Come Home

A Ten-Minute Play

This month, Wayfare is delighted to present the three winners of our second annual ten-minute play competition. Congratulations to our third-place winner, Kristianne Harbaugh.

Open on SARAH sitting at a table. She wears semi-professional attire and has an open laptop with her. After a few moments, GRACE nervously enters stage left, also in semi-professional attire. SARAH looks up, and upon seeing her face, GRACE seems surprised, though only for a moment.

SARAH (standing): Hi, I’m Sarah King. You must be Grace.

GRACE: Yeah, hi. (They shake hands.) I know I’m a little early, but your receptionist said I could come in?

SARAH: Yes, that’s fine. Take a seat. We’ll have to wait for my partner before starting the interview, he just texted me and said he was running late. You don’t mind waiting a bit?

GRACE: Not a problem.

Both women take a seat. GRACE looks like she’s trying to figure out how to say something. After a few beats of silence, SARAH speaks.

SARAH: This isn’t part of the interview, but why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? Where are you from?

GRACE: Ohio.

SARAH: Oh, I was born there. Which part?

GRACE: Orient.

SARAH: Oh, small world. That’s where I grew up. Your resume said you were studying at Ohio University?

GRACE: Yeah, I wanted to be close to home. Have you, uh, when was the last time you were in Ohio?

SARAH: A couple decades ago, it’s been a long time.

GRACE: Really? Haven’t gone home for a visit?

SARAH: No.

GRACE: Would you ever . . . want . . . to visit soon?

SARAH (hesitant): I don’t think so.

An awkward pause. SARAH is trying to pretend that it isn’t, going back to her laptop. GRACE is thinking over her next words very, very carefully.

SARAH: So what are you doing here in California? It wasn’t just for this interview, was it?

GRACE (unsure): No? I’m, uh, visiting family.

SARAH: And you applied for the internship here because you have family in the area, or . . . ?

GRACE: It would be nice to work somewhere I already know people.

SARAH: Ever come to California before?

GRACE: Not this area, no. It’s pretty nice, though, I like it. What . . . uh . . . do you have . . . family in the area?

SARAH: No. I haven’t spoken to my family in some time.

Another awkward pause. This one stretches even longer than the first.

GRACE: Do you miss them?

SARAH: That seems like a very personal question.

GRACE: They miss you.

Beat. SARAH shuts her laptop.

SARAH (longingly): You know them?

GRACE: I’m from Orient, remember? I . . . lived on the same street as your parents, actually—James and Wendy? My dad would ask them to watch me if he had to work late or something, I spent a lot of time at their house as a kid. You look a lot like m—like Wendy, actually.

SARAH: People used to tell me that all the time, growing up. I hated it.

GRACE: I’m sorry?

SARAH: No, it’s fine. I—did you apply here just because you knew my family?

GRACE: . . . Promise you won’t get mad?

SARAH: That’s a yes.

GRACE: That’s not why.

SARAH: Then why?

Pause. GRACE shifts in her seat.

SARAH: . . . Well?

GRACE: I’d be lying if I said it had no influence. (Beat.) I—I mean at first I wasn’t even sure if it was you, there are probably dozens of Sarah Kings around—King is a surprisingly common last name, have you noticed that?—and I couldn’t know for sure without seeing you, but I had to know—and actually I’m still kind of lying, I’m not here for an internship or job at all, I just had to know if it was you.

SARAH: All of that for a woman you don’t know? Why are you here?

GRACE exhales.

GRACE: Haven’t you figured it out? I haven’t exactly tried to hide anything. My last name is King, too. And—and I think I’ve been looking for you my entire life, even when I didn’t know what I was looking for.

SARAH: Why?

GRACE: Why have I been looking for you?

SARAH nods once.

GRACE: Because you’re my aunt. Because my dad and my grandparents miss you so much that some days you’re the only thing they can talk about. Because my middle name is Sarah as a way of remembering you. Because whenever my dad told me a bedtime story, it was always about some crazy thing the two of you did when you were kids. And . . . because you’ve been missing longer than I’ve been alive, but I think you’re what my family loves most.

SARAH: That’s not true.

GRACE: Yes it is.

SARAH: It’s kind of you to say that, really, but—

GRACE: How would you know if it was true or not? You haven’t seen any of them since you left.

