of the other characters’ names. It would have all been there in black and white, and I could explain
how my mother had fallen for one of the other actors, who happened to be James Whitcombe, and nine months later I had made
my grand entrance onto the stage of life.
But like every other detail of my mother’s life, this one wasn’t that easy or that obvious.
I studied the playbill one more time. At the bottom of the paper, in small print, I read the words, “With a special thank
you for the support given by the Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre.”
Sitting up more fully, I read the fine print again. The Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre was the name on the plaque
in front of Grey Hall where the performance had been held last night. I hadn’t made the connection then.
In front of me was another small clue. Had James Whitcombe been involved in the Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre? Andrew
said Sir James had contributed much to this community with his status and dedication to the theater. Hadhis involvement led him to the US and to this small-time community theater performance of
The Tempest?
How was the Lake Shore Community Theater connected to the Grey Hall Community Theatre? Lake Shore group was in Michigan. I
was born in Michigan and somehow ended up on the West Coast soon after. Did my mother have family in Michigan, or was she
simply passing through when she joined the theater group?
It seemed that with each clue I uncovered, I picked up another string of questions. Many of those questions would never, could
never, be answered. Other answers seemed to be so close, so nearly within my reach.
Tucking the photo and the playbill back into the blue velvet bag and setting it on the nightstand, I decided to venture downstairs
and find a way to begin my very necessary conversation with Edward and Ellie. The evidence was mounting. I needed to say something.
I found the Whitcombe family poetically gathered around the tree. A fire blazed in the hearth. From where I stood, all the
gifts appeared to have been opened. Julia was busy brushing the long hair of a new doll, and Mark, who looked tall for a twelve-year-old,
stood beside his father, who was trying to fit together a control box of some sort.
“They don’t exactly make this easy, do they?” Edward asked.
Ellie leaned closer. “Do you need the instructions?”
“I can get them, Father. Are they in the box?” Mark looked up and noticed my slow entrance. “Hallo. Are you Miranda?”
“Mark, mind your manners,” his father said. “You should walk up to our guest, offer your hand, and introduce yourself.”
Bounding past the patches of cast-aside gift wrap, Mark followed his father’s instructions and came skidding up to me with
a free-spirited expression that I was sure he inherited from his mother. “I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance,
madam. I am Master Mark Robert Whitcombe.”
“Mark, don’t be pert,” Edward said.
“I’m not Pert. I’m Mark.”
He received a stern look from across the room.
“Yes, Father.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mark.” I shook his outstretched hand. “My name is Miranda.”
“My sister said you’re from America, but you’re not a film star.
“She’s right. I am an American, but I’m not a movie star.”
“Are you an actor, then?”
“No, I’m not an actor.”
“Do you know any actors?”
“Yes, I have met a few.”
“Really? Any ones that I would know?”
“No, none you would know.”
“Mark, I have this put together now. Will you come have a look?”
Like a gazelle, the lanky twelve-year-old bounded across the room and eagerly took the controls from his father. Mark pressed
a button, and out from under the camouflage of gift wrap a remote-controlled truck rumbled across the floor, heading directly
for the wall. Mark used his whole body as well as his thumbs to urge the rolling vehicle to make a turn toward the center
of the
how my mother had fallen for one of the other actors, who happened to be James Whitcombe, and nine months later I had made
my grand entrance onto the stage of life.
But like every other detail of my mother’s life, this one wasn’t that easy or that obvious.
I studied the playbill one more time. At the bottom of the paper, in small print, I read the words, “With a special thank
you for the support given by the Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre.”
Sitting up more fully, I read the fine print again. The Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre was the name on the plaque
in front of Grey Hall where the performance had been held last night. I hadn’t made the connection then.
In front of me was another small clue. Had James Whitcombe been involved in the Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre? Andrew
said Sir James had contributed much to this community with his status and dedication to the theater. Hadhis involvement led him to the US and to this small-time community theater performance of
The Tempest?
How was the Lake Shore Community Theater connected to the Grey Hall Community Theatre? Lake Shore group was in Michigan. I
was born in Michigan and somehow ended up on the West Coast soon after. Did my mother have family in Michigan, or was she
simply passing through when she joined the theater group?
It seemed that with each clue I uncovered, I picked up another string of questions. Many of those questions would never, could
never, be answered. Other answers seemed to be so close, so nearly within my reach.
Tucking the photo and the playbill back into the blue velvet bag and setting it on the nightstand, I decided to venture downstairs
and find a way to begin my very necessary conversation with Edward and Ellie. The evidence was mounting. I needed to say something.
I found the Whitcombe family poetically gathered around the tree. A fire blazed in the hearth. From where I stood, all the
gifts appeared to have been opened. Julia was busy brushing the long hair of a new doll, and Mark, who looked tall for a twelve-year-old,
stood beside his father, who was trying to fit together a control box of some sort.
“They don’t exactly make this easy, do they?” Edward asked.
Ellie leaned closer. “Do you need the instructions?”
“I can get them, Father. Are they in the box?” Mark looked up and noticed my slow entrance. “Hallo. Are you Miranda?”
“Mark, mind your manners,” his father said. “You should walk up to our guest, offer your hand, and introduce yourself.”
Bounding past the patches of cast-aside gift wrap, Mark followed his father’s instructions and came skidding up to me with
a free-spirited expression that I was sure he inherited from his mother. “I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance,
madam. I am Master Mark Robert Whitcombe.”
“Mark, don’t be pert,” Edward said.
“I’m not Pert. I’m Mark.”
He received a stern look from across the room.
“Yes, Father.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mark.” I shook his outstretched hand. “My name is Miranda.”
“My sister said you’re from America, but you’re not a film star.
“She’s right. I am an American, but I’m not a movie star.”
“Are you an actor, then?”
“No, I’m not an actor.”
“Do you know any actors?”
“Yes, I have met a few.”
“Really? Any ones that I would know?”
“No, none you would know.”
“Mark, I have this put together now. Will you come have a look?”
Like a gazelle, the lanky twelve-year-old bounded across the room and eagerly took the controls from his father. Mark pressed
a button, and out from under the camouflage of gift wrap a remote-controlled truck rumbled across the floor, heading directly
for the wall. Mark used his whole body as well as his thumbs to urge the rolling vehicle to make a turn toward the center
of the
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