So Much It Hurts

by Monique Polak

  When I’m ready, I’ll come out. I’ll go to the bathroom and assess the damage the way a mechanic would after a car wreck. I’ll make another cold compress and hold it over the achy spots. If the skin is broken, I’ll put on Polysporin. In a strange way, I am getting good at this.

  Then Mick and I will be able to start over fresh. I’ll say I’m sorry I got so upset, that I should never have accused him of robbing Mrs. Karpman, that the restraining order and the poem—the one he said he wrote for me but that he wrote for Millicent—don’t mean anything. They’re no big deal. Millicent is crazy. I know she is. And the poem— well, it was just a silly poem. I’ll explain to Mick how I’m PMSing big time and how I’ll try to be better. And not upset him so much. Especially now, when he is under so much pressure from the lawyer and the new play in Quebec City. No wonder he keeps losing it. Artists are sensitive people. They feel things for the rest of us. That’s why they’re so important to society. I need to find a way to support Mick better. If I’m better, he’ll be better. I know it.

  How could I have ever even thought he’d rob Mrs. Karpman? The business at Forever 21 was different. Forever 21 is a huge corporation. We were being like Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. Robbing the rich. Even if we weren’t exactly helping the poor. No, Mick would never rob Mrs. Karpman. He knows what good friends she and I have become.

  Thinking about later helps. Thinking about now… well…it hurts too much to think about. I’ve never felt so lonely. Even lonelier than when I’ve been completely, totally alone with no one to talk to and nothing to do. More lonely than when I was little and I’d let myself into the empty house before Mom got back from organizing other people’s lives.

  There’s a meow outside the closet door. William Shakespeare is pushing his soft marmalade body against the folding door. I lean forward and open the door just a little so he can come inside. The cat nudges his head against my shin and meows again. He wants me to pet him. At first, I don’t. I can’t. But when he meows again, I do. The feel of his soft, warm fur makes me feel a little better. Creature comfort.

  William Shakespeare has been a witness to almost every one of our arguments. He must have noticed I’m trembling, because now he’s trembling too. In sympathy, I’ll bet. Which makes me feel sorry for upsetting him. “It’s okay, don’t worry,” I whisper. “Everything’ll be okay. I promise.” I need to make things better. Not just for me, but for William Shakespeare too. The little cat depends on me.

  It’s the feel of William Shakespeare’s fur brushing against me and the sound of his steady purring when I stroke the spot between his eyes that make me cry. But I cover my mouth with one hand to muffle the sound. Still hunched, I keep rocking my body back and forth. I’m so lost and so little. I don’t know how I will ever find my way again.

  Shhh, I tell myself. If Mick hears you cry, he’ll only get angry all over again.

  William Shakespeare and I are still in the closet when I hear Mick getting ready to leave. He pauses for a few seconds outside the closet door—he knows we’re in here— and I think maybe he’s going to say something. That he’s going to break the terrible, tense silence hanging in the air like a sour smell.

  Maybe this time things will be different, and he’ll apologize. My heart lifts a little at the thought. “Joey,” he’ll say, and I imagine him getting down on his knees, his eyes welling up with tears, “I can’t believe what I just did—how I hurt you. I’m so sorry. So deeply, deeply sorry. Can you forgive me, Joey? I swear it will never ever happen again. I’ve been such a fool!” I’ll wipe his tears away. Comfort him. Tell him that yes, of course I forgive him. That I could forgive him anything. That’s what love is, isn’t it?

  I know he can hear me breathing and William Shakespeare purring (stroking the cat is making me feel a little better), but Mick doesn’t say anything. Not a word. Nothing. The air smells even more sour.

  When Mick leaves, he slams the door behind him. So hard the folding closet door rattles.

  I could leave the closet now, but I’m still not ready. It feels safer to keep hugging myself and crying in here. Even though Mick has left—where has he gone, and who was he with last night?—I’m careful not to sob too loudly. What if Mrs. Karpman goes to drop her garbage down the chute and hears me from the hallway?

