Rain On My Parade

 

 

Abby heard the local theatre company was planning to stage "Funny Girl."  For some reason, she got it into her head that she would like to play Fanny Brice even though she had never publicly acted or sung.  When she made contact with a member of the group, he told her the principal female roles usually went to an older cast member, a soprano.  "She's classically trained," he told her.  "But she can't keep those ear-piercing notes out of her voice even if she's singing Happy Birthday."   Fanny needed something earthier.  Abby spent the rest of the conversation with her chin tucked close to her chest so her voice would be as low as possible.
She couldn't practice singing for the stage in her small apartment as the walls were too thin, but the janitor at the Mormon church allowed her to use the choir room, which usually echoed with the Lord's praises. Her father had told her for most of her young life that she was an ordinary Plain Jane with nothing special.  He said that the best thing for her was to settle down and make some man happy. 
Abby hoped the musical's theme would give her the strength to attempt a life that was different from the one she had now. As a child, she had a permanently tense brow, like a headache was forever brewing.   Her worried disposition may have stemmed from her parents' constant fighting. As long as Abby could remember, her father was a dictator.  Neither she nor her mother had much say.   "Don't do this, don't do that, you can't go out of the house like that, why did you say that, where do you think you're going, who were you talking to?" Her mother lasted until Abby was almost a teenager before walking out to go live with another man.  Rather than reflect on why his wife had left him, her father behaved even more like a guard dog to their only child.  Maybe he thought Abby's mother would take her away, though he didn't seem to like his daughter much either. He was never affectionate and actively pushed her away from possible hugs. 
When Abby rented her own apartment in the same town where she grew up, he told her she'd never be able to live on her own and would be back home in no time.  It turned out not to be true, yet as an only child, she still felt obliged to visit him once in a while.  There was nobody else to make sure he had food in the house or hadn't fallen down the stairs.  
The visits were invariably disappointing, with her father expressing his unsolicited opinions.  "I guess this fancy apartment of yours is a pigsty by now.  You never could clean like my mother."  Other times he'd dig a finger into her lifestyle.  "I guess when the guys found out there's a hooker living there, your place is a den of vice and perversion."  After every visit, she told herself it was the last one.  Her father knew how to belittle her, but she didn't fight back as she didn't want to start an argument.   During the next few visits, she noticed odd signs of forgetfulness.  He couldn't remember the word for milk and called it "that white stuff in the fridge." He was too young to have dementia. Maybe he was secretly drinking. One day when he was in a less critical mood, he said an angel had been visiting him every time he went to the toilet.
"She wipes my butt for me," he said. 
"Really?" Abby said.  "Is that all?"
"Mostly," he offered, "but because we're so intimate, she sleeps with me too."
Abby smiled politely, but didn't want to know more.
"Miranda's much better in bed than your mother ever was," he said. "She knows exactly what I like."
"That's nice," Abby said, and made moves toward the door.  She hadn't seen signs of anyone else living in the house, though she was tempted to check the bathroom and bedroom.
"We're going to France next week," he said.  "You know I've always wanted to go there."
"No.  I didn't know that," she said.  "Who's paying the fare?"
"Miranda, of course.  You think I have that kind of money?  She's thinking of buying us a bigger house when we get back."
Abby didn't know if her father was playing with her, or if he really believed he had a girlfriend who wiped his butt.  The house was clean, he had food, and apart from forgetfulness and a phantom woman living with him, nothing seemed amiss. 
While she practiced ahead of the audition, Abby contacted her father's doctor to ask if he knew about her father's delusions.  "The only thing I know," the doctor said, "was that on his last visit, he told me he had bought a new car, but that didn't strike me as unusual." 
"He doesn't have a new car," Abby said.  "The last time I saw him, it was the same old one.  I don't know what medications he's on, but it could be that some of them are too strong."
"He's only on medication for hypertension," the doctor said.  "But if you're worried, maybe we should make an appointment for him." 
When Abby broke the news about the doctor's appointment, she expected her father to go into a rage about other people controlling his life.
"I'll ask Miranda," he said.  "Maybe she wants to come with me." 
Abby wasn't able to visit her father again until after the doctor's visit.  "How did it go?" she asked.  
"Everything's fine," he said.  "The doctor really liked Miranda."
On the next visit, he didn't mention Miranda, but said very casually, as if it was something he read in the newspaper, "They're poisoning my food, you know."
"Who?" Abby asked.
"Them.  The ones that live in the attic."
"This house doesn't have an attic," Abby said.  "It has a flat roof."
"Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there." 
This was getting serious. He shouldn't be living at home if his hallucinations continued.  "Why would they be poisoning your food?" she asked. 
"To get me to do what they want. We're all being tricked, you know."
"By who, for what?" Abby asked.
"If you don't know.  They've probably already got to you."
