by Daryl Banner
What has gotten me so … blocked up?
Then I turn to Sam, whose full attention is attached to the stage like a sleeve to a shirt, every stitch of her excitement sewn tightly to every ringing note. Surely Sam is appreciating every piece of music in this show; it always fascinates her, learning the way that others tell stories using song and clever lyrics. She’s gotten so much braver at stringing pretty words together and setting them to her music. She was positively terrified the first time we sat at a piano years ago and worked through some lyric-writing exercises. I had only half an idea of what I was doing (and maybe so did she), but together, we made a pretty kick-ass team.
A burst of music brings my attention back to the stage where we discover the real reason for Life and Death’s arrival into Emily’s office: They had scheduled an appointment there today because Emily—loyal relationship counselor—was next on Death’s list. At the encouragement of Life, Death decides to strike a deal with the counselor: If she is able to save Life and Death’s marriage in no more than three appointments, Death shall overlook Emily’s name on her list and allow her to live.
Matters grow quite urgent suddenly for poor counselor Emily by the act break, and the fate of her life hangs in the balance of whether she’s able to save the relationship between Life and Death itself.
Nell and Brant and their child rush to the bathroom when the stage goes dark, the curtains draw, and the auditorium lights come back up. Sam turns to me. “That was an interesting first act. Not like I expected at all.”
I find myself thinking about that first semester of college, which feels like a lifetime ago. I picture her face—before her grand Dessie-inspired makeover sophomore year—and feel a surge of passion burst through me. “An unusual first act,” I agree.
“But I liked it.” Her brows pull together. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
“You have this look in your eye like you’ve seen a poltergeist with thirteen boobs and a penis on its forehead.”
I let out a bark of laughter and shake my head. “The hell do you come up with this stuff, Sam?”
She shrugs, then smiles her flat-lipped smile. “Funny you should ask, considering the strange and beautiful things that come out of your head, mister masturbation monster.”
I gape with mock offense. “How dare you!”
“Do you think we should get married?”
The question softens my humorous pearl-clutching gape to a genuine look of bewilderment. “I … W-Wait. What?”
“I’m not proposing to you,” she explains dryly. “You know me better than that.”
I blink. “Why did you ask that, then? About getting married?”
“Brant and Nell finally tied the knot a few years back. Dessie and Clayton are together. Even Life and Death are married, apparently. Eric is pretty much one step away from Bailey clicking the immortal chains around his ankle, if we’re being honest here.”
I nod. “True. Very true. But—”
“And I know we’ve sorta defined ourselves as the … unconventional relationship type. My mom and dad are … somewhere between husband-and-wife and traveling swingers, if I let my imagination go to certain places.”
“Kudos to them.”
“Your sister Devin is a bit of a man-eater, from what you’ve told me, and might not settle down until she’s sixty, if ever. Poor thing.”
“Poor thing,” I agree.
“But maybe she’s happy being the way she is. Why do we presume that if someone isn’t married or coupled up … that they aren’t happy? Some people are more lonely in relationships.”
My eyes flash. “Sam. Are we breaking up?”
She smirks, which is nearly undetectable with her dry demeanor; her smirks come in the form of a twitch at the right corner of her sexy lips. “No. Just the opposite. I don’t want to be with anyone else. But I’ve always felt like marriage is this … archaic declaration of possession of another human being. Love should never be owned.”
I shrug. “Well, it could also be seen as a commitment to the one you love. I don’t think all marriage is a bad thing, really.”
“So you do want to get married?”
I scowl at her. Is she trying to trap me into an answer, or coax a truth out of me that I’m totally not intentionally withholding from her? “I want to be with you. You’re the only one I want.”
“Me too. I mean, you. You’re the only one I want.”
“Whether you want to marry or not, that’s up to you. Or … us. We decided we’re okay being us without a paper to prove it. I think it was also sorta our way to defy the heterosexist normative. Or whatever we called it years ago.”