  I don’t know how much later it is when I finally get up and go to the bathroom. It could be minutes, it could be an hour. Time has contracted or expanded. I don’t know which. I don’t care which.

  I should have started icing my face right away. I look worse than god-awful. No makeup job will hide the damage this time. The skin around my right eye is so swollen, I can’t even open it all the way. I trudge to the freezer for ice, then wrap the cubes inside a washcloth and make an extra-strength, extra-cold compress. I press it to my cheek until I can’t bear the sting any longer.

  I try lying down. Somehow, I don’t know how, I manage to fall asleep. I dream I’m back in that dark forest with the too-tall trees and no way out. The feeling of hopelessness is still with me when I hear knocking. At first, I think it’s part of my dream. A woodpecker pecking away high up in one of those too-tall trees. The bird is trying to tell me something.

  But no, it’s someone knocking on the door to the loft. I get up, still groggy, clutching my face. It must be Mick. But why is he knocking? Maybe he’s brought me a bouquet of pale purple irises and his hands are so full, he can’t get to his key. He wants to make up with me, I know he does.

  “Mick, is that you?” I ask from my side of the door.

  “No, it isn’t,” an unfamiliar voice says. There’s a moment of silence. “My name’s Errol. I think you know my bubbie, Mrs. Karpman. She lives next door.”

  Oh no. Errol. And because I’ve already said something, it’s too late to pretend there’s no one home. I need to make Errol go away.

  “Uh,” I say, scrambling to come up with some excuse, “I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “Look,” he says—I can’t help noticing that Errol has a kind voice, a steady reliable voice, and because I have seen his photo in his grandmother’s living room, I can picture his face too—“I’m sorry to bug you, Iris. But my bubbie says she doesn’t have your phone number. She says she thinks your, uh, boyfriend went out this afternoon… and that you’re all alone in there…and, well, she wants to know if you want to come for supper. She’s making roast chicken. With potatoes. Look, are you going to open the door or what? It feels a little weird standing out here having a conversation with a door, if you know what I mean.”

  I smile when he says that. But only for a second. Smiling hurts.

  “Errol, look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t open the door right now. It’s too complicated to explain. And I can’t come for dinner either. But tell your bubbie thanks from me, will you? Tell her I’ll see her in a few days. And maybe I’ll get to meet you next time, okay?”

  I can almost hear Errol thinking outside the door. He’s quiet for a few seconds and then he says, “Okay, if you say so. I just hope you’re all right in there.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “Okay then. Maybe next time. And if you change your mind about the chicken, just come by. Bubbie would like it.”

  I hear Mrs. Karpman’s apartment door click open and shut. Thank goodness I got rid of Errol. Still, I think, as I go back to the freezer for some fresh ice, it would’ve been nice to meet him. If he’s anything like his bubbie, I’m sure I’d like him.

  There’s more knocking a few hours later. This time, I don’t say anything. I know it isn’t Mick—and I just want Errol to go away. I can’t handle another awkward conversation. What I need to do is figure out how to drop out of my usual life for a few days—I can’t go anywhere looking like this. This time, no one would believe me even if I said I’d bumped into a Mack truck.

  But it’s not Errol. It’s Mrs. Karpman. And I smell roast chicken. I must be feeling a little better, because I’m suddenly hungry. “Iris,” Mrs. Karpman says, and her voice soun
ds even more strained than usual. “I know you’re in there, dear. And I know you’re in trouble. I understand if you don’t want to come for supper. Maybe you’re just not up to it. Iris, can you hear me?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. I didn’t mean to say anything; the uh-huh just slipped out.

  “Okay, that’s good. Iris, I want you to know that I’m leaving you a plate out here with chicken and potatoes. I want you to eat it and I want you to feel better. You’re a sweet girl, Iris, and you deserve only good things. You’re going to eat the chicken, aren’t you, dear?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say again. I’m getting kind of choked up. It’s not just the thought of Mrs. Karpman bringing me dinner; it’s also what she said about my deserving only good things. Part of me thinks she’s right. Part of me isn’t so sure. “Thanks,” I manage to say.

  “You’re very welcome, dear. And keep the plate until you come to visit me again.”

