Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent by Anthony Rapp Page A

start thinking about what you’ll want from me when I’m gone.”
    The simplicity and clarity of her words instantly cleared the thick air of anxiety hanging over me. I was surprised that she was willing to deal with the truth of her possibly imminent death head-on. I looked right at her, took a deep breath, and said, “Well, Momma, I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
    “Okay,” she replied calmly. “Just think about it and let me know.”
    “I will.”
    And with that, she turned the TV back on.
     
    The next day, I had to drive her up to the University of Chicago Medical Center for some tests, and because of our brief conversation the previous night, I was looking forward to the opportunity to sit and talk with her during the hour-long trip into the city.
    Stuffed into Mom’s tiny white Neon, a car she was so proud to own (she had only been able to afford used cars before her recent raise), we hit the road, and I wasted little time on I-55 before I said, “I was thinking about what you said last night, Momma, and I realized that there’s really only one thing that I want.”
    “What’s that?”
    I couldn’t tell if her voice held any tone of dread or suspicion, so I plowed on. “Well,” I said, “I just want for there to be nothing between us. Nothing left unfinished. That’s more important to me than anything else you could possibly give me.” As I said this, I felt clear and cleansed and focused and true.
    “Well, I want that too,” she said. I glanced over at her and she looked small and delicate in the passenger seat, as she stared straight ahead out the windshield.
    “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?” I said, feeling my pulse rise slightly as I did.
    “Well…” she began. I glanced over at her again, to see a distinctly pained expression in her eyes. She frowned and then turned to me and said, “I just want to know that you’ve forgiven me about what happened with Zucchini.”
    This was the last thing I was expecting to hear; I almost laughed from surprise. But I was also touched by the sadness and fear in her voice. Zucchini had been an Australian shepherd I’d found in the Nevada desert a few years before while filming the movie Far from Home. She was an adorable, motley creature when I discovered her walking through town, but she was also almost dead from dehydration. I nursed her back to health, driving three hours to the nearest vet, and then three hours back, feeding her vitamin supplements from a tube, until she was as sprightly and joyful as any healthy puppy. When the filming was over, I brought her back to Joliet with me. I’d named her Zucchini after an eccentric Italian restaurant owner in Nevada offered Drew Barrymore, the star of the movie, a free plate of zucchini at dinner one night. It had been such a bizarre incident that it had become an inside joke among the cast and crew of the film, and thus an appropriate name for my new dog. Mom initially protested having another animal in the house—we already had a little dog, Scooter, as well as a couple of cats—but she quickly fell in love with Zucchini, and when I moved away from home the next winter, unable to bring Zucchini along, I was thrilled that Mom decided to keep her.
    Because Zucchini had grown up in the desert, she loved to run, and Mom was always having to chase her down when she’d dash out of the house, which she’d do at the smallest opportunity. Mom and I had more than a few arguments about it—I was afraid that Zucchini would just disappear if she got on too much of a tear—but Mom always swore that she’d never let it happen, and we’d leave it at that.
    The following Thanksgiving, however, while I was away at NYU, she called me, her voice choked with tears. “Anthony, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry. But Zucchini’s dead.”
    I stopped breathing and moving and said, “What?”
    “She’s dead. She was hit by a car. It’s my fault, I let her run, she