Page 79 of In What World

“This isn’t about free will. This is about life itself. And, Marlowe, you are still living yours in service of Dallas Winthrop.”

There’s a venomous note in her tone that’s all too familiar. This is the Priscilla who lashed out at me after she initiated thatkiss backstage. This is the Priscilla I’ve wanted so much to believe no longer exists. Or maybe wasn’t real at all. But she is, and she’s here, in all her glory.

“You’ve built your entire world around him, and now you’re ready to give up everything to follow him through time to chase down an impossible dream?” she asks. “You’re going to leave the real world behind to go with him? And you don’t even see how fucked-up that is!Heis your number one. He always has been.”

“He’s not my number one,” I say, my throat already tightening around the words.

“He is,” she tells me. “And Teddy is his. So you’re both chasing something you can’t have. Did everything we just talked about on the stage not matter?”

“Of course it mattered,” I insist.

“But Dallas matters more. And you’d rather spend the rest of eternity fixing his life instead of fixing yours,” she says. “I’m leaving.Don’tfollow me. Not that you would anyway, now that Dallas is here.”

28

Priscilla

My old neighborhas his garage door open, and it’s right there—the cherry-red Camaro, glistening from a fresh wax.

I want to run my nails along the side and scratch that perfect paint. It would feel so good to destroy something else in this already-cruel world.

But what would it change, in the end? What would it fix?

Instead I turn toward my childhood home, face-to-face with the grime-tinged siding and those weird little shrubs in the front that never fully grew in but weren’t brave enough to die either. The front windows are open today, just as they so often were at the end of summer. We didn’t get air-conditioning until I was in high school, so the open windows and the ceiling fans were the only defenses we had against the heat. It was still breathlessly hot, but at least the air was moving.

My mom must not know it’s going to rain soon, or she’d have closed the windows already. Rainwater will drench the back of the couch and turn it mildewy. She’ll be so upset.

I could reach inside and close them for her. I’m right here.Only a few feet away. But what would that change either, in the end?

Years ago, a therapist had me try an activity where I closed my eyes and pictured the adult me visiting myself as a child. She asked me to come to this very house and find the child inside. I was supposed to hold the hand of child me and walk her out of the house, telling her she was safe now, and she could stay with me.

I had gone along with the visual right up until the therapist asked me to grab little me’s hand. I couldn’t do it. Where would she go if she wasn’t inside? How could I possibly keep her safe anywhere else? This is where she’s always belonged, even if it’s not the best place for her to be.

The sound of my dad’s voice knocks me out of the memory. I follow it until I’m right outside our open kitchen window, peeking in through the gap in the curtains.

God, I’m so far back in time my parents haven’t even divorced yet. It’s a time I remember only in fits and starts. Impressions of fights. Angry footsteps and slamming doors. Right now, my dad has a take-out bag from a restaurant that’s long since shuttered, and he’s setting out two plates on the kitchen table.

“Lunch is here,” he announces for the second time.

Finally, my mother appears. Her hair is shorter and blonder than I ever remember seeing it. She has on big glasses and a pair of faded denim shorts that come up higher than her belly button. She looks both younger and more tired somehow.

“Johnny’s Pizza wasn’t open?” she asks Dad.

“I got us burgers instead.”

Mom sighs, long and heavy.

“Where is she?” Dad asks.

“In the backyard,” Mom says. “She’s playing with her dolls.”

Me.

My parents begin to eat. In a companionable silence, they nibble on burgers and fries, occasionally getting up for ketchup or sauces or drinks from the fridge.

Suddenly, three-year-old Priscilla bursts into the room, holding a doll and singing. My hair is done in braided pigtails that remind me of how I’d wear it at cast parties in high school. I’m in an overalls set and a pink shirt covered in daisies. There’s a smudge of dirt on my butt, like I’ve been sitting in muddy grass.

My parents look up from their food. They don’t say anything—no coos of encouragement, no clapping for the show—but they do smile, keeping their focus on me as I sing a nonsensical tune that’s mostlyoohs andahhs.