The body is a funny thing. It tells the world what the mind cannot.

I felt it first in my hands. They felt lighter, somehow, proud that they had done something right. And while they paused, the lightness escaped and spread to my chest, breaking it open, making me feel as if the world had turned upside down. It had, you know.

I never imagined my life without Another World, because it was, in most respects, the only yardstick by which I could measure my life, the thread that tied all my 'mes' together. Yet here I was, without my yardstick, taking the Manhattan-bound D train on June 26, 1999 so I could check my email at work. My first message was from my boss telling me of a customer complaint. The second was from Soap Opera Digest online. I read that one first.

It told me I had won first prize in their essay contest entitled, "Why Another World is a one-of-a-kind show." My prize-for myself and a guest-was a tour of the Soap Opera Digest offices and the chance to observe an online chat with two AW actors.

That's the point where my hands became light. I re-read it a few times, checked to make sure it was addressed to me, and scanned my mind for people to call. Then I thought,

What if it's Cameron?

*

It wasn't Cameron, and the day is now sometime in July, a day I spent freezing my sheets, eating only cool foods in liquid form, and deciding that my next crusade would be for the environment. This heat is not normal.

"Guess who they are, Mama?"

I hardly ever call her Mama. Only my body does when it is too sick to move or too elated to think. Mamas are these larger-than-life beings from whom one word of praise means everything. Moms send care packages, and Mothers make curfews and do things that embarrass you. Today, she is Mama.

"It's a woman and a man," I say, balancing the phone between my jawbone and shoulder while trying to adjust the bag of frozen spinach on my forehead.

"Cass and Felicia?"

"Nope."

"Carl and Rachel?" Her voice rises an octave and displays a bit of anticipation. I cut her off.

"Yes! Oh, Mama, can you believe it?" The bag of spinach slides off of me. "It's like meeting people you only dream about. I can't believe it's real."

I ask her to come. I ask her to be my guest.

"Oh, Melissa." She sounds as if I had asked her to hike the Himalayans. "I can't fly up from South Carolina. It's too expensive."

She changes the topic, and I throw away the bag of spinach. It was melted anyway.

*

I was eating fresh spinach with black-eyed peas and lots of pepper the day she called to tell me she had changed her mind. She wants to see Rachel and Carl. And me. And to honor the circle that began the day she found out Pat Randolph was pregnant with twins and ended with me calling her from work, April 12, 1999, crying, telling her of my boycott of NBC. I called her Mama that day too.

*

I call out to her in Penn Station because she is, of course, lost. It is now the day before our date. She has come to New York-my home of the moment-armed with a new outfit, a black-and-white sundress, sandals that aren't good for walking, and a beautiful pair of earrings. We go back to my small Brooklyn apartment-turned-sauna and look at old pictures. Alice with Steve. Mac with Rachel. Ada with Jamie. Janice with Mitch. I show her the first thing I ever sent to AW-a script I had written when I was twelve detailing what I thought should have happen with the Vicky/Jamie/Lisa triangle. We iron our clothes. We laugh a lot. I give her the floor fan and the bed, and fall asleep on the futon, dreaming that I had misplaced my tickets to the AW Fan Club Luncheon and when I arrived, the building was locked.

*

Although I am only at work until noon the day of our date, it feels like an eternity. My hands ache with the boredom of data entry, and my stomach will not sit still. I tell my boss that I am going to this special lunch so she won't think the skirt and the mascara are for a job interview. She a bit paranoid that way.

I leave a bit early because I can't take it. The monotonous typing, the sweaty office, the annoying guy with the too-loud laugh across the hall. I pick up my mom from Washington Square Park where I had dropped her off in the morning. I hail a cab, and we head uptown to Soap Opera Digest.

My mom stares out the windows and comments on all the restaurants. I feel nauseous and sweaty. My mind keeps turning back to first action of the day. Before the sun came up, I randomly opened my 8^th grade journal as if my incoherent logic of my pre-teen years would somehow guide me on this overwhelming day.

My mom grips my shoulder. "Now Melissa, you're gonna slap my hands if I reach out and touch them, right?"

"Oh, Mom. You're not going to maul them or anything. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you shook their hands."

"I know, but I don't think I know that they are real."

We finally arrive at the offices on Madison Avenue. We are too early so we stand outside and re-apply our lipstick. I twist my skirt so the tag is in back. We raise our lips at each other so we can check the other for lipstick-covered teeth. My mother takes pictures. I pretend to be a tourist.

We walk into the lobby and head up the elevator to the floor that Soap Opera Digest calls home. I tell the receptionist who I am, and she tells us we can have a seat. On her desk is a large overflowing yellow folder. I can only see the first two letters. The first begins, "I know you are probably sick of hearing about AW…" and the second has AW is scattered throughout the page with a few Susan Lees thrown in.

