“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.
In most productions of Hamlet, Ophelia wears white because she’s associated with innocence and virginity. Someone in the audience—is it my mom?—gasps when I walk onto the stage.
As I make my way to center stage, I can hear my father’s voice inside my head. Go for it, Iris, he’s telling me. Really go for it! I shut my eyes as I prepare to say my lines. Mentally, I thank my father for his support. Even if he hasn’t been much of a father to me, the fact that he believes in me now—well, it helps.
When I say my lines, the most wonderful, incredible thing happens: I’m her. Ophelia. One hundred percent Ophelia. There’s no room left tonight for Iris. And I’m glad of it. I’ve had too much Iris lately.
It’s a long production—nearly two hours, with no intermission. A few small things go wrong (the harp music starts playing when it shouldn’t; Lenore forgets two of her lines, not that I mind that glitch). Still, the play hangs together.
The cast comes out to take a group bow, and the audience gives us a standing ovation. It’s weird to see my mom and Mick standing so close together. I notice that my mom’s got a bouquet of irises in her arms.
“Iris, I’m afraid I haven’t given you enough credit,” she tells me afterward. “You were fabulous tonight. You were all fabulous.”
Mick is hovering behind her, watching the two of us. He has an amused expression on his face. “Uh, Mom,” I say, “I’d like you to meet Mick Horton. He’s, uh, a friend of Ms. Cameron’s. Mr. Horton, this is my mom.” I can’t believe I’ve just called my boyfriend Mr. Horton.
Mick doesn’t seem to think any of this is weird. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Wagner,” he says, taking her hand and holding on to it a little too long. I really hope he isn’t flirting with my mom. “Iris really takes after you,” Mick says. “You’re both lovely.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mom blush before.
“Do I detect an Australian accent?” she asks him.
As if things aren’t awkward enough, I see Katie’s parents walking toward us. Her mom is waving. “You were a marvelous Ophelia,” I hear her saying. “So full of emotion.” I’m not nuts about leaving my mom and Mick alone together (what if she says something really goofy?),
but I also know I need to intercept Katie’s parents.
“Will you excuse me for a second?” I say to Mom and Mick. “Hey, Mrs. Carsley.” I try blocking Katie’s mom’s way, but it’s like trying to block a giant green recycling truck when it comes barreling down your street.
Mrs. Carsley kisses the air on both sides of my face. “The person I really want to congratulate is your mom. I know she’s raised you alone, so I think it’s especially important to tell someone like that”—she makes it sound as if single motherhood is a fatal disease—“what a wonderful job she’s done.”
“Alice!” Mrs. Carsley bustles over to my mom. “It’s been ages. Your Iris was simply marvelous. You’ve done a wonderful job. And to think you’ve done it all alone.” Mrs. Carsley pats the padded shoulder of her husband’s suit as if the man inside is a well-behaved pet.
To my mom’s credit, she doesn’t get annoyed. Instead, she smiles graciously—and for the first time I wonder if maybe she should have gone into acting too. “Thanks, Elizabeth. It’s very kind of you to say so. By the way, I heard the two of you were out of town this week. Iris didn’t mention where you went.”
Mrs. Carsley purses her lips. She shoots me a look, and for a second I have the weird feeling she’s going to cover for me.
But in the end, Mrs. Carsley isn’t the problem. It’s Mr. Carsley. “Away? Not us,” he says, shrugging his padded shoulders. “We haven’t been out of town since Christmas. Though it’s high time we planned something, don’t you think, Elizabeth?”
Mom’s eyes get really wide. “If you’ll excuse us,” she says to the Carsleys and to Mick, who is still hanging around. Then she tugs my hand—hard—and practically drags me over to the side of the room. “Iris,” she hisses, “what in God’s name is going on? Talk to me, Iris! Now!” Her green eyes are flashing in a way I’m not used to. She looks worried and angry. Mostly angry. I’m afraid she’s going to shake me.
When I step back, she takes two steps toward me. We’re so close now, I feel her breath on my face.
“I’m really sorry, Mom,” I say, “but I can’t talk now.” I can’t back up any farther, so I point at all the people milling about. Some of them are already watching us. “Not with everyone here. And the cast party starts in fifteen minutes. I can’t miss it, Mom.”