“The baleful beast of white picket fences and screaming children, I believe was the phrase.”
“We can just be us,” I tell her, bringing a hand up to her hair, feeling the prickles of her short hair at the back of her head and the soft, longer strands that trickle down. “The way we are. Sam and D. All that matters is that I love you … and you love me.”
“That’s a Barney song.”
“I almost sang the words,” I admit.
Sam leans over the armrest and kisses me. I close my eyes and melt into her kiss, feeling a warmth spread through my body. Any of my limbs that were made numb throughout the first act—when the lukewarm air in this building has done little to nothing to fight off the sweeping cold front outside—are on fire in an instant.
Somewhere between the fire of her kiss, and the poetry of theatre student orphans in my head, and the promise of snow outside, I hear the first whispers of characters in my head. It’s the first whispers in months.
My eyes flash open.
Sam pulls away, startled. “What is it?”
I smile, showing teeth. “The characters. They’re speaking.”
Sam gapes, then hugs me tightly. She knows exactly what I mean. Then, in my ear, she murmurs, “And the musicians are playing in mine. And not a single one of them plays the bassoon.”
To that, I laugh, then plant a kiss right on her lips. The characters in my head, a second ago sulking, leap from their chairs and cheer. Even my creative insanity is, for the first time in a long time, happy.
Chapter 4
Nell
Okay, I won’t lie. I was expecting this play to suck. Like, majorly suck.
Like, the second we learn that the married couple is actually Life and Death, I rolled my eyes so hard that I figuratively had to chase them halfway down the aisle to get them back.
I don’t know why Desdemona and I never quite clicked. Even after reconciling, even after seeing how good of a person she is and how deeply her heart runs for her friends … I still can’t shake the feeling that I’ve never truly been welcome in her circle. I’m the outsider. Everyone else is loveable, or cool, or sexy, or interesting.
I’m just a black hole of despair.
It’s probably the dark demons inside me that will keep me pessimistic for the rest of my days. Fight them as I might, I’m doomed to see the worst in others … and the world in general.
But despite all of that, Dessie’s show surprised me in the end. Yes, I got a touch emotional. Me, Nell, Queen of Darkness … was moved. When the curtains fall at the conclusion of the show, I caught myself applauding with more vigor than I anticipated. Maybe it was the biting humor of Death’s ceaseless bitchiness that spoke volumes to me, as if she was me. Or perhaps it was the carefree jovialness of Life that so reminded me of Brant trying to cheer me up whenever I’m in one of my self-hating can’t-make-a-single-piece-of-art moods.
Maybe there’s more depth to Dessie than I ever gave her credit for.
And maybe none of that matters at all, since I’ll never truly have a place among her elite posse.
“You look especially happy,” notes Brant when I reunite with him in the lobby after taking Zara to the restroom. “Was it the ending?”
I have no idea where he’s seeing the happiness in my expressio
n, but I smile at him anyway and let our daughter run up and wrap her arms around his legs. “Have you reconnected with your childhood boyfriend and his super talented wife yet?”
Brant narrows his eyes. “Was the play really that bad for you?”
For some reason, I can’t exactly let out how much it moved me. I always deflect my emotions and act like I’m too cool for school. It’s a quality of mine that even I can’t stand. “It was alright,” I tell him with a lilt to my voice that suggests I might have genuinely enjoyed it.
Brant, being my husband and all, truly “hears” me between the lines. “Wow. It really spoke to you that much, huh? Was it Death? She was totally written after you, I just know it.” Brant smiles knowingly—or perhaps tauntingly. “I knew you had a weak spot for Dessie. I think you like her.”
I frown. “Don’t even with that.”
He chuckles and looks off through the crowd. His face tightens at once when he sees them. “Shit.”
I smirk and put an arm around my man. “You know, they still don’t know we’re here. We could sneak off and not let them know that we left our twins with your parents, paid for plane tickets, flew all the way out here to support them, and—”
“Okay, okay, I get your point well enough without the sarcasm,” he murmurs to me with a humored smirk.
