Falling for Hamlet

19



“You disappeared for a while after your father’s death. Were you being held prisoner?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Under whose orders?”

“Claudius’s.”

“You see, ladies? I knew that man was no good.” Members of the audience nod angrily. Then Zara raises her eyebrows and asks, “What about Queen Gertrude?”

Ophelia looks backstage. “I don’t think she knew anything about it.” As the audience twitters, Ophelia takes a sip of water.

Wandering around in a daze, I found that everything I looked at dredged up a painful memory. Of my father. Of Laertes. Of Hamlet. Their presence haunted every corner of the apartment. To escape, I went out on the balcony, but the moment I did, I began to recall the many happy, lazy hours I spent out there alone with Hamlet. My mind filled and pulsed as I lowered myself onto the hammock. There I remained, full of breathless anxiety, until the sun came up and turned the high-rises and the river pink.

I rose, suddenly needing to face the truth. I headed into my father’s bathroom, noticing that his toothbrush was discarded on the counter rather than resting in its holder—a toothbrush that would never be used again, one of his socks lying on the tile next to the hamper, a few stray bits of stubble left on the side of the sink after he shaved. He was typically fastidious but had been rushing around so much lately that things had been left undone, unfixed, uncared for. I touched his hand towel, and started to bring it to my face to smell it, knowing the scent of his aftershave would be lingering in the fabric, but I realized if I did, I might crack apart.

I let go of the towel, walked back into his bedroom, and found myself opening his sock drawer. The dress socks were rolled into perfect balls and arranged by hue. His white athletic socks were pushed to the back, for he hadn’t taken the time to do anything fun like run or play tennis—once his passions—since Hamlet’s father had died. I guess he had too much work to do.

With mounting dread, I kept searching through his stuff. By the time I got to the box of cuff links he kept in that drawer and found my mother’s wedding ring tucked inside, I was so undone, so distressed, that I barely made it out of the room on my feet. But I would have crawled to get out of there if I had to. No way could I have stayed in that place of painful memory for another second.

“You okay?” asked the guard.

I didn’t even stop to answer his stupid question. I staggered down the hall but stopped. My room was full of Hamlet. I couldn’t go in there. My father’s room was full of loss. I couldn’t go back. Only Laertes’s was neutral, so I flung open the door and stumbled in. Curling up on the floor, I closed my eyes and wished I could turn back time and have him be there telling me I was annoying and calling for our father to kick me out.

I woke up on the floor in the late afternoon. My stomach was acid, and my cheek—bruised the day before, then slept on for who knows how long—burned. I made my way back to the kitchen. Officer Cornelius was sitting on a folding chair that had come from somewhere else in the castle. It looked out of place in my home and uncomfortable to sit on for long, but I wasn’t offering him anything more welcoming.

“You okay?” he asked.

Without acknowledging him, I got a mug down for tea and put bread in the toaster.

“We checked to make sure you were breathing,” he said. “And we took the medications out of all the bathrooms.”

“How about the household cleaners?” I asked.

He didn’t respond, but I noticed they were gone by the next morning.

For the next two days, I stayed in my room almost all the time, bored, depressed, and sick from not eating properly. I was too out of it to read or draw, and I was unwilling to watch television with one of the guards looking over my shoulder. I didn’t want to cook in front of them either, so I grabbed whatever packaged food we had around.

Lying on my bed, I felt removed from my body. I would poke at my face to make sure I was still there. I could feel the sensation on both my finger and my face, but it was distant, like having gloves on or like it was happening to someone else. I didn’t always try to bring myself back from the numbness. Sometimes I relished it. Numb felt good. Numb meant not thinking. Not feeling. And being numb and awake was far less terrifying than being asleep.

Every time I drifted off, I had nightmares. My dreams were full of broken glass and flashing cameras and flying bullets. In them, I was trying to stop my mother from getting in a car or telling my dad not to hide in Gertrude’s room, but neither of them seemed to know I was talking. I would call out, but my voice was nothing more than a rasping whisper. Off they would go, down a hall or into an elevator, and, standing alone, I would hear screams and see blood oozing or flowing or splattering. And then I would wake.

Deprived of sleep and peace of mind, I began to doubt my own sanity. But when I focused and thought about it, I became sure that if I were allowed out, allowed to call my brother or Horatio, or allowed to go to school, the routine and human contact would do me good.

Thursday afternoon, I showered for the first time in days, dressed myself, and marched up to Officer Cornelius, demanding that I be taken to see Gertrude. He looked at me warily. “I don’t think they’ll allow that.”

“Call them,” I insisted, pointing sharply at his shoulder.

He did, and we waited for a few minutes as more calls were placed. I hadn’t heard the caravan of limos and security sedans, so I knew she was in the castle. Officer Cornelius looked at me with some concern and even opened his mouth to say something. It must have been an inquiry as to my well-being, because he clapped his mouth back shut and held his lips in a tight line. I smiled at my infinitesimal victory.

The speaker crackled awake, and to both of our surprise, someone on the other end said that we could proceed upstairs.

