In Harmony(53)

Wednesday night, the good vibes of my shopping trip with Angie stuck with me, straight into rehearsal, I stepped into a theater that was only half-full with the cast. Justin and some of the others with smaller roles weren’t called that night. I felt lighter somehow…until I saw Isaac.

The right side of his face was swollen and bruised. A white butterfly bandage covered a gash on his cheekbone. Covered most of it—the edges peeked out, dark red with congealed blood.

My heart ached. Until that moment, the abuse he suffered from his father had been only rumors to me. That and one single comment Isaac made during our outing on Saturday. It was vague and abstract and happened somewhere else. Now it was a raw, wincing wound and vivid, purple and blue bruising under his eye.

It’s real.

This happens to him.

And no one is talking about it.

I supposed the veteran HCT actors all knew the score by now. They’d known Isaac much longer than I had. But their silence still angered me.

Doesn’t anyone care?

But then again, Isaac wasn’t exactly inviting questions. He stood alone, wearing his leather jacket like armor. His bruised face a stone wall, the gates locked tight. He probably didn’t want anyone talking about it.

But what if he does?

I marked myself with black X’s, my version of the Scarlet Letter, only no one knew what they meant. Maybe it was me crying out for someone to ask, even if I would never tell them. Isaac had asked. Now he wore the marks of the abuse he suffered full on his face where he could not hide it.

I moved to stand next to him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

He hardly moved his mouth, his voice soft. And grateful.

“The Fords are letting me stay with them,” he said. “I moved into their spare bedroom.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m glad.”

“It’s just for a little while.”

“Of course.”

A silence, then, “I can’t sleep. The bed is soft, the house is warm and I have a hot dinner every night, but I can’t fucking sleep. I lie awake and think of my dad, alone in that shitty trailer…”

I nodded. “I know what you mean,” I said, and then more words followed without my permission. A little piece of my secret. “I can’t sleep either.”

Slowly Isaac’s head turned. His gaze dropped down to my wrist, its black X concealed under a long-sleeved shirt. Then he looked me in the eye and his voice was like a hand held out to me, asking me to trust him. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Staring back, I wondered what it would be like to actually tell someone. To smash the icy block once and for all, and let the words out into the world.

I turned toward Isaac, and he turned toward me so that we leaned against the wall, on our sides, like how a couple might, lying in bed. He bent his head to me, ready to hear me, and I tilted my chin up to him, the words climbing up my throat.

Martin clapped his hands together, slicing the moment apart.

“Act Two, Scene One,” he called. “Ophelia? Daughter of mine?”

“Go on,” Isaac said. “Maybe later?”

“Yeah.” I said softly. “Maybe.”

Martin set the other actors to work with Rebecca, the assistant director, then pulled me aside. “Come, daughter. T’is time you and I worked out Act Two, Scene One.”

In Act Two, Scene One, Ophelia runs to Polonius, explaining that Hamlet came to visit her and was acting crazy. Instead of reacting to others onstage, I had to fly in, already terrorized, with a veteran actor and director as my scene partner and no motivation but what I created for myself.

This is going to suck…

“Whenever you’re ready,” Martins said from our corner of the stage.

Feeling like an idiot, I stepped backstage, took a deep breath, then flew back on.

“O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”

Martin whirled around with the perfect mix of shock and worry. “With what, i' th' name of God?”

“My lord, as I was sewing in my closet…”

I broke character with an unladylike snort of laughter. “I’m sorry, but sewing in the closet?”

“Closet merely means room,” Martin said with a mild smile.

“I know, but it just sounds so…”

“Archaic?”

“Yes,” I said. “I picture her locked away in an actual closet with hardly any light, sewing like a dutiful little woman. I’m just not feeling it. Hamlet came to visit her and she’s explaining what happened? Why not just show what happened?”

“Without dialogue?” Martin shot me a grin. “Shakespeare doesn’t ever not use words. Words are kind of his thing.”

I pursed my lips in a smile.

“Ophelia is explaining how Hamlet scared her, but Polonius takes it as a sign that Hamlet’s so in love with his daughter, he’s losing his mind.”

My cheeks flamed. “Okay, well, I’m having a hard time with this. Finding the emotion. The pretty words make it hard to get into that mindset, you know?”

Ugh, actor fail.

Getting into Ophelia’s mindset was exactly my job, but Martin smiled patiently.

“Why don’t we try making it real?” he asked. “Perhaps if we acted it out first, the lines would make more sense when you describe them to Polonius. You’ll have a physical memory to draw from.”