When we emerged, the entry was quiet, which I took as a good sign. Marcellus allowed the other guard to open the door to Gertrude’s chambers, and he took me by the elbow. He leaned in and whispered, “Signal if you need me,” before he pushed me ahead of him.
My eyes were instantly drawn to a small cohort by the window, which had been shattered. One of the curtains had been pulled down and left crumpled in the corner. Gertrude and Claudius were together across the room. He looked pale and sick, and she had mascara tracks down her face like on the day her husband, her first husband, had been buried. Lastly, I saw Hamlet, flanked by two guards. When he saw me, he tried to stand up from the overstuffed burgundy chair, but they forced him back down and he hit his elbows on the carved wooden armrests.
Everyone turned to face me, and the group in the corner whispered furiously. I shoved my hands into my pockets, my muscles tense. VanDerwater, head of security, came forward and said, “There has been an incident.”
Hamlet was there, Claudius, Gertrude. What could have happened? I looked at the fallen curtain and noticed shining black shoes sticking out from underneath. Unable to imagine whose they might be, I looked back at VanDerwater for more of an explanation.
He removed his hat slowly, letting it rest across his heart. He cleared his throat and began, “Your father—”
I gasped and clapped one hand over my brow. “No, no, no.” My brain hummed with this solitary word.
No, no, no
, I thought.
No, no, no.
Choking on my own breath, my chest heaved. My other hand flew atop the hand covering my eyes. Together, the palms pressed hard, and red and blue lights danced in the darkness. The pain forced thought away and was welcome relief, brief as it was.
“I’m sorry,” I heard Hamlet call out. “It was an accident.”
My legs began to buckle, and my stomach dropped. Still shielding my eyes from the sight too horrible to comprehend, I turned away from Hamlet’s voice and called for Marcellus. “I need—” I pulled in more breath, but it stopped at the top of my throat. I heard his handcuffs and flashlight jangling together as he stepped forward to touch my back. My jaw was chattering, so I could barely whisper, “I’m gonna be sick.”
He guided me swiftly across the room and opened the door of Gertrude’s bathroom. He flicked on the light and closed me in the room. The confined space was soothing, though I had to keep my eyes closed to shut out the golden poodles she inexplicably had painted everywhere. I leaned over the toilet and waited, but did not vomit, so I lay down on the cool marble floor. Outside I could hear chatter and the clacking and thudding of feet hurrying around, but no single sound, voice, or word came through.
My nausea subsided, but my head continued to throb. Thoughts swirled so fast, they ceased to make sense. What kind of accident had there been? Was it possible that my father was dead? Would he be buried with my mother? Was my mother in heaven? Who would take care of me now? Would I be able to stay in the castle? Did I want to? What had happened? What was Hamlet sorry for?
I focused on the chill of the marble seeping into my skin. I could think of no reason to ever open the door again, and even if I did think of one, I did not believe I had the will to do it.
Sooner than I would have liked, a gentle tapping came at the door. I didn’t answer.
“Ophelia?” called Gertrude. “Are you ready to come out yet?”
I didn’t answer again.
“Ophelia, they are going to move your father’s body. We have some things to discuss.”
At the word
body
I felt ill again. He wasn’t a body. He was my dad. My dad who liked blueberry pancakes but only if the blueberries were cooked inside. My dad who knew every employee in the castle by name, even the waiters who worked the occasional banquets. But had he ever been more than just a “body” to Gertrude, a person necessary to fill a job? Or was he as disposable to her as a tissue or a paper cup?
I pushed myself to a sitting position, allowed the dizziness to pass, checked to be sure I was not going to puke, and then stood gradually. What I knew after all my years living in the castle was that, no matter how nicely she asked, Gertrude was, in reality, giving an order. I had to hold on to the cream-colored vanity with one hand while I reached for the poodle-shaped doorknob with the other.
Everything got very, very silent in my head. It was the absence of thought and sound that allowed me to step out of the bathroom. Arms rigid at my sides, I did not feel my own steps as I walked into the middle of Gertrude’s bedroom. Marcellus drifted next to me, but I did not acknowledge him. I vaguely noted the overturned full-length mirror and stopped next to the burgundy comforter, which lay strewn at the foot of Gertrude’s four-poster bed. There had been a struggle and my father had died. Again I wondered how.
