Two Sisters: A Novel (14 page)

“Know what that is, Mama?”

Muriel pointed up at a flickering light along the inner rim of the ornate oval ceiling.

Narrowing her eyes, Lidia said, “A fire hazard?”

“A ghost.” Muriel had read all about theater ghosts in the library, how they haunted Broadway in the middle of the night. Long after the stagehands locked the props away and mopped the footprints off the stage, apparitions wandered the wings, some endlessly awaiting their entrance cues, strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage as in
Macbeth
. Others preferred to communicate directly with fresh audiences by “winking” with the houselights as they settled in their seats.

“It’s going to be a good show,” Muriel said, excited.

Nestling into the velvety cushion of her seat, she quietly waited for the lights to dim and the pure moment of transport to take her away. She never opened her program; reading it only wrinkled the pages. Instead, she unsnapped her handbag, pulled out a small manila envelope, and slid the program safely inside it. At home, she would insert the pristine program into a protective plasticine sheet and add it to her notebook—a chronicle of the best moments of her life. Where she
learned
about life, really. The way God meant the world to be, with love bursting straight from the heart, draped in colorful dresses that twirled like pinwheels. Kisses with such utter surrender the woman’s neck bent all the way back, the very artery of her life exposed.

At last, the lights began to dim. The crowd went silent. In the fading houselights, Muriel let her eyelids droop, pressing them tight with the final flicker until she felt it.
It
. That singular moment of perfection in the collective silence, the promise of all that’s possible. It was her favorite moment, the suspended nanosecond between the end of one reality and the beginning of another. In a weighted
whoosh
the curtain swept open, the orchestra struck its first chord, and Muriel opened her eyes to magic.

Lidia was already gone.

The first time Muriel noticed that her mother vanished as soon as the lights went out inside the theater, she had asked, naturally, “Where’d you go?” at intermission. Flushed and breathless, Lidia looked sheepish when she said, “Dawdle in the restroom and they won’t let you back to your seat.”

Another matinee day, when one of the dancers onstage did a backflip from a standing position, Muriel wanted to excitedly elbow her mother but the seat next to her was still empty. “You okay?” she asked when she found Lidia rushing in through the theater’s front doors toward the end of the fifteen-minute break.

“Never better,
misiaczku
. I needed fresh air is all.”

A few weeks later Lidia didn’t take her seat at all before the show started. “My knee is bothering me,” she had said in the lobby. “I’m going to stand in the back awhile.” Muriel sat alone for the whole two hours because she never did spot her mother’s silhouette. Perhaps she was in the bathroom again? The line
was
always long and that particular intermission did seem shorter than intermissions usually were.

“Did you take aspirin?” she asked her mother when they found each other after the show.

“Aspirin?”

“For your knee.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes, I did.” Quickly, Lidia added, “Ready to satisfy your sweet tooth?”

By the time
Mamma Mia!
opened, Lidia was leaving Muriel alone in theaters as a matter of course.
What better babysitter
? she told herself. Muriel would never leave a show until the actors had bowed, dispersed to the wings, returned for an encore bow, and, if she was lucky, returned once more with their hands over their hearts, their lips folded over their teeth in feigned emotion, folding their torsos over their thighs then rising to blow kisses to the crowd roaring overhead in the mezzanine.

Eventually, Muriel grew accustomed to sitting alone in the dark. She stopped asking questions even though she’d seen lots of people follow the usher’s tiny flashlight to their seats after a show began. Once she searched the restroom during intermission and examined the feet under every door. Ushers talked quietly to each other and looked at her with worry ridges in their foreheads. “Where are your parents, honey?”

“My mom has bad knees,” Muriel would say, pointing to a random female figure in the back of the theater. As Muriel had discovered, whenever she waved,
someone
near the bar always waved back.

Afraid her special Saturdays would end if she made a fuss, she kept quiet. She made excuses for her mother. Probably, she had trouble sitting still. Maybe the view was better from . . . wherever she was.

Muriel told no one how hurt she felt. Why didn’t her mother want to sit with her? She was grown up, honestly she was, never squirming or kicking the seat in front of her. Not once did she unwrap a candy after the show started or slyly open the program to try and read an actor’s credits in the dark. When she didn’t understand something that was said or sung onstage she kept it to herself until
after
the final curtain call when the whole audience was allowed to talk. Wasn’t that the adult thing to do? Why did her mother prefer to be elsewhere, away from her, faded into the dark?