“Who am I without my sarcasm?”
Brant puts a nervous peck on my cheek, his full attention clearly on the two individuals across the crowded lobby. He looks me in the eye. “I can do this, right?”
A smile finally breaks across my own stubborn face. “You’re so cute when you’re nervous.”
He wrinkles his face. “I’m not nervous! I’m perfectly—”
“Daddy,” Zara sings up to him, still clinging to his legs. “You’re neeervous.”
Brant glances between the both of us. “You two need to find yourself some more faith in Daddy! Hey.” He picks Zara right up, settling her in his arms and bringing her eyes level with his. “Aren’t you excited to see your Uncle Clayton and Aunt Dessie? You haven’t seen them in person in a very, very long time.”
“I see them all the time!” Zara argues back.
“Their faces on a tiny metal device doesn’t count, you goof.”
I notice a slight shift in the crowd, reminding me oddly of the way branches sway when disturbed by an unexpected wind. Then I see them—both of them—being ushered our way. “Um, Brant …”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Not to freak you out, but I think Sam is bringing them to us.”
Brant’s eyes turn to glass and he freezes, his stare locked on mine. He was clearly counting on a few more minutes—maybe even half an hour, at the slow rate in which this lobby is clearing—to steel himself before facing the Clay and the Dess. But now that particular luxury is stolen from him in one swift instant, and he has exactly ten seconds before he’s confronted with the very thing he’s feared since we first stepped foot on that shaky, turbulence-ridden plane so many hours ago.
Scratch that. Two seconds.
The sea of people part at once, and suddenly Sam, Dessie, and Clayton stand in front of my startled husband, who still carries Zara on his hip. For a solid handful of seconds, Brant just stares at the pair of them as if unsure whether he can remember their names. He is paralyzed.
I roll my eyes. He’s helpless. I take a quick step forward to save him. “Great show,” I tell the pair of them. “Really. I enjoyed it a lot.”
Dessie’s eyes flash with joy. “Nell! Brant and Nell! How did you two—?!”
“It was Sam’s idea,” I blurt out. “We left our twins with Brant’s mom and dad. They’re in their terrible twos, so basically … they aren’t very travel-friendly. We pawned off the demon spawn.”
Dessie blinks, unsure what to make of all of that.
“In other words, we’re horrible parents,” Brant summarizes, breaking the ice.
That makes Dessie laugh finally, then she shakes her head and gives Brant a half-hug. “That’s the last thing you two are. Hey you, Queen Zara!” she sings, bringing her face to our daughter’s and putting a kiss on her forehead. “How are you? Still ruling the Underworld? I heard you got a solo in your school choir!”
“It’s more like a preschool scream-along than it is a choir,” Brent leans into Dessie to amend, “but thanks for the kind words.”
Dessie laughs again. She’s just full of laughs and giggles tonight, isn’t she? “Zara, you are so big! Soon, you’re going to be as tall as your beautiful mother!”
The compliment rolls over my head and hops down my back and is gone as quickly as it came. I step forward and pull Zara from Brant’s hip to give him space to acknowledge Clayton—as well as the use of his hands, in case he wants to utilize any of that new sign language he’s been practicing.
As soon as he has his hands free, however, he seems to not know what to do with them. He stares at Clayton with his mouth open—saying nothing—and his hands are hovering somewhere near his hips.
I wonder if I just took away his shield.
Then, finally, at long last, Clayton makes the first move, and it isn’t in the form of words. He takes one step forward—considering his muscular size and stride, it only takes a single step—and then he wraps his arms around his buddy and pulls him in, squeezing a grunt of surprise out of him.
Dessie and I watch, likely with completely different thoughts going on in our heads. Dessie appears to be full of the kind of wistful delight that expresses itself in misty eyes, clasped hands, and a swelling heart.
And I’m just waiting for Brant to shit his pants already.
