Falling for Hamlet

25



As they settle back onto the couch, Zara smiles falsely. “I am so sorry to have upset you with those photos.”

Ophelia stares hard at her. “I’m sure.”

“How did you feel about coming back to Elsinore?”

Ophelia hesitates and looks over her shoulder. A man in a suit is caught just behind the curtain giving her a thumbs-up. She grimaces and turns back to Zara. “I was relieved. I never hesitated, because I knew the people needed me back.”

I woke with a start and sat on the couch, unable to fall back asleep and unable to get up. I sat paralyzed all afternoon, unwilling to look around the apartment for fear of the memories each corner held. The noises on the street told me the news vans were still swarming, but I didn’t turn on the television, knowing I would be greeted by my own face and endless speculation and comments about my own life. The sun set. The sun rose. Still I sat.

When the opal sky had turned to cornflower, Horatio walked in and collapsed on the couch. “You sleep much?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Me either,” he said, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Come down to my folks’ for breakfast.”

I shook my head again.

“They’re worried about you, and they’re not going to let you sit here alone.”

The thought of their kind faces actually made me cringe. I closed my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about anything, and I don’t want to be watched.”

“Yeah. I know. What are you gonna do, then?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I wish I could just sit here with you. They keep offering to listen, to listen, to listen. But what is there to say?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Maybe by dinner,” I offered, thinking I could put them off until then and cancel at the last minute.

I thought he would get up, but he slumped down and stared out the window. Tears streamed down his face, and he clutched his arms tightly across his chest. “Why didn’t I drive him off to safety, too? I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew it.” When I reached out for his arm, he pulled away. “All of them. All of them. God! I should have stopped it. I knew something was going to happen. I knew it.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was, Ophelia. Not entirely, but I played a part.”

“So did I. So did my brother. So did Hamlet. We all did.”

He shook his head violently. “You know I could have stopped it.”

I knew that wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. What good would it have done either of us?

Suddenly he grabbed a pillow off the couch and threw it, knocking a picture frame off the shelf next to the stereo. “Shoot,” he muttered as he crossed to the frame and picked it up. The shattered glass tinkled to the floor. I didn’t need to see it to know it held a photo from the awards ceremony at the end of my junior year. I’m holding up my honor roll certificate and sticking out my tongue, Laertes is squishing my face, and my father is looking on, half-amused, half-uncertain as to why his children would behave in such a fashion. Hamlet had taken the picture. Now I looked away as more glass tumbled, and I tried not to throw up. Horatio put the frame on the coffee table and started for the elevator. “Jesus, Ophelia. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it.”

“Still not your fault, Horatio,” I called after him.

I could say it to him, and I believed it. As for me, no such forgiveness. I blamed myself. I always would. I blamed myself for not believing the things Hamlet had told me. I blamed myself for deceiving Hamlet. I blamed myself for being so drunk in Gertrude’s office that I acted like a wild woman, which my brother misinterpreted, which led him to choose revenge. I blamed myself for inviting my father into my business. I blamed myself for my own cowardice at every turn. No matter what anyone would tell me, I knew I should have done something to stop the killing. I felt certain there was more I could have done.

After Horatio left, I grabbed the broken frame and shoved it in a drawer. I started taking the photos from all around the room and putting them away, but I knew it would do no good. Memories were everywhere. Memories were inescapable.

That afternoon, Horatio’s mother came in, appearing as weary as he had. When I told her I was fine and didn’t want to talk, she fluttered around, looking for ways to help. She started by checking my refrigerator to be sure I had food to eat, which I did, though I couldn’t bring myself to eat much. I listened to the freezer door slam. She moved on to the cabinets and then began picking up the remains of the frame. Her chestnut ponytail flopped from shoulder to shoulder as she searched for stray pieces of glass, and I realized how long it had been since another woman had been in the apartment. I wished my mom could be cleaning up instead.

When at last she was finished, she declared with a gentle smile, “We have a meeting with Reynaldo at four o’clock. Get dressed or shower or whatever you need to do. We’ll be by for you in an hour. Unless you want me to stay.”

I shook my head more vigorously than I should have. “What meeting?”

She cleared her throat. “Funeral plans.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

“Don’t ask that of me,” I begged Horatio.

