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Until I feel myself freeze. When I notice the chairs.
They're all set up in rows--at least two hundred of them--as though a performance might start at any second.
The idea of it sends another chill down my back.
I walk toward the first row, the adrenaline pumping hard through my veins, wondering if maybe the chairs are nailed down and that's why they're so well placed. I mean, it's not just that the chairs are arranged in rows that's messing me up. It's that they're arranged in perfect rows. Like, there's one chair perfectly positioned behind another, and then another, and then another--like someone recently set them up.
I get it all on tape, moving around to zoom in at every angle, noticing the symmetry from every side. It completely weirds me out.
Breathing hard, I reach out to touch one. At the same moment, my headlight goes out. "Shit!" I shout, standing in complete darkness now. I place my camera down and whack my headlight a bunch of times, but it doesn't work. "Piece of crap!" I shout, going for the flashlight inside my bag. I fumble with the zipper, but I can't get my fingers to work right, especially with the bandage on my hand.
I go to rip it off, but then I heat footsteps move toward me. "Derik?" whispers a voice.
"Who's there?" I call out.
"It's me ... Chet," the voice says, coming from somewhere behind me. "Are you okay?"
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But it doesn't sound like Chet. I whirl around just as a flashlight beam shines in my face--in my eyes--making it impossible to see.
"Derik?" the voice whispers again.
The footsteps continue toward me.
"Are you okay, man?" the voice says.
My face begins to bead up in sweat. My heart pumps even harder. I grab one of the chairs, prepared to throw it. But then I see Chet's face.
"What do you think you're doing, man?" he asks, noticing the chair--positioned high above my head now.
My jaw shakes, completely freaked out, fully recognizing his voice now. "I didn't know it was you," I say, realizing how messed up that sounds. I mean, it didn't sound like Chet's voice. Something deep inside me told me that it wasn't him--that it couldn't be him.
And that someone was coming after me.
"Where were you guys?" I ask, setting the chair down. "I called you. I couldn't see your lights."
"We were in the comer," Chet says, "behind the barrels. Mimi had me picking through a pile of debris. The things you do for lust."
"Man, this place is screwed up," I say.
"You're just figuring that out now?"
"Are you okay?" Liza asks. Her headlight beam moves toward me. And so do the others'.
"I'm good," I say, when everybody's in full view. "I just had some technical difficulties, I guess." I look at Chet--
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to see if he's gonna say something, mention how he almost got a chair thrown in his face--but thankfully, he just keeps silent.
"That's too freaky," Mimi says, noticing the chairs. "I mean, you'd think somebody would have trashed them by now. Or at least knocked them over."
I nod, knowing now that they're not nailed to the ground--that they were recently set up.
"Did you find number seventeen?" she asks.
I shake my head, still freaked out that something wasn't right a few minutes ago. That something was messing with me for sure. Still, I take a deep breath and tell myself that this will all be over soon. I reach into the darkness and take Liza's hand, giving it a good squeeze.
"Let the search begin," I say.
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TONY
GRETA'S MAKING ME NERVOUS . Ever since we stepped foot in this auditorium, she hasn't been herself. She hasn't been taking my cues or my directions, and she pulled away from me not once but twice when I tried to hold her hand.
I'm not sure if it's something I did. I mean, sometimes you just never know with girls. This one time last November she stopped talking to me altogether. I had no idea why, but I couldn't figure it out on my own:
FADE IN:
INTERIOR: BAGEL WORLD-DAY
Two attractive thespians, a male and a female, 17, sit at the corner booth of a small bagelry, sipping coffee and sharing a cinnamon-and-raisin bagel.
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GRETA, the female, is clearly upset, doing everything in her power to avoid TONY, her charming boyfriend. Tony works hard at trying to figure out what Greta's problem is.
TONY
Was it something I said?
(Greta shakes her head.)
TONY
Was it something I did?
GRETA
(frustrated)
It's something you didn't do.
TONY
(trying to be funny)
I didn't tell you how sexy, talented, and all-over fabulous you are today?
GRETA
Are you trying to piss me off even more?
TONY
Is it because I didn't stick up for you when Mr. Duncan suggested
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you play Carlita's understudy?
GRETA
(arms folded, getting more irritated) No, but you should have. Carlita is one of the most talentless actresses in our class.
TONY
(checking date book)
Did I miss some event? Some mark of time? Our anniversary or something?
GRETA
(look of death)
I can't even believe you have to ask. Our first date was on January nineteenth. We went to Sparky's for dinner right after rehearsal for The King and I. You're such a jerk for not remembering.
TONY
I'm sorry.
GRETA
You should be.
CUT TO:
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After a good twenty minutes or so spent hitting walls, only irritating my beloved all the more by pointing out flaws that she wasn't even aware of in the first place, she finally caved and told me: One full week before, I had gone to see Casablanca, this old black-and-white classic with my sister (also a movie buff), not her; and apparently, unbeknownst to me, Greta had really wanted to go.