The boys finally separate, and then Clayton says something too quiet for me to hear.
Apparently it’s too quiet for anyone else to hear either. “Sorry?” Brant mutters, using his mouth instead of his hands, despite how much we practiced.
Clayton speaks up, his soft voice miraculously tripling in its volume. “I’m really glad you came.”
Relief and joy settles on Brant’s face. He’s such a dummy, having worried this whole time. “Me too. Eden and Dalia send their love. I think. I’m pretty sure they do. My parents have them. I’m just … I’m sure they’ll be fine, yeah. Um. And I … I wanted to see your show. Dessie’s show,” he amends with a sweep of his hand toward her, almost accidentally knocking his daughter in the face. “And your … your genius lighting. It was really … really …”
While Brant searches for the word, I find myself marveling once again at how incredible Clayton’s skill at reading lips must be. Or maybe it’s a deaf thing. Or a Brant-and-Clayton thing. But Clayton seems to follow his every word with ease.
Still unable to find the word, Brant changes his tack, finally opting for a sign. Or perhaps it was what he was searching for all along. He brings a hand to his chin, then tosses it outward.
Clayton quirks an eyebrow. “It was really ‘thank you’?”
Brant shakes his head. “No, sorry. Ugh. Shit. I meant … It was really …” And then he does the same damned sign again.
I roll my eyes. We practiced these signs a hundred times. Literally. It’s his nerves. He’s a mess.
Then, out of nowhere, Zara stamps her little feet right up to Clayton and shouts, “It was really good!” at Clayton, then brings a hand to her chin and pulls it down to slap the palm of her other hand—Good.
If I thought the look of surprise on Clayton’s face from seeing his best friend after so many years was uncharacteristically expressive, it holds nothing to the look on his face now. He crouches down to Zara’s height, excited, and gives her one of his rare, lopsided smiles. “You can speak with your hands!” he exclaims, slurring slightly on the word “hands”, his eyes lit up. “Impressive!”
She giggles, then makes two thumbs-up and rotates them awkwardly in the air. Then she makes the sign—Good—again. Then she does something else I can’t quite figure out.
Clayton chuckles, then starts making slow and deliberate signs right back to her, after
which she giggles.
Brant and I share a look. They’re communicating and we have no idea what they’re saying.
Dessie, however, smiles knowingly and leans into me. “Your daughter is the most adorable thing in the world. She’s telling Clayton she thought the show was good, she liked the clothing—costumes, I’m guessing she means—and that she fell asleep. Also, she had fun. Fun, fun, fun. She likes that sign. And she’s very cold. Oh, and she just said she wants cake. She earned it.” Dessie’s face wrinkles up, and she glances at Brant. “Apparently Daddy said she earned it …?”
Brant turns to us, bewildered. “It was bribery. I’m a bad daddy.”
“Cake bribery,” mumbles Dessie with mock disapproval.
“Also, I know she’s been learning signs,” Brant goes on, “but I had no idea she learned the sign for cake. We’re doomed.”
Dessie finds that to be the most hilarious thing in the world, emitting a musical symphony of laughs in every harmonious note possible. “Of course she learned that sign! Children learn the signs they desperately need to communicate. And this little one needs cake.”
Zara spins around and faces Dessie, her eyes wide. “Can I have a piece??”
“Of course! But you have to be a patient girl. There will be aaaaall the cake you can imagine at my after party.” Dessie’s face freezes for a second as she glances between Brant and I. “Um … she’s allowed to come to the after party, right? I can’t guarantee how appropriate or kid-friendly it will be. I didn’t know y’all were coming.”
“Y’all.” Brant grins. “Listen to her. A New Yorker speaking like a true Texan, even though she only spent four tiny years there.”
I run a hand along Zara’s back, toying with her soft hair. “She’ll be fine. Between Brant’s Xbox and my art, the girls have sadly been subjected to about every possible thing a human being can, and neither one has even turned five yet.”
