Then / Now
Write About Will
By Stephanie Kemp
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Not that one (but he is really nice and I am always rooting for him. I will write about him later.)
Not this one, either (but he’s doing great, all these years after the pandemic and a couple of years out of college now. Plus, I already wrote him this poem):
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You know the one. And maybe you should write to him, not about him.
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Dear Will,
You don’t know me, but I think you are excellent.
The best kind of excellent. I have always thought this, but I recently saw you on Anderson Cooper’s podcast talking about grief and you smashed my whole heart before completely rebuilding it, all within the space of 67 minutes and 24 seconds. (I watched it twice.)
I hope you will let me tell you a story. (No pressure, and thank you no matter what, for even motivating me to try to write this down.)
One day when I was eleven somewhere in suburban Detroit, I stood hatefully in line at the grocery store with my dad, who had just filled up a full cart of unfamiliar things. He had recently gotten remarried and it was a Dad Weekend (when all I wanted was a Friend Weekend, also with my cat, who lived with my mom in our real house, near all of my friends).
This trip to the store was extra terrible because my dad had just told me and my sisters that we were going to a place called Mackinac Island (even though it’s pronounced Mackinaw…) with our new stepmom to meet her new (to me) parents.
“They don’t allow cars on Mackinac,” said my dad, before adding (hopefully), “…only horses and bikes.”
I couldn’t have cared less, even though my favorite things, besides cats, were horses and bikes.
Things were bleak.
This conversation took place after several hours of very little talking (we had also played a round of putt putt after going out for pancakes), and I was staring at the magazines in the check-out line when my dad saw me looking wistfully at your dad on the cover of Newsweek (I think).
“Guess who we’re going to meet on Mackinac?” My dad asked casually.
“Who?” Asked one or both of my sisters, who have always been nicer than me, as I continued to ignore everyone.
“I’ll give you a clue. Stephanie is staring at him.”
“Right, Dad. We’re going to meet Christopher Reeve.”
- Stephanie
“He’s shooting a movie on the island. The island is small. I bet we can find him.”
I obviously decided right there and then that I would have to move in with my dad and stepmom immediately (and permanently), as we needed to get on a boat to Mackinac as soon as possible. (“We get to take a ferry?” .…. “How often do they leave?”…… “Can we stay longer than eight days?!”)
In that singular moment at the A&P, on the very best day of my whole entire life, I knew my world was about to change forever.
So a few torturous weeks later, we went to Mackinac and spent seven whole days………. with absolutely no sign of your dad.
Sure, we could see that they were shooting a movie (there was a whole group of something called “Extras” dressed up from the Olden Days everywhere you looked, plus some vintage cars and modern trucks illegally driving around all over the place, scaring the horses)... but as far as I was concerned, this entire trip was just more evidence of more grown ups breaking more rules, even though they were always the ones who made them.
I was even sort of mad at your dad.
To make everything worse, it was freezing on Mackinac Island in July and I had run out of books to read.
On the afternoon of that terrible Seventh Day, my dad decided we all needed to take “one last bike ride around the island.” (“We” included me and my dad and sisters, plus a new stepbrother and a stepcousin, even though my stepmom was allowed to stay home and her parents got to go play tennis.)
I took off on my rented bike first and fast, thinking I could leave everyone behind at the fudge shop. (They were at Ryba’s and I only liked Murdick’s, especially because I knew to always and only order their chocolate with peanut butter). I knew I would be able to ride at least most of the eight mile loop by myself if I got a head start, especially if everyone (except me) was filled up with fudge.
I hit the bike path alone, passing the old college at Mission Point, wearing a hateful bright red sweater of my new stepmom’s over my favorite old panda bear t-shirt, when I saw a man wearing sunglasses (even though it was cloudy) zoom by in the other direction. I knew in that moment (probably like you know in this one) that it was your dad.
We said said hi to each other (!) and he smiled and kept going.
My heart stopped as I turned my whole body around on my bike seat, forgetting that my legs were still pedaling and my arms were both still attached to the handle bars. I promptly and dramatically wiped out, first flipping over the handlebars and then skidding on dirt, grass and loose gravel for what felt like the entire length of a full football field. (I have never been so grateful for the long sleeves of someone else’s sweater and my corduroy Levi’s.)
