tell them. I understand that’s just how it works.

Also, how funny would it be if someone made the connection between me—small time New York-based actress and musician—and my mother, who’s a successful Buffalo area interior designer? 

Meh, someone probably already has. Never underestimate the internet.

My dad has never offered a public apology for the fact that I exist. Which I appreciate. Because while Sylvia was certainly owed an apology regarding the circumstance of my conception, the public was not. Nor were they owed a public apology to Sylvia, whose privacy had been sufficiently violated. My dad putting out a press release essentially saying “I’m a terrible husband” would have only exacerbated Sylvia’s pain.

That said, he’s never denied me, either. Which would be even worse than to be apologized for. There’s a reason I have his last name.

Occasionally a reporter will ask about me, and my dad will say something like, “My daughter Megan is [whatever age I currently am], and she’s wonderful. You can do the math, but otherwise this is none of your business.” More often he’ll use colorful language, but that’s the gist.

All in all, a few bad incidents aside, my childhood really wasn’t so bad. And hey, it was lucrative!

When my dad married Sylvia, he was 22 years old, a rising star in the Buffalo rock scene. She was nearly a decade older, but still young enough to be known as “Canada’s premiere young opera singer.” There’s a magazine cover that bears her face, with that exact phrase beneath her smile. It’s framed, and hangs on the same wall as many of our baby photos.

The press predicted the marriage wouldn’t last. Weirdly, they were wrong.

Six months later, my sister Roberta was born. Brian followed her shortly thereafter.

The press also predicted Sylvia’s career was essentially over. Sadly, they weren’t wrong about that.

Sylvia’s parents were dead by the time I was born. Which no one needed to tell me was kind of a blessing. They never saw their daughter disgraced, or were forced to hold a cute but inconvenient baby. I was definitely inconvenient, but I think I was pretty cute, too.

In photos, Roberta never holds me. Brian is either standing between us—which makes sense, given that he’s the middle child—or holding me entirely on his own.

My relationship with Brian is…complicated. But we do have one.

I wish I had a strained relationship with Roberta. I have NO relationship with her. And not just because she’s dead. Brian and Roberta still share a sibling tie of sorts. Roberta and I share nothing but Brian, really. Our name, and our parents. But I have not a single memory of the two of us alone. And that’s crazy.

When I mourn Roberta, I’m mourning the potential of sororal connections that might have been. God, what a waste. I would have loved to have bonded with my big sister.

I was told Roberta’s death was an accident. I was eight, she was twenty. I had no cause to question the story. What does an eight-year-old know of a twenty-year-old’s life? They could have told me she’d died on a secret military mission, and I would have accepted it.

Based on Brian’s anger, as an adult I have my doubts.

My dad’s mom—his last living parent—died two years after Roberta. His one brother was a priest. Like, literally a priest. Obviously, there were no cousins on that side of the family. My uncle, Father Daniel, died several years back. I miss him, but I also miss saying “I just spoke to my Father uncle.”

So now in terms of my paternal blood relatives, it’s just my dad and Brian.

It really sucks that they barely talk. For them, but also for me.

When my dad asks me how Brian’s doing, I always lie and say: “He says hi!” Or even “He sends his love!” It’s just easier that way.

It’s not as if they’re 100 percent estranged. Brian visits once a year with his wife and teenage kids, for Sylvia’s birthday. Otherwise he doesn’t email, text, or call. When Sylvia dies, I don’t know that he and my dad will communicate ever again.

But Sylvia’s still with us. I can’t worry about that right now. Or I can, and I do, but I shouldn’t.

A nurse comes in to take my dad’s vitals. He pauses my album—which I can hear through the headphones—and introduces us. No, I don’t have any questions for her at the moment. Worrying is good for no one’s health. She leaves, letting Daddy return to my music.

Three songs later, he’s finished. With one minor interruption, he just listened to me play the piano for 47 minutes. A very intimate daddy-daughter recital.

“That’s my girl,” says the rock legend. In response, I thank him for the piano lessons, and also the musical talent. Sure, we’re in different genres. But the notes are the same.

“You’re welcome. So you’re still not interested in doing concerts, I take it.”

“Yeah, not really. Performing live, I worry it would take up all my time. But that’s just that. Honestly, Daddy, I’d rather be composing and recording. Some musicians were built for the studio. I do my best work in a soundstage. I know how well you feed off the energy of live audiences. But me, I just find it distracting.”

