Right after Horatio and I got back from having coffee, Marcellus walked in and asked to speak with me alone. I took him into my room, where he explained, “I know it’s been a while since you asked, but things got crazy around here. I wanted to let you know that I checked into the video you asked about, the one with, uh, you and Hamlet,” he began. He tugged at his gun belt, and the handcuffs jangled. “No one knows anything about it.”
“Maybe it was sent to Gertrude or Claudius personally.”
Marcellus shook his head. “I don’t think so. Any threat, even the smallest or most personal, is dealt with by security. Not even VanDerwater knew.”
“Maybe he’s lying. VanDerwater’s your boss, so—”
“No, he’d tell me anything involving Hamlet. Far as I can tell, it never existed.”
“Well that’s just perfect,” I said, and sank onto the bed and rubbed my temples.
“I thought you’d be relieved no tape like that was kicking around.”
I blinked back tears. “I would if I hadn’t—” I swallowed hard and finished our conversation with, “Thanks for checking into it.”
He nodded and left the room.
Horatio came in to find me and flinched as he noticed the painted wall. “What the hell is that?”
“A self-portrait,” I mumbled.
He squinted and tilted his head, studying my work of art. “It’s… uh… a little twisted.” When I started to sniffle, he added, “No, it’s not that bad.”
I shook my head. “It’s not that. It’s—
ugh
.” I fell back onto my bed, staring at the wall of eyes and at my desk, where my computer, phone, and framed photos of Hamlet once sat. “There was no sex tape. They lied. And my father died thinking I was a total slut, and I screwed over Hamlet for nothing. Oh yeah, and my dad’s dead.” I rubbed my forehead, as if the motion could erase memory and pain.
“You look like you need a drink.”
I nodded and sent him into Dad’s office to see if he could find the bottle of vodka my father had hidden behind a volume of tax laws. My father didn’t know I knew that he nipped at the bottle before important press conferences, and he didn’t know that I snuck some before public appearances that involved large crowds. Its lack of odor was perfect for both of our purposes.
Back in my room, I held out the vodka, but Horatio declined because he planned to drive back to school. Horatio and I sat in my room while I drank, and we talked about everything. For once, Horatio didn’t suggest prudence when I reached for the bottle. And reach for the bottle I did. The last thing I remember is telling Horatio how pretty I thought the sun looked as it set over the river.
I don’t recall what happened that evening in Gertrude’s office, but I was shown the video weeks later when officers from the Denmark Department of Investigations were piecing all of these strange and disparate events together. I’m not sure what purpose Gertrude had in installing cameras in the official offices. Then again, maybe she didn’t even know they were there. I wondered: If there were cameras in as many places as I later found out there were, how had secrets been kept at all? Yet the biggest, most important moments of the prior year had been kept out of reach of the lenses. Clearly people familiar with the systems had perpetrated the dirtiest deeds, and the surveillance was not meant for them.
On the video I am seen in loosely hanging flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt, drifting into Gertrude’s offices looking at no one in particular.
“Ophelia? Is that you?” asks Gertrude.
I appear not to see her but turn my head, dreamily searching the room. I ask, “Where is the king of Denmark? We were supposed to meet and talk about Hamlet, and then I was going to show him my painting, but I can’t find him anywhere. He was a good man, a good king. I miss him.” I kneel and look under her desk. “I missed him at the coffee house, and I’ve looked everywhere.”
Gertrude looks thoroughly uncomfortable and sends her secretary out.
Claudius walks purposefully into the room reading some paper or other and stops in his tracks. Once he figures out it’s me, his expression changes, and he lets his hand, along with the papers, drop to his side. “Look at her,” he says in astonishment. “Is she this upset because of her father?” Gertrude shrugs and drifts to Claudius. They huddle together in conversation and amazement.
My head snaps at the sound of his voice and I wander over to him, chanting one of the limericks I’d been writing with Horatio, an activity begun once I’d finished about a quarter of the bottle of vodka.
There once was a girl named Ophelia,
Who asked, “Hey, what’s the deal-y-uh?”
She knew Hamlet loved her,
But a split did occur,
And then he killed her dad.