The only thing worse than how my whole body felt was knowing that your dad must have heard my crash and was now pedaling toward me as fast as he could. (And as you and the whole world knows, he was really fast.)
“Are you ok? Can I help you up? Here, it looks like your foot might be tangled in that chain.”
It now really was the best day of my life, even though my cheeks were on fire and I was trying really hard not to cry.
There is something about crashing heroically in front of your favorite superhero and seeing that even Superman is only Human (and really nice) that levels the playing field of Your Entire Universe in an instant and makes you fearless.
After we introduced ourselves (“Oh, hi Chris,” I said, taking his hand (!)…. “Thank you…..I’m Stephanie.”), I immediately launched into all the ways and reasons I loved Superman (the movie!) and asked him if I could I ask him a few questions:
How did they make you fly?
Was it scary?
Why does the screen have to be green?
Did you ever get caught in the wires?
(Were they special wires?)
How many people does it take to make a movie?
“Extras” doesn’t sound very nice. Couldn’t the people with no lines be called something else?
Is it confusing having a girlfriend in a movie if she is not your girlfriend in real life?
Is it confusing being in a new movie with a new girlfriend if she still isn’t your girlfriend in real life?
Do you have a real girlfriend, in real life? (I obviously wasn’t brave enough to actually ask this one.)
How come not everyone gets one of those tall wooden chairs with their name on it?
What’s a best boy? Is there a best girl?
Who taught you how to act?
Do you like Michigan?
Where do you live in real life?
Is it fun making movies?
Do you know how to skip stones?
What’s your record? Mine is 13.
I asked and asked and asked. Your dad patiently answered every single question, until finally, at one point, he caught me looking woefully past him, staring into a void and said, “Stephanie, are you alright?” (He was probably worried that I had a concussion.)
I had to very sadly tell him that (one side of) my whole entire family was about to catch up with me from the fudge shop and that our day (and my life) was about to be completely ruined.
My heart stopped beating again as my sisters and stepbrother and stepcousin (and dad) pulled up to us and I had to introduce them to my new friend, Chris. (I hoped he would ask them to call him Christopher, or Mr. Reeve, but he didn’t.)
This terrible new extended family social gathering hit rock bottom when my dad asked to take a group picture and I was at the outer edge now that everyone else was hogging your dad (and not even asking him any good questions).
Just as my dad was holding the camera telling us to say cheese (so embarrassing), your dad said, “Stephanie, why don’t you come over here and stand in the middle, since your bike is broken.” (Everyone was still on their bikes, except me.) It was the best day of my life again. Even in that stupid red sweater and all of that family around me.
My dad took the picture and we said our goodbyes.
I saw your dad three more times before we left the next day on the saddest boat ride I have (still) ever taken (even 46 years later):
The afternoon of our bike mishap, I got to see the set while they were shooting on the porch of the Grand Hotel (and while I was pretending to be an adorable hotel guest looking for her parents).
I was too scared to actually speak real words, but your dad saw me (still in my red sweater, only this time worn strategically) and told me I could sit in his chair and “watch a rehearsal.” (He had explained to me earlier in the day that even though not everyone gets their own chair on a film set, the people who do get them always share.)
Then, that night, (because it was now the best trip ever), we ran into your dad and his real life girlfriend (who was so nice, even though I wasn’t happy and didn’t want to like her…..at all) at Murray’s Pizza. They were coming in as we were leaving and he said: “Gae, these are some friends I met today….The best one is Stephanie.” (I’m pretty sure I think I remember that he probably might have possibly said that last part, but at least he absolutely definitely said the first part.)
The last time I saw your dad was the next morning when I spotted him driving down the Grand hill in his little convertible acting like a whole different person (Richard Collier, looking for Elise McKenna, otherwise known as Jane Seymour, “Somewhere in Time”). As I thought privately and protectively of Gae, the real (and only) me was squished between too many people in a horse drawn carriage pretending to be a taxi, clopping us down to the docks so we could be loaded onto an over-crowded ferry full of Fudgies heading home to absolutely nothing.
I spent the whole boat ride crying my eyes out on the top deck, staring backwards at the ever shrinking island, trying not to get seasick while everyone in my new extended family was drinking hot chocolate down below like nothing had even happened. I felt bad for calling those people (or any people) Fudgies.
(Chris would never call someone a fudgie, no matter how much they loved fudge or just because they are a tourist who likes to eat it sometimes.)
