STUNNING AND BRAVE

by Z. T. Corley

Characters:

KATHY 30 something

KATHY:

If I were missing a leg, it would be easier.

No, not easier walking.
Easier explaining.

You see a missing leg, you understand something happened.
Car accident. War. Shark.
There’s a story.
You nod. You move on.

But this?

(beat)

This is clumps of hair in the drain.
Waxy patches on my face.
And lungs that look fine unless you could unzip me and look inside.

If you could see my lungs, you’d understand why I can’t walk a block.
Why stairs feel like Everest.
Why I sit down to fold laundry.

But you can’t see lungs.

So I take my pills.
All of them.
Every day.
And I function.

Because I look like I function.

(shift)

So naturally —
I went on Match.com.

(little shrug)

Because nothing says “stable life choice” like dating during organ decline.

________________________________________

I’m in a coffee shop.
Window seat.
Muzak version of something that used to matter playing overhead.

He’s eight minutes late.

Outside, couples move in pairs like animals that have already chosen correctly.

The sky’s doing that thing —
early evening, stars just starting to show —
like it’s trying too hard.

I already know this won’t amount to much.

Love?
Relax.
I’m just looking for someone who doesn’t panic when I sit down.

Earlier that day I was in a plastic box.

Pulmonary testing.

Body plethysmography.

(beat)

Which is a beautiful word for:
“Prove you can breathe.”

I’m sealed inside clear walls.
Nose clip.
Mouthpiece.
Like I’m about to audition for the role of Human Balloon.

“Deep breath,” the tech says.

I inhale.

Hold it.

Hold it.

Hold it.

As if breathing is a trick I haven’t mastered yet.

“Blow out.”

I blow.

“Wrong.”

(beat)

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not doing it right. Watch me.”

And he performs breathing.

Full Broadway production.
Chest out.
Heroic inhale.
Triumphant exhale.

Then new nose clip.
New mouthpiece.
For himself.

He assembles them slowly.

Balloon chest.
Flair exhale.

“Capisce?” he says.

(looks at audience)

Capisce?

I nod.

Because what am I going to say?

Of course you can breathe.
Your lungs are fine.
That’s not the trick.

The trick is breathing when your body is turning into scaffolding.

(shifttighter)

An hour of this.

“DO IT.”

I do it.

“NOT LIKE THAT.”

“I know it’s a test,” I say.

“You’re not listening. This is a test. Watch me. Capisce?”

(beat)

Capisce isn’t even proper Italian.

But sure.

Capisce.

I breathe.
I blow.
I fail.

Top-rated clinic.

I flunk lung.

Next time maybe I’ll study harder.

(beat)

Later they’ll give it a name.

A disease that hardens connective tissue.

Which is a lovely way of saying:

Your body is learning to turn to stone.

And the lungs —
the lungs usually go first.

Inflammation.

Scarring.

And lung scars don’t forgive.

(beat)

No third-act cough.

You know that movie trick?
Character coughs once.
Audience whispers, “Oh no.”

I don’t even get that.

Just fatigue.

Shortness of breath.

The kind that makes grocery shopping feel athletic.

The kind that makes you choose between laundry and yelling at your kid.

You don’t get both.

“Kathy?”

(shift, back to coffee shop)

He’s flushed.
Wild-eyed.
Like he sprinted.

He’s breathing evenly.

That’s the first thing I notice.

Breathing evenly.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Traffic.”

“It’s okay.”

“I hate to keep you waiting.”

“It’s okay.”

“How was your day?”

(beat)

“The usual.”

Which is not a lie.

A teenager slams a mop bucket near our table.

“This place closes at seven,” I tell him.

“Seven?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to find somewhere else?”

He sounds hopeful.

Hopeful is exhausting.

(beat)

“No,” I say.

I stand.

I’ve kept my coat on the whole time.

Underneath, I’m wearing a blouse.

Roses.
Buds.
Beautiful.

You would’ve liked it.

He never sees it.

Because I don’t take the coat off.

Because I don’t know how long I’ll last.

Because I don’t want to explain why I’m tired.

Because I don’t want to be—

(beat)

Stunning.

And brave.

(look at audience)

You ever notice that?

If you survive something quietly, they call you brave.

If you don’t complain, they call you strong.

If you date anyway, they call you inspiring.

But mostly—

They just want you to function.

Capisce?

(beat)

He stands.
Hands open.
Not sure what to do.

I leave him nothing to do.

He puts his hands on the table.

And breathes.

(END OF PLAY)