Notes on My Mother’s Decline

Notes on My Mother’s Decline
Written 2014 – 2018
1 Man, 1 Woman

Notes on My Mother’s Decline is an intimate exploration of parenthood, caretaking, again and anxiety. It is the most personal play I’ve ever written, the most difficult, and the one I am, perhaps, most excited about, in terms of the writing, the form, and the emotional terrain that it explores.

• Script Excerpt

  Characters:
  MOTHER – She speaks the lines in bold.
  SON – He speaks the lines that aren’t in bold.

  Notes on My Mother’s Decline.

  Winter – late 2013. A couple of months before my daughter was born.

  A beginning, or rather a place to begin.

  It is late morning.
  She is in her bed.
  (That giant bed, covered with pillows and towels and old mail, with her handbag, and her cane.)
  She naps, a book on her chest.
  A TV across from her, the weather channel on, muted.
  She naps.
  She wakes.
  She lights a cigarette, and smokes.
  She picks up the receiver on her phone and listens. No messages.
  She opens a mason jar full of coffee and drinks from it.
  She reads.
  She smokes.
  She naps.
  A visitor. (me)
  She is startled.
  Gasp.

  You startled me.

  Let me count it.

  I’ll write you a check.

  The stupidifier needs to be filled.

  Thank you. Do you have them facing the right way?

  The big black arrows. They need to be facing forward.

  No. Not really. I’m not okay.

  Well no, just down.Bradley’s sick and in the hospital, and Robert Heidel died.

  One of the dentists.

  I’m writing his wife in Mexico.

  He was a real macho man. A man’s man. They lost a child in 9/11.  I cannot imagine.

  Call me to check in.

  Okay bye.

  She smokes.
  She naps.
  A visitor. (me)
  She is startled.

  I do keep track of it.

  I do!

  I went through my check book. I made a list. Every time I had you bring me money. See here. See. Two thousand here. Two thousand here. Michele gets groceries. And Vince. And Rose, the masseuse. It’s Christmas time. It is important to tip people who work for you at Christmas time. That is what proper people do.

  No. I don’t know about that. No no no!

  I am a rich woman.

  I am a frugal woman.

  No need.  It’s all fine.  I’m a happy camper.

  Did I have any mail? 

  You didn’t check, did you?

  A person could check the mail sometimes. When they’re coming up. Or check for packages. When they’re passing by, on their way home from the subway. You do come past here, right? On your way home from the subway.

  Two minutes of your time. Just pop in the lobby, see if there are packages. It’s the least a person could expect.

  Fine. Do what you can. Thank you.

  How about a hug?

  Love you, sweet angel.

  Make sure to slam the door shut on the way out so it locks.

  She smokes.
  She reads.
  She naps.
  Pee-time – she hobbles to the bathroom.
  Onto the toilet – she pees.
  The phone rings.
  Hobblehobble – back to the bedroom.
  She misses the call.
  She is out of breath.
  She falls back onto the bed, and swings her legs up, getting back into position.
  She picks up the phone and checks the message.
  She coughs and more pee leaks out.
  She places a call.

  Bob? You there?
  Bob?

  She smokes.
  She checks her appointment book.

  The phone rings.

  Bob.
  I was in the kitchen.
  We know we can’t believe the reviews.
  Who cares about the Times?
  The Journal loved it.
  Terry Teachout said it was ten best of the year.
  What else? Any hot news?
  Oh yes. Mr. Hare. My favorite.
  No. I can’t.
  You know I don’t do Broadway. All those stairs.
  And the crowds. The traffic. Marco has nowhere to bring around the car.
  Bob-I-don’t-do-Broadway-anymore-and-that’s-final.

  She smokes.
  She naps.
  She drinks cold coffee from a mason jar.
  She drinks seltzer from a bottle.
  The Weather channel is on, muted.
  She eats blackberries.
  She drinks coffee.
  She smokes.

  [This is a home that smells like smoke. It smells of smoke so deep that you are aware of it in the building’s hallways, when you step out of the elevator, when you walk toward her door from twenty feet away. It permeates your clothes, your hair. It permeates every single entity, every single object, animate or otherwise, that enters or exits the space.
  A rent controlled apartment. Three bedrooms. A foyer. A living room. Thick walls. Ragged parquet floors covered in Turkish rugs. Bookshelves in the foyer. In the bedrooms.
  The apartment I grew up in, just two blocks from where I live now. The corner bedroom, formerly mine. From my bed, I’d hear footfalls. My father’s heavy barefoot step as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. His soles blackened by the dirty parquet floor.
  I haven’t spent a night here in over twenty years.]