My dad only stopped touring a decade ago. The fact that he loves performing onstage directly led to him meeting my mom. We don’t need to explore that, right now. Instead, my dad nods sagely.

“It makes total sense. I have to say, though, Megan my darling. For someone who abhors the stage, you sure kicked Broadway on its ass.”

“That’s different, acting is different, and anyway it was only that one Broadway show, I mostly do local theater and off-Broadway, again it was ONE Broadway musical. I was in the ensemble; I had exactly twelve speaking lines.”

“Recite them. Every single line. Recite them to me right now.” He assumes I remember them all.

I do. My dad applauds. I bow.

It’s time for me to go. They’re going to keep him another night, and they don’t yet have a diagnosis. Ray knows, and other staff members know, and Sylvia knows, and my dad himself knows, to contact me with medical information. I’m not his medical proxy—that’s still Sylvia—but I’m on everyone’s contact list.

So is Brian, technically. The difference is, I answer.

I hug my dad, and promise I’ll see him tomorrow. I hug Ray, who promises to keep me in the loop.

I wait in the hospital parking lot for my Uber. I decide to listen to my dad’s music, and mine, alternating every other song. The pigeons in the parking lot bob their heads to my notes, as if they can hear them through my headphones. I’m just that good. The trees on the way to my mother’s house seem to sway to my dad’s guitar solos.

Shower, then change my clothes, do my hair and makeup, then watch the Simpsons with my mom. I told her the basic situation and the fact that I don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine with her; she doesn’t want to talk about my dad either. The PTA Disbands is a classic episode of comedy. The Simpsons at its very best.

And then my Uber arrives to take me to my high school. Which is, officially, the purpose for my visit. Seeing my parents is a fortunate side effect. But it’s not the main event. 

I used to take this ride, from my mom’s house to my high school, five days a week. I can practically drive it in my sleep, or I would if I could actually drive. Whether it was my mom driving me, or a member of my dad’s staff, or one of my friends: I always got a tiny buzz. I loved school. Or at least I loved my posh private high school.

I’m in my early forties. It’s Saturday. Still the Pavlovian buzz as my driver takes me down familiar roads. Still my brain tells me, “Oh boy, it’s almost time for school!”

I’m significantly early. So I ask the driver to let me out a block away from my high school. “This is fine, right here, please.” He obliges. As is my habit, I promise him five stars and a tip, both of which I’ve delivered before I’m even out the door.

And suddenly I’m at the world’s best coffee shop. The place where I refined my palate for caffeine. It smells as good as it always did.

Best Dunkin’ Donuts in the world. All other DDs are inferior.

Drinking my coffee, it’s time to scroll through old photos, messages and emails.

In random order, I linger on:

Me, with Dennis at graduation.

Me at Dennis’s wedding. Dennis at my wedding.

Onstage with Dennis during the curtain call for Romeo and Juliet. I was Lady Capulet, he was Friar Lawrence. We didn’t have many scenes together. We still had fun.

The last time I saw Dennis, with both our husbands.

Inside jokes between me and Dennis, sent over text.

And. And. And.

Jascha’s group message:

“It is with a heavy heart that I announce my husband Dennis’s death. He did not want anyone to know that he was sick. He had a very fast acting cancer that quickly spread to all his body. He has been in home hospice since September. He fell unconscious on Wednesday and never woke up. He passed away with this morning, peacefully, with me by his side. Along with a hospice rabbi and a nurse. He loved you all. God bless.”

At my birthday party he’d looked….fine? Thin, sure. But not like someone who was battling cancer, which is what he was, at the time. 

I later told Jascha, and I truly meant it, that I wasn’t angry at him for respecting his husband’s privacy. It’s what I’d want Caleb to do for me. 

I mean, I wouldn’t keep cancer secret. I’d blast the hell out of my process and Instagram my chemotherapy updates, ha ha. But if for some reason the cancer affected my brain and turned me into a completely private person, I’d want that choice to be mine. Not Caleb’s. 

Still, though. That was an awful text to wake up to. Tastefully written by Jascha. But still the worst surprise of my life.

And then I got pregnant. And then I got bored. Yeah yeah, pregnancy is a beautiful miracle, yeah yeah. Agreed. It’s also boring, if you’re lucky. I was fortunate to have a non-eventful pregnancy, even while carrying twins. Thus: I had hours of downtime.

So I decided—with the help of Caleb and Jascha—to establish a scholarship at our high school, in Dennis’s name. Because philanthropy flows through my blue veins.