We were standing in the corner of the intimate conference room. Reynaldo had chosen it because our group was so small; however, my desire to discuss matters with Horatio in private made me wish we had been in the larger one.

“You have to come to Hamlet’s service,” he whispered.

“Why? Don’t you think I’ve earned the right to skip this one?”

“One funeral will be best for the nation,” chirped Reynaldo from across the room.

I spun around to face him. “I am not interested in what is good for the nation, and I am not interested in talking to you!” Everyone looked askance, as I would never have answered in such a fashion if my father had been there. But he wasn’t. Reynaldo’s face flushed and he started shuffling his papers. I turned back to Horatio, who was running his fingers through his hair. The gesture reminded me of Hamlet in his desperate moments. I had to steady myself against the wall.

“I need you with me, Ophelia. I haven’t asked anything of you through all of this, but I’m asking you now. Come with me.”

I winced. Helpful Horatio. Patient Horatio. Giving Horatio. He had been counselor and guide to me and to Hamlet; he had delivered me to safety and unwillingly delivered Hamlet to his certain death. How could I deny him? And yet that was precisely what I wanted to do.

He interrupted my internal battle with, “If one funeral will get you there, then make it one funeral. Besides, if they’re all together, your father will get his due, as will your brother. You know most people think your brother is the only one to blame for all of this, and if it’s separate, none of us can predict what might happen.”

“Ignorant sons of—” I began, but stopped myself when I realized Horatio’s parents could hear us.

Many citizens, despite evidence to the contrary, were choosing to believe that my brother alone had caused the deaths of the royal family. The thought of my brother’s funeral being interrupted by protesters finally convinced me. I nodded reluctantly, agreeing to yet another charade, because the only true friend I had left asked me. Reynaldo ran off to write a statement to be delivered at a press conference that afternoon.

After the meeting with Reynaldo had ended, Horatio’s parents insisted that I have dinner with them. His mother tried to keep the mood light. She put on piano music and cooked pasta, chattering constantly as she did. I leaned on Horatio, hypnotized by her uninterrupted motion and speech. Finally his father took the spoon out of her hand and told her to give the sauce and herself a rest. She nudged him playfully as they came to sit with us.

Horatio’s father offered to have me live with them, which was sweet, but I declined. I wanted to be alone. The irony wasn’t lost on me, given how much I had detested being by myself in prior weeks. Even so, his parents would practically adopt me in the coming weeks, and we would spend many evenings eating and talking. My new makeshift family.

I couldn’t live with them, but I also couldn’t live in my apartment. The home where I’d had a life with my father. The home where I’d had a life with my mother. The home where I’d had a life with my brother. The home where I’d had a life with Hamlet. Remaining was not an option. Everyone understood.

So the following day, the secretary of relocation came to me with photos of furnished apartments used to house dignitaries and officials needing long-term living quarters. I preferred the small brownstones in a tree-lined neighborhood nearby, but we reconsidered when it became clear how easily photographers could climb the fire escapes and how hard it would be for me to come and go safely and in obscurity. We settled on a sleek one-bedroom condo in a high-rise down the block from the castle. The loft would suit me fine, and the tall windows, covered in filmy curtains, reminded me of a sculpture gallery I had once visited with Hamlet. It was a bittersweet memory that fit my mood perfectly. The secretary explained that I could stay there as long as I chose and that the staff would pack and move my things.

I brought some personal items over myself, and when I was done, I charged through the glass doors and headed for my car. As I did so, I noticed a figure stop dead in his tracks in front of me. Since my return, more strangers than ever wanted to chat, so I checked to make sure Marcellus was within a few paces, kept walking, and unzipped my bag, pretending to be looking for something.

“Ophelia?” a familiar voice asked. I stopped and looked up reluctantly. It was Sebastian.

I sucked in my breath and stared dumbly at him.

“God, it is you,” he continued. “What are you doing here?”

Marcellus stepped forward, but I signaled that I was okay. I explained to Sebastian, “I, uh, I’m gonna live here for now.”

“I live around the corner.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I squeaked through a clenched throat.

“I, well, wow, look at you. You’re here. Alive.”

All I could do was nod.

“When we saw the reports—man, all those divers looking for you… We didn’t leave the TV. We kept waiting and hoping.”

“We?”

