Saving Juliet (5 page)

The panic attack revived itself, full force. My head started to spin. The floor felt soft. Too many faces stared at me. I had to get out of there. I had to get some air. I turned and ran down the hall. My mother continued to argue with the director.

Panic shot down my limbs.
I can't go out on that stage. I can't go out on that stage.
No way was I going back. But where, exactly, did I think I
was
going? I didn't have a plane ticket. I didn't even have enough money for a bus ticket. I
need air. I need air.
I tripped over an extension cord. Troy grabbed my arm.

"Mimi?" He had followed me down the hall.

"Leave me alone."

"I just wanted to give this back and apologize for breaking it." He held out the chain. I couldn't catch my breath. I grabbed the Shakespearean charm so hurriedly that the delicate glass shattered in my hand.

"Mimi!" my mother yelled from the far end of the hall. "Come back here!"

"I can't!" I screamed. "I can't do this anymore." I stumbled toward the exit. My heart pounded in my throat.

"Are you really going to L.A
. ?"
Troy asked as I grabbed the doorknob.

"Maybe.
I don't know." I tried to hold it together, but I knew that as soon as I opened that door and was all by myself, I'd lose it. The tears would come and I'd cry forever. "I just want to be somewhere else."

"Well," he said, "you're dressed for Verona. Maybe you should go there. I hear it's a nice place." He was trying to ease the tension with humor. But I couldn't laugh. Laughter and tears are too closely related and I was still trying to hold it together.

"Verona is as good a place as any," I said.

I opened the backstage door and a blast of winter wind hit me straight on. Startled, I tried to shield my face. The wind blew the ashes from my palm. They swirled and danced like sparkling flakes in a snow globe. What had been just a small pinch of ash began to form a silver cloud, growing larger and larger, swirling faster and faster. The ashes went into my nose and mouth. They must have gone into Troy's mouth, too, because we both started coughing. The ashes burned my throat and stung my eyes. I needed fresh air. I stepped into the alley.

Someone rushed by, knocking me off balance. I fell to the ground, landing in something wet.

***

"Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene..."

T
he ash cloud cleared and I stared in horror at the puddle of gunk into which I had fallen
--
thick and putrid, it smelled like the cow farms that we'd pass when we drove through Vermont. It coated my hands like chocolate frosting. Eggshells and potato peelings floated on the surface. I leaped to my feet, shuddering to imagine what other ingredients I might find. Mud splotches covered the front of my costume. The hem had soaked up the stinky sludge as well. Talk about bad karma
--
but I guess that's what happens when you tell your mother that you hate her.

Despite my tumble into garbage, my panic attack subsided. I took a long, deep breath, relieved to see that neither my mother nor Troy had followed me into the alley. I wiped my hands on the front of my dress. No way was I going back inside to wash them. I'd stop at the nearest Starbucks, a half block in any direction, and use their bathroom. One of the nice things about New York City is that everyone has seen everything, so I knew I wouldn't have to deal with people staring or pointing fingers. Mud-stained Renaissance clothing is mild compared with what some of the street performers wear. As soon as I got home, I'd change clothes, pack my bags, call Aunt Mary, and beg her to book me a new flight.

Shaking some mud from my hem, I started up the alley, but I didn't make it more than a few steps because I twisted my ankle on a cobblestone. In the fourteen years that I had been entering and exiting the Wallingford Theatre, there had never been cobblestones in the alley. And what was all that light beckoning from the alley's entrance? One of those spotlights, I guessed, that advertises a grand opening.

"Capulet scum!" a voice cried. A woman leaned out an upper-story window in the building across the alley. At that time, a classical dance troupe rented the upstairs studio. "Damn you Capulets to hell!" The woman shook her fist at me,
then
tossed out some slop from a bucket, creating another puddle of gunk that missed me by mere inches.

Enough already.
I just wanted to get home. "That's disgusting," I told her. "What's your problem?" She shook her fist again,
then
retreated. In my experience, dancers are notoriously temperamental, especially those of the classical persuasion. She had probably auditioned for
Romeo and Juliet
and was holding a grudge against me. Had she dreamed of Juliet's role for as long as I had dreamed of people calling me doctor? I stepped over the new puddle. Dancers are notorious binge eaters as well; maybe that's what the slop was all about. But I wasn't interested in pondering eating disorders.