I scratch behind my ear and wrack my brain, wondering if maybe I unintentionally excluded her from something within the last ten minutes.
It's got to be something.
Because she's definitely not herself.
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GRETA
IF MIMI THINKS I'm going to go picking through piles of asbestos-littered asylum trash, she's got another thing coming. I'm just about to tell her this, when we're distracted by Derik. It seems his headlight went out in the center of this godforsaken auditorium. I mean, honestly, is this a gym, an auditorium, or what? I can't even imagine what it must have been like to give a performance here-- no stadium seating, a constant echo due to excessively high ceilings, and a wooden floor with lines all over it for basketball and such.
"We need to find the chair," Mimi announces like we need yet another reminder. Chair number seventeen is all she's been talking about since I read that last entry in Christine Belle's journal.
Though I'll have to admit, asbestos-littered trash and pathetic auditoriums aside, it did feel pretty damned good to read that entry--both entries, actually. Especially since
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I sort of got right into the role. I mean, I didn't have to force anything, or fake anything, or improvise one tiny bit. The scenes just sort of felt right--the words Christine wrote, the voice I gave her, my facial expressions, and where I chose to give dramatic pause.
It makes me wonder if that's what Mr. Duncan is always talking about--how I don't get into the heads of my characters enough; I need to trust my instincts more; realize that every role is unique, and that I have to adapt accordingly.
So while the group searches all the chairs, I bite my tongue and try and get into the role as best I can--pretending like I really do care about finding the chair, trying to imagine this as one big play and that I'm Christine's ghost, rising above the scene, watching over the others in anticipa
tion as they finally find the doll and give rest to my spirit.
The only problem--there's got to be at least three hundred chairs in this god awful place. And they're wooden, for that matter-- the absolute worst! I mean, I could go into a whole soliloquy on why wooden folding chairs are inappropriate for performance seating, what with their hard backs and lame-o support--but that's a whole other topic.
Right now I need to forget all that. I need to be Christine.
I take a deep breath and do my best to be patient. I wander through the aisles as Mimi and the others search the backs and bottoms of chairs. It seems each one has a
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number written on the back in black permanent marker. But, oddly enough, while the chairs are lined up in perfectly straight rows as though a performance might begin as soon as the curtain's drawn, the numbers are not in order. The front row, for example, goes 29, 85, 108, 217, and so on.
Mimi searches voraciously, like a crack addict who needs her fix. I mean, honestly, Halle Berry in Losing Isaiah had nothing on her. Mimi's turning over chairs, inspecting every little crevice, despite what number the chair is. While she and Chet work one side of the seating area, Derik, Liza, and Tony work the other.
Until it appears they're all done.
"I checked all these out," Chet says, after what feels like a good half hour. He motions to the rows behind him. "I can't find seventeen."
"Are you checking under all the chairs anyway?" Mimi asks.
"Well, yeah," he says, his eyebrows weaving together since it's pretty obvious he's been checking everywhere. He's been picking up and turning over chairs right in front of her. Everybody has.
"We're done, too," Derik says.
"We're not done," Mimi argues. "I mean, we can't give up now."
"Nobody says we're giving up," Chet says. "Nobody?" Tony lets out a sigh.
"We have to keep looking," Mimi continues. "Christine
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is counting on us." Without waiting for backup, she moves toward the stage area. I can see the lovely heap of debris from here.
I take a deep breath and concentrate on my "inner Christine," trying to channel her character and get inside her head. "We need to help her," I say finally.
Tony's mouth drops open in response, and I almost lose my concentration. Still, he joins us as we climb the steps to center stage, where there's another complete mess--torn theater curtains, piles of trash, a dust-covered stretcher, a stack of moldy magazines from the Seventies, a container of blue things (a pair of blue Barbie shoes, a child's blue toothbrush, a blue hair comb, blue bottle caps, a thimble of blue thread, a plastic blue frog).
And then a clown costume. One of those polka-dotted ones with the big frilly collars.
"To go with the mask," Chet says, holding the costume up like he wants to try it on.
The whole scene makes me sad, not because of the clown, or the mess, of Tony's sulky attitude. But because of Mimi.
She really wants to help Christine.
And deep down, I feel somehow that Christine really wants to be helped.
"Are you okay?" Liza asks, noticing that I'm not myself.
I give a slight nod, pausing a moment, center-stage, to look out at the tows of chairs, wondering what it might have been like to perform here.
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"Do you want some water?" she continues. I shake my head and move back down into the audience.
"Where are you going?" Tony asks.
But I don't answer; instead, I choose a seat in the middle row, knowing somehow that that's where Christine would have sat--not so far back that she would have missed the show, but not so close that she would have caused extra attention.
"Greta?" Tony calls.
But still I don't answer.
"Is she okay?" someone asks.
I close my eyes to block them out, pretending to hold a doll in my hand. I prop her up on my knee as though she's watching the show, too. There's a female singer tonight. Draped in layers of light blue silk, she has a tinkling little voice that reminds me of wind chimes.