“Dan, Lauren, Greg, Keren, Justine… all of us.”

I flinched at the mention of their names.

Sebastian continued, “After the reporters said you were gone, we all sat around and”—he blushed a little and looked away as he finished—“had a kind of service for you in the courtyard with the bear sculpture.”

He had been genuinely concerned and had grieved for me. God. I looked down and asked, “Really? After what I did to you, I would have thought—” Instinctively, I reached out and touched his arm in apology. He looked at my hand on his arm and then into my eyes. His shame began to be replaced by splinters of hope. His gaze drew me in, but then guilt kicked me in the stomach. I snatched my hand back.

He pulled at his leather necklace as he looked away. When he did, I caught sight of the bruise on his cheekbone. The one Hamlet had put there when he punched Sebastian at the end of the lacrosse game.

“Does that hurt?” I asked, starting to reach for his face but then changing my mind.

“Not anymore. And hey, I got in a shot of my own,” he said, pride filling him before he remembered what came right after.

We stood in awkward silence for a moment.

“Sebastian,” I finally said, “I’m so sorry for what I did to you.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and chewed on my lip. I was so sick of regret, but at least this was one person I could still apologize to. “I told you it wasn’t personal, that there was so much I couldn’t explain.”

He looked back, and as our eyes met, my stomach flipped. From within my pockets, I pinched my own legs to remind myself not to feel anything for him.

He said, “I had no idea it was so bad. I wish I could have helped.”

“You did. In your own way.” I paused and considered telling him how he had helped me see that there was life beyond Elsinore. But it was too complicated, too personal. I settled on, “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

He hesitated and then, through a twisted half smile, asked, “Sorry enough that you’d go out with me again?”

I marveled at his audacious hope and stopped myself before I could reply the way my fluttering heart wanted me to answer. I looked over my shoulder. Marcellus was studying his shoes, but I knew he heard all of it. I was embarrassed by the conversation as much as I was intrigued by it, and I felt guilty for not dismissing Sebastian out of hand.

“Tacky. Bad timing,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry.”

I shrugged and cleared my throat, looking once again for Marcellus’s reaction. Marcellus was trained at seeming not to hear other people’s private moments, and, though he never broke confidences, I lowered my voice anyway. “I’m going away in a few weeks.”

“Oh,” Sebastian said, his shoulders slumping slightly. “You plan on coming back?”

Plan? Did I have a plan? My run-for-the-hills plan wasn’t quite a plan. More of a feeling. I couldn’t give him details I didn’t have myself, so I answered, “Probably. At some point. Not anytime soon.”

“Oh. Could I come visit?” His warm eyes met mine, sending a shiver through my body.

I pinched my leg again and curled my toes inside my shoes. He was too good, and this was too soon. And yet… Damn, I thought. Walk away.

I said, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Oh, how many times I had said that very phrase. I had no doubt I would hurt or disappoint him, and I would have said as much, but it would have done no good. He was smitten and determined, a deadly combination. God, not deadly. No more dead anyone. Hamlet. My father. My mother. My brother. I was falling into the abyss of memory when Sebastian touched my arm, yanking me back to the real conversation, my present life. I needed to let the past slip behind me. I needed care and contact but not the kind that added to my pain. I wasn’t sure what kind of contact this was, just that this was complicated.

He cocked his head and said, “You don’t have to answer now, okay?” His tenderness pained me.

“I’m not saying never,” I clarified. “Let me get myself settled. And then…”

“And then…” he said, his eyes shining.

“And then we’ll see,” I said as I grabbed for my keys and headed for my car.

Incredibly, the next day, a camera phone showing the game’s terrifying end surfaced. One of the spectators, an Elsinore Academy sophomore, had been too scared to show it to anyone, but his girlfriend finally turned it in. I had never been so relieved by a piece of intrusive technology. The nation was able to forgive my brother, and my father would finally be given a proper burial.

Our plans for Claudius became moot, since almost immediately hearings on his grab for power were ordered, and the public flew into a frenzy. He was buried quietly one night with no ceremony and at a distance from his brother and wife.

