Prologue

July 11th, 2018

Annalise,

I have been staring down at this piece of paper for the past six and a half hours, trying to get all of the words absolutely perfect, however, I've come to realize that it is easier said than done. I don't know how to tell you exactly how I feel right now, because the truth is, I never expected to write something like this to you. If you're reading this, it's because I've gone to a much better place than New York City. When I was your age, I didn't think anything like that was possible - nowhere out there could compare to the place that I had dreamed of loving so much.. To be leaving it now, like this, is something that I never would have imagined. But, I guess when you're sick, your days are numbered and things about where you live and dreams you once had as a teenager don't matter much anymore.

Some say that there is a secret to life, and they search forever to find out what that answer is, and, being handed your death sentence on a silver platter is when you begin to realize these things. I've realized that I haven't always been fair to you as a mother - I wasn't there when you needed me the most. You and I have become so distant as of late and I don't know how or when we will get the relationship that we once had back. When your father and I found out that we were having a girl, I was so overjoyed because I knew I could dress you up in cute little outfits, put bows in your hair, and teach you every song in my repertoire. Somewhere between then and now, we seemed to have lost touch. We can blame it on whatever we want to blame it on, but at the end of the day, I know that I'm always going to love you no matter what. You have been my rock for these past 18 years and I can't even begin to explain how much I love you for it. If you take away everything that I have ever accomplished in my life, the greatest one above all is being your mother.

Goodbyes have never come easy to me. Should they come easy? Is saying goodbye something that we have to do in life? I have enjoyed these past few months spent with you, your father, and the people that I have called my family since I was your age, even though my days on Earth are numbered. And, after all of this time, I'm starting to realize that no, goodbyes do not come easy... but albeit, they should.. I will miss you forever, Annalise, just like the stars miss the sun in the morning skies.

Love always,

Mom

There is such a wave of emotion that comes over me each and every time I read the words scribbled on the pages that now rest beside me on my unmade bed. The first of course, is sadness. I can't help but recall the many times I have cried as my eyes have danced across each syllable, still hearing my mom's voice in my head as if she was narrating the entire letter verbatim. It has been three weeks today since my mother was taken from us on Earth and carried up into Heaven, after losing her battle with cancer. Anger is another one that overcomes me. It takes all of the strength that I have in my 5'3, 162 pound frame to not rip the letter up and punch a hole through the wall of my bedroom. I am angry for a lot of reasons — but the main one is God. I am angry at God for taking my mother away from me. Selfish, I know, when there are many more people missing her as well. 3 weeks is not a long time to live without someone, but, it is a long time for a girl to not talk to her mother when our days were filled with many of random and heartfelt conversations. The next one is depression, which I guess ties in with sadness. The sadness and depression still linger over me like a cloud. It's been eight days since I've taken a shower, and five since I've eaten a meal that consisted of something other than Triscuits or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich..

For 18 years old, one would think I would be tougher than this. I'm a woman — a strong, powerful, independent woman who is finally beginning to come into her own and then this knocks me down. I'm not bitter about being knocked down. I'm bitter because the person that used to pick me back up is no longer here. And turning to my father to talk about these things with is just not an option.

I haven't moved from my bed in days. I'm unsure of what day of the week it is, even. The humidity in the air trickling in through my bedroom window is the only indication that I have that it is still summer, and fall wouldn't be here to grace us with its presence any time soon.

I reach for a stray tissue on my nightstand, and begin to wipe away the tears aggressively, leaving my face sore and crimson red. My eyes still are puffy, and the bags under them are large, but I don't mind much. Going out in public is something that I don't plan to do for the seeable future.

As I begin to glance over the words on the page for the twentieth time today, I hear a faint knock at my bedroom door. Kindly, I ask the person on the other side to go away, but they do not give up that easily.

"Annalise," I hear my father say as he opens the door, his tone soft and matching the breeze coming in through the window.

"Why would you bother knocking if you were just going to barge in anyway?" I ask sternly.

