Chapter 36

Cindy Smith awoke that morning at ten o’clock and went straight for her computer, turned it on, then decided to hop in the shower while the old relic booted up—fully aware, of course, that she was prolonging the anticipation.

More like self-torture, she thought as she scrubbed the last of the previous night’s makeup from her face. She felt foolish but at the same time alive with excitement—the hot water washing over her, the electric generator (still humming) now steaming and sizzling and sparking beneath her smooth, pink skin.

Plus, Cindy said to herself, if he hasn’t written yet, this will give him more time. My e-mail address is on the contact sheet for Macbeth. My phone number, too. Maybe he’ll call.

You’re really acting pathetic, a voice said in her head, but Cindy ignored it, toweled herself dry, and put on her bathrobe. And just to prove to the voice that she could still play it cool, she padded downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed a cereal bar and a glass of orange juice.

When she returned to her bedroom and finally signed into her e-mail, Cindy found four messages in her inbox—two general notifications from the university, which she immediately deleted; an opening-night congratulations from George Kiernan to the cast and crew; and an e-mail from her father titled simply, The show.

But there was nothing from Edmund Lambert.

Nothing at all.

Her stomach sinking, Cindy deleted her father’s e-mail without opening it. She already knew what it would say: some version of, Hope the show went well. Sorry I won’t be able to make it. Things are pretty hectic around her as usual. Keep up with your studies and talk to you soon. Dad.

Cindy never forgot that first e-mail from her father saying he was going to miss her main-stage debut; how he made the mistake of writing “her” instead of “here”—“Things are pretty hectic around HER,” he’d said.

A Freudian slip, Cindy thought.

Of course, in the three years since her first role at Harriot, Cindy’s father never made that mistake again, but his absence at every one of her shows spoke volumes. Don’t ever forget you come second, Daddy Dearest was really saying. Always second after new wife and new kid.

Yeah, things sure were pretty hectic around “her.”

And, of course, Cindy knew deep down that the keep up your studies tag at the end—always at the end—was just a slap in the face in case she didn’t get the gist of the previous sentence. For Daddy Dearest was not only saying, Make sure you have a backup plan when this silly-waste-of-time acting thing doesn’t work out, but also, Don’t expect me to waste any of my time on your bullshit.

Cindy sat staring at her empty inbox for a long time, when suddenly the sinking feeling in her stomach rose to the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, and for a moment felt as if she would cry.

Who are you getting so upset over? asked the voice in her head. Daddy or Edmund Lambert? At least Daddy Dearest took the time to e-mail you.

Impulsively, Cindy reached for her book bag, found the Macbeth contact sheet inside her dialects binder, and traced her finger over Edmund Lambert’s e-mail address. There was no number listed for him; only the number for the Harriot scene shop.

“You wouldn’t call him anyway,” Cindy said out loud. “Not after the thing with the rose. But you could always e-mail him.”

Maybe they’re one and the same, the voice in her head persisted. Daddy and Lambert. Maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to Mr. Soldier Boy—older guy, Daddy issues. What would Freud have said about that?

“Fuck you,” Cindy whispered, and shut off her computer.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—tried to shut out all thoughts of her father and Edmund Lambert and forced her mind to focus on the day ahead. Her dialects class was canceled because of the show, but she still had her private singing tutorial at noon. She’d get her ass reamed for sure if word got back to Kiernan that she blew it off. But her voice lesson was in the music building, which meant she’d really have no excuse to stop by the theater at all today; no excuse to wander past the scene shop and perhaps run into Edmund Lambert. She could always hang out for a bit in the computer lab; linger just a little longer at her locker with the hope that—

You see? said the voice in her head. You just can’t keep your mind off of him. So fucking pathetic.

“Okay,” Cindy said, “if he hasn’t e-mailed or called me when I get back, I’ll e-mail him before I head off to the gym. After that, he can just keep up with his fucking studies.”

Pathetic and obsessed, said the voice in her head.

Cindy laid the contact sheet atop her keyboard, making sure that it was centered and its edges were perfectly parallel with the edges of the keyboard underneath.

Curiously, she felt better.

Obsessed, repeated the voice in her head.

“Beyond obsessed,” Cindy answered, smiling.

Then she got dressed.