“All Has Perished Save Love, Which Never Dies.”
My late wife returned to life in two triumphant encores.
All has perished save love, which never dies.
from “The Mikado”
— W.S. Gilbert
The final notes of the overture lingered above the audience in the dimmed light of the Philadelphia Academy of Music, then quietly faded away.
I sat beside the director in his private box as the evening’s performance of ‘The Mikado’ got underway. The ornate crimson curtain rose to reveal the men’s chorus posed in a silhouetted tableau. The conductor’s baton swung up sharply, and then the set came alive as the show’s rousing opening number began.
Several scenes later, the women’s chorus made their graceful entrance, gliding in from offstage beneath exquisite flowing kimonos. I watched as they arranged themselves with precision into smaller groups across the set, moving their silk fans through the air in perfect unison as they sang.
After a few moments, the director leaned over and said in a low whisper, “Liz was standing over there, downstage right.” I was his guest at the show that night and appreciated the gesture, but his words were not really necessary.
I’d already known for certain the spot where my deceased wife had stood the moment my eyes came upon the one empty space onstage.
Twenty-four hours earlier, my wife Elizabeth had been in this theater performing with the cast of the Savoy Company on the opening night of the show. Eight hours later a doctor stood before me with tears in her eyes, telling me that she was gone after a sudden reaction to a food allergy. Our families had rushed to our apartment that morning as soon as I’d given them the terrible news. The day was spent consoling one another and repeating the same horrible details over and over in endless phone calls to extended family and friends.
One of those early calls had been to the show’s director to let him know what had happened. After he’d gotten over the initial shock, he began to talk about arranging a dedication for Elizabeth at that evening’s performance. I understood his good intentions but made him promise he would not say a word about what happened to anyone before the show. The news of her death would be a tremendous blow to the cast and crew, and I knew that its devastating impact mere hours before the opening curtain was the last thing Liz would have wanted.
The director said he’d make up some excuse for her absence and would only tell the choreographer beforehand, as the blocking for Liz’s dance partner would need to be re-arranged. They’d both wait until the following morning before spreading the dreadful news to the rest of the company.
As we spoke, I decided to make one other request of him. My world had become completely upended since I’d gone to sleep the previous evening, and I was trying to come to grips with all that had happened. The guilt I felt when I pictured my wife sitting alone in the darkness during her final moments was unbearable. I wanted to see where Elizabeth had spent her last hours doing what she loved most, singing and dancing while being among her closest friends. I hoped it might provide some respite from the jarring images and sounds that flooded my mind constantly over the past several hours.
Little by little, I began to get drawn into the show. The vivid costumes, elaborate sets, intricate choreography, and beautiful music all unfolded in splendor before my eyes. The sheer joy pouring out from the stage provided a moment’s solace, as I imagined the look of delight that would have been on Liz’s face the previous evening as she performed alongside her castmates. As the final number built to its finish and the chorus members sang with all their hearts to fill the entire theater with sound, it was Elizabeth’s voice that I heard.
Four years later I found myself once again in the Academy of Music, listening as the orchestra began to play another overture. Except this time, I was standing offstage in the wings as a member of the chorus on the opening night performance of ‘The Pirates of Penzance.’ The cast was buzzing with nervous energy in the moments before the curtain rose, but I felt anxious for a different reason. Earlier in the season the same director approached me to see if our son could be a part of the show. He had an idea for a flashback scene that would take place onstage during the overture. There was a role for a young boy and the first person he’d thought of was Brendan.
I looked on with anticipation and pride as Brendan followed his mother’s footsteps out onto the very stage where she’d performed on her last night with us. He hit every one of his marks perfectly and acted with remarkable grace and composure for a seven-year-old standing before a sold-out crowd of two thousand people in a gilt-covered opera house. I’m certain that Elizabeth was there watching over him as well.
The rest of the show went smoothly, and after the set was cleared everyone began to head off to the official cast party down the street. The crew turned off all the lights in the house save one. There is an old tradition in the theater that a single bulb should remain burning at all times. The ‘ghost light’ is set out on the stage to welcome the souls of all those who have passed on to return and perform with one another once more.
I walked with Brendan out into the small circle of light that illuminated center stage. Together we tied a bouquet of flowers to the stand — eleven red roses from me and one pink rose from him. We said a quiet prayer and told Elizabeth we loved her and missed her. After a moment, the sound of laughter drifted over from the wings as the last remaining backstage crew members began to engage in a mock duel with the prop pirate swords. Brendan looked up at me with a gleam in his eye, seeking approval to join in. I smiled and nodded my head in permission.
I watched while our son ran off from the stage with pure delight, filled inside with his mother’s spirit as he spread her light out into the world before him.