  I expect to hear Mrs. Karpman going back into her apartment, but I don’t. She is still standing outside Mick’s door.

  “I need to go now,” I tell her.

  “Iris,” she says, “I want to call the police.”

  Everything inside me clenches up. “Don’t do that. Please, Mrs. Karpman. Don’t.”

  “You’re putting me in a terrible position,” Mrs. Karpman says. “And I want the best for you, Iris, really I do.” It sounds like Mrs. Karpman is about to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I really am. But please, I’m begging you, don’t phone the police.”

  “All right then,” Mrs. Karpman says. Her voice sounds tired, and I’m sorry I’ve made her worry, put her in a bad position. “But you let that man know I’m keeping an eye on both of you.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “By indirections find directions out.”

  —HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 1

  I’ve told so many lies in the last week, I’m having trouble keeping track of them all. I’m like a juggler with too many balls in the air, grinning like crazy at the audience during my performance but worried sick inside that one of my juggling balls—or all of them—is going to come crashing down on my head and roll right off the stage. And then what will everyone think?

  I told my mom that Katie’s parents were out of town all week and that she was afraid to stay in the house by herself, so I needed to stay over there. Mom wasn’t too happy, but I promised I’d make it up to her once we were done with the play. I also told her rehearsals had been going really late so I’d get more sleep if I stayed at Katie’s. “I’m feeling kind of worn out,” I told her, which was the only part of my story that was true.

  “I know how much you need your sleep,” Mom said, “so I’m going to say okay. But once this play is over, Iris, I want you to start spending more time at home. I won’t have you running yourself ragged. A person needs a balanced lifestyle.” I didn’t point out that balanced wasn’t the first word I’d use to describe her lifestyle.

  I emailed Ms. Cameron to say I had an awful flu and was probably highly contagious and that I was really, really sorry but I’d have to miss the dress rehearsal, and could someone stand in for me—maybe Katie, or maybe even Ms. Cameron herself? I also promised Ms. Cameron that I was working on my lines (that part was true too) and that I’d be totally ready for the performance.

  I didn’t expect Ms. Cameron to email me back, but she did. She wanted to know if I needed anything, anything at all. She even suggested dropping by for a visit, which I thought was a strange offer, considering she’s my teacher. I nixed that plan. I’d never forgive myself, I wrote to her, if you caught this flu. What if you couldn’t be there for Hamlet?

  I even posted my having the flu on Facebook, in case anyone from school checked. (Thank God Mom isn’t one of those parents with a Facebook account.) And I told Mick I forgave him (not that he apologized or that I still expect him to). Anyway, that was also a lie because inside, I haven’t forgiven him. Not this time. I want to and I plan to—how else can we move forward as a couple?— but I’m just not there yet. Soon, I hope.

  At least my face is pretty much back to normal. I think all the icing helped, and maybe also the fact that I’ve been getting a ton of rest. I didn’t know a person could sleep so much. I’ve been tired in a way I’m not used to—as if it’s not just my muscles and bones that are tired but also my brain and even my heart, if that’s possible. I wake up tired in the morning and after every nap. The thought of tonight’s performance exhausts me all over again. How am I going to get through it?

  I start feeling more alive once I leave the loft. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to stay cooped up in there all week like some sick chicken. The April air feels soft against my skin. The daffodils are in full golden bloom. That means the irises will be next.

  When I straighten my shoulders, I realize I’ve been hunched up like an old person. Shoulders back, I tell myself. Take a long deep breath. Breathe out the old stale air and fill your lungs with fresh spring air. Aaah, doesn’t that feel good? It’s as if I can hear Ms. Cameron’s voice inside my head.

  Katie’s waiting by the school entrance. She lifts her wrist to show me she’s wearing her bracelet. I wish I’d remembered to wear mine.

  “Did you lose weight?” she asks when I get to where she’s standing. “I sure wish I’d catch the flu. Come over here and breathe on me, will you? Maybe you’ve still got some skinny germs left.”