“The cast party? Have you lost your mind? Whatever is going on here between us is way more important than some cast party! There’s no excuse, Iris Wagner, for deceiving me. I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, young lady, but we’re going to get to the bottom of it. Now! ”
She’s grabbing at my hand again. I shake it loose. I can’t stand anyone touching me in an aggressive way.
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow—I swear I will,” I say, meeting Mom’s eyes.
“No, you won’t.” She hasn’t taken my hand again, but it’s as if she’s holding on to me with her eyes. “You’ll tell me everything right now. I don’t care who can see us.”
I can’t keep talking to her now. Not like this. I need time to get my story straight. To figure out which lies I can undo. “Look, I’m really, really sorry, Mom, I swear I am. I shouldn’t have lied to you. But you need to understand— things are pretty weird for me right now.” I work to keep my voice calm, thinking maybe that’ll help to calm her down too.
“Pretty weird right now? What on earth are you talking about, Iris Wagner?” I wish she wouldn’t keep calling me Iris Wagner like that.
“Do I look like an idiot to you?” she’s asking now. She is getting herself even more worked up. Soon the whole school will know we’re fighting.
“No. No, you don’t. Not at all,” I whisper, hoping she will take my cue and lower her voice.
“Do I look like a pushover? Do I? Tell me that, Iris Wagner.”
“No, definitely not.”
I can see Mick hovering in the distance. His eyebrows are raised. He must know my mom has figured something out.
“Tomorrow,” I tell her again. “I’ll explain tomorrow. Please, Mom, just give me till then.”
“Iris”—and now the look in my mom’s eyes gets even fiercer—“you and I are having a problem, a big problem, today. Right here. Right now. So you’d better come clean with me.” She has finally lowered her voice, and I know it’s because she is about to pull out the heavy ammunition. “After everything we’ve been through, Iris, you owe me the truth.”
The word truth hits me like a kick in the stomach. It hits me so hard I nearly give in. I nearly tell her everything. The truth. Only now, something else occurs to me: Mom hasn’t always told me the truth. She’s angry with me, but I realize I’m angry with her too—and I have a right to be. But why does it feel so scary to be angry with her? Maybe it’s because it’s a feeling I’ve never allowed myself. Maybe I’ve never dared to be angry with her. Because I’ve needed her so much.
Mick is coming closer. I can feel it even without looking up at him.
I meet my mom’s eyes. “You know what, Mom? You owe me the truth too.” I’m shaking.
“What are you talking about, Iris?” There’s something else now in my mom’s eyes. Not anger. Recognition. Maybe even a hint of fear.
“Tomorrow.” I say it in my firmest voice. I’m still a little shaky.
Mom sighs, and I notice how tired she looks. Usually, I’d feel guilty.
Then she gives a half-nod. I can tell she’s trying to get a grip, to come up with a plan the way she might come up with a plan to organize a closet full of junk. “All right, Iris,” she says, “but you’re going to have to tell me one thing right now—before you go to any party. Just one thing.” Mom sucks in her breath. “Are you in some kind of serious trouble, Iris? Are you?”
This time it’s harder work to meet her eyes. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with,” I tell her. I’m afraid my voice will break, but somehow it doesn’t.
I freak out a little when, just before it’s time to leave for the cast party, Mick sidles over and tells me we’re going to need to lie low for a while. “It’s obvious,” he whispers, “that your mother is getting suspicious.”
“What does lie low mean?” I don’t care that I sound desperate.
“It means we don’t see each other for a few days.”
“I can’t. I won’t.” I didn’t tear up before, but now I do.
“You have to. It won’t be for long, Joey. I can’t have other people finding out about us. Not yet. You’ve got to understand. I—I’ve got too much to lose.”
“I don’t want to be without you,” I sputter. “Ever.”
Mick touches the tip of my nose. “Me neither, Joey…”
“I thought you loved me so much it hurts.” If that reminds Mick of the poem, he doesn’t say anything about it.
“I do. We’ll talk in the morning. You go ahead without me to the party. I’m going back to the loft to look at the script those guys from Quebec City sent me. And Joey, when you talk to your mother tomorrow”—Mick looks at me as if to underline the importance of what he’s about to say—“don’t mention anything about us. Not a word. Got that?”
I feel as lost as I do in my dreams, when I’m in that dark forest. “What do I tell her then?” I need Mick’s help. I’m out of stories.
“Tell her you’ve been with that kid. The one you were going out with before we got together.”