She and his doctor met and decided to move her father to a supportive living environment.  The fire department had already been at his house several times because a pot had been forgotten on the stove, though her father said it wasn't him who did it.  When the ambulance attendants came to take him away, he called them, the doctor, and Abby every foul word he could remember.  In between her work and music practices, Abby went to visit him at the institution, but the first time she stuck her head into his room, he threw a glass of water at her.  Luckily, the water was in a paper cup. "Murderer!" he shouted at her.  "You've killed her!"  
"Who?"
"Miranda.  She's left me, and it's your fault."
Abby asked the nursing staff if there had been a Miranda who had come to visit him.  "You're the only one," they said.
When she told her father about her coming audition for the part of Fanny, he said, "You'll be away with the birds, I guess.  They've already taken away my daughter.  She was the stupidest thing on two legs.  I never liked her.  She killed your mother, you know.  Broke her in two like a stick."  Abby was again tempted to walk out and never visit him again, but she told herself it was his disease talking and he didn't know what he was saying.  Although he was alive and well looked after in the institution, his mind was gone. It was like he had died, but he wasn't dead.  He had never been a prize father, so she was happy he'd never go back to the person he used to be.  His diagnosis of early-onset frontotemporal dementia was not a downgrade.  
Abby's long haul of pre-audition practice paid off because she won the part.  To follow, there would be a month of rehearsals.  Even if she weren't yet in front of an audience, the opportunity to sing and pretend to be a wise-cracking and amusing woman would be the perfect distraction from her father's condition. 
The show was scheduled to run for two weeks, so Abby arranged two weeks off from her work so she could give her best to the part.  The long-term soprano in the company was the only one who didn't congratulate her.  The soprano had been chosen to play Fanny Brice's mother instead of the principal role, so she had threatened to boycott the production.  While in rehearsal, Abby found time to visit her father again to tell him she got the part she wanted.  He was not in a good mood, and the medication he was on seemed to have brought him down from the land of the fairies.  
"People pay good money to see any old shit," he said.  She preferred him when he was out of his mind.
The first night was a great success.  The final song, "Don't Rain on my Parade," earned Abby a standing ovation, and after the curtain went down, she received the most flowers.  The troupe's soprano continued to snarl at her.   The day after the opening, she got a call from the institution to say her father had found a lighter and set the curtains in the common room on fire. He had burned his hands, but nobody else was injured. Abby was distressed about the inconvenience and about the anxiety he must have caused to other patients. There was nothing she could do, because if she went to visit him, he would find a way to blame her or some invented person for what had happened. 
As the nights of the theatre run went on, the seats were always full, the laughs were hearty, and the applause engulfed her.  Sometimes on stage, when she wasn't the centre of attention, her mind would wander to her father burning curtains.  A couple of times she almost missed her cue and had to remind herself to think about the play, and only about that.  Worrying about her father wouldn't change anything, but if she messed up and performed badly because she was distracted, the soprano would climb up her back to replace her. 
The run was into its second week when she got a call from the institution to say that her father had taken to holding his breath until he passed out. Abby wasn't sure how serious this was.  The nursing staff assured her he couldn't actually kill himself this way, because when he passed out, he would start breathing again.  She was determined not to visit him again for the run of the production.  He often had no idea who she was when she did show up.  As far as he knew, she was one of the nursing staff.  Abby had plenty to occupy herself without worrying about him, and a visit at this point wouldn't do her any good. 
As the show was in its last week, the older soprano, who knew all the lines and musical numbers, was ever more hostile, as it seemed she would never get the chance to play the role.  More than one of the players advised Abby to be alert to acts of sabotage, but she had no intention of surrendering the role even for one day.  Every time the audience laughed, or one of her songs was met with murmurs of appreciation and spontaneous bursts of applause, it filled the empty places in her soul.  Some people had taste and good sense.  They loved and appreciated her, even if her father didn't.  When she was on stage, she was in control of the audience.  She could make them laugh, cry, or be thrilled by her singing. Though she risked a reprimand from the director for throwing in crowd-pleasing bits like making faces or unscripted gestures, she was aware that she could manipulate the audience if she wished to.  Though she was aware that the joy and fulfillment she felt on stage, where she was adored and celebrated, was artificial, manufactured by the script, the music, and her interpretation, it was healing and validating in ways her family had never been.
She was in costume and full make-up on the second-to-last night of the show, when word came from her father's institution that he had managed to climb into the space above the ceiling tiles, and when he finally fell through them, he had hit his head on the corner of a desk.  He wasn't dead, but they weren't sure he would survive.   "It's very serious," the charge nurse told Abby.  "If you want to see him while he's still in the land of the living, I'd suggest you go to the hospital this very minute."
Abby was angry.  When had her father ever dropped what he was doing for her?  Would she be scorned by everyone in the cast if she waited until later to go to him?  "No," she said.  "It's not convenient right now."  Ten minutes later, as the curtain was about to go up, she called the hospital back to say, "All right.  I'll be there." Although there were only two performances to go, she had achieved what she set out to do, and if she could offer her father this one small kindness of not dying surrounded by strangers, it would be the right thing to do.  She needed to be correct so nobody could fault her in the future.
