All's Well(66)

“Well?” she says again.

“Very impressive, wasn’t she, Miranda?” Grace says.

Is my leg seizing? What is this sudden hardness in my limbs? This flash of heaviness?

“Miranda?”

“Yes. Yes, very impressive. I even think your”—Don’t say illness. Condition? No—“absence has really opened up some doors for you, as an actor.”

“So I get to play him, then. So I’m the King.”

I watch a sickly joy spread across her sickly face. Dread. In the pit of my stomach. Why? Why is she so fucking happy? To play a part she wouldn’t have pissed on a month ago? An old, dying man with a malignant boil on his rectum. For Briana? Briana, who turned up her nose at the part of Helen? For whom nothing but Juliet and Lady M were good enough? And now here she is. Frothing at the chance to play a diseased invalid. Sabotage. She wants to sabotage me, of course.

She’s about to rise from her throne and hobble out the double doors triumphant, far too triumphant for the crumbs she has won. Trevor will be waiting for her in the hall, of course, to drive her home. She’ll tell him the news on the way. He’ll pretend to be happy for her, but his heart will sink. He’ll call Ellie later, after he’s tucked Briana into bed, and she’ll be crestfallen but understanding. She’ll agree to give them both space during this awkward time. Perhaps she’ll attempt to console herself. Take a restorative bath. Cast a sad spell. But she’ll be miserable. And all of this will make her a better Helen, of course, for nothing will quell her love.

But what of her heart? What about Helen’s heart?

And Briana will have won. Not only Trevor, a sad little game I know she cares nothing for, but at something bigger, something I can’t guess. Something that is making her happy, far too happy at the moment. Something that is making my leg feel suddenly heavy, making the pain return to my back in small, bright flashes. She’s clearly dreaming of whatever it is now as she sits crookedly on her throne.

“Miranda?” Grace prompts.

“I guess my only real concern is having you onstage when—”

“When what?” Briana says. Paler. She’s getting paler suddenly.

“When you should really be at home.” I smile. “Resting.”

“Resting?” She spits the word.

“That’s my concern too,” Grace says.

“It is?” I turn to Grace.

“Of course it is. Theater is taxing. And I have to say you really don’t seem well, Briana.”

Doesn’t seem well? Are you looking at her? The child can barely stand. The child is walking death.

“Grace is right. You just never know what might happen onstage. We’d hate for something to set you back.”

We watch her blue lips tremble. She goes paler still, if that is humanly possible, and it makes my blood cold. Set me back? her face says. We know all about setting me back, don’t we, Miranda? But does she know? Does she? She grips the armrests of her throne more fiercely.

“I’m playing the King,” she says.

She looks at us both. Still attempting threat, but she’s sitting more and more crookedly in her seat. Barely able to keep herself upright.

“Just let her do it, Miranda,” Grace hisses into my ear.

“What? We can’t have her onstage, just… look at her.”

“At least she wants to do it. That’s more than I can say for Dennis.”

“Dennis?” I whisper.

“Dennis, the First Lord? Who’s been playing the King? You were yelling at him for nearly an hour yesterday.”

I recall a pear-shaped boy with a red face sweating profusely beneath a dubious crown, looking very frightened of me from where he was seated in his plastic chair/throne.

“Oh, Dennis, of course. Well, Dennis is wonderful. He’s really stepped up. Do we want to alienate poor, dear Dennis?”

Grace looks at me. Poor, dear Dennis? Am I fucking kidding?

“Dennis is terrible, Miranda. There’s a reason he was just a First Lord. He also doesn’t want to be King. He told me so after you rushed away from the last rehearsal. He said he’s having nightmares about—as he put it—‘fucking shit up,’ and you yelling at him and never letting him be in the play again.”

Grace is looking at me like, Problem solved. Why won’t I let the problem be solved when there is such a simple, tidy solution before us in the form of a girl whiter than a sheet who is all too happy to take this meager morsel and call it cake? Exactly what she ordered, believe it or not.

I look at Briana, watching all of this from her throne, taking sips from Ellie’s water bottle. Looking smug but sick. Anxious to see what she’s won.

“Well, Briana, you’ve given us a lot to think about. And we’re going to think about it, aren’t we, Grace? We’ll let you know very soon. In the meantime, we’re so happy you decided to visit.”

Her smug face falls. Her lips tremble. She’s so obviously crushed, she can’t hide it from us. But she says nothing. Just glares at me as she rises from her throne with a wince. We watch her begin the burdensome walk to the door. Limping as I used to limp. Same limp. Can’t be the same limp. Can’t be. She’s performing. Mocking me, my old pain. Has to be. No way this could be real. Bravo, Briana. You’ve done it.