I nod my head, but now I’ve got even more lies to try and keep straight. Now I could fill two notebooks with lies.
The cast party is at Lenore’s. She lives in a huge white brick house in Hampstead. It has a circular driveway, and inside it’s full of antiques. Someone’s left the front door open, so I let myself in. Because the first floor has an open plan, I see right away that everyone’s there: Katie, Tommy, Antoine and all the others from the cast and crew. Everyone but Mick. I can’t stop thinking how much more fun it would be if he was here. Even if we had to pretend we weren’t together.
Tommy is hanging his jacket up on the antique coatrack. “Hey, Ophelia,” he says when he sees me. “You were really something tonight.”
Someone hands me a beer.
Lenore doesn’t bother coming to the door. She and Katie are huddled by the white brick fireplace. Katie waves for me to come over, but because I’m not in the mood to hang with Lenore, I wander to the back, where the kitchen is.
A woman is reaching into the refrigerator. All I can see are her bare feet, sparkly toenail polish and the silver toe ring on one of her baby toes. I can’t imagine Lenore having a mom who wears a toe ring, and it turns out I’m right, because when the fridge door closes, I see that the feet belong to Ms. Cameron. Maybe Lenore’s parents are out or waiting out the party in one of the rooms upstairs.
“Hey, Ms. Cameron.” It feels weird to see your teacher standing in someone’s kitchen. “Need some help?”
“That’d be great,” she says, handing me a tray of cut-up veggies. “Lenore told me there’s some yogurt dip too. If I can find it in here.”
“Aha, there you are,” she says a moment later, talking to the dip. “Can you grab this too?” She looks at me as if she’s just noticed I’m there. “That was a strong performance tonight, Iris. Haunting. You really made us feel how lost and torn you—I mean, Ophelia is. Maybe that extra work Mick’s been doing with you has deepened your connection to Ophelia…” She lets her voice trail off.
“I guess,” I say, without moving. I don’t want to give away too much. I know how good Ms. Cameron is at reading body language.
She touches my elbow. “Look, Iris, I don’t like to discuss my personal life with my students.” Even though we’re the only ones in the kitchen, she lowers her voice. “I was”—she stops to choose her words—“involved…with Mick. We had an argument once and he got a little rough with me. Of course, I broke up with him after that.”
It’s hard not to react. Mick and Ms. Cameron? How come he never told me they were together? He got a little rough with her. And then she broke up with him. I’m still trying to make sense of what she’s just told me, but Ms. Cameron keeps talking.
“I respect his work, but I don’t think he has much of a talent for relationships. I heard there was some trouble in Australia too. So, Iris, if you’re thinking about getting involved with him, don’t! I know how persuasive Mick can be when he wants something. But you’re a smart girl, Iris, maybe the smartest I’ve ever taught. You’ll be smart about this too, right?”
“Right,” I say as I tuck the tub of dip into the crook of my arm. “And I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
How can she not know what I mean? “For what happened. With you and Mick. It must’ve been awful.”
I’m shaking, but I manage somehow to use my other elbow to open the swinging door that leads back out to the main area.
A guy turns around, and as soon as he does, I know it’s Errol. I recognize him from the pictures in his bubbie’s apartment. What’s he doing here?
“Errol!” I say, and without thinking I hand him the tray of veggies.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“It’s me—Iris. Your bubbie’s neighbor. I recognize you from the photos in her apartment. What are you doing here?”
“Wow, Iris,” he says, extending his free arm to shake mine. “This is pretty weird, isn’t it? I came to town to look in on Bubbie, but then I lined up a couple of interviews with some people in McGill’s Engineering Department. My friend Tony’s younger brother is Vincent, who works sound on the play. Anyway, Vince told us to drop by tonight. Bubbie went to bed early, so I figured I’d hang out here for a bit.”
“How’d you like your bubbie’s chicken last week?”
Errol grins. “No one makes chicken like my bubbie. Hey,” he says, and I catch him looking around the room. “Is your boyfriend here? The older guy?”
“Uh, no, he isn’t. He had to work.” I drop my voice. “Listen, Errol, if you don’t mind, it’d be better if you don’t mention him here—or that I even have a boyfriend.”
“Okay,” he whispers, though I get the feeling it isn’t okay and that he wants to say more. Which is why I’m relieved when he asks, “How about I get you another beer?”
