Falling for Hamlet (15 page)

Frowning, Hamlet said, “Not if Claudius didn’t want it investigated.”

I looked at Horatio, who merely shrugged.

I wanted to reassure myself that it couldn’t have been anything, that I hadn’t missed something so important as a man escaping the scene of a murder. It looked like a bottle of water, the fancy blue kind we got at special events around the castle, just smaller. I wasn’t sure if I should insist that we all talk to security or if I should run from Hamlet, who was sure to be more than a little miffed if it turned out I had witnessed the whole damned thing and done nothing about it.

We waited in silence as Hamlet continued clicking the mouse manically. Ten minutes passed. Then another ten.

“Come on, Hamlet,” I finally said, not the least bit serious, “Horatio and I will take you to a strip club.”

After a second, he turned his head, and a smile crept into one corner of his mouth. “You performing?”

I pulled my long hair on top of my head and pouted my lips. “I’m not on the schedule tonight,” I joked. “But I’ve got a stack of singles for ya. I’m sure we could get your security detail to look the other way just this once. Or maybe they’d welcome the distraction.”

He half laughed, said, “If your dad joins us, I’m in,” and turned back to the screen.

I shuddered and then shrugged at Horatio.

“How about that movie?” asked Horatio. Hamlet didn’t even look up, so I fell backward on the bed with a surrendering sigh.

Horatio turned to me and said, “We could go.”

I shook my head.

Horatio picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels. After a few minutes he muttered, “So much for coming back and cheering him up.” He turned off the TV and said, “Ophelia, I’m leaving tomorrow, so there’s not much else I can…”

I tried to give a reassuring smile. He had done his best.

“Hamlet,” I said, “you said you were thinking of going back to school. Are you going with Horatio tomorrow?”

Leaning closer to the screen, he mumbled, “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” I asked, somewhat surprised. He had been clear after their last conversation that he wanted to get as far away from his mother and Claudius as possible, and that if his going would upset them, then all the better.

“I have business here.”

Dread crept into my chest and I asked, “What business?”

“My business,” he said, still looking at the screen, his frown deepening.

I turned to Horatio and asked, “Has he talked to you about this?” Horatio shook his head weakly, which made me not believe him. “This is crazy, Hamlet. Whatever plan you have, you should drop it.”

My frustration and confusion were growing. There were clues everywhere, but I couldn’t put them together—not in any way that made sense. It was like being thrown into a maze blindfolded. A maze with an invisible monster that I knew I had to stop.

“Hamlet,” I said, “as much as I’d love to be with you more, you can’t stay here. What are you going to do, skulk around the castle indefinitely, watching your mother and Claudius do… whatever it is they do? Yuck.” I was grasping for anything at this point.

He was finally looking at me, which was something, but he didn’t reply.

I knelt at his feet. “Hamlet, I know what I promised, but I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

“I can’t go, all right?”

“This is madness!” I stood, grabbed my coat, and walked out. I clutched my hands together, praying that he wouldn’t do something that would ruin both of our lives.

Hamlet woke me the next morning by letting steam from a fresh cup of coffee waft under my nose. I sat up and took the mug, hoping that the reasonable Hamlet was the one sitting beside me. His eyes, twinkling and focused, told me that it was. He said he wanted to make up for missing the movie by taking me to the museum of my choice. Funny thing was, the best art around was housed in the old part of the castle, so I suggested we start there. I would be ditching school, but as long as none of the guards ratted me out and I intercepted any messages from the school secretary before my dad came home, he would be none the wiser. Staying in had the added benefit of no security detail and no crowd, we could carry our coffee (which was terribly important, given my uncontrolled coffee addiction), and we could talk about whatever we wanted (which we could never do out, because the public always eavesdropped on his conversations).

We wandered the corridors, and after an hour, we had made our way to the former royal residences. Their brocade canopied beds, imposing doors, and gold leaf moldings made me glad Hamlet’s parents had created something new. While impressive to tourists, these rooms didn’t suit the times or the personalities of the former king and current queen, which was why they had built and moved into the other building.

