by Brianna Hale
Before I get out of the car he grabs my hand. “Please try and find a way to tell them who you are. Even if you can’t be with me, I just want to know that you can be happy someday. Please, babygirl.”
I pull out of his grasp and get out of the car, and then I run up the steps to my house.
* * *
The next day I hand my notice in. Gregory gives me a long look as I hold out the envelope to him, like he somehow knows what’s coming. I haven’t got the energy to explain why and I pray he’s not going to ask me to.
It seems I don’t need to, though. “Is this because of you and Mr. Kingsolver?”
I stare at him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t think anybody else knew. I just noticed... You both seemed so happy.”
“We were.” My voice is hoarse.
“And now?”
I shake my head.
He sighs. “Well, I’m sorry to lose you. I hope I work with you again in the future. You owe us two weeks, but I might be able to replace you in a couple of days. Would you like that?”
“Yes, that would make things much easier, thank you.”
“I’ll see you’re paid out for the full two weeks no matter what. Take care, Abby.”
Chapter Eleven
“How are you, Abby-bean?”
My father sinks down on the couch next to my feet. Abby-bean is the nickname he used to call me when I was little. He hasn’t called me that in years.
It’s been three weeks since I quit the Palais. Gregory was able to replace me in two days and I was grateful for it. He must have told Rufus I was leaving, but he avoided me. I don’t know if it was out of respect for my wishes or because he’s angry with me for being so spineless. My parents haven’t asked me what I plan to do now I’m unemployed, though the house has been put on the market and it’s only a matter of time before it’s sold.
“I’m okay,” I say, watching the television as Maleficent slinks toward Aurora’s cradle.
“Your mother told me that your young man wasn’t what he seemed to be. She wouldn’t tell me anything else. Did you, ah, want to talk about it?”
Two days ago I went through my phone, deleting every text message Rufus ever sent me, my insides roiling with shame. I made myself read every single filthy, inappropriate text as I went, reminding myself that my mother had only seen one of these and my father was blissfully unaware of them. The relief at this finally won out against the shame, and I knew I was doing the right thing. When I was finished I changed Rufus’s name in my phone from Daddy to Do Not Answer.
Do I want to talk about it? Like hell. I shake my head, still looking at the television.
My father sighs. “All right, honey. You come and find me if you need to.”
In the afternoon my mother sends me out to the supermarket for fresh bread and some greens to have with our dinner, but I’m sure it’s an invented errand just to get me out of the house. I haven’t even been doing my morning workouts and my body feels stiff and creaky. I hide from the blazing sunshine behind dark glasses and my head feels like it’s filled with builders’ foam.
I’m back on our street, clumping along with the shopping bag thumping and twisting against my right leg, when the for-sale sign outside our house stops me in my tracks. I stare at the large, glossy pictures of the living room and patio, and the little icons proclaiming that there are four bedrooms and two bathrooms. It looks good, our home. The street’s quiet and there’s a primary school around the corner. My old primary school, with the yellow-and-red monkey bars and the lilac tree in the middle of the playground. The sale is going to happen, and I’m sure that it will be sooner rather than later.
Where does that leave me? I force myself to think despite the sluggishness that’s invaded my brain. If I don’t find a job and somewhere to live by the time the sale goes through, I’ll have to move to the country with my parents. I recall the silent, tense looks that have been passing between them the past few days and I realize that’s exactly what they’re worried about: being lumbered with me. I know they love me, but this is their new life and I’m squatting right in the middle of it, shedding misery like fur from a molting cat.
But I’m too tired to do anything about it today, I tell myself. I’ll start looking tomorrow.
The excuse is pathetic. I won’t feel any different tomorrow so what’s the point of putting it off? I can either wilt like a cut flower, or I can drag myself slowly out of my funk, starting now. I turn around and go back to the supermarket, and buy every daily newspaper they have.
Back home once more, I lay all the papers out on the kitchen counter and pour myself a glass of strawberry milk. I’ve lost all the good habits that Rufus taught me, but the sugar and the comforting pinkness of the drink do me good. Now, which papers have theater classifieds?
My mother comes in while I’m peering closely at a casting call for a stage production of The Wizard of Oz. I check the name of the theater. It’s not either of Rufus’s.
“What are you doing, darling?” she asks, and I can hear the note of hope in her voice. Will she still sound as happy when I tell her I’m looking at theatrical jobs? I watch her face carefully as I show her the ad.
“Oh, but that’s wonderful, Abby. Are you going to apply?”
Apply. That will require emailing headshots and updating my CV. Something leaden falls on my chest, but I nod, and I start updating my documents. The cover letter takes half an hour to write because I keep deleting what I’ve written.
“There. Done,” I say when it’s finally sent off, and I scrub my hands over my face.
“Good. I’m proud of you. Did you want some Oreo cookies?” my mother asks, reaching for the pantry door.