I follow Errol to the cooler by the stairway. I can tell from the sweet smoky smell drifting up the stairs that someone is smoking weed in the basement. Errol reaches into the cooler and hands me a beer. He introduces me to a tall guy who wears his hair in a ponytail. Vince’s brother, Tony. “That teacher’s not with you, is she?” Tony asks.
“You mean Ms. Cameron?” I say. “No, she’s in the kitchen, organizing the food.”
“Well then, you guys should definitely check out the laundry room in this place,” Tony says.
The laundry room is bigger and more tricked out than our kitchen. The washer, dryer and sink are stainless steel; the walls and floors are so white that when I first walk in, my eyes need to adjust to the brightness. But Tony hasn’t sent us here for the decor. A bunch of kids are passing around a joint. Katie’s with them. She must have come downstairs when I was in the kitchen.
I smoked up a couple of times with Tommy, but it never did anything for me except give me a headache. So when Katie passes me the joint, I hold on to it for a few seconds while I decide whether to take a puff or pass it on. I don’t want to end up with another headache, but I also don’t want to be the only straight one in the room. Here I go again, unable to make a simple decision. If I can’t decide, well then, I probably shouldn’t have one. I start to pass the joint to Errol, but at the very last second I take it back and bring it to my lips for a quick puff. I can still see Katie’s hot-pink lipstick on the rim. The smoke burns as it travels down my throat and into my lungs.
Maybe this time I do get stoned. Because not too long afterward—how long exactly I’m not sure—I find myself back upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the Persian carpet in Lenore’s den. How many fireplaces can one house have? Errol is sitting across from me on an oversized pillow with lots of tassels hanging off it. I’m thinking that if I wasn’t going out with Mick, I might think Errol was cute. The thought makes me laugh out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Errol wants to know.
“Nothing. It feels like I’m in a play.”
“You are in a play, silly,” says Lenore, who has wandered into the room. “I’m the leading actress. You’ve got a small supporting role.” She laughs when she says that, then wanders out, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.
Why didn’t I notice Ms. Cameron sitting on the couch across from us? I must be really stoned. “We’re always in a play. All of us—at every moment,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “As the bard says, ‘All the world’s a stage.’ Only in this play, this here-and-now play, there’s no rehearsing.” She hangs her head as if she thinks that’s a bad thing. Then she lifts it to look right at me. “You don’t want to make too much of a mess of things, Iris. A little mess is not so bad, but a big mess…” She shakes her head. “A big mess is not so good. It’s harder to get out of the big messes. That’s why, as Polonius says, we have to tender ourselves more dearly…”
Errol nudges me. “What’s she talking about?” he whispers.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper back, “but I think I’m stoned.” That must have been some strong weed.
“D’you wanna get some fresh air?” Errol asks.
We have to dig to find our jackets on the coatrack. Then we walk along the side of the house to where the back deck is. I hear Errol take a deep breath. “Look Iris, we don’t really know each other, and this probably isn’t my business. But my bubbie, she’s not crazy about your boyfriend. I know she can be a busybody sometimes, but Bubbie’s not stupid. She thinks he…well…she thinks maybe he hits you.”
For a moment, I am totally sober. Mostly, I think, because I can’t believe Errol just said that. “He doesn’t,” I say. “He wouldn’t. Never. Ever. Your bubbie doesn’t know him.” I say it firmly, so Errol will know he needs to drop the subject. “Besides, I’m a big girl.” When I hear myself speak, it sounds like the words are coming from far away, and I realize how stoned I still am. And that I don’t want to be having this conversation.
“Look.” Errol digs his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m sorry I said anything. I shouldn’t have. It’s just…Bubbie worries. Maybe I’m a worrier too. Maybe it’s in my genes.”
“Did anyone ever hit you?” I ask Errol. I’m not quite sure where the question came from. And it’s too late now to take it back.
“My mom once. Not hard though. I was picking on my kid brother. I guess I had it coming.” Errol’s eyes are bloodshot, and I wonder if that means mine are too. “It was no big deal.”
Errol’s quiet for a bit. When he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful. “The roughest thing I ever went through was when my zaidie died. I really loved the guy. But even worse than losing him was seeing what happened to my mom. It was the first time I ever saw anybody lose it. Really lose it. When she got the news he was gone, she curled up on the floor and howled like a baby. None of us could make her stop, not even my dad. I’ll tell you something, Iris. Seeing her like that, well, it scared me shitless.”