Gertrude sat at her desk with her blessed tea set spread out just so and gestured for me to join her. I stood behind the chair instead. “You’re looking…” she began, but could not say I looked well and so said nothing.

Faced with her, my emotions ran higher, but it was my one chance to make my case and I wanted to appear levelheaded. “Gertrude, I know you’re worried about Hamlet and what might happen to him if this gets out, but you don’t have to keep me a prisoner. I won’t tell anyone anything. I swear. I’ll go to my brother, and you’ll never have to hear from me again. Just let me leave.”

Her face was expressionless. “You know I wish I could,” she said.

“Can I at least have permission to get out of my apartment? I’m going crazy down there all alone. You could send guards with me. I… I don’t have to go back to school, but let me go outside or talk to my friends or get a cup of coffee somewhere.”

She tapped her fingernails on the rim of her teacup. “I don’t trust you to keep silent. I don’t trust you at all.”

“What have I done to make you not trust me?”

“Let’s not fool ourselves, dearest. It didn’t take much for you to betray my son, so…”

“That was your doing. You said—”

She flicked her hand in the air as if swatting the truth away.

“Don’t rewrite history, Gertrude. You blackmailed me. We had a deal, and I kept up my side of the bargain.”

She laced her fingers together and sat tall, her gaze burning through me. “You got no helpful information from Hamlet. And now we have a new problem.”

I paused, not sure what she meant. And when I realized, my anger exploded. I walked around the chair and slammed my palms on her table. “Problem? How is your son killing my father my problem?”

She rose slowly and said with terrifying calm, “It would be better for all of us if you weren’t around, but you’re here, and we have to figure out what to do with you. Until that time, you will stay put.”

Figure out what to do with me? My mind reeled as I thought of the possibilities, and fear left me with only enough breath to whisper, “Please, Gertrude. Please let me out.”

She shook her head and then left the room.

I wanted to pick up the tea set and fling it at her. I wanted to take the little tongs from the sugar-cube bowl and stab her with them. Instead, I sank into the chair and rested my forehead on one palm, trying to keep my mind in the room where I was. I hadn’t the strength. I felt it float out of my body and to the window and imagined seeing all of Elsinore sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun.

I headed half-dazed for the elevator. As I passed Claudius’s office, he opened the door and asked me to come in. I hesitated but had no choice. He closed the door behind me, and I stood near it, hoping I could run if I needed to.

Leaning in, he said, “You told my wife that Hamlet was lying about your seeing me in the garden. I think you are the one who is lying. I need the truth and I need it now.” He was speaking slowly and measuredly, but behind his facade I detected a sense of nervousness.

“I…” I began, but was afraid to continue. My eyes flicked to the corners of the office, hoping to see a security camera in any of them like there were in so many of the other offices and meeting rooms. Sadly, there were none. I considered lying but realized that if he had evidence, I would be even more screwed. “The day… the day the ki… your brother died… I… I went into the garden to read.”

Claudius’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“When I came out of the elevator, I… I saw you headed for… for the stairs.”

“And?”

My heart was racing, and blood was rushing in my ears. “And that’s it.”

“Who have you told?” he asked, his lips curling.

“No one.”

“You told Hamlet!” he shouted, and grabbed my arm. I tried to move away, but his grip merely tightened.

“Only him. Not even—” My voice broke at the thought of him. “Not even my father.” I was too scared to mention Horatio’s name for fear of what Claudius would do to him. And I hoped Horatio hadn’t casually mentioned it to anyone, though that would have been out of character.

Claudius bent at the knees so his face was level with mine and he squeezed my arm even tighter. “Let me be clear,” he growled. “You saw nothing. But if I find out that you so much as mentioned your being in the conservatory that day, let alone the fact that you saw me, I will kill you and whomever you told.” He held me for another moment to be sure his message had time to sink in, then opened the door and pushed me through it.

To my astonishment, when Officer Cornelius and I got back to my apartment, Hamlet was waiting. He was standing behind the kitchen island cutting fruit. Seriously. Cutting. Fruit. I couldn’t believe he was free, and I was locked up, and I couldn’t believe he was standing in my apartment, a place he’d fled from in anger. I wanted to scream, “Are you insane?” and then I thought that he really might be. Who besides a crazy person kills a girl’s dad and then comes to cut fruit in her kitchen? And if he was crazy, I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, especially if he was armed with more than just that carving knife.

I remained frozen while Cornelius took a step in front of me and asked, “Sir, what are you doing here?”

“I’m making a smoothie. I know how much Ophelia loves them. I’m headed for England tonight, so I thought I’d do this as a farewell gesture.”

“Sir,” Cornelius insisted, “you’re not allowed anywhere near her. Where’s your detail?”

Hamlet began cutting again.

I took a step back, but the elevator doors had already closed. The cool surface chilled my shoulder blades. It was such a familiar sight, seeing Hamlet in my kitchen, but it made me feel like I had jumped out of my body. Everything looked jerky and echoed. My mind raced to other days like this when I would have sat with him on my balcony and enjoyed the day doing nothing. But my father would not come home that afternoon; he was hidden somewhere, cold and dead, waiting for a proper burial. Mr. Smoothie himself had cut my father’s life short with ease. How much regret could he have had if he was standing there in my kitchen making me a goddamned fruity drink?