He clears his throat, and reaches his hand up to hold onto the top of the mahogany door. His 6'4 figure towers over the entire door frame. His once kept brunette hair resembles something of a bird's nest, and he is wearing the same ivory tattered NYADA t-shirt that he fell asleep in three days ago.

"Annalise," he repeats again, his tone a bit louder this time. "We have to get going if we are going to catch our flight."

"I've changed my mind," I say, placing a few strands of stray auburn hair away from behind my ears, "I'm not going."

My father sighs deeply and rubs his temples together. I can tell by the look in his eyes that his blood is about to boil — but after taking another look at me, his facial expression falls. "What do you mean you're not going?" He asks the question in the nicest way possible. I know I'm being a brat in this instance, but showering and packing a bag for three days seems like a tedious task that I should have allotted more time for.

"I'm not going," I parrot back at him, as I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm an adult. You don't have to force me to do anything."

"Yeah, Anna, I understand," he says, his patience growing shorter with each word he says. "You don't have to do anything that you do not want to do. I've been over this with you before. You know how important this trip is."

"Then why don't you just go and spare me from the public broadcast of sobbing, please."

"That's not how this works," he replies, shuffling his feet. "You were..."

"Are," I remind him. "Are. I am her daughter."

"Right. You are her daughter. And it is important that you go."

"But it's going to be so annoying," I remind him, as I straighten my posture, crossing my legs Indian-style. "Everyone from your glory days telling all of these stories and dedicating songs to her. It's all way too much for me to handle right now."

"What they're doing for us... Annalise... it's an amazing thing."

I shake my head. About a week ago, my father and I received a call from an Edmond James, the director of marketing at Playhouse Square in Cleveland, Ohio — my parent's home state. He spoke in length about my mother and the impact that she made on the theatre community in the city and mentioned that he wanted to organize a celebration of life for her. We would be able to invite as many people as we'd like and have the stage be ours for a few hours — afterwards, the marquee lights across the theatre district would dim, which is one of the highest honors that a Broadway actress can receive posthumous. "I don't know, dad..."

"I'm not going to stand here and argue with you," he says, his tone sounding defeated. "If you're not going, then I'm not going to go."

"Great," I reply, as I lay my head back down against my pillow. "Then it's settled. You can go back to the living room now."

As my father hangs his head, I knew I should have handled that differently. He is not budging, and does not retreat back into the living room. My emotions have been all over the place lately. Though I just saw everyone in our family several weeks ago for her wake and funeral, seeing them back where my parents fell in love is just too heart-breaking for me to take on right now, amongst other things. "No, you know what," my father replies, tapping his foot on the hardwood floor, "you're going. We are both going to take a shower, pack a back, hail a cab, and make it to JFK for our 1:30pm flight. You live in my house, you're going to play by my rules. This is a memorial honoring your mother, Annalise Caroline. I'm not going to ask you again."

I was taken aback by his strength in this moment. In the 18 years of my life, I have never heard my father speak to me like this. He and I were never close as I was growing up, and to know that he is all I have left makes me want to form some type of a bond with him while he is still around. Death changes you — in good ways and in bad — and a trip to Ohio is possibly what I need more than anything right now.

"I know you're sad," he tells me. "Because I'm sad too. But we can do this. I know we can."

"How for sure are you?" I ask, as I furrow my brow. "Because I'm going on a week and a day without a shower."

"Honey," he tells me, as he makes his way into my bedroom. I clear a spot for him on the unmade bed, and he sighs heavily, placing his arm around me. "This is not going to be easy, okay? No one said this is going to be. And grief is sometimes a long and tiring process. But it is something we, as humans, unfortunately have to go through. So just... uh... finish packing. I'll take a shower. Then while you shower, I'll pack. We should be able to make it in time."

I let out a lengthy sigh, looking once at him, then once around my room. I let a smile appear across my lips as I simply ask, "well, the show must go on... right?"