And here I am. To attend the annual scholarship award ceremony, at my alma mater. To meet the recipient. To mingle, and smile, and often say Dennis’s name. I don’t even have to fake my smile, for his name makes me happy. I love Dennis.

I walk to my high school. I time it so I arrive exactly at the start time. I’m not the first one here, whew. Mingling is so much fun when there’s wine and hors d’oeuvres. The latter is labeled as “appetizers” but that’s a misnomer. There’s no main course, so the appetizers are effectively acting as the meal. A piecemeal feast, portioned in partial morsels. Good Christ I’m hungry. Nom nom nom.

The Seniors aren’t supposed to be given wine, but they’re with their parents, and it’s like…whatever. We’re here to celebrate them, and also they’re about to go to college. So for an hour, let’s pretend we’re in Europe and allow them a supervised glass of merlot. What are we, barbarians?

It’s nice to catch up with some of my old teachers. I share some casual laughs with Nadine, who graduated with me. She’s here for her grandmother’s memorial scholarship. Her grandmother was a beloved secretary at the school for decades.

Nadine and I weren’t friends in high school. She had a reputation for kindness—as, I hope, did I—but didn’t have many classes together. She and I have grown close this past decade, at what I refer to as “the funeral circuit.” Many of our teachers have passed away over the years, and a depressingly high number of our classmates. The last time I saw Nadine was five months ago, at a math teacher’s funeral. I joked, “We really need to stop meeting this way.” There’s something beautiful and sad about bonding with your former classmate in middle age, as a direct result of death. Dear God, but I love our friendship.

She’s not the only donor I’ve gotten to know quite well, since I co-founded Dennis’s scholarship. Alumni who, like me, are representing their dead family members and/or friends. We see each other precisely once a year, at this event alone, and are somehow both a tightknit and loosely knit group. I’m always happy to see pictures of their kids, and share mine. That’s what kids are for!

We should start a band, like, The Generous Grievers! I call anything but bass guitar.

Ten minutes later Jascha shows up, and envelops me in a bear hug.

And then it’s time to meet the recipient of the Dennis Accardo-Mizrahi Memorial Scholarship. Thank god for nametags.

The recipient is lovely, as are her parents. They always are, the scholarship recipients. We’re two adults who established a scholarship that’s directly benefiting them financially. Or benefiting their parents, at least. What else could they be but lovely, in this context?

But still, Elizabeth impresses me. Gracious. Friendly. Very smart, just like Dennis was. And as always there’s an undercurrent of sorrow. I mean duh, it’s a MEMORIAL scholarship, in honor of a man who died a decade ago. 

Jascha and I talk about Dennis, of course. We don’t just want him to be a money-giving ghost, merely Some Tragic Dead Guy whose name appears on Elizabeth’s scholarship award. We want Elizabeth and her parents to feel they know this talented, loving, interesting man. Give him a bit of blood and breath, through stories.

So we describe his personality as best as we can. The two of us piece together information that the other doesn’t know. Real time portrait-quilters, we are. Even now, there’s stuff I don’t know about Dennis. Anecdotes I haven’t heard. Jascha provides more for me than I do for him, but I do my best. To be worthy of the title, “Dennis’s best friend from high school.” It’s perhaps my favorite crown. Today, right now, I feel it glow upon my head. I’m so very proud.

Even on paper, his life in skeletal form is an interesting one. Raised by a single mother, he went to RISD where he studied painting. Tragically, his mother died when he was an undergraduate. He then went on to get a Master of Studies at Oxford, where he met Jascha. They traveled the world—or most of it—before settling in Philadelphia, where Jascha accepted a professorship. They married and Dennis converted to Jascha’s Judaism, taking it extremely seriously. His bar mitzvah was almost as fancy as his wedding. He was studying Hebrew until his last living month. And always he continued to paint.

I myself have his painting of Oscar Wilde, made just for me when I acted in King Lear as Regan, in Long Island community theater. Because all British playwrights look the same, he joked. I treasured it at the time. Now, though? It’s my theoretical Object To Save in a Fire.

I have two small tattoos. One is a sunflower, lifted directly from one of Dennis’s studies. He wasn’t Van Gogh, but he was good. God he was good. I got it the week after his death. I barely cried, during its application. The main artist’s apprentice held my hand the entire time.

It matches the other one, which I got during my senior year at NYU. A lesser known Tenniel illustration. Well OK, they don’t “match” precisely, but they complement each other well. The contrast between the bold color and the detailed shading is striking in its subtlety. The point is: I regret nothing!