Meeting your dad was the first time I realized that production could be an actual job - a million different jobs. That contrary to public opinion (or at least the public that I knew of as an eleven year old), movie stars (and all of the other people who help make movies) were not assholes or dilettantes or made of champagne or stardust.
They were just normal people. And most of them got to wear jeans to work.
I remember your dad telling me, during my line of questioning, that acting was fun, but so were sports. (I had told him I mostly played softball and football now because I didn’t get a lead role in The Prince and the Pauper and wasn’t even cast as anything in The Sound of Music.)
He told me that being athletic is a great thing, “no matter how old you are or what you become when you’re a grown up.”
“Do you think I could be a grip, Chris?”
“Sure. But you could also be a producer or a director, if you wanted to, I bet.”
“You could also be a writer or try acting again.”
It was the best bike crash ever.
And to this day in 2025, I would grab the autographed photo from that day in 1979 off of our fridge if the house was on fire. (Once we arrived back on land after the sad boat trip, my dad wrote your dad a letter sending it to “Christopher Reeve c/o Universal Studios,” and included six copies of our bike riding picture for him to sign, which your dad did before sending them back with a return letter of his own, starting with:
Dear Bob,
How could I forget such adorable kids as Stephanie, Tracy, Ginny, Kord and Todd……
Now if I were you, Will Reeve (and if I was still reading this), I would probably want an ice cream sundae by now (or a bathroom break), but sadly (unless you are enjoying my missive), I am not quite done.
Because I also met your mom.
My husband and I were working and living in New York for a month in 2006 when our (first) daughter was almost one year old. (I grew up to be a writer and producer and met my husband on Men in Black II, in case you were wondering. I would include that I also very effectively played a “neuralzyed mother” in the movie, but that would just be bragging.)
It had been a freezing January and New York is really hard in the winter with a baby, especially if that baby is from California.
The three of us were crossing the street at Lincoln Center and I was wearing my daughter on my chest, holding onto her right foot, which was awkwardly covered by one of two tiny mittens we had just moments before bought at Bed Bath and Beyond. One of her little sock boots had fallen off somewhere between our apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and our lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. I was sure she had frostbite.
She was half shoeless and I was equal parts worried about her being too cold and worried that I must be a terrible mom. (Any month in New York has always done tricky things to the person that is me, let alone a freezing gray one with a new baby and a whole husband.)
As we walked past Cafe Fiorello, I saw a laughing woman all bundled up, walking arm in arm with a smiling man coming toward us. They were talking and taking their time and looked like they were having the best stroll ever. I thought to myself, “I want to be them when I grow up.” As the woman and man got closer, I could see only her. She took my breath away, not only because of her smile, but because I immediately knew who she was. And the only thing stronger than my desire to say all of the things I wish I could’ve said to her:
(I am so heartbroken about your husband and have been since May 27, 1995…You two were perfect and you are beautiful and strong and amazing…..I am so sorry you have been sick….I am happy to see that you are so clearly doing better…..How is your son….How are his brother and sister……I loved hearing that you are singing again…..You wouldn’t believe the story I would give anything to be able to tell you over coffee or tea or hot chocolate or fudge or water or wine or nothing at Cafe Fiorello or anywhere else……)
…was my desire to respect her privacy.
But because she was the person that is your mom, she noticed my daughter’s foot bouncing around under my over-protective hand and she stopped, leaning in to talk to her:
“Well hi, baby. What’s your name? I’m Dana. Look at your little mittened foot. You must have lost a boot. What good parents you have!”
She played with Olivia’s foot for a minute, laughing and talking to her and making her smile before saying goodbye and continuing to walk with her friend.
In the big picture of my life, I couldn’t believe I had these by chance milestone meetings at such pivotal times with people I couldn’t have looked up to more - your parents.
In the big picture of your life, I still can’t believe that your beautiful mom was gone less than three months after that day in Lincoln Square, only a year and a half after you lost your dad.
You were 13.
I tell you all of this now partly because I’ve always wanted to write it down and partly because my daughters’ mom just finished her last round of chemotherapy and is at another milestone moment in life, trying not to (only) fly sideways and share things that are important. Especially because there is no green screen.
