I’m wearing a brand-new dress. White with red poppies. I’ve resurrected the lace from the back of the dead-lingerie drawer. I’ve plucked, waxed, exfoliated. Shaved all the prickly black hairs from my legs. Hairs that, formerly, I had to let grow. No choice. Couldn’t bend to shave. Mark used to tell me not to be ashamed of them.
It’s just the body, Miranda, isn’t it? he’d say gently, rolling up my sweatpants leg, the disposable medical shorts. Tracing the incision scars on my hip with his fingers. Three incisions. Three raised white bumps, like three prongs.
I wonder how Mark is doing these days. SpineWorks called me the other day to let me know that he wouldn’t be available for future appointments, sadly. He was on leave, they said. But another therapist, Brad, would be happy to take me on.
That’s fine, I said. I don’t need an appointment actually. I’m feeling so much better these days. But please give Mark my best, won’t you?
In the mirror now, I see three Marks gazing back at me. Their faces pale. Breathing quickly, shallowly, with their mouths. Clutching their wrists. Eyes widening in fear, in horror. I take a sip of champagne. And then it’s the Mirandas I see again. All seeming to glow from within. Like someone turned on a light right beneath their skins. Eyes literally sparkling. Lips bright as cherries. A smile that seems to smile on its own. I sigh with relief. Shaky, I’m just a little shaky. Nervous, I guess. Big date tonight, that’s all. Haven’t been on one of those in a while. A long, long time.
When was the last time?
I think of the Scotsman’s whiskey mouth on my thigh. Well, that doesn’t count as a date, does it? Not really a date. And then I remember Paul and me. All those heady first dates in Edinburgh after my shows. Sitting across from him in pubs, on the craggy grass of Arthur’s Seat, on the green stretch of the meadows, and feeling electric, alive, lit up. And then later, back in New England, when he’d drive down from Portland to wherever I was working—a production in Boston if it was fall, a festival on the Cape or in the Berkshires if it was summer—and I’d sneak away with him for a night, an afternoon, a day.
And then, years later, there was the other kind of date. The ones we used to try to have after my fall, to reconnect. Sitting at our favorite sushi restaurant in Marblehead, not so very long ago. It was our tradition to go there to celebrate whenever I’d finish a production season. Now I get to have you back for a bit, he would say, smiling at me from across the booth, like he’d missed me so terribly. And I’d feel so happy to be home, to be back, to be his. The last time we went there was different. One of our final attempts to resurrect our romantic life. You pick the place one week; I’ll pick the place next week. It’ll be fun. We have to try something. I’m willing to try something, are you? Yes. Of course. Sitting across from each other at a tiny black table. People to our left and our right talking to each other, leaning in close, holding hands as if to show us how estranged from each other we’d become. Paul drinking his cold sake too quickly. Dead to the fact of me in front of him. Staring at me like his life was on fire. And me, I was the fire. With my colorless face bracing itself, always bracing itself against the threat of pain. With my dead legs and my hunch. With my benzo eyes always on the verge of tears I was too drugged-out to cry. Pretending to listen to him tell a work story when really I was just lost in the gray, twisting corridors of my own misery, my own fear. Staring at the waxy orchid in its thin vase. So unapologetically pink. Its pursed, vaginal mouth so flagrantly ecstatic that I remember I actually envied its life. I watched Paul eat miserably, cologne-spritzed, a shirt he knew I liked tucked into pants he’d ironed, though he knew he’d get no sex later. That I’d retreat to the pullout couch, which was already pulled out, always pulled out. He’d retreat to the bedroom. Are you sure you won’t come to bed? he’d ask me, over his shoulder. Knowing already I’d say no.
I’m sure, Goldfish. I sleep better out here, actually. Though I didn’t.
I close my eyes. Don’t think of that now. Don’t dredge that shit up. Think of Hugo. Hugo’s not Paul, is he? And I’m not me anymore, am I? Just look in the mirror; look at that creature. Think of tonight. Think of the new lightness in your blood. Turn up the music, that’s better. Where’s that champagne, anyway? Is it already empty? So pour another glass. Totally understandable. Just nerves, the good kind. Nice to finally have the good kind. Anyway, this is sort of a celebration, isn’t it? A resurrection. How long have I dreamed of this? Lying in my bed, listening to the neighbors fuck, to my super weep. Imagining Hugo and me sitting face-to-face. Hugo’s face across a table, over the light of a bar candle. Not gazing through me. Not gazing to the right or to the left of my face. But at me, finally. His features fixed on me, drawn in our heart’s table, as Helen says of Bertram. His crooked mouth with its smile-shaped scar saying my name. Saying Miranda. And then?