Chapter 10 Noelle #2
Mom gives Dad a lovingly exasperated glance. “Your father remembered me talking about Grandma Betty and her best friend Carolyn. He thinks Carolyn might be connected to that Eleanor Cleary mystery you were interested in.”
“We’re all interested in it,” Dad says, reaching into the bag for one of the cookies.
Mom slaps it out of his hand.
“Connected how?” I ask.
“Carolyn was adopted, apparently,” Dad says, rubbing his hand. “From Europe. She would have been around the same age as Eleanor’s daughter.”
My stomach flips. “Really?” I look at the photo again. It’s more than likely a coincidence, but I can’t help the tickling sensation on the back of my neck. What if it’s her? Baby Clea? Her name starts with C. Not that that means anything, her name would have been changed at the adoption agency.
Behind my family, Marissa clears her throat. She looks like she’s going to freak out. She really has to get me ready. “This is amazing. Can I ask you more about this later?”
“Of course,” Mom says. “Mostly I wanted to show you now because Grandma Betty was an actor too. So you see, it’s in your blood!”
My heart aches. I nod. “Thank you Mom.” I wrap my arms around her. “For everything,” I whisper.
“I’ll see you after the show,” I promise them, looking up so the tears don’t ruin my makeup. Then I give Dad and ridiculous Dan hugs too.
Once they’re gone, Marissa grabs the apparatus I get fitted into for every show and rushes over. It goes on over the bodysuit I’m currently wearing, then the costume changes happen over top.
Marissa’s tense at first, making up for lost time I think as she rushes me into the suit. Then she checks the time and breathes out. “We’re doing okay.”
Relaxed, we talk about the play tonight, how the other actors are feeling. The director. But as we talk, I think about how far away from my family I am. My world is so far from theirs, I might as well be on the moon.
“I’m going to do better next year,” I say.
“At what?” Marissa asks. She’s frowning in concentration as she connects a row of clips at my hips. “You’re already the best performer we’ve got.”
I’m so surprised by the quiet compliment I falter. Marissa doesn’t butter up my ego; she’s usually all business.
“I’m going to be better at spending more time with the people I love,” I say, peering out the window to look at the moon. At the paper on the windowsill. “Once a year isn’t enough.”
Marissa yanks on a strap. “You’re lucky. Your parents seem really supportive.”
“Yours aren’t?”
She meets my eye. “They think I’m not doing enough. That I should have kept acting.”
My jaw drops, but guilt quickly overrides the shock. “I didn’t know you were an actor.”
“I’m not anymore.” At my expression, she shakes her head. “This part, fun though.” She pulls a strap tight, making me suck in a breath as it cinches across my ribs. “I still love being backstage where the magic happens. Being the duck feet under the water, you know?”
I laugh. “Duck feet?”
“You know, how a duck looks so serene on the surface of the lake, but underneath its feet are paddling in this beautifully coordinated dance.”
I think about the way Leif talks about the space between the stars.
“I understand the appeal,” I say softly. In fact, it’s all I ever wanted. My worries from before seem to vanish as I think of what I need to do.
“I think you’re as safe as you’re going to be,” she says after a moment. She’s sizing up the buckles and straps that cross my body.
“Thanks Marissa.”
“Ready to head out?”
She moves for the door, but I hesitate.
“I just need one minute.”
Marissa gives me an exasperated look, but I tell her she can stay. Then I run to the window. I hold my pen over the letter, re-reading the last words I wrote, my pulse quickening.
This is my biggest confession, Leif. Every Christmas, when we say goodbye, I look up at the space between the stars, and I make one wish. That wish is that you’ll wish for me. That you’ll tell me I’m more important to you than the moon and stars and all your dreams. Isn’t that selfish?
I know, suddenly, that I can never send him this letter. That it’s for me only.
That it’s pretending things are different, when really, it’ll be a goodbye. Because I might be ready to give up on my dream, but I’ll never be the reason someone else does, ever again.
Tell me what you see out there, Leif. Tell me if you can see between the stars.
Be safe so I can see you next Christmas.
And wish for me.
I tuck the letter into the envelope it came with and scrawl Leif’s name on the front. Cosmically, I’m giving it to him. In reality, I’m going to tear it up.
“Noelle?” Marissa says.
But it’ll have to wait.
“Coming.” I run to my vanity, sticking the letter into one of the moon novels next to the photo of Grandma Betty. Marissa’s watching me like a hawk, and I don’t want to answer questions.
That night, as I swing out over the stage to an audience of a thousand cheering people, a star in my hand, I look beyond the crowd, beyond the stage, to the people in the wings.
The director’s there, whisper-yelling at another actor in the wings.
He’s not even looking at me. There are a dozen people crowded around the equipment holding me up.
In the shadows, more rush around prepping for the next scene.
And for some strange reason, I think of Eleanor Cleary. At the old news clippings my parents have sent me over the years.
She never wanted the life she’d made for herself—I could see it in her eyes. There was this faraway expression in every photo, like what she really wanted was just out of view. And then she lost everything. Her baby. Her lover. Her life.
I drop the star on the Christmas tree, my lips stretched into a grin. But it’s not real. It’s only for show. I can’t see my parents in the audience. I can’t see them, and I can’t see Leif. I can’t see anything except the mistake I made in thinking this was more important than anything else.
The rope creaks above me. It’s ironic, that I’m hanging by a thread.
I do my best for the rest of the show. I give it my all. And when the show’s over, the audience roars.
As I’m heading off stage, after the final curtain, my director snaps at me that I shouldn’t have gotten so close to the tree in the last scene. “It fucked up the whole scene!” he says. “Are you listening to me?”
I walk past him into the wings.
“You’d better get your shit together for tomorrow’s show,” he says, following me.
I smile, unhooking the safety apparatus from my body with Marissa’s help.
“Pritchard!” he hisses.
I step out of the gear and thrust it at his chest. “You can tell it to my understudy—nicely, please. But I’m done. You’re an asshole, Bob, and this is not how you should direct a Broadway show.”
He’s apoplectic. His skin turns an alarming shade of purple. “You think you know better?”
I do, but I know better than to tell him that. “Goodbye Bob.”
“If you walk out on this show, you’ll never work another day on Broadway in your life!” he yells at my back as I head for the exit.
“That’s the plan,” I say, before walking out the door.