One final story (I promise) to round out this impossible trifecta:
On the night that most of my hair decided to fall out in a massive hot mess of crazy brown residual tomboy tangles, my husband and I had just curled up in front of a duraflame to watch “Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story.”
My husband knew my hair was coming out in clumps before I did, as he rubbed my head trying to be brave while I watched you and your family, once again reminding me to be.
No one knows how life will happen. The people and things (given,chosen, found, but mostly accidental) that will shape it.
What do we do with all of these things?
Especially grief, because no one escapes it and because “love and grief are a package deal......If you love someone you are going to lose them,” (said you to Anderson Cooper).
”If you believe the game is worthwhile, you play the hand you’ve been dealt.”
Gasp.
Sob.
Toward the end of the interview you also said that if you could ask your parents one question it would be, “Am I doing a good job?”
Six words and you snapped my whole heart again (twice).
Your parents would be so proud of you and the job you are doing.
I know this because their son is honest and brave and curious and strong and smart and kind and vulnerable and humble.
He is also funny and knows how to share, even the hard stuff. (I know this not only from the podcast, but also because of the way your parents’ son once handled the aftermath of a live segment with Good Morning America where his camera accidentally caught him not wearing pants below his desk.)
He is (also) amazing.
I wouldn’t be surprised if your parents’ son can even fly (and sing).
Sincerely,
Stephanie Kemp
Ps. (If you are reading this and are not Will Reeve): Don’t worry. Will was wearing shorts during his pant-less live feed.
After the interview, he even said:
“I have arrived...”
(later adding):
“I will not be getting hired as a camera operator anytime soon.”
(...I told you he was excellent.)
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cc: Tracy, Ginny, Kord, Todd, Big Steph, Anderson Cooper and/or Andrew Garfield, Tegan, the other Will and the other Will (even though one of them might hard to find), Gae, Jane/Elise (who was also very nice), Matthew, Alexandra, the Puccis, the man who was on that walk with Dana Reeve in NY that day.........my two daughters and whole husband.
(Plus my cousin Bob, who knows Will and can send this to him in case I never get my Insta shit together and because I am still grateful everyday that he is ok... especially because he still can’t beat me in paddle tennis.)
bcc: David, Michael, Jimmy (who still can’t beat me, either)
Write About Will
By Stephanie Kemp
Not that one (but he is really nice and I am always rooting for him. I will write about him later.)
Not this one, either (but he’s doing great, all these years after the pandemic and a couple of years out of college now. Plus, I already wrote him this poem):
You know the one. And maybe you should write to him, not about him.
Dear Will,
You don’t know me, but I think you are excellent.
The best kind of excellent. I have always thought this, but I recently saw you on Anderson Cooper’s podcast talking about grief and you smashed my whole heart before completely rebuilding it, all within the space of 67 minutes and 24 seconds. (I watched it twice.)
I hope you will let me tell you a story. (No pressure, and thank you no matter what, for even motivating me to try to write this down.)
One day when I was eleven somewhere in suburban Detroit, I stood hatefully in line at the grocery store with my dad, who had just filled up a full cart of unfamiliar things. He had recently gotten remarried and it was a Dad Weekend (when all I wanted was a Friend Weekend, also with my cat, who lived with my mom in our real house, near all of my friends).
This trip to the store was extra terrible because my dad had just told me and my sisters that we were going to a place called Mackinac Island (even though it’s pronounced Mackinaw…) with our new stepmom to meet her new (to me) parents.
“They don’t allow cars on Mackinac,” said my dad, before adding (hopefully), “…only horses and bikes.”
I couldn’t have cared less, even though my favorite things, besides cats, were horses and bikes.
Things were bleak.
This conversation took place after several hours of very little talking (we had also played a round of putt putt after going out for pancakes), and I was staring at the magazines in the check-out line when my dad saw me looking wistfully at your dad on the cover of Newsweek (I think).
“Guess who we’re going to meet on Mackinac?” My dad asked casually.
“Who?” Asked one or both of my sisters, who have always been nicer than me, as I continued to ignore everyone.
“I’ll give you a clue. Stephanie is staring at him.”
“Right, Dad. We’re going to meet Christopher Reeve.”
- Stephanie
“He’s shooting a movie on the island. The island is small. I bet we can find him.”
