Claudia's Blog

It is funny, the times I itch to grab the phone and talk to my dad. He was one of the people I wanted to call last Wednesday. Eager to tell him about my daughter, Kira. Which is odd because they never really had any kind of relationship.

The last time I was driven to pick up the phone and place a call to him about her was when she was living in New York City and read for a play she loved that was being done in London. After writing to the director to see if she might be able to audition and being told that if she got there in the next three days they would see her, she got on a red-eye, stayed in a very dodgy hotel in a very dodgy part of London and found her way to the theater– at the age of 23 and never having been out of the country. After arriving hours early, she sat outside on a bench waiting to see if her theatrical dream might come true. It was raining.

An ocean away I was fully aware of every breath she was taking. Of each bus and subway and the fear she was experiencing as she put everything she had into this adventure. And while sitting in New York’s Madison Square Park I took my phone from my pocket and called my father to tell him what she was doing. Because I knew that he, better than anyone, would understand. He who never shied away from a risk or adventure. He who walked out on his wife and three small daughters to see what else might be out there in the world.

When I told him what she was up to, he was impressed. And when she landed the part he was even more impressed. Her gamble had paid off. And for him, life without risk, fear or unknown outcomes, was just not his cup of tea. Or tumbler of scotch.

Kira has since left New York to see what Los Angeles has to offer. It was a risky move. She worked steadily in the theater, but after six years in New York decided to have another adventure.

Last Wednesday she called me at 11 a.m. and told me she had gotten her third call back for a guest shot on a television show. She heard from her agent that she had been “pinned,” her mug shot placed along the photos of series regulars to see how she fit. At 11:30 a.m. she was called again and told that if she did get the gig there would be a table-read with the cast at 1:30 p.m. that same day.

It was then, between phone calls from her, that I wanted to phone my father. I wanted to ask him if a lifetime of living on the edge had been worth it. Had all of the risk taking added up to an existence he valued. Treasured. I wanted to tell him that even though he hardly knew his granddaughter, she seems to have inherited something from him. This time, I was unable to reach out to him. He has been gone, really gone this time, for more than a year.

At 12:15 p.m. she called again. She booked it. And they moved the table read up to 1 p.m. By ten minutes after the hour she was sitting in a room with people she has watched on television for years reading dialogue from a script they handed her.

She sent me a photo. I wish I could have sent it to my dad.