No one spoke, so I had time to take in more of the room. The window was not exactly shattered, as I had originally thought. There was a single hole in it from which cracks spiderwebbed outward. Blood had sprayed on the window, on the ceiling, on the still-hanging curtains, and more blood had seeped and pooled around where my father lay. The most distant part of my brain realized that the blood belonged to my father, but it was too awful to register, too awful to feel. On the floor next to the disheveled comforter, I spotted a gun, a handgun that looked just like the one Hamlet had been spinning on the conference table not two hours before.
My eyes flicked to Hamlet, who was still flanked by guards. He was watching me with dread. “You?” I asked in a strangled whisper, hoping I was wrong.
“I didn’t mean to,” he wailed, trying to rush past the guards, who caught him instantly and held him in place.
I stood with my mouth agape. I blinked several times as everyone watched me. The silence gripped me again. Without my even realizing it, my legs gave out and, if not for Marcellus, I would have fallen.
I wriggled out of his hold and stumbled toward my dad. The sheet covered only his torso and head. His hands rested still and soft, and just next to his violet-shaped cuff link, a single drop of blood stained the pure white shirt. My eyes could not leave that spot of red. That spot, which he would have insisted on treating right away, pushed the truth into my silence. My face crumpled and I fell to my knees.
A gurney rolled up beside me, and the side rails clanged into place. Workers in blue booties surrounded my father and hoisted his body onto the sheeted stretcher. I looked up as they rolled him away but said nothing, as nothing was said to me. The pool of blood left behind was dark and thick, and I would have been unable to look away if someone had not thrown a new blue sheet over it. I turned my head as the stretcher was wheeled out of the room. Part of me knew I should be following the stretcher, but I couldn’t force my legs to cooperate.
My head snapped toward a new sound, and my breath grew more irregular. Officers were bagging the gun, and the plastic crinkled noisily. They whispered to one another, then hurried out of the room. I watched Hamlet watch them leave. He yanked at his hair, his face turning red.
He looked at the ceiling and then shut his eyes tightly as he muttered, “Oh God. Oh God.” Standing suddenly, he begged, “Please let me talk to her.”
The still-alert part of me thought he would be denied. Claudius nodded, and the guards let Hamlet go. I froze as Hamlet knelt beside me.
“It was an accident. Someone was eavesdropping on my mother and me. I didn’t know who was hiding behind the curtain. I thought”—he looked over his shoulder and, putting his hand on mine, whispered even more quietly—“I thought it was Claudius.”
Fury swept over me, and my mind snapped into clarity. I jerked my hand out from under his. “And that makes it better?”
“Not exactly,” he replied. “But it does change things, right?” He put his hand on my knee, and I leaped up.
“You must be joking.” My pulse was so fast, I could feel the veins in my neck throbbing. I was light-headed but determined to stay on my feet, and damned if he was going to soothe me into forgiveness.
He stood, too, and his eyes bounced between me and the group huddled across the room watching us. He leaned in to whisper, “I confronted my mother about Claudius, told her I knew about the poisoning. I begged her to see Claudius for what he is and to admit her part in bringing down my father. She cried, Ophelia. She actually cried. And I think she—”
“Hamlet, I don’t care.”
He stopped. Blood drained from his face, and he wrung his hands. He looked over at the group again, then met my eyes. My body tingled with hate, and my lips curled into a snarl.
He winced and added, “And I saw my father.”
It was like having cool water poured over my head. How many times in the past months had we talked of suicide, revenge, fear, and hate? My efforts to stop his plans were halfhearted at best and cowardice-driven denials at worst. I knew I had allowed this catastrophe to happen by not insisting he stop the pursuit of his father’s killer… if there even was one. But I never thought it would come to this. Or maybe I did. Maybe I’d just hoped the body being wheeled out would belong to Claudius.