  Ms. Cameron is directing traffic in the hallway. “Let’s go, people!” she calls out. “You need to be in your costumes in ten minutes. Hey, Iris, how are you feeling?” she asks when I try to slither past her. “Did you beat that flu?” I can’t tell whether Ms. Cameron is giving me a suspicious look or if it’s just that her eyebrows are plucked so thin. And did she pause for a second after she said the word beat?

  Ms. Cameron beckons to me, and I stop beside her. “My friend Marilyn mentioned she saw you and Mick Horton together. She thinks he’s been helping you with your lines. Outside of school, I gather. Is that true, Iris?”

  “Uh…” I don’t know how much I’m allowed to tell her. I decide to go for part of the truth this time. Leaving things out is easier for me than lying. “He’s helped me,” I say, doing my best to look her in the eye without flinching. “Once or twice.”

  Ms. Cameron shifts from one foot to the other. It looks like it’s her turn to decide how much to say. She runs her hand over my shoulder. “You be careful with him,” she tells me. “He’s a talented man, but he can be”—she stops to choose the next word—“temperamental. Now go get your costume on.”

  All the actors are wearing black bodysuits. That was Mick’s idea. He says it reinforces the play’s themes of isolation and madness.

  I’m wearing a flowing black dress over my bodysuit. The dress is made of rayon, but it feels like silk. It used to be Ms. Cameron’s, and when I wear it, I feel grown up and sexy. It fits tight at the chest but falls loose from the waist.

  Tommy is backstage, busy on his laptop. He looks up when he sees me. “Hey, Iris, glad you’re over that flu. Break a leg tonight, okay?”

  “What are you working on?” Making conversation helps me forget how jittery I am, though Mick says jitters are good—they make a performance edgier and more authentic.

  “I’m putting the finishing touches on the director’s note. Wanna see?”

  The lettering on the note is in white on a black background. “It looks really dramatic,” I tell Tommy, and he looks pleased.

  “Thanks. Too bad it’s such total bullshit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tommy reads from the computer screen in a nasal old man’s voice. (He should have auditioned for Polonius’s role.) “ ‘Tonight’s production leaves space for the audience to make its own psychological and spiritual discoveries. My job as director has been to guide the arc of my performers’ experience.’ ” Tommy shrugs. “I mean, can you imagine Ms. Cameron spewing that kind of BS? It’s totally that dude Horton.”

  “You’re right,” is
all I say. “It doesn’t sound like Ms. Cameron.”

  Ms. Cameron is backstage now, giving us our final instructions. “Think of yourselves as professionals,” she says, her hands planted on her hips. “You’ve worked for this and you’re ready for it. And by the way, there are a lot of people out there.”

  When the curtains swish open, I am watching from the wings. I see my mom sitting in the front row. There’s an empty seat next to her. I suck in my breath when someone comes in late and takes the spot. Oh my god, it’s Mick. How weird is that? I watch as my mom gives him a friendly nod and rearranges her knees to give him more room. Next thing I know, she’ll be handing him her business card and asking if he needs his closets organized.

  I spot Katie’s and Tommy’s parents too, three rows behind my mom and Mick.

  There’s some spooky harpsichord music that Tommy found online, and then the play begins.

  Shakespeare is a total genius. I’m not just saying that because it’s what Mick thinks. It’s my own opinion too. I love the way Shakespeare starts the play with the ghost. Talk about a hook! And the language—it’s simple and complex at the same time. Mick calls it multi-layered. Shakespeare’s words have a way of staying in your mind, and your mind keeps going over them, understanding them better, seeing more in them. His plays make you bigger than you were before you saw or read them.

  I swear I get shivers when Francisco says, “ ’Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.’” I have this feeling I will never forget those words ever—that they’re becoming part of me. I think back to last week’s blowout with Mick and how I felt when I was hiding in the closet afterward. That’s it exactly. I was sick at heart. Did Shakespeare know that feeling too? He must’ve, or else he’d never have been able to write that line. I think maybe I still am sick at heart. Mick’s been gentle with me all week, and he’s been helping around the loft—straightening things up, warming up soup for dinner—and never once raising his voice, but that sick-at-heart feeling won’t go away.