All's Well(89)

“I just feel terrible. Taking this part away from Briana,” she whispers.

Oh god, really? How her offstage anguish about this bores me now. But I attempt sympathy.

“You didn’t take the part away, Ellie. That’s absurd. She got sick. People just get sick, sadly.”

She laughs, a little miserably. “Do they?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know about that.”

“What are you saying, Ellie?”

Then she looks at me seriously. “I wanted something like this to happen, Ms. Fitch,” she whispers.

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head at her knees. “I just wanted this role so badly.” And then she bursts into tears again. I picture Ellie lying in her dorm room—probably painted purple or black—surrounded by waxy red candles, tears leaking out of her cat-lined eyes, wishing Briana ill.

“Ellie, wanting something isn’t a crime.”

“What if you want a terrible thing?”

“Sometimes we wish for terrible things, things we deserve. How could we not wish for them when we deserve them? And sometimes the heavens hear us. Something hears us. And our wishes come true. Should we feel guilty? Of course we shouldn’t feel guilty, why guilty? Why guilty when we deserve it, when maybe, just maybe, it’s a question of justice?” I smile. “Anyway, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Briana’s back.”

“She looks awful.”

“She looks wonderful. Doing better than ever before, really, as an actress. You could almost say she’s been given a gift.” I smile encouragingly, but Ellie looks miserable.

“She’s getting worse, Miranda.”

“She’s not getting worse! She’s just playing it up for the role.”

“I just feel—”

“Ellie, listen to me: this is a ridiculous conversation. You are Helen. You will play Helen. It’s what you wanted, and, miracle of miracles, you got it. We’re one day from opening night and you are not going to back out now, do you understand me? It’s too late now. Too late for guilt, too late for tears. And as your director, as your teacher, as your friend—and I do like to think I’m your friend, Ellie—I will not allow your guilt to stand in the way of what you so completely deserve. I will not allow guilt to dog you like this. People get sick and people get better and it’s nothing to do with us. The wheel of fortune, Ellie. The wheel, the wheel, always turning. Look at me.”

She does look at me. She looks at me a long time, how I’m glowing. My impossible lightness, so light my feet barely seem to touch the earth. How I’m always on the verge of laughter, even now. How even now, my lips are close to smiling though I know this is so serious. Can’t help it. Too happy. Blood happy, bones happy, cells always singing.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ziplock baggie full of craggy pink salt spiked with prickly-looking twigs. Small dried flowers of all colors. Immediately a pungent forest scent rises up.

“I made some adjustments to the recipe this week,” she says gravely.

She hands me the bag, heavy with putrid essential oils and god knows what herbs she grows in some secret campus shade. Dutifully, I slip it into the pocket of my dress and smile.

“Thank you, Ellie,” I say. “Thank you so much.”



* * *



So a couple of hiccups. Just a couple of hiccups, Grace. In short though? In short, we really are doing wonderfully, don’t you think? Another great rehearsal, am I right?

But Grace isn’t here, I remember. I’m by myself in the theater again. Standing on the stage alone after they’ve all shuffled off into the predawn dark. The space beside me where Grace usually stands, holding a giant mug of coffee and smoking an illicit cigarette, is empty, just motes of swirling dust in the light. I recall how I left her, lying on her side in her bedroom with her mouth open, looking up at me from the deep dark wells of her eyes. But then I think of all those lovely flowers waiting on her doorstep, those grinning balloons. It makes me smile to remember that. She’ll have picked them up by now, surely? She hasn’t reached out just yet to say thank you. No answer to the text I sent days ago, a tulip emoji plus a balloon emoji followed by a question mark followed by a winky face. Probably just conserving her energy for healing. Probably my gifts are helping with that, of course they are. I’ll bet they’re cheering her up as we speak.

Now I text her, ?? When she doesn’t respond, I don’t panic at all. Nothing beats its black wings in me. My heart doesn’t pound. Indeed, the place where my heart is is deliriously open as a field, light as air. I’ll text her again, I think. No, I’ll call, that’s much better, isn’t it? A voice is better than a text, am I right? When you’re not well? Remember not being well? I can hardly remember at all. But instead of calling her, I send her another Instacart delivery. I add more restorative items to the cart. Rainier cherries. Dragon fruit. Ginger chews. Steaks for the iron in the blood. Elderflower water. In the morning, I’ll call the flower shop and I’ll ask them to send more balloons. Another cactus, please. I’ll call the liquor store for more champagne.

Really hope you’re getting rest, I text. I’ve got everything covered here.

I’ve got everything covered, Grace. Really, I do.

“Miranda, who are you talking to?”