I obviously decided right there and then that I would have to move in with my dad and stepmom immediately (and permanently), as we needed to get on a boat to Mackinac as soon as possible. (“We get to take a ferry?” .…. “How often do they leave?”…… “Can we stay longer than eight days?!”)
In that singular moment at the A&P, on the very best day of my whole entire life, I knew my world was about to change forever.
So a few torturous weeks later, we went to Mackinac and spent seven whole days………. with absolutely no sign of your dad.
Sure, we could see that they were shooting a movie (there was a whole group of something called “Extras” dressed up from the Olden Days everywhere you looked, plus some vintage cars and modern trucks illegally driving around all over the place, scaring the horses)... but as far as I was concerned, this entire trip was just more evidence of more grown ups breaking more rules, even though they were always the ones who made them.
I was even sort of mad at your dad.
To make everything worse, it was freezing on Mackinac Island in July and I had run out of books to read.
On the afternoon of that terrible Seventh Day, my dad decided we all needed to take “one last bike ride around the island.” (“We” included me and my dad and sisters, plus a new stepbrother and a stepcousin, even though my stepmom was allowed to stay home and her parents got to go play tennis.)
I took off on my rented bike first and fast, thinking I could leave everyone behind at the fudge shop. (They were at Ryba’s and I only liked Murdick’s, especially because I knew to always and only order their chocolate with peanut butter). I knew I would be able to ride at least most of the eight mile loop by myself if I got a head start, especially if everyone (except me) was filled up with fudge.
I hit the bike path alone, passing the old college at Mission Point, wearing a hateful bright red sweater of my new stepmom’s over my favorite old panda bear t-shirt, when I saw a man wearing sunglasses (even though it was cloudy) zoom by in the other direction. I knew in that moment (probably like you know in this one) that it was your dad.
We said said hi to each other (!) and he smiled and kept going.
My heart stopped as I turned my whole body around on my bike seat, forgetting that my legs were still pedaling and my arms were both still attached to the handle bars. I promptly and dramatically wiped out, first flipping over the handlebars and then skidding on dirt, grass and loose gravel for what felt like the entire length of a full football field. (I have never been so grateful for the long sleeves of someone else’s sweater and my corduroy Levi’s.)
The only thing worse than how my whole body felt was knowing that your dad must have heard my crash and was now pedaling toward me as fast as he could. (And as you and the whole world knows, he was really fast.)
“Are you ok? Can I help you up? Here, it looks like your foot might be tangled in that chain.”
It now really was the best day of my life, even though my cheeks were on fire and I was trying really hard not to cry.
There is something about crashing heroically in front of your favorite superhero and seeing that even Superman is only Human (and really nice) that levels the playing field of Your Entire Universe in an instant and makes you fearless.
After we introduced ourselves (“Oh, hi Chris,” I said, taking his hand (!)…. “Thank you…..I’m Stephanie.”), I immediately launched into all the ways and reasons I loved Superman (the movie!) and asked him if I could I ask him a few questions:
How did they make you fly?
Was it scary?
Why does the screen have to be green?
Did you ever get caught in the wires?
(Were they special wires?)
How many people does it take to make a movie?
“Extras” doesn’t sound very nice. Couldn’t the people with no lines be called something else?
Is it confusing having a girlfriend in a movie if she is not your girlfriend in real life?
Is it confusing being in a new movie with a new girlfriend if she still isn’t your girlfriend in real life?
Do you have a real girlfriend, in real life? (I obviously wasn’t brave enough to actually ask this one.)
How come not everyone gets one of those tall wooden chairs with their name on it?
What’s a best boy? Is there a best girl?
Who taught you how to act?
Do you like Michigan?
Where do you live in real life?
Is it fun making movies?
Do you know how to skip stones?
What’s your record? Mine is 13.
I asked and asked and asked. Your dad patiently answered every single question, until finally, at one point, he caught me looking woefully past him, staring into a void and said, “Stephanie, are you alright?” (He was probably worried that I had a concussion.)
I had to very sadly tell him that (one side of) my whole entire family was about to catch up with me from the fudge shop and that our day (and my life) was about to be completely ruined.
My heart stopped beating again as my sisters and stepbrother and stepcousin (and dad) pulled up to us and I had to introduce them to my new friend, Chris. (I hoped he would ask them to call him Christopher, or Mr. Reeve, but he didn’t.)