“We considered making the scholarship only available to fine artists, but Dennis was a patron of all the arts. So we decided to widen the net to a graduating senior who excels in any artistic discipline. Anyway. Tell us more about your dancing!”

Elizabeth does so, while glowing. She shows us some videos on her phone; very impressive. Jascha and I don’t need to fake our reaction. The scholarship committee, once again, has chosen well. Dennis would be proud.

Jascha has told me that these kids are the closest to children that he and Dennis have. No small thing, to be the legacy of a man you’ve just met, and a man you never will. We don’t tell them that. It’s too much pressure. But they’re smart—on some level they know. This isn’t just any scholarship.

Elizabeth’s dad asks, solicitously, what we do. He means well and he’s trying to engage with us. I get that. Still, of all the awkward aspects of this annual trip, being pressured to perform my CV might be the part I like least. Like, I’m giving your kid money. Do I really have to dance for you, as well?

Jascha answers that he’s a professor of the humanities. I start to describe myself as a part-time preschool music teacher, but Jascha cuts me off. “She’s too modest! She’s a successful musician, just like her dad.” THANKS, JASCHA.

Aaaand, then there’s the lightbulb. The connection. Because what’s printed on my nametag is my legal last name. “Is your dad…”

“Adlai Starkey, yes.”

Elizabeth’s mom does a decent job of hiding her lust. “I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” I say with a wide smile. “I’ll tell him that.”

All three of them clearly want to ask questions about the musical legend that sired me. Luckily, it’s time for the official ceremony. Nearly twenty-five years since I graduated from this place, it appears I’m saved by the bell.

It’s funny, the wing we’re in has been completely redone since Dennis and I were in high school. As such, all my memories of this area are from the last decade, since we started giving out the scholarship. In my mind I think of it as The Denny.

But then we talk toward the auditorium. And oh, the smell alone. I’m awash with more memories than my conscious mind can process.

The teacher who ran our high school’s twice-yearly cabaret was wonderfully honest with me. She told me that by signing up, I was increasing the size of the house. Just for the anticipation that my dad might possibly perform with me. People would cream the auditorium seats with hope. She used less vulgar language; I’m paraphrasing. Nevertheless, I understood her point.

I was sorry to consistently let them down. Nonetheless, I performed quite well, and I got reasonable amounts of applause. The audience—including the parents and teachers—never blamed me for their disappointment that Adlai Starkey did not appear onstage.

My senior year we finally gave them what they wanted. Dressed to eleven, in a sparkly evening gown, I sang “A Boy Named Sue” with my dad on electric guitar beside me. I pretended the four minutes of applause was fifty percent for me. That’s two minutes of applause. Not bad! 

 The head of the scholarship committee gives his speech. Everyone applauds for each other and him. We’re a group of well-meaning people rooting for the success of teenagers. I like sitting in the audience of the auditorium where I first fell in love with the stage. My muscles remember these chairs.

And now it’s over. I bid my goodbyes, to Nadine, Elizabeth and her parents, my old teachers, and the committee. I’m happy to know I’ll see most of them next year. Elizabeth has our email addresses; she promises to keep in touch. I occasionally hear from past recipients, and it always makes me smile.

Jascha and I don’t talk much on the ride home. We talk about my kids and his students, a little. But we don’t talk much. We don’t need to. Speaking of my kids, I owe them a facetime call. They wave to their “uncle Jascha.” He blows them kisses. It’s wholesome to the point of treacle.

Dennis’s cousins—who he was never close to— are all in Florida. As such, Jascha doesn’t have much of a connection with them. His own family is all in Israel. I know Jascha is fairly close to a few of his faculty colleagues, but I also know it gets lonely. I’m so glad he and I chose to embrace each other after Dennis’s death, trying to alchemize a sad thing into a positive. I believe in blood and artificial bonds both. Inorganic and organic chemistry.

He’s met my mom several times, and sends her his love. But he can’t come in with me, as he drops me off. He has to get back to the hotel. He’s tired and has an early flight. I understand, don’t I? Of course I do.

We declare our love at the exact same time, as if we’d planned it. And then our hug ends. For now.

The party has already started. All five of my cousins are here, plus some of their spouses and kids. Both my aunts and uncles, and my grandparents. They’re not here to see me, but they’re not NOT here to see me, either. Which is the exact right amount of social pressure.

