Free In Broken Places by Michèle Phoenix Page A

by-product of Lewis’s inspirational words and shoved my cynicism firmly back into place. The process was aided by many less stellar moments in the proceedings, culminating in the performance of a freshman girl from Tennessee who went, quite perfectly, by the name of Meagan. She had all the acting talent of, say, a telephone pole, but her giggle was boundless and entirely too rare to ignore. While attempting to bring the role of C. S. Lewis’s dying wife to the stage, she stood in front of Seth, as tall as her five-foot-two frame allowed, and craned her neck back so far to see his face that she choked on herown throat in the middle of a profound dialogue and went into a coughing fit. She then collapsed in a giggling jag that ended with a high-pitched Tennessee wail that went something like “Oh—my—gosh! Wait, wait, wait—let me try it again!” It was like watching Betty Boop attempting to tackle a Meryl Streep role. The result was disconcerting and memorable—in an is-this-for-real? kind of way. Two failed attempts later, I made a mental note to invent a job, if need be, that would keep this little lady with the world-brightening giggle involved in the play . . . though not onstage.
    Save for Seth’s discovery, I was no closer to having picked a cast when the bell rang at five thirty. The students headed in a mass exodus toward the buses that would carry them home to their dorms for dinner, which left me alone in an empty auditorium, shaking my head in dismay at an empty stage. I decided to leave my dilemma for another day and, locking the door and the play behind me, hurried to Bev’s to pick up Shayla.
    Every school day until now, I’d been met at the door by a happy “Shelby!” and a small, warm body catapulting itself against mine. That wasn’t the case today. I rang the doorbell and heard Bev’s slippered feet shuffling up to the door. I could tell from her smile that all was not well. “She’s in the kitchen drawing,” Bev answered my inquiring look.
    “Is she okay?”
    “Well . . .” She ushered me into the sage-green living room and we sat on either side of her faux-wood coffee table. Looking over her shoulder toward the kitchen, she went on in a hushed tone. “Today was a little hard.”
    “Hard how?”
    “A snowball kind of hard. First it was her missing hair clip, and then it was the bread.”
    “Again?”
    “She’s definitely got a Wonder Bread obsession.” Bev smiled. “Then it was the crayons.”
    “What’s wrong with the crayons?”
    “The red wasn’t red enough.”
    “It’s the exact same red it’s always been!”
    “Well, it wasn’t red enough today.”
    I was confused. “And then?”
    “And then she wasn’t tired enough to take a nap, and then she didn’t like my cookies anymore, and then her leg hurt, and then the spoon made her teeth feel weird, and then she put her coat on and hasn’t taken it off since then. . . . It was a hard day is what I’m saying. But I don’t think it has anything to do with crayons and bread.”
    I ran a hand over my face and tried to clear my thoughts. “She’s been so good so far.”
    “She’s been wonderful. She’s still wonderful. I just think it’s all starting to hit her. And your staying late tonight probably didn’t help.”
    “I had play tryouts.”
    “She knows that.”
    “And I’ll have play practices nearly every evening starting next week.” I felt familiar walls closing in around me. They were labeled in Shayla’s favorite red with glaring words like motherhood , responsibility , dependence , and failure .
    “It’s not just that, Shelby. You realize that, don’t you?”
    “I’m not sure I want to. . . .”
    “Kids are resilient, but they still feel loss. They live it and then they relive it, and it gets triggered by small things that seem completely insignificant.”
    Insignificant. “Like moving halfway across the world with a new mother who isn’t really her mother?”
    “Like losing a