I take Claudius by the face and slap his cheeks playfully. “I can’t seem to make the last part rhyme. The last line should rhyme with the first, but my name is tough. Maybe I need a new opener. What rhymes with ‘murderous prick’?” I laugh and then turn away, pulling at my T-shirt as if confused by its very presence.
Claudius turns to Gertrude and asks in a low voice, “She looks drunk. I thought the guards cleared her apartment.”
Gertrude replies, face strained, “They did, but Horatio’s been visiting her. God knows what those clods you hire to protect us let him bring to her.” Gertrude then tries to take me by the hand and lead me out of the room, but I pull back and look at her intently.
I say to her shakily, “Is everything set for the funeral? I can’t think of anything but my father in the cold ground. It makes me cry just to think of it.” I grab Gertrude and begin sobbing on her shoulder. She stiffens and pats me on the back like a child hater who is given a baby to hold.
A door opens, and Horatio rushes in, stopping short when he sees me. I look up at Horatio and quickly step away from Gertrude as if I have no idea why I’m near her. Swiping under my wet nose and eyeing her suspiciously, I walk over to him and say, “My brother will know of it. My brother…” Then my gaze drifts back to Gertrude and Claudius and I say, “Thank you for your good advice. I will fix the rhyme, but after the ball. My father says it’s for charity, and we’re expected. He hates when I’m late!” I curtsy and continue. “Good night, ladies. And gentlemen. And kings. Wait—where is the king? Dead, too, I think. We will need to find him.” I curtsy again and say, “Good night,” as I walk out of the room somewhat grandly, though my steps wobble every so often.
Claudius says to Horatio, “Are you responsible for this?”
Horatio’s only answer before he leaves is, “I should make sure she’s okay.”
Claudius turns to Gertrude. “We can use this. It’s time to get Laertes home.”
Gertrude appears uncertain as she looks in the direction I disappeared.
He continues as he paces, “The people are beginning to whisper about Polonius’s absence, and I’m afraid we can’t keep his death a secret much longer. We have to act quickly, and I think this is the best option.”
Gertrude wrings her hands. “Yes, we should get Laertes on a conference call.”
Claudius says, “Dial,” as he buzzes the secretary and asks her to get Horatio and me back. Claudius and Gertrude face the large monitor on their wall, and Laertes, clearly having just returned from the gym, answers.
I couldn’t bear to watch him learn of our father’s death, and that part was skipped. Agents Francisco and Barnardo either took pity on me, or they felt that that part was not enlightening enough to force me to watch. My guess would be the latter.
When the video started up again, it showed Horatio walking me back in. I see Laertes’s face, and I run to the screen and kiss it, then wander away. Then, Lord help me, I offer up another poem. “I’ve got it!” I declare, and stand very straight as if ready to recite an important work.
There once lived a prince in Denmark
Who killed my dad on a lark,
He said, “Didn’t mean it,
Now get me some peanuts,”
But then I was locked in a pit.
“Darn,” I say, my hand wiping away at an imaginary board. “ ‘Peanuts’ sounds silly, and the last line has to rhyme with the first. I have to start over again.” I begin writing words in the air with my finger. As my hand passes my face, I take a great interest in my thumb and study it.
Laertes asks, “What’s wrong with her? And why did she say she was locked in a pit?”
“She’s raving.” Gertrude reassures him. “We aren’t sure why she’s behaving so oddly, but we’re bringing in our doctors to have a look at her. We think it’s grief. This only started after Hamlet killed your father. Though for some time now, Hamlet has been absolutely horrible, even violent, toward her. You must have heard. We thought perhaps seeing your face might help—”
My brother calls out, “Ophelia!”
I turn and look glassy-eyed at the screen, then pick up a pen from Gertrude’s desk. With it, I quickly draw a plant up the length of my inner arm, saying, “There’s rosemary. That’s for remembrance.” I walk over to Horatio and scrawl a similar image on his arm, saying, “Please remember.” Then I turn to Gertrude and grab her hand. She tries to pull away, but I hold tight and scribble a flower on her palm. “And that’s pansies, that’s for thoughts.” I kiss her on the cheek and then stumble over to Claudius.
