Read Online Acts of Love by Judith Michael - Free Book Online Page A

tell them all these things I’ve figured out how to say. They were driving to a movie and they stopped for a red light and a car rammed them from behind and pushed them into the path of a truck. I had nightmares about that for months, even after I came to Yale, and then I got sick and ended up in the infirmary. A psychiatrist, Dr. Leppard, came to see me, a wonderful man who reminds me of my father, and we talked for months, three times a week, and after a while I was able to sleep again. But I didn’t care about anything; I felt like some kind of mechanical doll that makes all the right moves and passes tests in class and talks to people—everybody was so nice, but it was like they were talking to me from far away—I felt all empty inside—not alive. Then one day Dr. Leppard asked why wasn’t I in the theater program? That was funny, because of course it was the reason I came to Yale and I hadn’t even thought about it. So I went over to the theater and they were casting a play and I got a part right away. It was small, but it got me back on stage. But then the most awful thing happened. When I came to the first rehearsal and looked at all the empty seats in front of me and the rest of the cast all around me and the director sitting on the edge of the stage with the script in his hand, I started to cry. Because right then, for the first time, I really believed that my parents were dead and I’d never be with them again and it was as if I’d thumbed my nose at them the minute I walked out on stage. I mean, I’d chosen this other world that they didn’t approve of and it was like a betrayal. Of course they’d never know it, but still . . . oh, I don’t know, it was the most confused time in my life. Everybody came to help and I finally stopped crying, and afterwards I felt like I’d become somebody else. I wasn’t my parents’ daughter and I never would be, ever again. And I was alone. I didn’t have anybody behind me, waiting for me to come home, keeping my bedroom ready and leaving the front door unlocked and the living room lamp lit. But after a while I remembered that I have you to write to, and your letters to read—I read them hundreds of times, did I ever tell you that?—and I knew that I really do have a family and a home and that’s the theater. It’s the one place I know I belong. I’m going to work as hard as I can, and I’ll be the best of all—except for you, of course; but maybe someday I’ll be as good as you—because that’s what I want more than anything in the world. I don’t want a family or children or any of those ordinary things that get so messy and hurt so much. I just want to act. Once I thought the theater was all I wanted; now I know it’s all I can have. I miss my parents. I miss knowing they’re at home, talking about what we’ll do when I visit. I miss having them miss me. I hope you’re fine and that you’ll write to me again even if I’ve spent all this time talking about myself. Are you fine? What are you starring in now? All my love, Jessica.
    â€œLuke, what in the world is the matter with you?” Claudia exclaimed. “We’re waiting for you!”
    Luke looked up and met the patient gaze of the sommelier, looking as timeless as the murals of Pompeii and Herculaneum on the walls and the antique draperies at the windows. “Sorry.” He ran his eye down the wine list he had been staring at, unseeing. “We’ll have the Conterno Poderi Barolo if you still have the ’90. And ask our waiter to bring us an order of calamari to start.”
    â€œWhat were you thinking about? Or should I say, who?”
    â€œAn eighteen-year-old girl whose parents were killed in an automobile accident.”
    She stared at him. “Who is it? I didn’t know you knew any eighteen-year-olds. Oh, is it the new play you’ve just started