“I have to go home,” she says.
“Grace, look, please, please. You don’t know what it’s like to be in pain! You’ve never been in pain. You have no idea. You really don’t. To wake up and feel dead to the day. Just another day with your back on the floor. Limping through your life. Dragging your concrete leg behind you. Not being able to shop at the supermarket.” I start to cry, but it rings so false. My words sound hollow on my red, shining lips. I’m murdering them just like Briana used to murder anguish with her unmitigated glee, her rampant, smug happiness. Grace hears it.
She tries to push past me toward the driver’s side door, but I slam back against it.
“Look,” I tell her, my back against her door, “you’re tired. You’ve been working such long days. I have too. Please, we’re both so, so tired. Our minds play tricks on us. We can’t necessarily trust what we hear or see. Especially at this time of year.” I wave a hand around at the thick night. “So close to opening night. And it’s shaping up to be a great production. We’ve done so well. In fact, let me buy you a drink to celebrate. I owe you one, don’t I? And then I can explain a little more.”
I’m talking fast. But everything I’m saying makes sense. Everything I’m saying is reasonable. So why is Grace’s face like that? Why is Grace backing away from me?
“Grace, are you afraid of me?” I laugh to show her how ridiculous that is, how utterly unreasonable. Being afraid of me. Her friend for how long. Sure we’ve had our ups and downs, but come on, am I right? But she doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile.
“Grace, you can’t be afraid of me.” I smile. “Please. Please, don’t be. It’s just me. It’s just Miranda. How long have we known each other? I’m your friend. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
I’m walking toward her now, slowly, calmly, to console her, to reassure her really, to remind her that we’re friends, that it’s just me, Miranda, and she’s backing away, still backing away, which is ridiculous, crazy. She’s being crazy. I reach out my hand and she falls backward. Falls down in her effort to get away.
She’s on the ground now. Lying on the wet, gravelly pavement. She fell down trying to get away from me, her friend. Just me in my red poppy dress that’s swaying lightly in the breeze. Emanating the scent of angels. My red mouth purse that’s smiling at her, as I’m smiling at her. Saying, “Grace, Grace, are you okay?” It’s all so ridiculous. It’s absurd. Grace trying to get away from me even as I step toward her in complete kindness. Offering to help her up. Reaching out a hand even. Saying, “Here, Grace, let me help you up. My turn to help you up. You’ve helped me so much.” But she’s scrambling backward on her hands away from me. I imagine the palms raw, scabbed with glass and gravel. “Careful, Grace, please, I say. Don’t hurt yourself.” But Grace is so dexterous. Even crawling on the ground like a dying dog, you can see that. Utterly unkillable. I don’t do colds, she told me when we first met. Like colds were a kind of cocktail she didn’t care for.
I reach out a hand again for her to take, to help her back up. She’ll get back up. Won’t thank me. She’ll just run away. Run away from me as fast as her well-stretched limbs will carry her. Bearing the message of what she witnessed on her lips. Which she can hardly believe. Which I can hardly believe myself. But who is she to question the testimony of her own eyes and ears? Who is she to turn away from the evidence of the senses? Her job as a stage manager just to deliver it. First thing in the morning she’ll run all the way to the school. What will she say about me? Whom will she tell? Everyone. The dean. Fauve. My dear, you were right about her. That’s what she and Fauve call each other, my dear. They’ll both back up Briana.
I picture them nodding at my inevitable trial by fire. Pointing at me.
Yes. She.
I crouch down beside Grace, who’s cowering from me, won’t look me in the eye. Her ballet slipper key chain lies on the pavement beside her, all muddy now, but don’t worry, I picked it up for her. Her head is bent low like a wretch, never seen her so low. It’s strange. Usually I’m the one on the ground and it’s Grace looking down at me. Rolling her eyes at my body on the floor. With exasperation. Impatience. Kindness too, I remind myself. Wasn’t there kindness? Grace wanted to help me. And that’s all I want to do right now. Help Grace. I’m looking kindly at her. Kindly as I reach out my hand. Kindly as I touch her limp wrist. “Are you all right?” I say.