Laertes, pale and frantic, calls out, “Can’t you make her stop?”
“There’s rue for you,” I mutter, trying to draw a flower on Claudius’s cheek, but he blocks me. “And here’s some for me,” I say, turning the pen on myself again and marking my cheek with haphazard petals. I turn to the screen, hold up the pen, and tell my brother, “I would give you some violets, but they withered when my father died.” I begin to cry and kneel, holding my stomach.
Laertes asks, “Is she high?”
“No, dear,” Gertrude answers smoothly. “As I said, when she found out what Hamlet did to your father, she snapped.”
Laertes gestures wildly as he screams, “Hamlet did this to her. I knew it. I knew this would happen. I’ll kill him! I’m coming back tonight!”
Claudius commands, “Laertes, please calm down.”
“Calm down?”
Gertrude says with false sincerity, “We’re taking care of her, and Hamlet is not in the castle at present. Soon you can come home and see your sister… as well as your father’s burial. But wait until we call for you, all right?”
“I can’t!” he shouts.
“Dearest, you must,” Gertrude says soothingly.
Laertes would have known as well as anyone that Gertrude meant he would not be allowed home until they were good and ready to have him back. My brother looks right at Claudius and says, “He’d better be in jail when I get there, and well-protected, or else I’m gonna kill him. I’m not kidding. Hamlet is a murderer and—” His voice breaks, and he rests his forehead on his palms. His shoulders shake.
Weeks later, sitting with the DDI agents, I touched the screen, wishing that we could have grieved together.
On the video, I watched as Gertrude, looking nervous, leans in and whispers something in Claudius’s ear. Was she nervous that my brother might be planning to murder her son or nervous that the threat and her complicity were being filmed? I have no idea. What does it matter? Neither scenario makes me like her any more or make what happened any less awful.
Claudius nods and says to Laertes, “We’ll make sure you have the chance to
speak
with him when you return.”
“When?”
Claudius reaches for the remote and says, “Soon,” and ends the video conference call with a creepy smile.
After the screen goes blank, I stand up on wobbling legs and begin to rant, snot and tears streaming down my face. “I hate you,” I say, pointing at Claudius. “I hate you all. It’s your fault he’s dead. It’s your fault he did it. He was fine before. But then you had to push him and make me part of your plans.” I stumble over to Gertrude. “You did this! You should pay for your crimes. You say you love him, but you did this. And I did it, too. It’s my fault he—Oh God!” I shriek, holding my head. Horatio runs over and takes me around the shoulders. “I want my life back the way it was.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“Get. Her. Home,” Claudius growls, and Horatio pulls me out of Gertrude’s office.
Here’s the weirdest thing: The only memory I have from that night was Hamlet’s dad sitting next to my bed. Yes, you read that right. And he wasn’t a see-through ghost like you see on TV. It was just him, like he always looked on a casual day: sweater vest, deck shoes, perfectly coiffed hair, and a studying gaze. He sat there like he was watching over me. I wasn’t scared, but even in my haze I knew he shouldn’t be there. After drifting in and out of sleep a few times, all I could think to say was, “Sorry.” He put up his finger to his lips and wandered away.
When I came to in the morning, Horatio was lying on the floor next to my bed, which surprised me. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice croaking. “I thought you were going back to Wittenberg.”
He sat up and rubbed his cheeks, creating white and red stripes. “I was supposed to, but I couldn’t leave you after what happened. God, Ophelia, what a mess you made.”
“What?” I asked, sitting up and looking around the bed, thinking he meant it literally.
“You went to Gertrude’s office and… you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“What did I do?”
“You ranted, recited limericks, and drew flowers on everyone.”
“Drew?” I started to laugh. “I did?” I looked down at my arm and, sure enough, there was a spiky plant in black ink.
Horatio held up his matching sketch and tried not to laugh himself. “I thought you’d passed out, but when I went to the bathroom, you ran off. I don’t know what the new guard was thinking. He said you told him Gertrude wanted you, and you pushed the button for her floor, so he wasn’t too concerned. I caught up with you eventually, but man! I can’t believe…” I laughed as he shook his head. “Speaking of the bathroom, I guess we should both clean up.”