My ankle was a bit sore as I hobbled up the alley toward the blinding light. Certainly the symbolism of that moment was not lost on me. The dead move toward the light, seeking God and everlasting peace. A panic attack can leave its victim feeling like the living dead. But moths move toward the light as well, only to get fried. Zap! What fate awaited me?

At the end of the alley I squinted, shielding my eyes as they adjusted. The spotlight perched high overhead and penetrated my costume with its heat. As my pupils constricted, I found that it was not a spotlight at all. It was the sun. And that is the moment I will never forget.

I warned you in the beginning that you might not believe the story I was about to tell, so you've probably anticipated this moment. You may also have read the book's jacket copy so you know that at some point I am going to take an unexpected trip. I did not have the luxury of a book jacket, however, to prepare me, so I felt totally bewildered.
The sky, not aglow with city lights or heavy with snow clouds, sparkled baby blue like the bottom of a painted swimming pool.
Cottonball clouds floated, cast here and there by a light breeze. And the air was thick with humidity.

What had, an hour earlier, been a familiar city street, was transformed.
Before me lay a market square.
A stone tower stood across the way and a cluster of stalls overflowed with flowers and produce. A central fountain, shaped like a cake stand with a sculpted lady on top, spouted water. Chickens scurried about, pigeons flew past, and two piglets slept in a basket. A crowd had gathered at the far end. It looked like a Renaissance fair, the way everyone was dressed. For a moment I thought that a film crew had set up shop, except that even Steven Spielberg couldn't move entire buildings, and two city blocks' worth had simply disappeared.

My instinct was to get somewhere that made sense, so I turned back. Fickle, you might be saying to yourself, but at that moment I would have welcomed the Wallingford Theatre, would have kissed its dingy carpet if it meant that I hadn't lost my mind. The dancer had returned to the alley window so I decided to try the main entrance. But I couldn't find the building I knew so well. No marquee with twinkling yellow lights, no glass lobby doors, no ticket booth. No pimply-faced guy.

A wooden sign with a painting of a high-heeled boot hung above a simple wooden door. I flung the door open, hoping with all my heart to find the Coat Check Crones gossiping and smoking. Instead, I stepped into a cobbler's shop, poorly lit by a few candles. "We're not open yet," a man muttered. He hammered on a piece of leather.

"Hold on, Rodney." Another man stepped forward, wringing his hands. "We'd consider opening early for a lady, if she's got the means to pay." He looked at my soiled dress and pursed his lips. "Perhaps you're looking for the dress shop, two doors down."

I backed up, stumbling into the square. A group of children ran past. More people made their way toward the growing crowd. I suddenly felt numb. I now know it was shock. Shock serves a purpose by turning off your brain for a moment so it doesn't self-destruct. Shock creates a barrier so that you can gradually let the experience in, like slowly wading into frigid water.

"Mimi!" a man called. I spun around but didn't see any familiar faces. Was I hearing things? No, there it was again. "Mimi!"

"I'm over here!" I replied, waving my hands in the air. Which direction had the voice come from?

"The prince is speaking," people told each other as they hurried by. Men dressed in tights and short pants climbed the fountain, stretching their necks for a better view. Women in long dresses pushed into the square. I kept spinning, searching desperately for my caller. The sea of bodies forced me toward the center of the square.

"I'm over here!" I called again.

"Quiet! You must listen to the prince," a man scolded. The crowd stilled and a voice burst forth from somewhere ahead. I couldn't see the speaker but he spoke familiar words.

"Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, listen to the sentence of your prince!" I found myself squished between an enormously fat woman and a guy who smelled like onions. I could just make out a hat with a red feather that bobbed as the prince spoke. "Three times now, the Capulets and Montagues have fought in our streets, spilling their own blood as well as the blood of innocent bystanders. I will stand for no more. If either house disrupts the peace again, the punishment shall be death! That is the word of your prince."

The Capulets and the Montagues?
Okay, this was getting stranger by the minute.

The crowd began to murmur, many nodding their heads in agreement. The fat woman glared at me. "Did you heat that, Capulet?" She was missing a few teeth. "Tell your menfolk that they'll hang by their necks if they keep fighting."

Another woman purposefully bumped into me as she walked by, spitting at my feet. "Capulet scum," she hissed.