“No. I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit.”
Her hand falls back to her side. “Abby, we’re going to have dinner in a few hours.”
But I’m trailing up the stairs, all my thoughts on bed and the blissful oblivion of sleep.
* * *
I get an audition, and the director calls me to ask me what part I’m interested in.
“The Wicked Witch,” I say.
“She’s already cast. Would you be interested in auditioning for the Good Witch? I know she’s a bit syrupy but the kids will love you.”
I screw up my nose, thinking. The Good Witch is going to remind me of playing the dancing fairy at the Palais, but the director sounds too interested in me to refuse him. I suppose it’s my look, the blond hair and the sweet headshots I sent him. I reek of Glinda.
But it’s not like I have people falling over themselves to offer me auditions. “All right.”
He asks for my email address so I can prepare a scene for the audition, gives me a date and time and the nearest tube stop to the theater, and hangs up.
I chew my lip when the email appears in my inbox. I have to sing. Of course. I hate to sing. My lessons ended two years ago and I haven’t sung a note since. I feel a mounting urge to slam my laptop shut and go to bed.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. The audition is in three days’ time. I have to find the energy to work out every morning. I have to rehearse the part and get my voice back into shape. I have to go along to the audition and give a convincing performance. And I have to do all this by myself.
Rufus’s face rises in my mind, and I hear his voice in my ear, telling me I can do this.
I quickly open my eyes and squash the memory of him. By yourself, Abby, I scold myself. This is what you chose, remember?
* * *
Brynn, the director, greets me with a huge smile. He’s one of those bearlike men that are large and loud, and I’m happy to let him do most of the talking.
I audition for Glinda feeling rather detached from myself, as if I’m in the stalls watching rather than on the stage. Whe
n I’m finished I look to Brynn with a polite smile.
“That was lovely, Abby,” he calls. “Can you come down into the stalls so I can ask you a few questions?”
He asks me about some details about my training and any conflicting commitments I might have. I tell him there’s nothing.
Checking my CV, he says, “So, until a few weeks ago you were in a production of Amarantha at the Palais. Why did you leave?”
I’ve been dreading this question. I know he has to ask it. “Personal reasons.”
He taps his clipboard with his pen, regarding me. “I have to call the director to ask for a reference for you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Rufus can tell him if he chooses to, but I don’t want to speak about it. “No.”
“All right. That will be all. Thank you for coming in.”
When I get home I go straight to bed and I don’t get out of it again until the middle of the next morning.
Brynn calls me in the afternoon. I can hear the smile in his voice so I know it’s good news.
“The part’s yours, Abby. The director at the Palais gave you a wonderful reference. So did the owner. He said you were one of the most promising performers he’s ever worked with.”
I dig my nails into my palm, trying to ignore the lurch in my belly. “That’s great.”
He hesitates. I have to give him a little more.
“What an opportunity, thank you so much, Brynn. I’m so excited to get started.”
“Great!” He gives me the details about the first rehearsal, and we ring off.
Over the weeks, the theater starts to work its magic on me. I have more energy and I can manage to smile when I’m there, which is good because people expect it from me. During the early rehearsals some of the lines make me feel choked up when I speak them, but I tell myself that they’re just words and I shouldn’t listen to myself as I say them.
“You had the power all along, my dear. You just had to learn it for yourself.”
“You are capable of more than you know.”
I find that I can get through my days. I’m not happy, but I don’t tell myself I should be happy or try to make myself happy like I did before Rufus, which in a twisted way makes things easier.
We’re into the dress rehearsals, and then it’s the opening night. I have my own dressing room and I take a long look at myself in the mirror before I head upstairs to wait for my cue. I look like a pink Christmas bauble and I’m covered head to toe in glitter. There’s only one person I want to be in the audience tonight, watching me, and he won’t be there because I’m not brave enough. I’m only brave enough for this, so it will just have to be enough.
I head out of my dressing room and turn left like I always used to. It’s the wrong way. I turn back and head the right way to the stage.
The audience is stuffed full of the cast’s family and friends, so we get a long standing ovation at the end and the stars take three curtain calls. I have a lump in my throat the whole time.
This is the hardest one, I tell myself. It will be easier after tonight.
My mum and dad are there in my dressing room to greet me when I get offstage. They’re so excited and happy for me. There’s something a little manic about the way my mother admires my costume and the glittery powder all over my shoulders and cheekbones and the way I sang. She’s so desperate for me to be okay.
There’s a knock at the door and one of the stagehands passes a bunch of pale pink roses to me. They look velvety soft and I bury my face in them for a moment, just breathing, trying to get my mother’s voice to fade into the background. I don’t quite manage it.
There’s a note taped to the tissue paper and I put the flowers down and take it out of the little envelope. You are beautiful. R.
I start to cry. He was there after all, watching me.
My mother peers at the card. “I can’t believe that brute sent you flowers. Throw them in the bin.”