That Saturday’s show,
Into the Woods
, was long, but Muriel could have sat there, transfixed, another hour or two. As the final curtain fell, she leaped to her feet along with everyone else, careful not to smash her handbag with its pristine
Playbill
. One by one, the actors bowed. Muriel stepped into the aisle to see them better. Cinderella, Florinda, Lucinda, Little Red Riding Hood. Who would smile? Who stayed in character? Which actor crumpled forward like a rag doll, who barely nodded his or her head? It was her favorite part of any show—when the actors became themselves again. In their final bow, she could catch a glimpse of who they really were.

As soon as the ushers opened the side doors, sunlight flooded the theater. It was still daylight outside. Like slowly rolling marbles, the crowd found the nearest exit and spilled onto the street. Flushed with pleasure, Muriel shuffled to the back of the theater, searching for the customary flutter of her mother’s hand. “Yoo-hoo!” Usually, it was easy to spot her—the lone static presence in a sea of moving heads. That day, though, everyone was moving. Perhaps Muriel was blinded by the sudden light?

At the back of the theater, Muriel stepped out of the human current leading to the outside. Digging at a hangnail with her teeth, she waited beneath the mezzanine staircase.

Stay put.
That’s what Lidia had said when Muriel wandered off at Six Flags a few years earlier on a family trip. Her mother was angry that day, had grabbed Muriel’s upper arm and shaken it so hard it hurt all day. “You’ll
never
be found if you move.”

So she didn’t move. She stayed put and watched people file past her. They chattered words like “magnificent” and sang songs from the show.

“Careful the thing you say, children will listen . . .”

Everyone was more alive than they had been when they came in. Which was why Muriel adored the theater. In the dark, you could be reborn. Your imperfect life could be exchanged for a brand-new model.

“You okay?” An usher appeared as the crowd thinned out. She wore black slacks and a black shirt. Removing her fingernail from her mouth, Muriel flashed a thumbs-up. “Never better.”

“Where are your parents, honey?”

“My mom’s, uh, in the bathroom.”

Insecurity had sneaked into her voice. It surprised her. Not until she spoke it out loud was she sure it was a lie. At that instant, Muriel knew her mother wasn’t in the theater at all. She cleared her throat. “She’ll be out any minute.”

“Wait here.” The usher descended the stairs to the ladies’ room, a stack of programs still clutched to her chest.

At that point the lobby was nearly empty. Muriel’s cheeks flushed. More than anything, she didn’t want the usher to know that Lidia had left her alone. As if she didn’t want to be seen with her. As if sitting next to her younger daughter for two hours was an unbearable chore. She felt ashamed. How could she explain to a stranger that their Saturdays were
special
? They had their own rules. It wasn’t like her mother had squeezed herself through the bathroom window and dropped to the alley below, the only remnant of her a torn piece of fabric caught on the windowsill’s bent nail. Muriel
knew
her mother wasn’t there. She hadn’t run out on her, for God’s sake.

“Do you have a cell phone?” the usher asked, returning all sad faced.

“No.”

“Does your Mom have one?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know her number?”

“Of course.” She was eleven, not five.

As the usher dug through her pockets for a pen, the blood in Muriel’s red cheeks betrayed her. Gripping her purse with both hands, she said, “I just remembered. Mama asked me to wait for her outside.”

“Hold on, dear, let me—”

Without waiting for a discussion, Muriel pivoted toward the heavy brass exit, her sandals catching on the plush theater carpet as she scurried out. If they called her mother, she’d be in trouble for sure. And she so wanted to see
Hairspray
when it opened
.

Afraid the usher might follow her, Muriel rushed out the doors and ran up to Seventh Avenue half a block away. There, she pressed herself against a concrete wall behind a curve in the building, her heart thudding. Not sure what else to do, she stood there breathing hard.
You’ll never be found if you move.
Lidia’s voice ran on a loop inside her head.
Stay put.

She stayed put.