At the far end of what had traditionally been the reigning queen’s bedroom there hung a tiny photograph, too small for tourists to see. It was of Hamlet as a toddler sitting on his father’s shoulders while his mother, standing to the side, beamed at them both. I was never sure why it had not been brought over to the new part of the castle, since the canopy hid it from public view, but I had loved being able to cross the velvet barriers in order to see it. As I neared the photo that Hamlet once cherished, I froze, realizing too late that it might pain him.

Hamlet pressed forward and studied it, sighing. “We were happy once.”

“You’ll be happy again,” I offered, drifting to his side.

“You make me happy,” he said, pulling me onto his lap as he sat on the formal chair beneath the frame. “I’m sorry about last night. I just lose myself. I need to figure out what happened, is all.”

“If your dad’s death was natural, then it’s awful, but that’s it. And if it was Claudius, and Claudius wants this covered up, there’s probably nothing you can do about it. I’d love to have you around all the time, but you have to get on with your life.” I wasn’t sure if I thought it was possible, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

He pushed his nose into my neck and nodded. “I know you’re right, but I have to find out for sure. And I have to avenge my father.”

“Avenge? What are you talking about?” Fear slithered through me, and I pulled back to look at his face. When Hamlet didn’t answer, I begged, “Don’t do anything crazy, okay? If this is about Gertrude and Claudius—”

Hamlet winced.

“We could go somewhere,” I suggested. “Leave all this behind. Start a new life.”

Hamlet shook his head and looked back at the photograph. “No. My father needs me to do this.”

“Your father?” I asked.

His face was suddenly relaxed. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, turned to me, and said, “Forget it, Phee. Nothing serious today, okay?” He lifted me up, tossed me over his shoulder, and lightly spanked my behind. I fleetingly thought that anyone who could change moods so quickly had to be kidding about avenging or revenging or whatever he had been saying, and as he ran us out of the room, I let that idea chase away my concerns. My peace of mind did not last long.

Every night for a couple of weeks, Hamlet came to my room after my father was asleep, only to rise again and leave just before dawn. I asked him where he was going, but he wouldn’t tell me. After the first few times, I stopped asking.

During the hours he was with me, he usually sat awake by the window or wrapped his arms around me and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t figure out how to help him. All I knew was the lack of sleep was helping neither his judgment nor his mental state, and it wasn’t helping mine, either.

One night, he shook me awake. “I need you to come with me,” he said.

“Where?” I asked. Forcing my sandpapery eyelids to stay open, I looked out the window at the still-dark sky.

“Please.”

My head ached, and my body wouldn’t move as fast as I wanted it to. Hamlet lifted me to my feet, took my hand, and led me to the elevator without saying anything.

My mind was lagging, so it took me a minute to realize he was taking me out. “My shoes,” I whispered, not even considering that I was in my pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with no bra. I moved to grab my sneakers.

“Forget them,” he said, and the doors opened. I hesitated, but he pulled me in after him and pushed the button for the conservatory. I was tempted to ask him questions, but my mind couldn’t form them fast enough. He ran his fingers through his hair roughly, then pushed the already lit button. Then again. And again. All the way up he pushed the button. I squeezed his hand, hoping at least that would make him stop or look at me, but to no avail. I peered up at the security camera in the corner of the elevator and wondered if it recorded sound as well as picture. I decided to wait before asking any questions and bit my nails instead.

We exited the elevator, and Hamlet escorted me inside the conservatory. I shuddered, suddenly wide awake. I hadn’t been in there since the king had died, and I doubted many others had, either. The air felt stifling, not tropical and romantic, as it used to feel.

Hamlet let go of my hand and walked quickly along the path. He returned to where I was standing, then continued in the other direction, pausing only to check the dim corner where his father’s body had been found.

He waved me over, and I forced myself to go. His eyes darted around and he asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

I lifted my eyebrows and replied, “Not really.”