The soprano was only too willing to take over.  Abby would still have the triumph of the final night, the crowning glory of her labours as a reward for the work it had taken to get there.
At the hospital, where her father had been taken from the institution, she was directed to his cubicle in the emergency ward.  As she expected, his head was bandaged like a mummy, but he must have been uncooperative, as restraints had been strapped across his chest, abdomen and legs.  It seemed an odd thing to do if he was on death's door.  Abby leaned over his face, and said softly, "Daddy?"
Her father's eyes opened so suddenly that she recoiled.  
"Can you hear me?" she asked.
There was no response, and his staring eyes didn't blink or waver.  It was difficult to tell if he was looking at her or through her. It was not going to be an easy visit that would allow her to say a proper goodbye, but it might have been worse if his mind was still intact.  She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she didn't feel that way, so she found another way to soothe him.
"I'm here," she said, and stroked the back of his hand that was nearest to her. 
"Miranda?" he asked louder than Abby was ready for.
"It's Abby," she answered.  "Your daughter."
"Miranda? I'm here."
"Shh," Abby said, and continued to stroke his hand.  "You fell.  You hurt your head."
"They pushed me," he said, though he was looking at the ceiling and not at her.
A nurse arrived and said, "It's better if he stays calm.  He has a better chance that way."
Abby sat down in a chair beside his bed where she could reach his hand.  Every time she looked up at him, he seemed to be asleep. She stayed like that for half an hour, then left him to go talk to someone at the nursing station.
"Do you think he'll die?" she asked.
"Probably not," the nurse said, "but he's had a nasty blow to the head."
"I should stay for a while," she said.  "Maybe he'll wake up later."
"I doubt that, Miss.  We've given him strong tranquillizers so he'll stay calm and heal better."
Abby wasn't happy she had missed a night of the show for such an unsatisfactory goodbye, another false alarm.  By the time she got out of the hospital, there was only half an hour of the show left, so she decided to go straight home.  Her evening had been unpleasant enough without having to hear the soprano massacre her part.
The next day, she called the hospital, who assured her that her father was alive, but was mostly asleep.  It was no use visiting him.  She had the final night of the show coming up, and was excited yet relieved it would soon be done. With that success behind her, she was interested in going on to bigger things.  If the opportunity arrived, she might have to quit her job and move to a bigger city where there were more opportunities. 
At the theatre on the final night, she found the soprano made up and in a Fanny Brice's school-girl smock.  She wasn't pleased to see Abby.  
"Is he dead?" the soprano asked.
"No," Abby said. "Not yet."
"So sorry," the soprano said.  "My performance took the house by storm.  I knew it would."  She dabbed at her makeup to hide her wrinkles. 
"You can stand down now," Abby said.  "I'll take over from here for the last night.  Thanks for filling in, but it's back to me now."
"Who says so?" the soprano asked.
"I do," Abby said. "I'm the lead.  It's my show.  You've been kind for filling in, but I'm back."
"We'll see what the director says," the soprano said, getting up from her chair in front of the makeup mirror.
"No," Abby said.  "It's my call.  I'm back.  The emergency is over."
"Well, I'm doing it," the soprano said, "and you're not."
"Forget it," Abby said.  "I've got this."
The soprano approached Abby's chair from behind and snatched the wig off her head.  
"Hey!" Abby stood up to confront the older woman.  "I'm doing it tonight. End of story."
The soprano reached out and grabbed the neck of Abby's blouse.
Abby brushed her hand away and backed up a step. "Be careful.  You'll rip it."
The soprano stepped forward again, and as if Abby had put the idea in her head, tugged at the blouse's collar and managed to tear it so Abby's brassiere showed. 
"You bitch!" Abby said.  "Get your hands off me."
The two of them tussled head to head, and screamed insults at each other.  Hands reached to get a grip on each other's real hair. In the mayhem, the dressing room door banged open, and the actor playing Nicky Arnstein rushed to separate the feuding ladies and hold them apart like he was a boxing referee.  When he thought they had calmed down, he let go, but the two charged at each other, grappling at each other's smock collars and slapping each other's hands.  "Let me go!" Abby shouted, and the sound of her shout woke her up.  Her father was standing between her and a woman she didn't recognize.  
"Don't be frightened, Miranda," her father said.
"I'm okay," the woman answered.  "This crazy daughter of yours attacked me for no reason."
Abby lunged at her again, but just then two men in white uniforms came in and took hold of her arms.  
"Come on, young lady," one of them said.  "Back to your room. March!"
Abby wasn't going to let go that easily, so when the trio was in the hallway, she launched into a defiant song. "Don't tell me not to live and putter. Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter."
As she got further down the hallway to her padded room, the entire ward could hear her belting out, "Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade." After a heartbeat, it was followed by a triumphant, satisfied laugh. The staff, Abby's father, and even his girlfriend Miranda shook their heads.