[The dining room of Cleo’s cottage; the room is dim, smoky, candles are melted almost to the nubs. It is not a large or formal space; a long wooden table, draped in batik cloth, is surrounded by old, mismatched chairs. Seated in those chairs are the invited guests, who are laughing and feeling expansive now that the birthday feast is over. Liv stands in a corner, turning the camera on its tripod as each guest makes a toast or tribute to Cleo. Cleo sits in the center of the table, as Christ did at the Last Supper. She laughs, smiles, nods appreciatively as her friends and lovers pay tribute. The table is strewn with plates, bowls, wine glasses, and leftovers. When there is a lull in the conversation, Liv clears her throat to get the guests’ attention.]
OLIVIA: Excuse me, everyone. Could I have your attention, please? [With help from Skye, the guests quiet down and wait for Liv to proceed.] I know this is an unusual request, but I wondered if I could ask all of you to step outside for a moment. [The guests make complaining sounds and Liv raises her voice to make a second appeal.] It’s a beautiful evening, and I’d really appreciate an opportunity to interview my mother, on the occasion of her sixtieth birthday, in private. [Liv waits awkwardly for the guests to respond. Skye and Frank are the first to rise. Amy gathers Carter and also prepares to leave. The others look to Freda, who looks at Cleo. Cleo, never taking her eyes off of Liv, nods once and the others quietly leave. Liv, clearly nervous, fusses with the tripod in an attempt to move it closer to the table. Cleo watches her the entire time, patient but slightly bemused.] It’ll just take me a minute to set things up.
CLEO: [Drags on a joint, filling her lungs and holding before blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling.] Take your time.
[Liv finally drags the tripod closer to her mother. The image on the view finder is projected onto the wall overhead. A second camera, offstage, projects Liv’s image onto the wall as well. Unsure whether to sit or stand, Liv pulls out a chair, but only leans on its back.]
OLIVIA: Ok, we’re all set.
CLEO: [Cleo looks at Liv expectantly, waiting for her to begin the interview. Liv says nothing, only adjusts the camera in minor ways while waiting for Cleo to begin.] So. How does this work exactly?
OLIVIA: [Confused, looks from camera to Cleo.] Hm?
CLEO: [Takes another drag then puts out the joint.] Are you interviewing me, or am I just supposed to talk off the top of my head?
OLIVIA: Oh—uh…I thought we could just talk. You know—act like we’re having a regular conversation. [Cleo nods, but nevertheless waits for Liv to begin. There is an awkward silence.] Um…why don’t you tell me how it feels to turn sixty?
CLEO: [Shrugs with her mouth.] It’s alright.
OLIVIA: When you were a young woman—or my age—could you have imagined your life turning out this way?
CLEO: I didn’t think too much about the future back then.
OLIVIA: Why’s that?
CLEO: It was out of my hands. I can only control the moment I’m in. The past and the future are beyond my reach.
OLIVIA: [Playfully.] Are you a Buddhist?
CLEO: I’m a realist.
OLIVIA: [An awkward pause; Liv searches for common ground.] This place—it’s important to you.
CLEO: Yes.
OLIVIA: Some of your best plays were written in this house.
CLEO: You read my work?
OLIVIA: [Caught off guard. She flushes, indignant.] Of course.
CLEO: When I bought this house, it was really the land I was after. It was untouched—unmolested. I wanted you to grow up somewhere pure. The lake, the meadows, the trees…all of it fed my imagination. I hoped it would nourish you, too.
OLIVIA: Whenever I hear a cardinal, I think of this place. [Relaxes and finally sinks into the chair.] I have friends who’ve spent their entire lives in the city. I used to envy them, but now I pity them somehow. Jesse couldn’t believe you lived all the way out here.
CLEO: Who’s Jesse?
OLIVIA: [Flushes deeply, stunned by her own carelessness.] My husband.
CLEO: [Regards Liv intently but says nothing for a moment.] It’s the quiet I love. Out here I remember the sound of my own silence. I need that silence in order to write.
OLIVIA: [Hurt by Cleo’s refusal to address her marriage, she becomes more formal.] Can we talk about your decision to become a mother?
CLEO: [Hesitates. Reaches for her glass, but it is empty. Liv grabs a pitcher of water and fills her mother’s glass.] Thanks.
OLIVIA: Do you mind talking about that now?
CLEO: [Takes a long drink and clears her throat.] Why not?
OLIVIA: If you know you need silence in order to create, why did you decide to have a child?
CLEO: I didn’t know how loud you’d be. [She smothers a grin by drinking once more.] I thought I could handle it.
OLIVIA: Did that change once you got divorced? [Cleo frowns, confused.] You became a single parent when I was still in diapers. That must have been challenging.
CLEO: I wasn’t single. I had Skye.
OLIVIA: And she had Amy.
CLEO: Right. We helped each other out. We were a family. A collective.
OLIVIA: Wouldn’t a solitary life have been better?
CLEO: For whom?
OLIVIA: For your writing.