He looked over my shoulder and, fearful of what might be behind me, I turned around slowly, but nothing was there.

He frowned. “Neither did I. But my father…” he began. “My father has been talking to me.”

“Like in your head?”

“No, like standing in front of me. On the roof. And right here.”

The cold was seeping into my feet, and I started to shiver. Or maybe it was the ghost talk that got me. Either way, Hamlet didn’t put his arm around me. He didn’t even notice.

I stood trembling and wondered what to say. “I know you’re upset, but—”

He shook his head quickly. “He was here. On this spot. You don’t believe me. I knew it. God! Why did I bother telling—” He stormed across the garden, peering behind bushes as he went.

“Hamlet, you might have thought—”

“Don’t say it didn’t happen,” he said, running back at me. Stopping short in front of me, he waved his finger in my face. “I talked to him. I talked to my father. He told me things. Things no one else could have known. Now I have to kill Claudius.” He ran both hands through his hair before spinning around and exiting through the glass doors. I hustled down the stairs to my apartment as fast as my quaking legs would take me.

I didn’t believe in ghosts. Hamlet didn’t believe in ghosts. We used to watch those ghost-hunter shows and laugh our butts off at the “experts” and the ridiculous suckers who hired them. And now Hamlet was telling me that not only had he
seen
a ghost, it was telling him to do things. I thought it might be schizophrenia but then remembered that he’d have voices in his head, not ghosts of dead fathers ordering him around. I just didn’t get it.

I sat on my bed, trying to catch my breath. Rubbing my leaden eyelids, I hoped that I hadn’t actually woken up at all and that when I removed my hands from my eyes, I would find Hamlet sitting by the window. Sadly, the room was occupied by only me. I twisted my pajama bottoms between my fingers, my stomach aching, and hoped he wasn’t anywhere murdering anyone. Ghost hunting, I could hope, was the extent of his predawn weirdness.

When the hour seemed decent enough, I texted Horatio.

Me: H says he saw hs fathers gost. Wtf?

Horatio: i saw it 2

Me: b.s.

Horatio: my last night in elsinr. aftr u lft. kng ws in unifrm. scry as hell.

Me: i can’t believe this

My phone rang. It was Horatio.

“Seriously, Ophelia, I’m not lying. We saw him.”

I lay flat on my back, unable to believe the turn the conversation had taken. I considered hanging up, but the stronger part of me had to know more. “What did”—I paused, stunned that I was actually entertaining the thought—“the ghost say?”

“Nothing. Not to me.”

I explained, “Hamlet says he has to avenge his father’s death. If the ghost didn’t speak, then how does Hamlet know?”

“Well… I wasn’t with Hamlet the whole time. Apparently the ghost will speak only to Hamlet.” I scoffed, but Horatio ignored it. He continued, “The ghost—or Hamlet’s dad or whatever—told Hamlet that Claudius poisoned him.”

I didn’t say anything for a while. It was like having static in my head. Too much nonsense. If Horatio hadn’t confirmed the ghost sighting, I would have dismissed it out of hand. I mean, if I got as little sleep as Hamlet had been getting, I would have seen pink elephants crashing through my apartment. But what did Horatio gain from being part of this delusion? I had to call it a delusion. I wasn’t ready to believe in ghosts.

“That’s insane,” I finally said, though Claudius holding that bottle was pretty damning.

“Maybe. But it’s true.”

I hung up and put on my uniform. I would have been better off skipping class altogether because I couldn’t concentrate on anything that was being said. I ignored school rules and kept my phone on but received no messages.

When I got back to the castle, Marcellus was waiting behind the security booth with a handwritten note. He said, “He told me not to leave it with anyone else.”

O
—

I couldn’t stick around. I hurt you every time we’re together. And I don’t think being in Elsinore is good for me right now.

I’m trying to sort this all out, but I’m doing a crap job of it. Maybe I’ll have more perspective from far away. It’s at the point where I’m not sure what’s right or wrong anymore. And if what I believe to be true
is
true, then I have to do something about it. But I’m afraid to.