A Case Study in Theatrical Responses to Death Anxiety

A father makes an offering to his estranged children during a theatre competition

“I have something for you and your brother,” Dad said, with his all-knowing smile, as powerful on a video call as in real life. “I look forward to seeing you in the theatre, finally. Now that it’s my last year.”

“Well, we’re here now,” Josh said, wryly, when he and I caught up in Vancouver before boarding. This was our first time. The previous three festivals were also held on cruise ships. A ship means no last-minute excuses. There were reasons we hadn’t come before. I fled to New Zealand after Mom died and Josh to Spain. We’ve been busy with children and work, and then there were travel restrictions because of the new flu.

Dad founded the festival a decade or so ago. He was something of a guru, a moniker used in media stories that characterised his troupe as a cult and Dad as its charismatic leader. That he was, even when just a theatre professor at a small college. He started the festival after Mom passed.

Josh and I had just sat through three hours of incomprehensible performances in the ship’s main theatre. Judges were conferring while we waited with about a hundred others at the bar behind the back row. Four teams were competing for Dad’s praise. The common theme for each entry was, of course, birth, death and sacrifice – Dad’s world. He always said theatre was ultimately about death, always with his smile. After the first performance, Josh remarked, too loudly, “What the actual fuck was that.” Neither of us understood Dad’s work – or the work of his protégés. Only Jen stayed close to Dad and to his company. The good daughter.

Josh and I chatted politely with a couple from Phoenix. They didn’t know we were Moses Girard’s children. Then I saw Jen. She was inside a booth with tinted windows at the back of the theatre. She was supposed to join us for dinner our first night on board but texted to say there were issues at the theatre. We hadn’t spoken in person for years. She never married, never had children. Dad’s four grandchildren, my kids and Josh’s, were all in high school and college now. Dad and Jen and the kids didn’t know each other, and that made me sad over the years, but tonight it felt tragic.

The chandeliers flickered meaning the judges were returning. “If everyone could please take their seats.” That was Jen’s voice over the PA system, confident as always. The lights dimmed, the curtain opened slightly and our father slowly emerged. The theatre erupted in applause and most people stood. Josh and I looked around and then at each other. We didn’t stand. Dad’s white suit glowed in the spotlight and he seemed frail and ghostly as he shuffled to the lectern. There he lifted the award which looked like a black cylinder, several inches long, with a loop of red rope threaded through it. The Moses Girard medal. His festival, his medal.

“To assist me in presenting this year’s award,” Dad began, with his signature smile, “we have a guest.” The curtain opened further to reveal a large monitor with – Dad. But a much younger version, perhaps forty-five years old, with smoother skin, darker hair and more of it. More applause as I was now confronted with two fathers, as if one were not enough. Real-Dad and a larger-than-life Screen-Dad, a disembodied, smiling head that casually blinked and looked from side to side as if scanning the audience. 

“Good evening, everyone,” said Screen-Dad. More applause and also cheers. I looked over at Josh who was mouthing “What the fuck.”

The room quieted and Screen-Dad said, “Moses and I – yes, that old man on the stage – my alter ego, that Moses – we would like to congratulate this year’s winning team. Team Pacifika!” With a new round of applause, four people in black, skin-tight costumes marched to the stage and then toward Dad who held the medal out with both hands high in front of him.

Dad suddenly staggered and collapsed to the stage floor. The audience jumped to their feet with a collective gasp and Team Pacifika swarmed around him. Someone yelled about calling the ship’s doctor. Josh and I looked at each other, frozen, not knowing whether to go up there. The house lights came up and Jen’s voice boomed from the PA, “Everyone please stay calm and please exit the theatre at this time. The doctor is on the way, but we must clear the theatre. Thank you.” Calm as always.

I told Josh I was going to find Jen. He started moving to the stage. “I’m checking on Dad.” I could see Jen inside the booth with a few other people; I wondered what she could possibly be doing and why she wasn’t hurrying to Dad’s side. I worked my way through the crowd to the booth and peered through the window. Jen huddled around someone that was typing furiously on a keyboard.

And then Screen-Dad said, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” 

“Moses collapsed!” someone yelled.

“Oh dear,” said Moses, on the screen. “Has a doctor been summoned?”

“Yes, a doctor is on the way.”

Three people in white uniforms ran past me carrying blue duffle bags. They climbed onto the stage and began attending to Dad. Josh was a few feet away. He was looking back and forth between Real-Dad and Screen-Dad. 

The image of Moses Girard on the large screen no longer had Dad’s smile – he looked worried and confused. He said, “What’s going on?” and then, “It’s suddenly very bright and I feel cold.”

“What’s wrong with him!?” I heard Jen yell from inside the booth, a rare panic in her voice.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” replied the man, frantically typing.

“Help him, please!”