Isaac
For three days, Willow wouldn’t answer any of my texts. When I called her number, it rang and rang. Thursday morning, I paced the Fords’ living room, thinking I could go by the high school on the way to the hospital. Marty advised against it.
“If you think her father is the reason for her radio silence,” he said, “stay far, far away from the school.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked. “I need to know she’s okay. If her dad found out about us, she’s taking the shit for it by herself.”
“Wait it out,” Marty said. “Just have faith.”
I had no faith. Or patience. Just a horrible sinking feeling that something terrible happened to Willow. It ate at my stomach until Friday night—opening night, when Willow arrived at HCT for costume and makeup. From the other side of the theater, I watched her speak a few words to Marty. I sagged with relief and for a moment, everything was all right.
Then Marty’s bright, welcoming smile fell off his face. Her head down, her face drawn and pale, Willow quickly walked away to the women’s dressing room.
I raced to Marty. “What’s happening?”
“She’s only doing one show,” he said. “Tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
My fists clenched. “It’s her fucking parents. Her dad must’ve found out I was there. Fuck.”
Marty’s eyes bored into mine. “Found out you were where?”
“I went to Willow’s house the other night. They were supposed to be out of town—”
“Jesus, Isaac.”
“Nothing happened,” I said. “We slept together…I mean actual sleep. Real sleep for the first time in months. That’s it.”
Marty rubbed his chin. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you should stay away from her tonight. Give her some space.”
“To make sure your show goes off without a hitch?” I snapped. I immediately held up my hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just fucking worried about her.”
“I know you are. You have a lot going on, but you need to focus. The Los Angeles casting agent confirmed this morning he’ll be here. Give it your best. Do it for you. And for Willow, since it’s her only show.”
I went to the dressing room in a daze. I didn’t give a shit about the casting agent or putting on a good show.
God, I’m such a fucking asshole.
I knew I shouldn’t have gone over there. But I’d needed her. I’d been so fucking exhausted, tired of telling everyone I was fine. I hadn’t been fine, so I did a stupid fucking thing and went over there.
I ruined everything.
During the pre-show, vocal warm-ups and breathing exercises came and went, but Willow remained closed up in the women’s dressing room. I pulled Lorraine aside to ask if she was okay.
“She looks pale and so delicate,” Lorraine said, with a royal lilt to her voice. “I have to believe it’s her process. She’s quiet but flighty.” She placed her hand over her heart. “I believe we’re in for one incredible show.”
None of that made me feel any better. I had no time left. The wheels of opening night were in motion. Warm-ups, Marty’s last pep talk, final sound check, places, the audience filing in on the other side of the curtain. But no sign of Willow anywhere.
I forced myself to concentrate on my lines. The hundreds and hundreds of words I’d speak tonight. Words that had given me refuge. Given me a voice.
Yet the only two words I wanted to say were I’m sorry.
Or… I love you.
I didn’t see Willow until she stepped onstage in Act One, making her entrance with Justin, her brother. Laertes warned Ophelia to stay away from Hamlet, to be afraid of him. Hamlet couldn’t give her the future he promised. He was trapped by his birthright, unable to choose his own fate. Whatever he said to her couldn’t be believed.
Then Polonius, Ophelia’s father, took the stage and took his turn unloading on her. Declaring she was too mentally feeble to know her own self-worth. Incapable of making her own decisions.
You do not understand yourself so clearly…
Affection! Pooh, you speak like a green girl…
Marry, I’ll teach you. Think yourself a baby…
Ophelia bore the brunt of these exchanges on her face. Everything playing across her beautiful features. The audience was enraptured. She wilted under the pressure of her brother and father. Her love for Hamlet crumbled under the weight of their expectations. Willow was telling the story of the other night, of her life, as if Shakespeare had written it for her. My heart broke.
I took that pain onstage with me for the ghost scene, when the spirit of Hamlet’s father tells his story. Betrayal and murder. Poison poured into his ear by his brother’s hand.
