All's Well(78)

So here it is at last. Her little accusation. She smiles more widely now. Caftan shimmering with petty triumph. That’s right. I’ve put two and two together, Miranda. Even though it’s an impossible two. An unthinkable two. But it’s not an unthinkable two for someone who burns sage in an abalone shell, puts rocks of amethyst in her bra (according to Grace), and wears vision oil like perfume.

She’s ready to open her silvery-blue book. To fatten/substantiate this admittedly thin charge with my litany of transgressions: chronic lateness, flagrant substance abuse, tyrannical incompetence. I gaze at the notebook, open now. Fauve’s hand on the first page, dense with her shimmering blue script.

“I really don’t want to take up more of Professor Fitch’s time with this,” the dean cuts in, looking warily from the notebook to his own watch. “What’s your point, Fauve?”

Fauve’s face tightens with anger. She closes the book. For now, her face says, glaring darkly at me before her eyes brighten again with mere innocuous curiosity.

“Just that maybe Miranda has some tips for Briana.”

They all look at me. And it’s right then that it happens. It happened a couple of times the night before too, on my long, lifting walk home, but I thought nothing of it. I thought I was simply high on life. It’s this: I feel my body begin to rise from my chair. Literally rise. Levitate so that I’m hovering in the air, about a half inch above the seat. Impossible, it’s impossible. Defies how many natural laws. Gravity, for one. I grip the armrests. And just like that, I sink back down. It’s over in the blink of an eye. But did they notice? Did they see?

No. They’re all still looking at me, waiting for tips.

I clear my throat.

“Well, the one thing I’d say is to be very, very kind to yourself. Anxiety is a tricky beast. It can manifest in weird ways. Psychosomatic iterations are the worst. Once the sympathetic nervous system is alarmed, it can be very tricky to put it back to bed.”

Do you like tricks, Ms. Fitch?

“Perhaps try breathing diaphragmatically. Some meditation, acupuncture. Aromatherapy is always good, I find. Biofeedback. Physical therapy is a given, of course. It’s done wonders for me. I’d be happy to send Briana some videos. Some podcasts.”

“That’s kind of you,” her mother says warily.

Briana looks at me darkly, hopelessly. “She doesn’t want to fucking help me. She hates me.”

“Briana,” I say. “That simply isn’t true. I think you’re wonderful.”

The dean and her mother look so touched by my kind words. But Briana’s shaking her head. No. No, no, no.

“She’s lying! She doesn’t want me to be in the play! She said so yesterday!”

I look at her so pitifully, like the crazed wretch she is. Like I’m so very sorry for her. All that stress she must be under. How profoundly it’s clouding her understanding.

“It was never a question of what we wanted, Briana,” I speak so softly, so reasonably, to emphasize her loudness, her crassness. “We only raised concerns—very understandable concerns—about your health. We only wanted to give you an opportunity to heal. If we didn’t do that, what sort of monsters would we be, am I right?”

The dean and her father are nodding like this is all so reasonable. It makes such sense.

“But we’d love to have you back, of course,” I add.

“But—”

“In fact,” I tell them all, like I’ve really been considering, really giving it some thought. “I think absolutely she should be in the play. She obviously can’t return to the position as the lead, of course. That would be far too much of a strain. And we both know Briana was never a fan of Helen anyway.”

Briana glares at me.

“But the role of the aged King is serendipitously open. And I think she’d be perfect for it. And what would the play be without Briana, after all? I’m not sure if she’d want to work with me again, given her current feelings. But I’m absolutely willing to take her back. In fact, I’d love it.”

I can feel her looking at me now, shocked. Suspicious. Not a little afraid.

“She’s lying,” Briana says. I’m lying, I must be.

I only smile at her sadly. How sad that she sees such darkness, such subterfuge, when there is only light, a smile, a hand reaching out to her. A symptom of her condition.

But I can see there’s a small, sick part of her that’s pleased with my offer too. Her dull eyes flicker with it. Really? I’d really love it?

“Of course,” I add, “there are some risks, you understand. Given how you’re feeling these days. I just want to make sure those risks are understood by everyone, that the school won’t be responsible. Theater is very taxing, after all.” I look at her father and the dean, both of whom nod sensibly. I’m so sensible. “But if you’re willing to take the risk, then, of course”—I smile at Briana—“I’d love to have you.”

“Would you like that, dear? To be back in the play?” her mother asks her. She places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, and for the first time, Briana doesn’t shrug it away. Her mother exchanges a pleased look with Mr. Valentine, who’s smiling now.

“A very, very generous offer, I think, Professor,” the dean says, still nodding at me approvingly.