I spent the days before the funeral separating out what I wanted to keep of my dad’s and Laertes’s belongings. There wasn’t much besides photos, but I kept Laertes’s CD collection and my dad’s hats. He loved funny ones from our travels, and I didn’t have the heart to get rid of them. I found an old lipstick of my mom’s and kept that, too. The last item I tossed into the keep pile was a box of Hamlet’s gifts, notes, and the crumpled paper he’d thrown under my bed with the prophetic scribbles “To Be” and “Not to Be.” I couldn’t bear to look carefully at any of it, but I couldn’t throw it away, either.

Horatio came to get me when it was time to go to the service. I did everything in my power not to think, not to notice the crowds, not to hear the cameras clicking. Guards surrounded us and brought us to the car and then escorted us into the cathedral.

Walking toward the coffins at the end of the long cathedral aisle—the aisle I had begrudgingly hobbled down a few months earlier at Gertrude and Claudius’s wedding—my body grew weak. Horatio was holding on to my arm, to steady himself or me I couldn’t tell. I was relieved when the minister gestured for everyone to sit. The lacquered boxes seemed to mock us with their shining perfection. Such beauty was about to be put underground; their only purpose was turning to dust. The beauty of those I had loved would be forever locked inside, and all would be left to rot.

My brother, tall and wise, scornful and witty. Hitting me with a pillow if my head was blocking the television. Reading thick tomes that he insisted were interesting. His deep voice calling across the hallway telling me to turn down my music or asking how my day was. Smirking at my father’s instructions on how to be a better man. We laughed, yet those lessons made Laertes a wonderful man. A young man. So young he never had the chance to be his own man.

My father was not young. His pace was slowing. His hair was graying. His skin was wrinkling. His face was gentle and loving, despite the concern that often hung across it like a veil. Like a shroud. My father had had an opinion on everything, yet his opinions didn’t matter anymore. His advice would be dispensed to no one, and I alone held the memory of his private words. I had ignored too much of his advice, sure he would be around when I needed it, when I wanted it… which I had assumed would be never. “We never know the worth of water till the well goes dry,” he liked to say. Prophetic.

Looking at Gertrude’s silver casket, my father’s favorite curse sprang to mind: “May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of Damnation that the Lord himself can’t find you with a telescope.” Inside I smiled a little. See, Dad? I thought. You did teach me something useful.

My amusement faded as my gaze drifted to Hamlet’s casket, the most elaborate, the one most bedecked with flowers. Hamlet tucked a buttercup behind my ear. Hamlet shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. Hamlet strummed his guitar. Hamlet whispered words of love. Hamlet held me down. Hamlet called me a whore. Hamlet killed my father. Hamlet stabbed my brother. Hamlet. Hamlet. Hamlet. Damn him. Damn his name. Damn his memory. Damn the sweet pain I couldn’t shake. I closed my eyes, willing the thoughts away. “Good-bye, sweet prince,” I whispered to myself. No. No more of his name. No more of his memory.

“Sweet is the wine, but sour is the payment,” my father told me each time I chose pleasure over reason. Too bad my choice cost him so dearly. My lip began to quiver, but I forced my face to remain stony lest some cameraman catch my grief and broadcast it to the world. I wouldn’t give them what they wanted. I could hear every sound too loudly and yet understood none of it. Horatio whispered something, but I didn’t hear his words. I was sweating and cold, detached and overwrought. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t stand.

Horatio’s sudden absence left a cavern of cool air around me as he moved to the podium. I tried to focus my thoughts on him and his words about Hamlet, the Hamlet we once knew. Hamlet. Hamlet. My old self heard Horatio’s words and agreed: Hamlet had once been wonderful. My new self wanted to reach into the air and tear the kind words apart. Hamlet would be remembered as a charming prince who lost his way under the pressures of grief and conspiracy. I would remember him as the murderer of my very soul. Hamlet. Hamlet. The sharp end of his name curled my lips.

I became aware of silence. I looked up. Horatio was standing at the podium so stricken that he could not continue to speak. He laid his head on his arms, and the wrinkled papers shook in his hands. His father rushed forward and covered the microphone, whispering private comforts to his bereaved son. Taking the papers out of Horatio’s hands, his father completed the eulogy. The final story drifted around me while I focused on the father and son and how the father held the son as if bearing up the world. A father and son had led us to this moment. A father’s absence. A son’s rage. A daughter’s grief. Fathers and sons. Fathers and daughters. Lovers and deceivers. There was no escape.