I went looking for Willow the second I was offstage. I found her in the wings, sitting on an overturned bucket in the dark, her hands folded in her lap. She gasped as I took her arm, immediately pulling away. “No. Isaac, I can’t talk to you.”
“Shh.” I moved her to a dark corner, dimly lit by an emergency exit sign.
“I can’t talk to you,” she said again, her voice rising.
“Willow…”
“I can’t.” Her gaze darted around the darkened area. I’d never seen her so frail and nervous. She’d blow away at the slightest wind.
“You can. Tell me what happened.”
She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Promised who? Your dad?” I gently took her shoulders. “He’s making you do this. Why? For what?”
Her mouth opened and shut. She looked almost panicked as she pulled from my grasp. “I have to go. I’ll miss my entrance.”
“Fuck the play,” I said. “Talk to me.”
“Don’t say that,” she said. “You have casting agents out there. This is your night to—”
“Is this about the money my dad owes?” I said. “If it is, forget it. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head miserably. “It’s so much more than the money.”
“Then tell me.”
“He’ll destroy you…”
“Fuck him too,” I said. “I’m not afraid of him—”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because you have no idea what you’re up against.” She was calmer now, stoic and resigned, which was worse than the frantic fear. “I’ve seen firsthand what privilege can do when it wants something.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “You don’t trust me to make this right? Is that it?”
“You can’t do anything,” she said, her voice breaking down to a whisper. “And he’s taking us away.”
“Away.”
“He’s been transferred to Canada. We leave Harmony in four weeks.”
The words hit me in the chest. She couldn’t go to Canada. She was just finding her way out of the cold. She needed Harmony to heal.
“He can’t do that,” I said, rage burning in my throat.
“He can. I’m not eighteen and even if I were—”
“You’ll be eighteen in a couple of months.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to him.”
“So what are you saying? It’s… It’s over? We’re done? Forever?”
In the dimness, her eyes shone large and soft. “I hope not. But…”
“But what? We wait? Months? Weeks? How long? Goddammit, Willow…” I grabbed her hand, making her flinch. “Stay. Stay with me. Or Marty. He’ll take you in.”
“No, Isaac. You have to go too. Tonight is your chance for success.” She struggled to pull her hand out of mine. “You’re hurting me,” she whispered.
I let go immediately. Pain whipped my skin. She was giving up. Choosing him over me.
I was losing her.
“I have to go?” I asked. “For what? To prove myself? What’s it going to take, Willow? How much money do I have to make until I don’t stink of the junkyard anymore? How much is good enough for your father? Good enough for you?”
“You know that’s not true,” she said. “You’ve always been more than good enough for me.”
“Then why aren’t you fighting?” I said through the wall of my teeth. “You’re giving up. You’re letting him win.”
“He’s already won. If I don’t…”
“If you don’t what?” I took her hand again, trying to squeeze from it the answers she wouldn’t speak. “What’s in this for him?”
“Isaac, don’t.”
“Tell me, Willow. Tell me now. What did you trade me for?”
“I have to go.”
I pulled her close to me, inhaling her, feeling her body one last time. “I would’ve done anything for you.”
“I know,” she said, her tears wet on my neck. “I’m sorry.” She took a step away. Then another. “Goodbye, Isaac.”
Then she was running toward the stage. Bursting like a comet under the lights and falling into her father’s arms.
“O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”
As her lament poured out onstage, my old armor of silence locked around me.
Never again.
I’d never show myself like this again.
I told Willow things I’d never told anyone else. I gave her my best self. And for what? She wouldn’t fight for us. Now I stood here, alone, helpless. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t fight for us alone.
Part of me hated her. But a truer part of me loved her. Understood her. I knew the truth of what was happening: it was all the wounds Xavier marked on her. They’d just begun to heal, and then her father unknowingly ripped them all open again.
It wasn’t her fault.
My mother dying wasn’t her fault either. But the loss was there. The yawning void of a life without Willow.
I lost her and so my own words meant nothing.