Oooh, what other production?
Oh, just this experimental thing, I’d lie.
Sounds exciting!
But at some point, a year in, I couldn’t hide it from her anymore. She found me out, found me in tears one night in the theater after a particularly exhausting rehearsal of As You Like It. A student, aka “the prop master,” had failed to put the props away. I was gazing helplessly out over the mess of forest paraphernalia onstage—the plastic shrubs, the stuffed sheep—weeping.
Miranda, are you okay?
She was sympathetic when I told her; of course she was. Why the hell did you hide this from me?
She quietly picked up the props that night, quietly took on the more physically demanding aspects of production. Later, she’d drive me to surgeon’s appointments, to get steroid shots. Didn’t invite me hiking or sailing anymore. Didn’t ask me about other productions anymore. Knew there were none.
“Let’s get a drink together?” she says to me now. “I’m dying for one.”
I look at her with surprise. Another night out with me?
“I’m sure you want to tell me all about your vision,” she adds. I smile too now.
“Pub?” she says.
“Pub?” I repeat.
“The Canny Man? You know, the place we always go to.”
I see the yellowed eyes of the fat man gone white. Get happy, Ms. Fitch.
“Oh, no. No, no, I think I’m good tonight.”
She frowns now, raises an eyebrow. Good tonight? Me? The self-medicating queen? When have I ever been good tonight?
“Yes, I think I’ll stay here,” I say. “Make some notes. You know, while it’s all still speaking to me. While I can hear and see it.” I poke at my eye, I tug on my ear. I attempt to look mistily at Grace. I’m a director, remember? I’m whimsical. I’m swept up. Been a while since I’ve felt swept up.
The frown softens. Grace rolls her eyes. Pats me on the shoulder again. “All right. Enjoy.”
I sit alone in the middle of the auditorium, before the empty stage. My legs hum, my hip throbs dully. Back aches. Ribs ache. But it’s fine. Because on the stage, the play glimmers. Shimmers. Begins to take shape again. I hear its colors. I see its music. I see Helen on the stage. Poor unlearned virgin. Clever wench. A simple maid. Gazing at me with my own eyes. Bright, fiery, full of intention. Bewitching me. And look at me. I’m bewitched.
* * *
Midnight when I finally get up and leave the theater. Still able to stand up, still able to straighten that leg. I laugh a little, I can’t help it, even as I limp to the door. I’m still limping, You see, Grace? Look. But Grace is long gone. Likely asleep in front of Netflix, her face covered in rose-petal clay. On the screen is a courtroom drama or perhaps one of her gruesome serial killer shows. The more blood, the more morgue scenes, the more forensic evidence, the better for Grace. I’m humming. Picking up that tune where I left it before rehearsal. And then outside the theater, in the foyer, cut against the red light of the EXIT sign, I see a shape. A human shape sitting in the dark. I scream.
“Professor Fitch.”
I grope the wall for the light switch. Ellie. Sitting on the floor in her drab black. Hugging her knees, her back against the brick wall. Looking at me with a murderous intensity that I have come to learn is just her face.
“Ellie. Jesus Christ, you scared me.”
“Sorry, Professor.”
I see she’s made a little camp for herself on the floor. Her glittering shawl fanned out. A take-out teacup from the library kiosk sits at her feet. In a small pile are the dried peels of what must once have been a sad tangerine. All’s Well lies facedown beside her thigh, the book open and spiky with colored tabs.
“How long have you been sitting out here?” I ask her.
“Just since after rehearsal.”
“After rehearsal? Ellie, that was hours ago.”
Her pale face colors. “It wasn’t a big deal. I had homework. I come here to work sometimes. I live in the dorm just there.” She points at the dark window, at the black outside, at nothing at all.
“Oh,” I say.
“I was memorizing the play.”
I picture Ellie sitting out here in the dark, peeling her tangerine, reading the lines. I’m touched. Creeped out, but touched. She’s looking at me like she wants to tell me something. But Ellie never just comes out and tells me. Even in my office, she’ll just stand there in the doorframe, with her hands trembling at her sides. Waiting for me to draw her out.
“You were great in rehearsal today,” I tell her.