All's Well(99)



No one stops him. I run toward the stage as he injects the woman on the table.

“Never,” he says. “I would never. Never, I would never.”

“If I had known,” chimes in another doctor. “I would never.”

“Wish I could take it back,” says another. “If I could, I would.”

“I would, I would.”

“Would have never done it.”

“Never, I would never.”

And then I feel it. For the first time in how long. That bright hot fire. Running right down my thigh. All the nerves there screaming. Onstage, I hear a muffled scream coming from the woman on the bed just as a scream escapes my own lips.

The audience applauds. Dr. Rainier bows a little.

I fall down in the aisle. Down to the black floor. I’m staring at a black leather shoe that is tapping, tapping on the floor. I can’t bring myself to look up, to see which face, which of the three. Weren’t they just in the back, behind me? Now they’re sitting up here near the front. Clapping. Laughing.

We just want to see a good show, Ms. Fitch.

No.

I drag myself back up to my feet. The audience gasps. I’m standing in the aisle, crookedly now. I start to walk toward the stage, toward the circle of men, who are gathered more tightly around the woman, around me.

“Never, I would never,” they’re chanting. “Never, I would never.”

They’re going to kill her. Though I want to run to the stage, my walk is slow. I’m limping so heavily. I have to make it to the stage, where two men are about to slice up my leg. Another pitchfork into the thigh. Three marks. I feel the bones in my hip instantly scream, stretching open my mouth.

“Wish I could take it back,” they sing. “Would if I could.”

“I would, I would.”

The breath is knocked out of my lungs. My leg instantly turns to concrete. I fall down to the floor again. This time I can’t get back up. If I can just reach the stage. If I can just save her from them. I drag my body along the floor with my arms. Drag myself toward the red lights of the stage, toward the ring of men, still chanting, all working upon the woman at once. I want to speak, to scream, but my throat feels strangled. My head is throbbing with blood.

The audience is clapping fiercely now.

“Help,” I whisper to them. But no one helps. They only applaud. The woman on the table is limp. She’s given up. Surrendered. Her leg is just hanging there. Dead. I can feel its deadness. The men clap one another on the back, applauding themselves. Job well done.

The audience just laughs at me on the floor. Stamps their feet. Black leather and pointed. I feel them pummeling my body with their stamping and clapping as all the lights go out again.



* * *



I stare out at the black. So dark and quiet now. No pain now. Nothing at all now. Black as pitch all around. No, not black as pitch. Some soft glimmer of light coming from somewhere. Pale blue like early morning or evening. Pretty, I think, but I’m afraid. Why am I afraid? The stage underneath me is soft like the softest grass. My fingers clutch what feels like little blades. I smell flowers somewhere. Sweet like spring. Hyacinths. Lilacs. That’s better too. Much better. Flowers. Soft stage. Blue light. Where am I? Still here. I can sense the audience out there in the dark. Still watching me. Fear sharpens. What’s next? Run. Maybe I’ll try to run again. Get out of here. Call someone. Get help. Find Grace. But can I even run? Did the men break me? Now I try to wriggle my toes, easy. Then I try to move my legs, easy. I get up off the floor, and it’s so very easy I nearly cry with relief, with joy. I’m all right! Thank god, thank god, thank god! I’m surprised there is no applause. The audience is dead silent. Waiting.

Run. Run out of this theater and never come back.

But something in the sweetness of the flowers, in the soft blue light, holds me there. I can run, but I’m not running. I’m standing still. Standing there on the soft dark stage, breathing in the flowers. I could breathe them in forever.

And that’s when I hear the sound of a baby crying. Of nursery music. What? Where is that coming from? There’s a bassinet in the center of the stage, under a single blue spotlight. All by itself. I have to go up there. I have to make sure she’s all right. I can’t just leave her alone, not with these animals. I walk to the center of the stage, to the bassinet. I gaze down at the baby shrieking inside. Kicking and batting the air with her tiny hands and feet.

“This is a real baby,” I say.

The audience applauds softly.

“Whose baby is this?” I ask them. “Where did this baby come from?”

They laugh. The baby cries more loudly.

I pick up the baby. She immediately stops crying. I gaze at her face gazing at me. Fat cheeks. Bright eyes. Something familiar about her eyes. Some kind of deep knowledge in my hands that are holding her warm, small body. That seem to know how to hold her. That maybe have held her before. When? In a dream maybe. I stare into her small face still gazing at me, curiously. Who are you? Who left you here by yourself? Is your mother in the audience? Why does my body seem to know who you are?

More lights come back on. I’m in another living room. A living room like any other except for the grass floor. Blue-and-white floral couch. Two red chairs. A piano. Bookcases. Coffee table fanned with baby books, picture books. Flowers everywhere. Flowers growing all around me in the grass floor, fresh cut flowers in vases on the end tables. A family lives here. A happy family.

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