"Are you ready?" I whisper to my doll.
I imagine that Christy is scared, and that it takes some coaxing to convince her to go under the chair, promising her a world of safety and love, far away from this wretched castle. I tell her that when she's found, her new mommy will take good care of her, and that one day she too will be able to wear layers of blue silk, just like the pretty singer tonight.
But Christy doesn't want to go.
She frowns at the roll of tape I've brought along, the one I snuck from the nurse's station, telling me there's no
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way she'll last under there, that the tape will lose its strength and she'll go tumbling to the floor, that she'll get swept up with a pile of junk, just like everything else in this place.
"Take me with you," she says, though her lips don't move.
"I can't," I say. "I want you to be safe. And I won't be around to take care of you."
"Then leave me someplace else," Christy continues, her sparkly blue eyes, the ones I drew in for her when the others fell out, stare up at me--urgent, full of expectation, and fearful all at once.
Just like me.
"Greta?" says a voice, followed by a hand on my knee.
It completely startles me, completely takes me out of the moment. I look down at my lap to see if the doll is still there. But it's just Tony. He's kneeling down in front of me like something's desperately wrong.
Derik and Liza are standing a couple feet behind him---Derik getting footage of this entire scene.
"Are you okay?" Tony asks.
"Fine," I say, hearing the defensive tone of my voice, checking around the aisle to see if maybe I dropped the doll.
"Well, you were sort of mumbling to yourself down here," he continues. "We've been trying to get your attention for the past ten minutes. I had to get my clapper." He flashes me his director's clapboard.
"I'm fine," I repeat, my head fuzzing over.
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"Are you sure?" Tony remains unconvinced.
I nod, knowing that I hadn't heard them trying to get my attention; that I must have been so sucked into the moment, trying to channel Christine and get inside her head, I completely blocked them out. I tell myself that it must have been like one of those weird dreams you have-- the kind where you wake up so abruptly you think that what you dreamed was actually real.
Why else would I continue to look around for the doll on the floor?
I shrug, confused by it all--and a little scared. I mean, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. For at least ten minutes I really believed it--I really believed that I was Christine, that I was talking to her doll, and that my one and only wish was for Christy to be safe.
After I'm not around.
"This place is screwed up," Derik says. "It messes with your head."
Liza nods. "I haven't been myself since I got here."
"I'm okay." I stand, finally feeling like I've gotten a grip. "So what happened?" Tony asks, still looking for an explanation.
"The doll isn't under the chair," I tell him. "What do you mean?" Liza asks.
"I mean, Christine knew better than to stick the doll under a chair. She cared too much about her."
"What are you talking about?" Derik asks. "Just listen," I say, holding the ache in my head. "Can't
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you hear me? Christine was going to hide the doll under a chair; she had the whole thing planned out. She even stole the tape. But she couldn't go through with it. She knew the doll wouldn't be safe under a chair."
"Holy shit," Derik whispers.
"How do you know all this?" Liza asks, taking a step closer to me.
"What difference does it make?" I snap.
"Wait, the doll isn't here?" Mimi moves toward me.
I roll my eyes, more irritated by the moment, not wanting to get into the whole explanation all over again-- especially since it seems so unexplainable.
&
nbsp; My neck itches. My head pounds. "I've got to get out of here," I say, suddenly feeling nauseated.
"Are you all right?" Liza asks.
"Keep looking for the chair," I manage, covering my mouth. I hurry away, eager for fresh air. But it's just darkness all around me--a thick perpetual darkness that crawls under my skin and clogs up my throat.
"Where are you going?" somebody shouts after me-- Derik, I think.
But I don't look back. Instead, I go for doors, trying each one, looking for some way out.
"Greta!" Tony shouts. He grabs me by the arm and forces me to look at him.
"I have to get out." I cough. "This place is making me sick." I turn away from him to try another door. The knob turns, and suddenly I'm outside.
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I breathe in the night air, my lungs filling up with chilly goodness, feeling a little bit better--more myself.
"Holy shit," Derik says, somewhat under his breath.
We're on the roof of one of the buildings. It's a large flat area like a deck where people can walk out, where they can see as far as Boston, a good fifteen miles away.
I gaze up into the sky, noticing how the stars are right above me, how it's actually warmer out here than inside.
"This is so not safe," Mimi says, looking down from the rooftop.
What's weird is that there are no gates--no walls or fencing or framework. No boundaries whatsoever to keep someone from jumping off.
At that moment, I feel my heart stop, somehow knowing the fate of Christine Belle. There isn't a doubt in my mind.
"This is how she did it," I whisper. "She jumped from here."
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DERIK
IT'S TIME to go.
I tell everyone this, but Mimi won't hear of it. "No way," she balks. "Not yet."
"We're going," I insist, aiming my camera out over the rooftops of the other buildings, noticing how it's a good three stories down. "I don't like the shit that's been going on. This place is starting to mess with our heads."