This terrible new extended family social gathering hit rock bottom when my dad asked to take a group picture and I was at the outer edge now that everyone else was hogging your dad (and not even asking him any good questions).
Just as my dad was holding the camera telling us to say cheese (so embarrassing), your dad said, “Stephanie, why don’t you come over here and stand in the middle, since your bike is broken.” (Everyone was still on their bikes, except me.) It was the best day of my life again. Even in that stupid red sweater and all of that family around me.
My dad took the picture and we said our goodbyes.
I saw your dad three more times before we left the next day on the saddest boat ride I have (still) ever taken (even 46 years later):
The afternoon of our bike mishap, I got to see the set while they were shooting on the porch of the Grand Hotel (and while I was pretending to be an adorable hotel guest looking for her parents).
I was too scared to actually speak real words, but your dad saw me (still in my red sweater, only this time worn strategically) and told me I could sit in his chair and “watch a rehearsal.” (He had explained to me earlier in the day that even though not everyone gets their own chair on a film set, the people who do get them always share.)
Then, that night, (because it was now the best trip ever), we ran into your dad and his real life girlfriend (who was so nice, even though I wasn’t happy and didn’t want to like her…..at all) at Murray’s Pizza. They were coming in as we were leaving and he said: “Gae, these are some friends I met today….The best one is Stephanie.” (I’m pretty sure I think I remember that he probably might have possibly said that last part, but at least he absolutely definitely said the first part.)
The last time I saw your dad was the next morning when I spotted him driving down the Grand hill in his little convertible acting like a whole different person (Richard Collier, looking for Elise McKenna, otherwise known as Jane Seymour, “Somewhere in Time”). As I thought privately and protectively of Gae, the real (and only) me was squished between too many people in a horse drawn carriage pretending to be a taxi, clopping us down to the docks so we could be loaded onto an over-crowded ferry full of Fudgies heading home to absolutely nothing.
I spent the whole boat ride crying my eyes out on the top deck, staring backwards at the ever shrinking island, trying not to get seasick while everyone in my new extended family was drinking hot chocolate down below like nothing had even happened. I felt bad for calling those people (or any people) Fudgies.
(Chris would never call someone a fudgie, no matter how much they loved fudge or just because they are a tourist who likes to eat it sometimes.)
Meeting your dad was the first time I realized that production could be an actual job - a million different jobs. That contrary to public opinion (or at least the public that I knew of as an eleven year old), movie stars (and all of the other people who help make movies) were not assholes or dilettantes or made of champagne or stardust.
They were just normal people. And most of them got to wear jeans to work.
I remember your dad telling me, during my line of questioning, that acting was fun, but so were sports. (I had told him I mostly played softball and football now because I didn’t get a lead role in The Prince and the Pauper and wasn’t even cast as anything in The Sound of Music.)
He told me that being athletic is a great thing, “no matter how old you are or what you become when you’re a grown up.”
“Do you think I could be a grip, Chris?”
“Sure. But you could also be a producer or a director, if you wanted to, I bet.”
“You could also be a writer or try acting again.”
It was the best bike crash ever.
And to this day in 2025, I would grab the autographed photo from that day in 1979 off of our fridge if the house was on fire. (Once we arrived back on land after the sad boat trip, my dad wrote your dad a letter sending it to “Christopher Reeve c/o Universal Studios,” and included six copies of our bike riding picture for him to sign, which your dad did before sending them back with a return letter of his own, starting with:
Dear Bob,
How could I forget such adorable kids as Stephanie, Tracy, Ginny, Kord and Todd……
Now if I were you, Will Reeve (and if I was still reading this), I would probably want an ice cream sundae by now (or a bathroom break), but sadly (unless you are enjoying my missive), I am not quite done.
Because I also met your mom.
My husband and I were working and living in New York for a month in 2006 when our (first) daughter was almost one year old. (I grew up to be a writer and producer and met my husband on Men in Black II, in case you were wondering. I would include that I also very effectively played a “neuralzyed mother” in the movie, but that would just be bragging.)
It had been a freezing January and New York is really hard in the winter with a baby, especially if that baby is from California.
The three of us were crossing the street at Lincoln Center and I was wearing my daughter on my chest, holding onto her right foot, which was awkwardly covered by one of two tiny mittens we had just moments before bought at Bed Bath and Beyond. One of her little sock boots had fallen off somewhere between our apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and our lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. I was sure she had frostbite.