I spun around and tried to push the button, but Cornelius grabbed my wrist.

“Hey, what are you doing?” yelled Hamlet, coming toward us.

“She can’t leave, sir,” Cornelius replied.

Hamlet kept walking.

“Put down the knife, sir.”

I shrank back behind Cornelius, terrified of what Hamlet would do next.

“I’m not going to… Jesus,” Hamlet said, putting the knife on the end table. He put his hands up and asked, “What do you mean she can’t leave?”

“Orders, sir.”

“Has she been kept in here since I killed…”

“Yes,” I whispered, still cowering behind Officer Cornelius, who I was suddenly glad was in my apartment. Hamlet squatted down, put his head on his knees, and started to cry. The guard moved swiftly to remove the knife from the table.

I was standing alone and exposed, hoping Hamlet was truly feeling the regret he showed. At that moment I believed he was my only chance of escape. “Tell your mother to let me go,” I pleaded quietly.

He wiped his tears and looked at me. He stood suddenly, and I shrank back. Officer Cornelius moved forward, but Hamlet merely came over and pushed the button for the elevator. My heart was racing. His scent, so familiar, so loved, wafted over to me, and I felt myself leave my body again. I closed my eyes, hoping to chase my soul back to its proper place. The elevator dinged and Hamlet vanished behind its sliding doors without another word.

I sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, staring at the pile of fruit Hamlet had left on the counter.

“You—you okay?” asked Officer Cornelius. When I winced, he said, “Sorry to ask, but that was… unexpected.”

Barely above a tense whisper, I asked, “Unexpected? All of this is unexpected. I don’t even…” Without bothering to finish my sentence, I rose and dragged my feet down the hall to my bedroom.

As I entered, I caught sight of a framed photo of Hamlet and me in Florence—one Hamlet had taken of us on the Ponte Vecchio. He had held the camera at arm’s length and we had pressed our faces together to fit in the shot. Even though you can hardly see the old bridge or the river behind us, it had been my favorite photo because Hamlet had wanted to commemorate the spot I loved the most. And the photo wasn’t staged for anyone. It wasn’t for anyone. It was just for us. And we were happy.

I picked up the frame and held it close to my eyes and then far away, thinking that if I looked at it from the right angle, I might be able to understand all that had happened, all that had changed. I turned the frame over and pulled out the photo, held it to the light, and then flipped it over. The faintest image of us shone through, remnants of what we had been.

Struck by an idea, I walked over to my wall, grabbed a pushpin from the corner of my Poor Yoricks poster, and stuck the photo to the wall. Then I pulled the rest of the pins out of that poster and from two art prints hanging nearby as well. The points of the pins poked my palm as I clenched them tightly. The pain focused me.

I dove for a photo album that had been kicked under my desk and opened it. Photo after photo of Hamlet and me. Some with Horatio. Some with our families. I pulled out one photo, then another, then another, and started pinning each to the wall. When I ran out of pins, I used tape. When I ran out of photos, I printed more, cropping out anything that wasn’t just the two of us. Then I started cropping closer and closer. I printed just my lips. Just his hands. Just my cheek. Just his chin. Just his eyes. Then my eyes. And Gertrude’s eyes. And my father’s eyes. And Claudius’s eyes. I taped the images one above the other, building a tower of faces and eyes. I stepped back. It was eerie.

I reached for my art case and plucked out the thickest brush. Rolling it between my palms, I stared at the wall and decided what I wanted. I picked up a dinner plate I’d neglected to return to the kitchen and squished black paint onto it. Smushing the brush into the dark puddle and disregarding the drops that fell on the carpet, I pushed the brush against the wall. If my father were home and saw what I was doing, he would have lost it. But he wasn’t. He never would be again. I froze for a second and then ran the brush higher on the wall. I dipped into the paint over and over and painted black up and down, side to side, above and between the photos. I stepped back. It was not the grid I had set out to paint. It was the castle.

The tower stood menacing, dark; the faces and bits of people peeking through the windows. A home. A monolith. A prison.

The rest of the wall needed to be filled. Purple brushstrokes—coarse and swift—became the sky. Red rain pelted down. The drops grew longer and sharper, becoming daggers. I would paint daggers because I could use none. My thoughts turned angrier. Unearthly flowers of odd shapes and colors sprouted near the floor, under furniture that I did not bother to move. Some flowers had teeth. Some had eyes. Some had fangs. They grew from the ground and crept up and around the tower. Vines. Fingers. Strangling the tower of happy faces, covering the watchful eyes.

With the wall full and my hands aching, I slumped onto the bed and regarded my work. It was wild. It was disturbing. I was the best painting I’d ever done, and no one would see it.

Ophelia: You know they locked me up?



Barnardo: Yeah.



Ophelia: Was that part of my sinister plan?



Barnardo: They knew you were a danger.



Ophelia: So it was my fault?



Francisco: You threatened them. What else would you have had them do?



Ophelia: You seem pretty big on blaming the victim.



Barnardo: I don’t see any victim here. I just see the last girl standing.