“You want to deprive her and the audience”—I wave my hand again at the empty theater—“of resolution, of a happy ending—is that what you’re saying, Grace? That’s it, isn’t it? You think she doesn’t deserve a happy ending.”
“I never said that,” Grace says reasonably. “All I said is that the kiss isn’t in the script.”
Not all of us, I want to tell Grace, are content with a running club and a domesticated reptile for company. Needing no other intimacy besides the darting tongue of a dragon, a dirt trail, and in the evenings, a television screen full of blood suspiciously spilled in the Shetland Islands. Some of us, Grace, are warm-blooded. Some of us need a little more.
But I can’t say that to her. Ever.
“Look”—and here I attempt to be the pragmatist like Grace—“you said yourself All’s Well hardly compares to murder, madness, and witches. So you know, I’m doing what I can to spice it up.”
“Have you heard from Briana at all?”
“No.” Fear in my voice. “Have you?”
“No. But what I heard from Fauve is that she’s still quite sick.”
“Is she really? That’s too bad.” I look straight at Grace. I don’t flinch. Keep my mouth a straight line of solemnity. I am grave in the face of this tragedy. Unforeseen. Utterly. “Well, no choice, then. No choice but to soldier on as best we can. I’m certainly doing my best to soldier on.”
“I see that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that you’re seeming very full of energy these days. Much better than you were.”
“Better? Oh I don’t know about better, really. My back,” I say, touching it. “My back is still…”
Grace raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“It still has twinges and things. And my hip is still…” I shrug sadly. “My hip.”
She looks at me. “Doesn’t show.”
“I guess I’m just not letting it get to me like I once was, you know? I guess that’s the secret. Like you said to me. Sickness is really just psychological. Mind over matter. I guess I’m finally putting that philosophy into practice.”
“Did I say that to you?” she asks me. But I know she’s thinking of that time in the car after the steroid shots. When she pulled us over to the shoulder of the road. Told me maybe I should consider that this might be all in my head. Given how nothing had helped so far? Given how there was no real evidence in any of the tests? Maybe it was just psychosomatic. Stress. Anxiety, lots of people have that. Maybe I’m one of them. Something to, I don’t know, think about. And then I felt sick with fear. I felt a blackness all around. Miranda? Grace said. Are you hearing me? But I could only stare at the road, my legs still clenched, my back on fire.
“Yes,” I tell her now. “You used to say that to me.”
My turn to look at Grace. Her turn to look away. She readjusts the tote strap on her shoulder.
“All right, I need a fucking drink,” she says. “Let’s get one. Together, all right?” Her voice softens. “We should talk about the staging for the final scene anyway. And we really have to figure out this casting thing, don’t we?”
“What casting thing?”
“Well, our lead is missing, Miranda.”
“She’s not missing. Don’t make it sound so unnecessarily sinister. She’s just under the weather is all. Anyway, we have a lead.”
“Ellie is our lead now?”
“For now, yes. Why not?”
Grace looks at me. Why not? Am I insane? Surely I know exactly why not. Dethrone Queen Briana? Usurp the unspoken ruler of the program, our souls? Don’t I understand that’s essentially career suicide?
“And what about Briana?”
“Well, she’s ill, poor thing.”
“And what if she comes back?”
“She won’t come back.” I say it quickly, far too quickly. So I add, “Sounds like she’s really down and out. Such a shame.”
“Miranda, I really think we should talk about this more. I don’t think you’re considering—”
“Just leave it to me. You go rest. Recharge. You said yourself that you’re exhausted. And you look it. Why don’t you go home? Do a face mask. Spend some time with Ernest, okay? Watch some Netflix. One of your murder shows maybe? Way more interesting than All’s Well, am I right?”