It was still warm out, though not as oppressive as it had been before the show. The late-afternoon sun was quickly fading to orange. Beneath her skirt, Muriel felt the flesh of her bare thighs press together. The rubber soles of her sandals stuck slightly to the gum-speckled sidewalk. In the corner where she stood, a faint smell of urine made her pull away from the wall. Leaning forward, Muriel peeked back at the theater. Thankfully, no one had followed her. But her heart sank when she saw that, soon, no one was there at all. The ushers stepped out and kicked up the stops that held the doors open. The theater folded into itself. As suddenly as the throngs of people had gathered before the show, all had disappeared now. Pedestrians passed by freely, no longer stepping into traffic to loop around the crowd. No one smoked a final cigarette nor kiss-kissed a friend’s cheek. It was empty. In a matter of minutes, the beautiful theater became a building. Nothing more.
Poof!
The magic was gone. Muriel felt tears sting her cheeks. All of a sudden, loneliness swept over her. Her heart hurt.

“Watch?”

Muriel whipped her head around. A man selling watches from a briefcase suddenly stood next to her. The whites of his eyes were yellowish and he smelled like wet laundry.

“No, thank you,” she said, gently tugging her skirt lower over her bare knees.

“Disney? Mickey Mouse? Rolex?”

“No, thank you.”

“Swatch?”

“I don’t have any money.”

He snapped the briefcase shut and moved on though his smell remained. Muriel gripped her purse with both hands and stared back at the front of the theater as if the intensity of her gaze could materialize a mother. She scanned each shape on the sidewalk for the familiar one she knew. She prayed, “Dear God, please bring my mama back soon.” Without a clue about what else to do, she waited, staying put, sucking the flesh of her bottom lip, determined not to cry. Only babies cried. Isn’t that what Pia always said? Grown-ups lifted their chins and focused on the next hurdle.

“It’s called
composure
, Muriel. Look it up. Live it.”

Tucked into the concrete corner, not touching the urine-stained wall, Muriel practiced composure. She acted like Pia. She stood diving-board straight, swallowed her tears and her fear, and waited for her mother in five-minute increments.
Is that her?
That’s her, isn’t it?
Hey, there’s a blue dress. Is that Mama’s blue dress?

With each passing minute, the sidewalk grew grayer and the air thickened with the oncoming night. Mosquitoes buzzed by her ears. Muriel swatted them away with her purse, careful not to flap it too hard and bend the
Playbill
.

“You lost, little lady?” a vendor called out from behind his table full of sunglasses across the street.

“I’m waiting for my mom.” Muriel coughed into her hand, hoping to erase the quiver in her voice.

“You been waiting there an awful long time.”

“She told me not to move.”

“Want me to call the police for you?”

“She’ll be here any minute. She said to wait here.”

“The cop station is right around that corner. About a block away. Smack-dab in the middle of the street. Can’t miss it. Young girl like you shouldn’t be out alone after dark.”

Muriel nodded and promised to run to the police station if her mother didn’t show up soon. Which, of course, was a lie. Never would she go to the police. Heavens, no. Muriel wasn’t a baby; she knew how these things went.

“When did you last see your mother?”

“
Before
the show started?”

“How often does she leave you sitting alone?”

An outsider wouldn’t understand their special Saturday matinees, how Lidia had bad knees and whatnot. It would be impossible to explain how mature she was, how she never talked
at all
during a show. Besides, didn’t the police make you swear to tell the truth and nothing but? She would have to confess where she lived and recite phone numbers and they would call her parents and her dad would be mad at her mom and her mother would be mad at her and their special Saturdays would end for good.

Muriel peered around the edge of the building again and begged God to send her.
Probably
, she thought,
she’s lost in Times Square
. Certainly it could feel like a maze at times. All those neon lights. People shoving fliers for comedy shows into your hands at every turn. Maybe somebody stole her mother’s purse. Or she’d tripped off a curb and fallen into the gutter. Who could stand to wear the same clothes after that? The smell was disgusting even when the dead water was still on the street! She probably had to go shopping for a new dress. It couldn’t be easy finding something nice to wear around there, not when the stores only sold tourist T-shirts with
I
NY
on them. Probably, she’d taken a cab to Macy’s and was stuck in traffic on the way back to pick her up that very minute.