She was half shoeless and I was equal parts worried about her being too cold and worried that I must be a terrible mom. (Any month in New York has always done tricky things to the person that is me, let alone a freezing gray one with a new baby and a whole husband.)
As we walked past Cafe Fiorello, I saw a laughing woman all bundled up, walking arm in arm with a smiling man coming toward us. They were talking and taking their time and looked like they were having the best stroll ever. I thought to myself, “I want to be them when I grow up.” As the woman and man got closer, I could see only her. She took my breath away, not only because of her smile, but because I immediately knew who she was. And the only thing stronger than my desire to say all of the things I wish I could’ve said to her:
(I am so heartbroken about your husband and have been since May 27, 1995…You two were perfect and you are beautiful and strong and amazing…..I am so sorry you have been sick….I am happy to see that you are so clearly doing better…..How is your son….How are his brother and sister……I loved hearing that you are singing again…..You wouldn’t believe the story I would give anything to be able to tell you over coffee or tea or hot chocolate or fudge or water or wine or nothing at Cafe Fiorello or anywhere else……)
…was my desire to respect her privacy.
But because she was the person that is your mom, she noticed my daughter’s foot bouncing around under my over-protective hand and she stopped, leaning in to talk to her:
“Well hi, baby. What’s your name? I’m Dana. Look at your little mittened foot. You must have lost a boot. What good parents you have!”
She played with Olivia’s foot for a minute, laughing and talking to her and making her smile before saying goodbye and continuing to walk with her friend.
In the big picture of my life, I couldn’t believe I had these by chance milestone meetings at such pivotal times with people I couldn’t have looked up to more - your parents.
In the big picture of your life, I still can’t believe that your beautiful mom was gone less than three months after that day in Lincoln Square, only a year and a half after you lost your dad.
You were 13.
I tell you all of this now partly because I’ve always wanted to write it down and partly because my daughters’ mom just finished her last round of chemotherapy and is at another milestone moment in life, trying not to (only) fly sideways and share things that are important. Especially because there is no green screen.
One final story (I promise) to round out this impossible trifecta:
On the night that most of my hair decided to fall out in a massive hot mess of crazy brown residual tomboy tangles, my husband and I had just curled up in front of a duraflame to watch “Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story.”
My husband knew my hair was coming out in clumps before I did, as he rubbed my head trying to be brave while I watched you and your family, once again reminding me to be.
No one knows how life will happen. The people and things (given,chosen, found, but mostly accidental) that will shape it.
What do we do with all of these things?
Especially grief, because no one escapes it and because “love and grief are a package deal......If you love someone you are going to lose them,” (said you to Anderson Cooper).
”If you believe the game is worthwhile, you play the hand you’ve been dealt.”
Gasp.
Sob.
Toward the end of the interview you also said that if you could ask your parents one question it would be, “Am I doing a good job?”
Six words and you snapped my whole heart again (twice).
Your parents would be so proud of you and the job you are doing.
I know this because their son is honest and brave and curious and strong and smart and kind and vulnerable and humble.
He is also funny and knows how to share, even the hard stuff. (I know this not only from the podcast, but also because of the way your parents’ son once handled the aftermath of a live segment with Good Morning America where his camera accidentally caught him not wearing pants below his desk.)
He is (also) amazing.
I wouldn’t be surprised if your parents’ son can even fly (and sing).
Sincerely,
Stephanie Kemp
Ps. (If you are reading this and are not Will Reeve): Don’t worry. Will was wearing shorts during his pant-less live feed.
After the interview, he even said:
“I have arrived...”
(later adding):
“I will not be getting hired as a camera operator anytime soon.”
(...I told you he was excellent.)
cc: Tracy, Ginny, Kord, Todd, Big Steph, Anderson Cooper and/or Andrew Garfield, Tegan, the other Will and the other Will (even though one of them might hard to find), Gae, Jane/Elise (who was also very nice), Matthew, Alexandra, the Puccis, the man who was on that walk with Dana Reeve in NY that day.........my two daughters and whole husband.
(Plus my cousin Bob, who knows Will and can send this to him in case I never get my Insta shit together and because I am still grateful everyday that he is ok... especially because he still can’t beat me in paddle tennis.)
bcc: David, Michael, Jimmy (who still can’t beat me, either)