“He’s not a brute.” I’m so tired of everything that the words just start running freely with my tears. “He was my dom. He wanted me to never lie and always eat properly and take care of myself. But more than anything he just wanted me to be myself and always feel safe and happy. He disciplined me but I wanted him to do that and I know that that’s weird and it’s weird I called him daddy and he called me babygirl, but we called each other a lot of other things, too, like sweetheart and Abby and Rufus. He took away all the things I was afraid of and now he’s gone I’m frightened of everything.” Tears plop onto the note and the letters start to run. It’s his handwriting, the only bit I’ve got, and I’m ruining it.
My parents are just staring at me, saying nothing.
“That’s what we were,” I continue, swiping at my face. “That’s the truth. I didn’t know how to tell you but it hurts so bad not having him that I don’t care what you think of me anymore.”
My phone buzzes. So I don’t have to look at them staring at me I reach for it and read the screen.
I am so proud of you for telling them.
I cry out and look at the door. It’s ajar. I yank it open and he’s there, standing right outside, looking like he always did but with an expression in his eyes like he’s afraid and hopeful all at once. I throw myself into his arms and bury my face in his neck. He’s whispering to me and his words warm me through like sunshine. “Babygirl. You danced so beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”
I pull back and look at him, my hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt. “I missed you so much, Rufus.”
He strokes his thumb over my cheek and it comes away glittery. I’m dropping glitter all over him. “I missed you, little one.”
“I’m so sorry I caused us so much pain and I said Persephone and I wasn’t brave enough.”
“You’re the bravest person I know, babygirl. Look at all that you’ve done.” He pulls a tissue out of his pocket and wipes my tears, and then puts it over my nose. “Blow.” I do. The tissue comes away glittery, too.
“I’m getting glitter all over you,” I say with a shaky laugh.
He presses his forehead against mine. “Please get glitter all over me,” he whispers. “Drown me in it.” Then he glances over my shoulder. My parents must be standing in the doorway of my dressing room, watching us, but I don’t check to see. I can’t drag my eyes away from him.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” he says, looking back at me.
Now that he’s here I don’t want him to leave, as if he might disappear once he’s out of my sight.
“I’ll be here when you get offstage,” he promises, and finally I nod. He looks down at my fists, still clutched on his shirt. “You have to let go of me, babygirl,” he murmurs.
“Okay,” I whisper, and slowly let go. He plants a kiss on my nose and squeezes both my hands. He looks down at me a moment longer, and then he’s gone.
I take a deep breath and turn back to my parents. “Well,” I say, not able to stop myself from smiling, and not wanting to, either. “I should get changed.”
They wait outside my dressing room and don’t say anything as we leave the theater and walk to their car.
I’m sitting in the back, grinning to myself with the pink roses clutched in my arms, when my mother asks, “What is a dom, Abby?”
I screw up my eyes for a second, embarrassed. “It’s, uh, short for dominant. It’s the person who takes charge in a dominant slash submissive relationship.”
Silence from the front seats.
In for a penny. “The rules and boundaries make me feel safe. By giving up some power I am empowered in the rest of my life. It sounds sort of illogical—”
“No, no,” my mother interrupts. “It makes sense.”
I wonder if it does, but it sounds like she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, either way, so I hold my tongue.
Finally she says, “So when he hit you, it was, ah...”
“Mum, there’s a film called Secretary I think you both should watch. It would explain a little better than I can. Will you both watch it for me?”
My father clears his throat. My mother looks at him. “Oh, all right, darling. We can do that.”
I dart forward in my seat and plant a kisses on both their cheeks. This must be so hard for them, but they’re trying, and I’m so grateful for that. I know how hard it is to try when all you want to do is curl into a ball and refuse to face something. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I stare out the window, hugging myself and smiling up at the streetlights as they slide past, each one as bright and white as a stage light. Rufus. Tomorrow. It seems like there’s a desert of time stretching between now and then, but it sparkles on the horizon like a beautiful oasis.
* * *
He meets me outside the stage door and I go up on tiptoe so I can wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in the collar of his shirt. He holds me so tightly.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper over and over. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shh,” he tells me. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m so proud of you.”
I pull back a little, my eyes searching his face. I can’t see any resentment or anger there. Only love. “But I caused us so much pain and now all I want is to have you back.”
“Oh, babygirl,” he says, squeezing me tightly. “You did in a couple of weeks what it took me five years to do. I’m just sorry I couldn’t find the right way to help you.”
“But you did help me. I never would have been brave enough to be myself if I hadn’t met you.”
He kisses me. “Will you be mine again?”
I nod. “Please.”
“Do you love me?”
That he ever thought I might have stopped loving him makes my arms tighten around his neck. “I do.”
“And I love you. Are you mine?”
I grin. “Yes, daddy.”
“Good girl. Come home with me.”
