And then something fizzes and bubbles around me like champagne. A shimmer of brightly colored lights like a flash on the water. By the light of the moon, I see what looks like pine needles, twigs, flowers, floating around me in the white hissing foam. A sweet, earthy scent rises up from the waves. Botanical. Familiar. Thick. Like a million essential oils mixed. Like suddenly there’s a boreal forest in the ocean. In the ocean? How could that be?
I look at the tiny needles and petals floating around me under the bright moon, my eyes beginning to close. Close on the flashing waves, close on the black sky. Like I might actually sleep here. Sleep hasn’t come easily these days. Hasn’t come at all, really. What comes is the night, then the day, then the night again. And my eyes always wide open. Taking in all the light, all the dark, never closing.
But here, now, with my hands in the cold, rocking sea, these flowers blooming all around me, my eyes close at last. Black sky. Bright stars…
And then blue. Blue so bright it hurts my eyes.
I’m lying on the rocks in a heap like I fell from the sky. My body on black sharp stones fuzzed with green. But I feel no pain at all. Sorry, Goldfish. No tears for you. I feel gorgeous. My open hands are full of sand. My hair is filled with seaweed and small flowers. My poppy dress, I see, is dripping, crusted with salt. I’ve lost a shoe, it seems. Judy’s still playing from the open car door. Still “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart.”
The caw of crows and the caw of gulls circling above me in the blue, blue sky. One crow perched on a rock nearby. Not three. See? No one’s watching me.
Then two more fly down to join the one. Each black crow on his own black rock.
Something is ringing in the sand. My phone somewhere, must be.
Opening night tonight, I remember. And look, I’m all dressed. I’m ready.
CHAPTER 27
OPENING NIGHT. USUALLY it’s a shit show. Usually I’m drunk on the floor in my office smoking and staring at the ceiling until the ceiling becomes a stage upon which I replay certain former glories. I’m Perdita in pastoral exile singing prettily to my flowers. I’m Lady M ablaze with dark ambition, pleading for the night to fall thick, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes. I’m Helen in my long red dress, lamenting my love for Bertram under a bright Scottish sky. The sweet smell of spring wafts in through my open office window. Making me so full of life, so aware of my living death, I could weep. The window carries their inane conversations up to me. About lighting. About sound. About Places, everyone, places. Grace’s managerial voice. Fauve’s shrill laughter. Briana’s whine. The floor trembles with their boundless animal energy. Usually I can’t go down there, won’t go down there. Can’t watch them run. Can’t watch the excitement, the jittery energy I used to live for. Can’t watch Briana’s glee nor Ellie’s quiet death. It will all literally kill me. Do it without me this year, please, I always think. I’m good up here. I’m Helen on my imagined ceiling stage. I haven’t fallen off the stage yet. My life is still ahead of me, not behind. The sun is still in its zenith. My hip still in its socket, labrum untorn, my spine a supple S. And look, there’s Paul at the edge of the stage with flowers. He doesn’t love or hate me yet. Hasn’t even met me yet. He’s just a handsome man without a name, holding a bouquet of spring flowers. For you. I so enjoyed your performance.
Until Grace shows up.
Showtime, Miranda, she’ll say.
Is it? I’ll say.
She’ll help me down the stairs. But I never want to go. Do I have to go? I’ll ask her.
Yes.
Oh god, I’ll whisper. Oh god oh god oh god. All the way down the stairs.
Then? Then I’m in a nightmare for four hours. Standing crookedly in the far corner of a series of disasters that harden my limbs, that make my heart drum. I attempt to close my eyes, and it’s no good. My shoulder is tapped. My cardigan sleeve is tugged. High-pitched voices disturb the air very close to my face. Ms. Fitch! Ms. Fitch! Ms. Fitch?!
I drown in their questions.
Ms. Fitch, where’s my hat?
Ms. Fitch, where do I come in again?
Ms. Fitch, where do I exit again?
Ms. Fitch, what’s my cue again?
Ms. Fitch, what do we do at the end again? Do we bow? How do we bow again?
I never know the answer. They bear legitimate witness to my incompetence, my inebriation, until the curtains part for showtime. And at last, I’m able to retreat. Shake off the pretense that I’m actually doing something. Melt into the backstage dark, a ghost spying on the living.