The Online Director then greets us and presents me with an AW 35^th Anniversary book and two Soap Opera Digest online t-shirts. We then head across the street to a fancy Midtown Italian restaurant where only business people and girls who win soap opera essay contests go.

The salad is fantastic, the water is sparkling, and I order with only a slight nod to the prices. The Director is so charming and down-to-earth; I could have stayed there chatting forever. He has been in the daytime world for years and is a true AW fan. The knots in my stomach uncurl as we trade AW stories and opinions about the future of soaps.

The knots come back when we are in the room in which the chat will take place. My mom and I are told: "the actors should be here any moment." We already had the grand office tour, which included meeting the Editor-in-Chief, with whom I could not help but reveal my true thoughts on Trashions. Along the walls are poster-size SOD covers and long metal-like bookcases filled with old issues. Cubicles fill out the interior space with televisions in many of them, all tuned into daytime.

My hands begin to sweat and base beads up on my face. Why can't I be cool? Why did I have to break out all over my face just a few days before? Why did I bump into that subway seat and bruise my leg yesterday? Why can't I sit here calm and collected, gazing around the office as if this is any day?

*

I hear them before I see them. Words I can't make out, then laughter. Then it is the doorway frame, then her frame, but only half. Her white skirt swishing in, her head leaning out. I can see her, but she can't see me. Just like old times.

They then both come bursting in with a sort of familiarity and unbridled energy. My mom moves to the back of the room, but I remain motionless. I am mesmerized. I have you on tape, I keep thinking. You have watched me grow up.

The Online Director introduces us. They shake my hand. I can't say anything. All I can do is smile, a smile that stretches all my muscles and skin, and I feel that lightness again.

SOD Online decides that the pictures should be taken now so I stand with Charles Keating on my left and Victoria Wyndham on my right. I am light. I am overwhelmed. I can't believe I am here. I can't believe that I or they or this is real.

They are laughing and smiling, looking at me, asking the normal questions. I manage a few answers about places I've lived and schools I've attended when I look up at Vicky and freeze. I want to say, "Do you know I have known your face my whole life? Do you know how much I admire you? " Instead, I am speechless. There is a moment of silence sans the click of the camera. She leans a little closer, her eyes soften, and she says, "It's alright, dear."

*

They begin the chat. I look back and forth at their faces. They are animated, playing off each other and the questions AW fans have submitted. Vicky often leans close to the computer screen when answering. Charles saunters from the window to the couch, occasionally catching my gaze and winking. I am blushing. There is so much laughter. I marvel at two of the wonderful SOD online people, one who types so fast and the other who remains so calm when Yahoo keeps freezing. "Too many people are trying to log on," she says. Vicky and Charles are so excited by the turnout. Pretty good for a show that people say no one watched.

*

They stay longer than scheduled, answering as many questions as they can. The respect they have for the fans permeates every answer they give. Their love of the written word is infused with their very being. The term 'art for art's sake" constantly loops through my mind.

My mom tells Vicky as she hands her and Charles cards to autograph, "You have been in my living room longer than most of my friends or family." I hand Charles my 35^th Anniversary book to sign. I whisper, "I was born on your birthday."

The Online staff join the discussion of horoscope signs as the two actors give their autographs. I then tell the room about the two funds established in honor of Another World. I tell them that I am hoping to organize a dedication ceremony next year. They say they would love to be there. They say they are so touched and honored.

I am staring at my feet now. They are preparing to leave. I can't let them leave yet. "I want to create," I say. They both reach for my hand. "NBC didn't win because they are only interested in destroying." "You," I look at both of them, "create."

*

We are in Central Park now, my mom and I. After the actors left, and we gave our appreciation and goodbyes to the Online staff, I could think of no other place I would rather be. We are sitting on the bench, the one I hope will someday belong to all AW fans. My mom carefully turns the pages of the Anniversary book. In it, Charles has wished me "a happy birthday, when it comes." I read the card Vicky signed to my mom. "Barbara, it was so nice to be in your living room all these years."

Suddenly the sadness hits me. After all is said and done, when excuses grow tired and façades begin to fade, isn't that what we all want-to have someone in our living room and to have that someone want to be there?

I wanted them to be there, and it seems they were pleased to accept the invitation. Why can they no longer come? What will be remembered of their daily entrance into each of our homes?

*

I am staring at the Manhattan skyline, resting on my heels on the sidewalk. "What did you think of the day, Mom?"

"Oh, I really enjoyed watching them," she responds. The swans in the lake gather around us in misplaced anticipation. "But I really enjoyed watching you watch them." We stare at the swans. There is silence until she says, "And you? What did you enjoy about the day?"

I want to say, "What if we never have this day again? What are we going to do, Mama, now that we don't have this thread? Will we unravel? What will we fill our silences with now?"

Instead I say, "I loved hearing you laugh."