“LL, will you take me to a play?” My back was turned to the speaker, but I recognized the voice instantly, smiled, and turned around. Shirley’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm. She wore bright pink lipstick with a tiny smudge on her upper lip, the inevitable consequence of perpetually shaking hands, arthritic fingers, and cataract-filled eyes that couldn’t quite see the distinction between lip and skin.
Severe degeneration in her thoracic spine crippled her down to my height, and the daily strain she endured in her neck when she wanted to communicate with someone made my heart melt with sympathy at her suffering.
Though Shirley was one of my favorite residents at the retirement community, I didn’t want to commit to something I couldn’t promise and prudently responded, “That sounds fun, Shirley! What play do you want to see?”
“It’s just down the street,” she explained, “about two miles from here.” Two miles was promising. I asked for more details.
She didn’t know the play’s title or really anything about the play itself except that it was next weekend, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings. A local group was performing at a small community theater. A friend of hers from the theater group invited her – and granted free admission for anyone in our group up to five. “You see,” she explained, “I was in this theater group and acted in this theater, a long time ago….” her voice trailed off.
I checked my calendar. Thursday didn’t look too busy, and though it would be a long day for me, I would do just about anything to make Shirley smile – and smile she did when I said, “Alright, Shirley – let’s do it!” She said she’d recruit a few others with the free tickets.
On the night of the play, when I met Shirley in the lobby, she was alone. “I tried to recruit, but it’s just me,” she said, then added with a soft smile, “I guess no one wanted to come.” I had a sinking feeling she would be alone – with her smudged lipstick and frequently mismatched clothes, Shirley often found herself outside the social circles.
I gave her a big hug and said, “Then we’ll go together – just you and me.”
The time was 6pm – the time Shirley said to meet her in the lobby. I didn’t think to double-check with the theater group about the time of the performance. As we were leaving the parking lot, her cell phone rang. It was someone from the theater. “Oh, ummm…. I don’t know,” she said, glanced at me quickly, then added, “here’s LL.” She handed me the phone. “Becky wants to know where we are.”
I explained to Becky that we were two miles from the theater. Becky was relieved but sounded a little frustrated – the play started at 6pm.
“We’ll be right there,” I reassured her and wondered what the big deal was. We were just a little late and it was open seating – were we not able to enter the theater after it started?
“Maybe not,” Shirley said. “I don’t know how the theater works these days. It’s been a long time since I was there.”
I asked her how long, but she couldn’t remember. When we pulled into the parking lot, two friendly theater employees greeted us at the car. I was thankful they came to help Shirley, but…did they greet everyone this way?
One gentleman brought a wheelchair. Shirley politely declined but chatted it up with him anyways. I walked beside her.
As we entered the doorway of the theater, a woman greeted Shirley and held the door open. “They’re all waiting,” she added with a smile. Who all was waiting? Did they wait for all of their ticket holders who were running late?
“Thank you,” Shirley said. She was smiling and looked down at her feet as she walked. I wondered what she was thinking about — or remembering.
Two ushers welcomed us – well, welcomed Shirley – and opened the doors to the theater. I was still by her side when we walked into the dark theater. I was right in the middle of a prayer of petition that there weren’t any steps when Shirley whispered, “There aren’t any steps. I’ve walked through here a hundred times.”
A hundred times? It suddenly occurred to me that we were walking into something much larger, much grander, than simply “a play.”
We walked into the light and found ourselves in a theater-in-the-round where the audience surrounded the stage on all sides. And we were center stage surrounded by a crowd of people. At the sight of Shirley, everyone stood – every person in the audience, every actor on the stage, every usher at the door – and applauded.
A few shouts could be heard over the sound of the applause: “Yeah, Shirley!” “Way to go, Shirley!” and “We love you, Shirley!”
Tears filled my eyes as I looked over at my companion. She tried to look up, but her back prevented her from seeing anything higher than a few rows up. Her eyes drifted to me and she said softly, “Oh, how nice.”
“Shirley,” I asked, “did you know you were being celebrated tonight?”
“I didn’t,” she said and chuckled. “I guess they heard I was coming!”
And she was right. As soon as the theater group heard their long-time companion was attending the play, they arranged a little celebration for her. It was actually a blessing that we were running late – at first, only the theater group knew about Shirley’s celebration, but in the ten minutes prior to our arrival, one of the actors gave a synopsis of Shirley’s forty-year involvement with the theater group to the audience, which included the names of nearly thirty different plays. She was the star in almost all of them.
I was amazed at her humility – she simply wanted to see a play and revisit the place that had brought her so much joy for so long. What she experienced instead was a true Mr.-Holland’s-Opus-ending moment – a moment that lasts just a few seconds but reverberates within the soul for all eternity. I was blessed to have experienced it with her.
Flowers awaited her in her seat in a row just high enough that she wouldn’t strain her neck to see the stage. As soon as we sat down, the lights dimmed and the play began.
As I watched the stage where Shirley had spent so much of her life, I imagined what she was like thirty – forty – years ago, a star in the lights, a drama enthusiast who likely could’ve made a career out of her talent but chose to raise a family instead. I pictured her on stage: an elegant actress whose back was straight and who didn’t need a walker. An actress who could look up to the sky and not strain to speak. A leading, local star whose lipstick was flawless.
“Thanks, LL – that really meant a lot to me,” Shirley said when we got back to the community. I carried her flowers for her and walked beside her as we entered the lobby.
I smiled and said, “Sounds like you were a pretty good actress!” Shirley looked down and watched her feet as they made their way to the lobby.
“Yes, I guess I was pretty good,” she said. And, still looking down towards her feet, she smiled. Remembering.
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and entrances, and one man in his lifetime plays many parts.”
-William Shakespeare
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