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“I have a big birthday coming up,” my mother reminded me and my sister. “May 11th. It’s a biggie and I want a big gift, so I’m giving you plenty of warning.” She tossed her strawberry blond hair and turned back to the computer, but not before giving us both her famous you-better-be-paying-attention look.

“And just because my birthday is the day after Mother’s Day does not mean you can just give me one big present. I better get two presents. From both of you.” My sister and I rolled our eyes. My mom is a drama queen, we’ve always known this. From the Puccini arias about how we don’t wash the dishes, to the Shakespearean soliloquies pondering why we don’t clean our rooms, my mom can chew the scenery. But this might be a year to splurge on her birthday, even if it isn’t really a big one.

•

I like to brag to people I meet about my parents’ love story. Even though they are now divorced, the circumstances under which they met continues to inspire me. I no doubt fabricate certain aspects of the meeting in my mind when I picture it, but it makes me happy to imagine it. They were both performing in the national Broadway tour of Sweeney Todd. My dad was in the pit – he plays French horn – and my mom was on stage, singing her heart out in the chorus. She would want me to remind you that she was also the understudy for the ingénue, not just a lowly chorus member.

I like to fantasize that one day during rehearsal as my mom was singing her solo, my dad noticed her mesmerizing voice and looked up from his pages of music to admire her uncompromising beauty. I saw a newspaper clipping with a picture of her from a production of H.M.S. Pinafore. She had long flowing dark brown hair, high aristocratic cheekbones and pale, creamy skin. My mom would become aware of an unfamiliar pair of eyes on her and look down to the pit and lock her gaze with my father’s, and sing the rest of the love song just for him.

In reality I think their friends set them up on the bumpy tour bus because they were the only two Jews in the cast. So goes love.

When they got divorced I never hung onto that hope that some children have that their parents will get back together. I guess I understood even then that when my mom said she was going to do something, that’s exactly what she would do.

•

I was too young to remember my dad’s cancer. I was 15 when my 10-year-old sister had her go at it. I was also 15 when my mother had it.

She was 47. I thought she was younger. I thought she was 43. I don’t know why I thought that, and I don’t know why that makes a difference.

I’d prefer it if my parents would remain ageless. That’s why I can’t ever remember how old they are. A big part of me just doesn’t want to know.

•

The day of my mother’s mastectomy, she made me go to school.

It was major surgery – 10 hours at best. They were doing something experimental, too, using her own body fat from her abdomen to reconstruct the breast. She knew the risks.

So I went to school, unsure whether it was the right thing to do. I sat down in the bright orange math office to wait for “help” with my Advanced Calculus homework. While the bug-eyed math teacher, Mr. Hesler, berated me for being a perfectionist, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mom on the operating table, the scalpels and the blood. Suddenly I was sobbing in front of this teacher who was definitely not my friend. “What if she dies and I wasn’t there?” I hiccupped.

Mr. Hesler closed my notebook and told me not to do my homework that week. And that my mom would be okay. And that I wasn’t going to fail Calculus. And that everything would be okay. And that I better not tell anyone that he was nice.

All day long I laughed to myself about that exchange. I could not wait to tell my mom. She would eat this up. I hoped it would make her forget for a little while about the excruciating pain she was in. I sat on the edge of the bed when she got back that night and recounted every detail of the day, saving my story about Mr. Hesler for the end. She was zonked out from the pain meds but managed a smirk.

“See, I knew you needed to go to school today, Emily. Otherwise, who knows? Thousands of students could have gone through those halls year after year, never knowing the truth. You should always listen to me,” she said, groggy and satisfied with herself. “It’s the curse of Cassandra. I’m Cassandra.”

Just as my mother had prophesied, she made a full recovery. It wasn’t overnight, but she’s back to ordering my sister to clean her room like she always used to, and probably will continue to for the rest of our lives. She visited me in my new apartment in Manhattan, looked around, and I preemptively said, “Yes, yes, I’ll clean it.” Every time she rolls her eyes because there are dishes in the sink, I feel a pang of annoyance, but also a little bubble of laughter because she’s so predictable. But I can’t ever let her know that, or else she’ll never let up.

•

My mom has gone through many careers throughout the years, and she’s sure to have many more. She began as a performer, started a production company with my dad, went into teaching, and later arts administration. I suppose she’s too free spirited to be chained down to one career for her entire life. Right now she’s out of a job and looking for her next big thing.

My mom’s latest venture is her plan to start her own performing arts camp for kids. She used to teach on the weekends at Hofstra University and now she teaches singing lessons in our house. My mother’s voice, you see, is flawless. It has always been flawless, and despite the cancer and the divorce and the birthdays, my mother’s voice has stayed as beautiful as it was from the day I can first remember her singing. It’s probably still as beautiful as it was when she met my father.

No matter what my mom has gone through, I’ll always imagine her up on that stage, her dark hair flowing around her young face as the most beautiful music in the world escapes from her ruby lips. I see her up there winning the love and adoration of every single person who she meets, entrancing them with her charm and wit. I see her walking gracefully around that stage like she owned it, the way she owns her life, because she does. She never was just in the chorus.



About the Author
Emily Herzlin is a writer living in New York City. She graduated from New York University with a degree in Dramatic Literature and Creative Writing and has been published in Sentient City Magazine and writes weekly for the One City Blog.

She is also a playwright, winner of the Young Playwrights Inc. National Playwrighting Competition for her one-act play "Assemblage." Her writing is influenced by art, artists, psychology and spirituality. Emily has run drama and arts workshops in schools in NYC and Long Island, and is currently working as a teacher for autistic children.