CLEO: I can’t write in isolation. An artist needs community.
OLIVIA: But you just said you need silence.
CLEO: The right community can provide everything you need. If it doesn’t, you build a new community.
OLIVIA: Is that why you left Skye?
CLEO: Technically, she left me. [Pause.] It was an amicable separation. She felt her poems couldn’t blossom in my shadow.
OLIVIA: You haven’t had a white lover since.
CLEO: That you know of. [She enjoys Liv’s surprise.] You’re not the only one with secrets.
OLIVIA: I wanted to tell you about Jesse…
CLEO: But?
OLIVIA: I guess I was afraid you’d be…disappointed.
CLEO: So you’re a switch hitter, huh? [Liv makes no reply.] You love him?
OLIVIA: Yes.
CLEO: [Shrugs, indifferent.] Just remember you’re responsible for your own happiness. It can’t hinge on anyone else.
OLIVIA: What makes you happy, Cleo?
CLEO: [She reflects for a moment.] Power. Having a whim or an idea or an ambition, and then having everything I need to make it real.
OLIVIA: It must be frustrating, then, to be in your present… condition.
CLEO: “Condition”?
OLIVIA: [Struggles to say the word aloud.] Living with cancer.
CLEO: [Stares at Liv, then drops her gaze.] The way I see it, I’m still calling the shots.
OLIVIA: [Mutters.] Tell that to Freda.
CLEO: [Laughs.] Freda thinks you’re an impudent brat. The spoiled fruit of my rotten womb.
OLIVIA: And what do you think?
CLEO: Well, Liv, you’re what I would call…an acquired taste. It takes time to appreciate your…finer qualities.
OLIVIA: Mother love is supposed to be automatic.
CLEO: Don’t believe the hype. Love is always a choice.
OLIVIA: Not when you’re a child.
CLEO: Childhood doesn’t last forever—thank God.
OLIVIA: I suppose you don’t want any grandkids, then.
CLEO: You offering?
OLIVIA: [Pause; switches back to her professional voice.] Do you have any regrets? Anything you would do over?
CLEO: No.
OLIVIA: There’s nothing in the past you wish you could change?
CLEO: I don’t have time to imagine the impossible. I can’t undo what’s been done. I finished every project I began. That’s what I set out to do. That’s what I’ve done. This body may fail me, but my body of work will survive. [Pause.] What would you have me change?
OLIVIA: [Hesitates, suddenly overcome. In a whisper.] I wish…I wish we could have been friends.
CLEO: Mothers and daughters can never be friends.
OLIVIA: Why not?
CLEO: They’re too much alike.
OLIVIA: We’re not alike.
CLEO: [Cleo laughs out loud, then quiets and observes her daughter.] They’re not equal, then.
OLIVIA: Growing up, I felt like your enemy.
CLEO: [Grows somber.] I didn’t mean for you to feel that way. I always hoped Skye would be able to give you…whatever I couldn’t.
OLIVIA: Skye was great. But she wasn’t mine.
CLEO: You never met my mother.
OLIVIA: No.
CLEO: She was a hard woman to love.
OLIVIA: So why name me after her?
CLEO: Every time I tried to get close to her, my mother spat me out like I was a bad taste at the back of her mouth. I married Frank just to please her, but it wasn’t enough. I decided to cut all ties with her just a month before she died. When you were born, I named you Olivia so I’d have a chance to call her name again.
OLIVIA: Didn’t you want to be better than her?
CLEO: I like to think I was. You used to look at me like I was God.
OLIVIA: I was afraid of you. Afraid I’d do something so bad you’d send me away for good. You never cried when I went to stay with Dad.
CLEO: Why should I cry? I knew you’d be coming back in six months’ time.
OLIVIA: Back then I thought…you were happy to get rid of me.
CLEO: [Pause.] Maybe I was. Raising a child—even with help—it’s hard on the nerves. You try to anticipate every need, but you always fall short. Sometimes you have more to give, but you hold back—you hoard your time, your energy, your sympathy. You’ll even let it rot just so you don’t have to give it away. [Pause.] That sounds awful, doesn’t it?
OLIVIA: Maybe you shouldn’t have had any kids.
CLEO: Making a baby was the ultimate creative endeavor. I was so proud of myself when you were born! But as you grew, you became so…willful. You were the one project I couldn’t truly complete. I couldn’t make revisions—I couldn’t tear up what I had and start over. I discovered you weren’t really mine after all. But I was naïve then. I thought a child would be utterly devoted to me…forever.
OLIVIA: That’s what you wanted from me—devotion?
CLEO: Motherhood is a betrayal. It’s an illusion—a fantasy. We all go into it blind, and then the veil is torn…and we find ourselves at odds with our own image.
OLIVIA: You see yourself when you look at me?
CLEO: I do, but I don’t. I do, but the mirror lies. You’re a reflection that refuses to follow my commands.
A shadow I can’t step away from…
© 2008 Zetta Elliott. All Rights Reserved.