I breathed deeply and paused. With all the calm I could muster, I explained quietly, “Hamlet, I have been trying to understand what has been happening with you lately. I know this has all been a shock, but at what point will it end? Your father is dead. Now my father is, too.” I swallowed hard and rubbed my forehead. “Your mother will continue to be married to your uncle no matter how many times you claim to see ghosts, or do skits, or kill. You can’t change what’s done. Now please, please leave me alone.”
I turned and planned to walk away, but he caught me forcefully. Gertrude gasped. Everyone present turned to look at us, and Marcellus stepped forward. Hamlet let go and put his hands up. I stopped Marcellus from continuing toward me, torn between sympathy and hatred.
“Don’t go,” Hamlet whispered. “I love you.”
I stared into his drooping eyes, looking for a sign that he realized what a ridiculous statement it was. I rubbed my forehead again, trying to understand. A few hours ago, he’d treated me like garbage in front of hundreds of people. Two days ago, he’d caught me with another guy. Six days ago, he’d told me to stay away from him. Either he was crazy or he was faking. I wasn’t sure what to believe.
He was seeing ghosts, which seemed crazy, but Horatio backed him up. He was running around at all hours of the night, but if he went to his apartment, he’d be living with his mom and Claudius, making it the last place he’d find rest. And I had kicked him out. Everywhere he turned, someone he loved betrayed him. He was so sure his uncle had murdered his father and he seemed unable to do anything about it. It was enough to make anyone crazy, or seem crazy. But which? I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t.
And then, over my shoulder, I heard an officer whisper my father’s name, and what Hamlet
was
suddenly didn’t matter.
“You murdered my dad. You. My dad was all I—” A horrifying thought stopped me. Could he have done it on purpose? My dad had wanted us apart, and my dad was winning. Was this Hamlet’s psychotic attempt to make sure no one stood between us? He wasn’t that cruel. And he wasn’t that desperate. No. He was. My dad’s blood sinking into the carpet was proof of it.
Suddenly I understood Hamlet’s obsession with revenge. I realized that if the gun were within my reach, I would have shot Hamlet.
“Get away from me.”
His face twisted with agony. The guards stepped forward, caught his wrists, and pulled them down to his sides.
I turned away but could hear him calling after me as Marcellus escorted me to the royal couple, who had walked ahead to the reception room.
Claudius was sitting while Gertrude paced. She stopped when I came toward them. “My dear, sweet Ophelia,” she said, her arms outstretched.
I stopped where I was, unwilling to accept her embrace.
Self-consciously she put her arms by her side. Gertrude’s face had been wiped, though traces of the mascara lingered. She tried to force a smile on her face, but it looked more like a grimace. “We’re sending Polonius to the morgue, but it will remain a secret. Only one of our men will work on him.” Before I could ask why, she continued. “This must all remain a secret.”
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘secret’?” I asked.
She nodded, and I asked why.
Smoothing the stray hairs that had escaped her French knot, she explained, “We have had so many tragedies and scandals lately. I simply do not think the public is ready for another.”
“The public or you?” I attacked.
She let out a little outraged
harrumph
.
“After thirty years of service to you, are you saying that my father will not have a state funeral?” My voice rose dangerously.
“I’m afraid not, dear. At least not right away,” she said, and before I could continue, she clacked toward Claudius. When she was safely at his side, she laced her fingers together and added, “Darling, I am so sorry that your father’s death cannot be made public.”
The word
cannot
irked me as much as being called “darling.” I asked, “What’s your plan, then? To say my father is on vacation?”
Gertrude shot a shocked look at Claudius, as if I had guessed their carefully conceived plan. She nodded and sat down primly. “Something along those lines.”
Anger flashed through me again. “Are you crazy or just a—”
Marcellus cleared his throat. My head snapped to look at him over my shoulder, but he was staring at the chandelier. I thought he might have shaken his head slightly, but I couldn’t say for sure.
I felt dizzy again but certainly didn’t want to sit next to Gertrude or Claudius. There was a chair a fair distance from Claudius, so I headed for it slowly. I sat on the edge and looked out the window. The city was covered in a layer of smog, which seemed oddly fitting.
“Is someone at least going to get my brother?” I asked, still studying the skyline.
“I don’t think so,” replied Claudius.
I whipped my head around. “What?”
Claudius puffed himself up. “When we said secret, we meant secret.”