Without Liza, life had become very quiet, and yet I knew no peace. I could not explain it to my parents-to anyone-but I felt as if Liza's spirit had remained in Wisteria, as if she were waiting for me to keep my promise to come.
I reached for the brass handle on the theater door and found the entrance unlocked. Feeling as if I were expected, I went in.
Inside the lobby the windows were shuttered and only the Exit signs lit. Having spent my childhood playing in the dusky wings and lobbies of halfdarkened theaters, I felt right at home. I took off my backpack and walked toward the doors that led into the theater itself. They were unlocked and I slipped in quietly.
A single light was burning at the back of the stage. But even if the place had been pitch black, I would have known by its smell-a mix of mustiness, dust, and paint-that I was in an old theater, the kind with worn gilt edges and heavy velvet curtains that hung a little longer each year. I walked a third of the way down the center aisle, several rows beyond the rim of the balcony, and sat down. The seat was low-slung and lumpy.
'I'm here, Liza. I've finally come.'
A sense of my sister, stronger than it had been since the day she left home, swept over me. I remembered her voice, its resonance and range when she was onstage, its merriment when she would lean close to me during a performance, whispering her critique of an actor's delivery: 'I could drive a truck through that pause!'
I laughed and swallowed hard. I didn't see how I could ever stop missing Liza. Then I quickly turned around, thinking I'd heard something.
Rustling. Nothing but mice, I thought; this old building probably housed a nation of them. If someone had come through the doors, I would have felt the draft.
But I continued to listen, every sense alert. I became aware of another sound, soft as my own breathing, a murmuring of voices. They came from all sides of me-girls' voices, I thought, as the sound grew louder. No-one voice, overlapping itself, an eerie weave of phrases and tones, but only one voice.
Liza's.
I held still, not daring to breathe. The sound stopped. The quiet that followed was so intense my ears throbbed, and I wasn't sure if I had heard my dead sister's voice or simply imagined it. I stood up slowly and looked around, but could see nothing but the Exit signs, the gilt edge of the balcony, and the dimly lit stage.
'Liza?'
There had always been a special connection between my sister and me. We didn't look alike, but when we were little, we tried hard to convince people we were twins. We were both left-handed and both good in languages. According to my parents, as toddlers we had our own language, the way twins sometimes do. Even when we were older, I always seemed to know what Liza was thinking. Could something like that survive death?
No, I just wanted it to; I refused to let go.
I continued down the aisle and climbed the side steps up to the proscenium stage. Its apron, the flooring that bows out beyond the curtain line, was deep. If Liza had been with me, she would have dashed onto it and begun an impromptu performance. I walked to the place that Liza claimed was the most magical in the world-front and center stage-then faced the rows of empty seats.
I'm here, Liza, I thought for a second time.
After she died, I had tried to break the habit of mentally talking to her, of thinking what I'd tell her when she got home from school. It was impossible.
I've come as I promised, Liza.
I rubbed my arms, for the air around me had suddenly grown cold. Its heaviness made me feel strange, almost weightless. My head grew light. I felt as if I could float up and out of myself. The sensation was oddly pleasant at first. Then my bones and muscles felt as if they were dissolving. I was losing myselfI could no longer sense my body. I began to panic.
The lights came up around me, cool-colored, as if the stage lights had been covered with blue gels. Words sprang into my head and the lines seemed familiar, like something I had said many times before: O time, thou must untangle this knot, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.
In the beat that followed I realized I had spoken the lines aloud.
'Wrong play.'
I jumped at the deep male voice.
'We did that one last year.'
I spun around.
'Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.'
The blue light faded into ordinary house and overhead stage lighting. A tall, lean guy with sandy-colored hair, my age or a little older, set down a carton.
He must have turned on the lights when entering from behind the stage. He strode toward me, smiling, his hand extended. 'Hi. I'm Brian Jones.'
'I'm Jenny.' I struggled to focus on the scene around me. 'Jenny Baird.'
Brian studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if I had sounded unsure when saying my new last name. Then he smiled again. He had one of those slow-breaking, tantalizing smiles. 'Jenny Baird with the long red hair. Nice to meet you. Are you here for camp?'
'Yes. You, too?'
'I'm always here. This summer I'm stage manager.' He pulled a penknife from his pocket, flicked it open, and walked back to the carton. Kneeling, he inserted the knife in the lid and ripped it open. 'Want a script? Are you warming up for tomorrow?'
'Oh, no. I don't act. I'm here to do crew work.'
He gave me another long and curious look, then pulled out a handful of paperback books, identical copies of A Midsummer Night's Dream. 'I guess you don't know about Walker,' he said, setting the books down in sets of five. 'He's our director and insists that everyone acts.'
'He can insist, but it won't do him any good,' I replied. 'I have stage fright. I can act if I'm in a classroom or hanging out with friends, but put me on a stage with lights shining in my face and an audience staring up at me, and something happens.'
'Like what?' Brian asked, sounding amused.
'My voice gets squeaky, my palms sweat. I feel as if I'm going to throw up. Of course,' I added, 'none of my elementary school teachers left me on stage long enough to find out if I would.'
He laughed.
'It's humiliating,' I told him.
'I suppose it would be,' he said, his voice gentler. 'Maybe we can help you get over it.'
I walked toward him. 'Maybe you can explain to the director that I can't.'
He gazed up at me, smiling. His deep brown eyes could shift easily between seriousness and amusement. 'I'll give it a shot. But I should warn you, Walker can be stubborn about his policies and very tough on his students. He prides himself on it.'
'It sounds as if you know him well.' Had Brian known Liza, too? I wondered.
'I'm going to be a sophomore here at Chase,' Brian replied, 'and during my high school years I was a student at the camp, an actor. Did you see our production last year?'
'No. What play did you do?'
'The one you just quoted from,' he reminded me.
For a moment I felt caught. 'Twelfth Night' 'Those were Viola's lines,' he added.
Liza's role. Which was how I knew the lines-I'd helped her prepare for auditions.
Still, the way Brian studied me made me uncomfortable. Did he know who I was? Don't be stupid, I told myself. Liza had been lanky and dark-haired, like my father, while my mother and I looked as if we had descended from leprechauns. Liza's funeral had been private, with only our closest friends and family invited. My mother had always protected me from the media.
'It's a great play,' I said. 'My school put it on this year,' I added, to explain how I knew the lines.