My uncle is barbecuing, and it’s all wonderful and picturesque, and darkly funny that my mom got this house with its backyard because she fucked a world-famous, married rockstar when she was nineteen. 

Ignore the lesson, children!

The beer and the slowly appearing stars are giving me a nice little buzz.

The night is going great; only ONE cousin asks me for money. It’s a reasonable sum, for a reasonable reason, asked privately and in a non-obnoxious manner. So obviously, I say yes.

I mean, had the question been asked publicly. And had the tone been demanding. And had the request been for money to buy a pet horse, and also the horse needed plastic surgery to look sexier. I probably still would have said yes. But I would have been really resentful about it. Also I like to think I would have drawn the line at cheek implants for a new pet horse.

As it is, I’m happy to be in the position I am, and able to help family. Still, as I Venmo my cousin, I’m compelled to write “blackjack and hookers” in the notes section. Who could deny me this small pleasure?

My aunt and uncle drive my grandparents’ home. Good, so at least I’ve out-partied my grandparents by like, a half hour. Still, though. I’m such a boring lightweight compared to my raging family, who are looking to last till late in the night. My mom has many extra rooms. No one drinks and drives on her watch.

Neither does anyone mock me when I say I’m going to bed early—at least not to my face. I’ll see them all in a month, and this time Caleb and the boys will be with me. Although I’m hardly local, I’m fortunate to be able to afford to travel often.

Thank you, Doctor Husband!

Oh, who am I kidding: Thanks, multi-millionaire Daddy!

I awake to a text from one of my parents’ staff. “They don’t think it’s a stroke. They think maybe he had a small aneurysm. They’re sending him home. Drop by whenever.”

I’m able to extend my trip for an extra day. Caleb manages to get me a new flight, free of charge. I love flight insurance . I don’t have to be at my job until Tuesday, so there’s no need to text my boss. The only problem is I’m starting to really miss my kids. They’re fine without me; they have each other and their dad. I’m the one in withdrawal.

The extra time with my dad and stepmom is precious, necessary, and awkward. For practical reasons, they’re in different bedrooms. So I bounce between her room and his, to talk to them for an hour at a time.

After hugging them both goodbye—several times—I assure them I’ll see them in a month. And next time I’ll bring my husband and kids.

I decline their offer to have someone drive me. I take an Uber instead.

Because I’m not going to straight to my mom’s house. I’m going to a dive bar.

I’m half-disappointed and half-relieved that it’s nearly empty.

I finish my drink, leave a large tip and order another Uber. It’s still early in California, so it’s time to make the call I’ve been dreading.

My brother picks up when I call him. That’s not nothing. But he doesn’t want to talk about Daddy’s health, or Sylvia’s either, for that matter. He’ll see me at Sylvia’s birthday. He’s sorry. He loves me. Goodbye.

And that’s when I start bawling. For my best friend who couldn’t be bothered to give the heads-up that he was dying. For the sister I barely know who almost certainly deliberately ended her own life. For the brother whose abandonment of our family is significantly less dramatic, but still stings. None of these things are personal rejections of me, but they still hurt. I’m human; how the fuck could this not hurt? What plastic, paper, exaggerated cartoon stoic would begrudge me this primal, ugly sorrow?

 Add that to how painfully aware of how mortal all my parents are, especially my dad and stepmom, both of whose mortality is getting louder every day, and I try to keep it together but right now it’s TOO. FUCKING. MUCH. And thus in the safety of the Uber, I’m sobbing. A crying fetus in an aluminum womb. The driver offers me a water bottle and some tissues. Nice. Five stars.

When I get home, I snuggle with my mom on the couch before heading to bed.

She’s still asleep when my morning Uber arrives, to take me to the airport.

The trip to JFK is painless. I take an Uber home, and the traffic nearly kills me. I want to hug my kids my sons my babies I want my boys oh god I just want to go home.

Then, fucking finally, we’re here. I reassure the driver I don’t blame him for horrendous traffic—he did his best in bad circumstance. What more can anyone do?

Before Caleb kisses me, he hands me some paper towels. Both Lucas and Jeffrey got spontaneous nosebleeds, literally two minutes ago. I used to get them all the time when I was their age. So this is my fault, but only genetically.

And also? Here’s a crisis I’m happy to handle, with competence and confidence. I wish everything were as easy as cleaning up my children’s blood. It’s normal, and wholesome, and only a little bit gross.

With a smile I say to husband, “I’m so very glad I’m here.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Alaina Hammond 2025

Image Source: ClickerHappy from Pixabay