Down the Rabbit Hole

“Well, you haven’t actually been here a whole time; it’s only been a tiny bit of time.”

“What is a tiny bit of time to you?”

“Same as you: a couple of seconds.”

“What?”

“When you first got here you asked if you were dead or in a coma or hallucinating and I said No, not exactly. You didn’t ask about dreaming, and I avoided the subject of daydreaming.”

“What?”

“Daydreaming. Wandering around inside your own head, thinking, fantasizing—”

“Fantasizing?”

“Trying to decide what you want to be, who you want to be, how you’ll go about—”

“Fantasizing? I made you up? I made it all up? Me? It’s been me all along?”

“Of course.” He looked like he wanted to tickle under her chin and call her a silly button. “Who knows you better than you know yourself?”

“I—”

“That’s right. You. You’re in control.”

She stood perfectly still. “So you, Martin, you’re not magic? You’re just . . . me?”

His smile was lopsided and lovable. “Elise. We make our own magic, you know that.” He gazed deep into her eyes and sighed. “Time for you to go.”

Her reluctance surprised her.

“Will I forget all this?” He turned his head first to one side, then slowly to the other; then did it again when she asked, “Can I come back if I do?”

“You need to go now. Molly will start to worry about you.”

“How?” She turned in a circle. “Where?”

“Just put the mask down.”

“What? No, wait . . .”

“Put the mask down, Elise.”

Martin and the corral of costumes around them started to fade away. But slowly, growing clearer and clearer into focus, was a reflection of a Noh theater mask with golden-green hazel eyes peering through from behind. Her eyes.

“. . . Max is a sweetie. He’s really smart and he’s funny. And I think he’s serious. He likes you. You can see it when he looks at you,” Molly was saying. “Why do you keep pushing these guys away?”

Elise lowered the mask from her face, bit by bit. She pressed a cool hand to her flushed cheek and blinked back tears—a combination of the relief to be back and sadness for the loss of Martin. She turned the mask over, examined it, saw nothing askew.

“Elise?”

“Yes?” She turned with a start. “What?”

“I don’t understand why you keep pushing these guys away.”

Lifting her gaze to Darth Vader’s mask, she waited for him to speak.

“Elise!”

“Yes.” She looked straight at Molly this time, delighted to see her. “It’s safe. I push men away to feel safe. But in truth, all I feel is empty and alone.”

“What?” Molly couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d been hit by a bus.

“And you’re right, by the way—about that guy, John? He was sort of charming, but he texts during movies. It made me crazy. And Max—you’re right about him, too. He is nice and sweet and smart and funny and serious. He does like me—I can see it when he looks at me, too. He loves me, in fact. And I love him.”

“What?”

“Look, I know you left Roger at home to feed the kids tonight so you and I could eat at Ferdinand’s, but I need to take a rain check. I’ll buy. But I have to leave right now. I have to find Max and tell him that I’m not a dope anymore. I’ve never been much of a groveler, but . . . well, it’ll be a new adventure, won’t it?”

“What?” Apparently, she’d stunned Molly speechless.

Elise laughed and hurried over to take Molly’s face between her palms—then laughed again, threw her arms around her and squeezed tight. “I love you, too! I know I don’t say it often enough—but that’s going to change. And I want you to know that while I’ll never understand why you married Roger, I’m so very, very glad you did.” She giggled at Molly’s wide-eyed expression and kissed her cheek. “Give my love to him and the kids and tell him thanks for being a great brother. And—ha! Do you hear that? My stomach’s growling. I’ll take Max out to eat . . . I can be dessert.”

“Elise, honey, are you feeling all right? I can drive you home if—”

She chuckled and started to leave, but then stopped. She looked back at the dark display of the dishonored Jedi knight and, despite what she knew to be the truth, she felt a deep and warm gratitude. Risking a tacky straitjacket in a shade outside her color wheel, she walked over to stand before him and murmur softly, “Thanks, Martin.”

“Elise?”

When she turned back to Molly’s fretful expression, she paused a moment to calm down and gather her wits.

“Listen,” she said. “Tell your friend Liz that I’d rather swallow a piano than play one at her party but I am looking forward to attending the event. And tell her, too, that if she can think of something reasonably sane . . . er, more traditional, more inside the box or . . . dull, probably. I don’t know. Just tell her if she decides to do another fund-raiser for dyslexia research I’d like to help.”

“What?”