Page 78 of Sawyer

A tear slides down my cheek, and I reach up to wipe it away. I’m starting to feel tired. Exhausted. In fact, I’d like to lie down on the floor at my father’s feet, go to sleep, and only wake up when he’s gone.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “You have no leverage, Father, nothing else to hold over my head. It’s over.”

He’s flummoxed. Standing before me, he opens his mouth and closes it. Opens it again and closes it again. I’m not sure—in my entire life—that I’ve ever seen my father at a loss for words, but that’s exactly where he finds himself now.

Say it,I think.Say everything you need to say now while he’s quiet. You may not get another chance.

“I’ve chosen a different path for myself than you would’ve chosen for me,” I tell him. “And I know that disappoints and angers you, but this ismylife.Mine.” I hold myself tighter, as my voice gets softer. “You willalwaysbe my father. And I will…I willalwaysl-love you.” My voice cracks on the words, but I keep going.Stay strong.Say it all.I let my arms drop to my sides, though my fingers ball into fists of their own volition. I stand before him in a nightgown, much like my younger self refusing to go to bed.But, I remind myself,I am not a child. I am all grown up now. I am an adult woman. I keep my own counsel. And I am free. “Until you’re ready to love me the way I deserve to be loved, Father, you aren’t welcome in my life.”

The heaviness I feel as I say these words almost buckles my knees.

My father stares at me, almost through me, then puts his hat on his head, and stalks to the door. Awhooshof cold air blows the nightgown around my ankles. He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes full of contempt.

“You’re just like her,” he sneers. “I am most sincerely disappointed. I’m not welcome inyourlife? Ha! How about this? I disinherit you. I disown you.You arenotmy daughter anymore.”

His words hurt worse than a smack in the face or a punch to the gut.

He steps through the door, and I think I start hyperventilating because I can’t seem to draw a clean, deep breath in the wake of his exit.

I am alone. Now, I am all alone. I have no one.

I stand alone in the lobby of the theater, trembling and freezing, starting to wheeze, barely aware of the fact that as the door in front of me closes, the one behind me opens. I only realize I’m not alone, in fact, when I hear someone say my name.

“Ivy? Ivy, are you alright?”

Sawyer.

My back is to him, and he’s several feet away from me. But just hearing his voice makes me feel warmer and more grounded.

“Sweetheart?” he whispers.

My chest hurts. My breathing is quick and choppy. Pebble-sized granules of salt on the dirty carpet dig into my bare feet as I turn around.

He stands inside the lobby with me, the door to the theater behind him closed. His face—his beloved, beautiful face—is twisted into a mask of sympathy. But even more powerful thanhis compassion is what I find in his eyes—a look of pure and profound love, tinged with admiration.

Stepping toward me, he opens his arms, and I take shelter against his body, letting him hold me. I lean my head against his chest and close my eyes. What is the word that comes after tired and after exhausted? Whatever that is, it’s how I feel now.

“My father was here.”

“I know. I saw him. I heard some of your conversation,” he confesses, no doubt remembering his promise never to lie to me, even by omission. “I was standing at the doors. Just in case you needed me.”

“He t-tore me a-apart,” I whisper. “He s-said…I’m not his d-daughter anymore.”

“I’m so sorry, Ivy,” he says softly, rubbing my back. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

I’m positive he did.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Then I’ll take you home.”

“No.” Rehearsal isn’t over yet. I blink at him. I don’t want to cry, but my eyes are burning. “We should go back in…the finale…rehearsal…”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Bruce said we’ve got it…we can go.”

The scene after Heathcliff dies, when the ghost of Catherine ushers him into the afterlife, is one of the most important parts of the play, but Bruce is right.We’ve got it.

“Come on. I’ll take you home,” he says.

“My clothes…” I say.

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