“It’s just . . . this place. It’s so amazing, but everywhere we go they talk about dreams, and they sing about dreams, and at every step they tell you that dreams come true and that people live happily ever after. Well—it was my sister’s dream to have a baby, to have a beautiful little girl and watch her grow up. Then this happens. I look at Abby, and she’s so happy, and her dream has come true, and how can this place be so real and so impossible at the same time!”
The words come in a rush and she’s sobbing again, tears streaming, her back hunched, shuddering. My own floodgates are opening, the actress-brain that manages to keep it locked away failing.
I turn my face away, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. “Stop it,” I say quietly. “My make-up’s going to run.”
Christine’s sob turns into a laugh. “Oh God, I’m sorry! And your dress, you shouldn’t be on the ground like this! You know, for just a minute I forgot you’re not really Cinderella.”
The tears start all over again. I’m sitting beside her by this time.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says. “I can’t go back.”
I know exactly how she feels. I put my arm around her shoulders. She hugs me back, her face pressed to my shoulder, and cries it all out. I hold her and whisper nonsense. That everything is going to be all right. Like I am really Cinderella, like I really can make everything better.
After closing, after the fireworks have faded and all the lights are out, I go into the park. We’re not supposed to do that. I’d said goodbye to Abby and her family, and I wonder how long my picture will sit by her hospital bed.
For a long time I stand on the bridge before the castle, looking up at its parapets, its gilded filigree confections. Wearing jeans and a tank top, I’m not a princess anymore. Under that fairy tale façade is nothing more than wood and concrete. Just like we’d all put on a good face today, to make this the happiest day of Abby’s short, short life. When underneath we’d turned to ash.
I am a rank, despicable liar.
I want to make a wish of my own, but I have too many choices. Blue Fairies, stone wells, godmothers, evening stars. The smog and haze is such that I can only see one small star, shining faintly, right above the castle. A stray bit of firework that has forgotten to fall back to earth. It almost seems like an omen.
Tonight, I choose the wishing well for my late-evening ritual. I only do this sometimes, because to do it every night would spoil it, make it ordinary. Only days like this when I have a sick girl’s short future weighing on my shoulders. I find the wishing well and put my hands on either side, leaning all the way over the edge, calling down inside so my voice echoes.
“I’m wishing!”
For happiness, unspecified. I don’t know what I want anymore.
* * *
A week later, I receive a letter from Elizabeth’s mother. My supervisor wore a grim smile when she handed it to me. Elizabeth slipped into a coma and passed away quietly last week. She talked about her trip to the park right up to the end. Thank you, thank you, and thank you, her mother writes. For what? I ask myself that more and more. I wonder how Abby is doing.
How can such a little piece of magic be so strong in the face of that immense tragedy? I fold the letter and secure it in my purse.
That evening I find a tiara at the bottom of my locker. I don’t recognize it from any of the costumes. All the usual tiaras are glittering, decked with rhinestones, visible from miles away so no one will mistake their wearers for anything but princesses. This is different, plain, a half-circlet of gold with a clear, faceted gem mounted in the center.
A slip of paper is tied to one of the arms. I pull the note free of the string that ties it.
One line of handwriting reads, I can’t do this anymore. I pass it on to you.
The writing looks like a woman’s. The words are clean, but the paper is wrinkled, as if whoever wrote it crushed the note, then smoothed it flat again. I look around the locker room for someone who might be watching me, who might have snuck the tiara into my locker then lingered to see my reaction. Only the usual bustle fills the place, dancers peeling off tights, character actors laughing in the showers as they wash off the smells of their plush suits.
The locker next to me belongs to Audrey, who plays Sleeping Beauty in one of the stage shows. I sometimes
don’t recognize her, because her short black hair is so at odds with the blond wig she wears for her character.
“Audrey?” She turns to me, inquiring. I show her the tiara. “Do you know whose this is?”
She shakes her head. “No, sorry. I don’t even recognize the costume.”
“Yeah, neither do I.” The front of the locker room has a lost and found box for stray bras and sneakers and the like. I hate to just leave it there.
“Some of us are going out for dinner. Want to come?”
I’m tired. The exhaustion settles on me like a warm blanket. The letter about Elizabeth hasn’t improved my mood. I shake my head at Audrey. “Not tonight. I’m beat.”
“Maybe next time.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and heads out with some of the other girls.
I hold the tiara in both hands, and it feels warm against my skin.