Paul’s gone. The audience is gone. I’m alone in the dark. Alone in the black box. Hearing the distant cheers and screams coming from the main stage theater. Waiting for me.
CHAPTER 29
TEARS IN MY eyes that make the dark swim. I follow the sound of applause to the back of the stage, through the dark corridor, toward the red velvet curtain of the main stage. The roar of the audience is getting louder and louder. At the sound, my sadness lifts a little. My goodness, they sound so excited. I hope I don’t disappoint them. How does the play even begin again? Oh yes, that’s right, I’m supposed to cry. I’m crying with the secret pain of my heartbreak over Bertram. People think I’m crying over my dead father, but I’m really crying over Bertram. Lucky I’m already crying. I’ll use this, I think, as I approach the red curtain. Pain is a gift.
The applause is so wild I can’t help but smile. What’s my first line again? I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. That’s right. Don’t forget, don’t forget.
I pull back the curtain. I see they’re all onstage in a line holding hands. Have they started without me? Am I late? Late for your comeback, Miranda. Unprofessional. But they can’t start without Helen. Suddenly I feel dizzy, as if I’m about to fall. I look down and see blood on the floor. My leg. Still bleeding, I see.
“Ms. Fitch!” someone says to me. A young boy dressed as a lord. “Ms. Fitch, we did it!”
“Ms. Fitch? I’m Helen, my lord.” I wink at the boy. “Where is the Countess of Roussillon?”
He looks at me, confused. “What?”
“Am I late?” I whisper. “I don’t want to miss my cue.”
“Your cue? Ms. Fitch, the play’s already—”
“Wow, they’re really applauding, can’t you hear them? God, what a rush, isn’t it?”
“Ms. Fitch, wait! What are you—”
I walk out onto the stage, smiling even as tears are still streaming from my eyes. Laughing and crying. It’s a problem play, remember? Neither a tragedy nor a comedy. Both, always both.
Onstage, I’m immediately blinded by a light brighter than the sun. It warms me to the bone. Everyone is still standing in a line. I watch them take a bow together. What’s this? Are we already taking bows? How can that be?
“Ms. Fitch,” they cry, “congratulations. We did it!”
“I’m Helen,” I whisper.
“Ms. Fitch, are you okay?” they say. “Ms. Fitch, where are you going? Ms. Fitch…”
The stage is so soft beneath my feet. Like the softest carpet in the world, the gentlest earth. It tilts slightly to one side. It spins slowly. Strange. Perhaps that’s some kind of newfangled effect they added? This play is the cosmos reversed, after all. Still, I wish someone had told me about this. The tilting and spinning makes it hard to walk a straight line toward the front of the stage where I belong, where it seems like a young girl and boy are already standing, holding hands. Bowing together. Everyone in the audience is applauding so wildly for me. Whistling and whooping and stomping their feet. I’ve only just stepped onto the stage and look, they’re already on their feet.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “Thank you so much.”
The young man and woman have turned to look at me as I approach. They’re waving me up to the front of the stage. Is this how the play starts? Where am I supposed to stand in mourning for my broken heart? Probably the director told me once, but now I can’t seem to remember. I’ll have to ask someone onstage, that’s awkward. I’ll have to whisper it. I’ll ask that boy and girl waving me over. The boy is dressed like a young courtier. He must be Bertram, my costar. He’ll know. Or that girl beside him. Who is she supposed to be? She’s wearing a red dress like I am. She’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Helen? It can’t be, I’m Helen. She must be my understudy. They asked her to step in because I’m late, because I got stuck talking to that lord backstage. Well, I’m here now. I walk over to the young woman dressed as Helen, who is taking her bows, who is holding my flowers. I’m Helen, I’ll have to explain. I’m the one.
She looks at me and smiles. “Professor Fitch,” she says.
“Helen,” I say. I think I’ll have to fight her for the role on the stage, and I’m ready to do that. My hands are curled into fists. But she just hands me the flowers.
“For you,” she says. Face flushed and shining. Beneath me, the stage continues to turn like the earth. The theater seems to be turning too.