I didn't know if I should burst into tears or start giggling hysterically, so I did both. I stood there like a crazy person, in my mud-splattered dress. This was just like the opening of the play, when the prince makes his proclamation. Just like the play that I was trying to escape. How could this be happening?

"Move on, move on," a group of men ordered as they swept across the square. They wore matching red capes and red felt hats. "Move on, orders of the prince." The crowd obeyed and the spitting woman moved away as well.
"Back to your business, everyone.
You there!"

Turns out, I was the "you there."

One of the men strode toward me, a unibrow dripping over his dark eyes. "I don't recognize you."

What was I supposed to say? I had nothing to say. I couldn't have been more confused if I had landed on Mars. Then I remembered the ashes that I had inhaled. What if they hadn't been fireplace ashes after all, but had been magic mushroom ashes, or some other kind of ashes that bring on hallucinations? Okay, that was possible. That sounded good. I had never done drugs before and I hadn't ever intended on doing drugs, but it was possible that I was in the middle of some sort of acid trip.

The man grabbed my arm and squeezed real hard. "You're wearing Capulet colors. It's against the law to pose as a noble. You want that pretty little neck of yours hanging from a noose?"

My mind spun as I stared into his angry eyes. How could a hallucination hurt? And why was he yelling at me, spattering my face with spittle? Another panic attack ignited in the soles of my feet, ready to shoot up through my core. I
will not lose control. I can deal with this. I can deal with the fact that I have no idea what's going on.
He tightened his grip like a deadly blood-pressure cuff.

"I've got a right mind to take you to jail, unless you want to give me a little something in return." He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me against his hip. The hilt of his sword dug into my ribs.

"Please stop, you're hurting me," I whimpered.

"There is no need for violence," a kindly voice said. An old man in a brown robe stepped forward. A large silver cross hung around his neck. "We should give this woman a chance to explain." He placed a speckled hand on the soldier's arm, melting the tension. I pulled away. Then the speckled hand patted my shoulder. "You are frightened, my child. Take a moment to catch your breath."

Frightened? More like scared out of my mind! A crowd of onlookers gathered around.

"Well?" the soldier asked impatiently. "Who are you?" He leaned close, enveloping me with his halitosis. "Lavender and gold are Capulet colors and like I said, it's against the law to pose as a noble. I have to arrest you if you're not a Capulet."

I couldn't find my voice.

The old man patted my shoulder again. "Have you come for the party?" he asked. His hair was cut in a strange ring encircling his head. "Capulet cousins have been arriving all week long for tonight's party. Is that why we do not recognize you? Perhaps you have traveled far. Is that why your dress is soiled?"

"Yes," I managed. Dear God, what was I saying? But for the first time in my life, telling someone that my name was Mimi Wallingford great-granddaughter of Adelaide Wallingford was not going to help me. I just wanted that soldier to go away. "I'm a Capulet cousin."

"Ah, there, you see, we have an answer." The old man clapped his hands together.

The soldier adjusted his red hat. "Then you'd better get to Capulet House. There's no telling what might happen to you on the streets." It was a blatant threat and his sinister expression terrified me.

The old man watched the soldier saunter away. "Holy St. Francis," he mumbled. "Everyone is so hot-tempered these days." He picked up the hem of his long robe and smiled. "I must be off, as should you. Heed the soldier's advice and get to Capulet House tight away. And if you need spiritual guidance of any sort during your visit, you can find me at the Church of St. Francis, the most beautiful church in Verona."

Verona?

"Just ask for Friar Laurence." He hurried off, his sandals kicking up bits of dirt.

Friar Laurence was a character from
Romeo and Juliet.

The onlookers continued to glare at me. I wanted to hide. To curl up into a little ball someplace dark. So I ran back into the alley from which I had come. Back up the rabbit hole. Please, oh please, back to reality. But I found no stage door. Stumbling, I followed the alley, winding here and there and down a little hill until it widened into a lane. I passed under a series of archways,
then
rounded a sharp corner where the lane came to an abrupt end. I reached up to swat a fly from my face and found myself gazing at a horizon dotted with tall trees and rolling hills. Not a single skyscraper or yellow taxi or pedestrian anywhere to be seen.
Directly in front of me stood a crumbling stone wall.
Rows of fruit trees lay to my left. Goats grazed in a field to my right. The shock wore off. I plunged into the icy waters of reality.

New York City was gone.