SARAH: And did your dad tell you why I left, or was that left to your imagination?

GRACE (hesitantly): He didn’t, no. But grandma once told me that you left without saying goodbye. Without explanation.

SARAH: I didn’t think I needed to give an explanation.

GRACE: Does that mean I don’t need to explain why everyone wants you to come home?

SARAH inhales sharply, moves away from the table.

SARAH: What does it matter that we’re related? You don’t know anything about me.

GRACE: Sure I do. I know that your favorite color is pink—or it was twenty years ago—but you’d tell everyone it was red for reasons you refused to explain to my dad. You once spent three months learning how to make a decent scrapbook for grandma and grandpa’s thirtieth anniversary because you overheard them talking about how nice it would be to have pictures of their life together in one place. You lied about having a foot condition to get out of wearing heels one time, but then it spiraled and you didn’t wear heels for five years because you were too committed. I know plenty about you, you’re my family’s favorite thing to talk about.

SARAH: You still don’t know me.

GRACE: I don’t have to know you. (Standing). My dad knows you. You can consistently out-eat him at any restaurant, any time of day, he told me about it all the time.

SARAH: He got so mad about that, especially as we—I know what you’re doing. Stop it.

GRACE (confused): Stop what, exactly?

SARAH: Distracting me? Doing this—this thing!

GRACE: I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

SARAH: You can’t just waltz into my life and expect everything to be okay, to go back to how it was.

GRACE: I’m not.

It almost sounds like a question. SARAH looks at GRACE unconvinced.

SARAH: Really.

GRACE: Really. That’s not even what I want.

SARAH: Then what are you doing here?

GRACE (like it’s obvious): Inviting you back.

SARAH: And Isaac was okay with that?

GRACE: My dad? Why wouldn’t he be?

SARAH: What about your mother? What does she think about you finding me and coming here?

GRACE: She doesn’t know I’m here. No one knows I’m here, and even if they did, I wouldn’t tell them why I was here.

SARAH: So she’s not okay with it.

GRACE: She doesn’t get a say in how I live my life, she gave that up when she divorced my dad and refused custody. (Beat.) I was not going to tell you that.

SARAH: What.

GRACE: Not the point. The point is—

SARAH (overlapping): What?

GRACE: —the point is! No one knows I’m here except for you.

SARAH: You haven’t told them?

GRACE: I didn’t know if it was you until I saw you. Like I said, you look like Grandma, but prettier. (Beat.) Don’t tell her I said that.

SARAH: Flattery isn’t going to work.

GRACE: I didn’t even mean to say that! (More than slightly timid). Are you going to kick me out?

SARAH stares at GRACE.

SARAH: What—why—what?

GRACE: It’s a serious question!

SARAH: No it isn’t?

GRACE: It’s at least a valid question.

SARAH: No it isn’t! How did we jump from flattery to me potentially kicking you out?

GRACE: So you’re . . . not kicking me out?

SARAH (rubbing her temples): Well, now I’d feel guilty if I did.

GRACE (sitting on the table): Oh. Sorry. That wasn’t my intention.

SARAH (Sigh): Is there any way I could convince you not to tell your dad you saw me?

GRACE: I decided before I got here that the only one who was going to tell my dad or my grandparents or anyone about this conversation, was you.

(SARAH falls into baffled silence for several moments. She was not expecting that.)

SARAH: Get off the table, it’s not made for people to sit on.

GRACE (getting off the table, sounding a little unsure): I’m not saying you need to tell them now, or that you ever need to tell them. Not—not if you don’t want to. All I’m saying is we miss you, and we love you, and you’re always going to be part of our family.

SARAH: I don’t deserve to be. Not after what happened.

GRACE: It’s not about deserving.

SARAH: I killed your brother.

A pause. Neither of them were expecting SARAH to say it, or at least not expecting her to say it like that.

GRACE (slower): Dad said it was an accident. I believe him. Not much you can do when you’re backing up a truck and . . . and a little kid runs into your blind spot. You didn’t know he was there.

SARAH: I still did it. It’s still my fault. I’m the reason you never met your brother.

GRACE: It could have happened to anyone. Or, I guess, anyone could have done it. Yeah, it sucks that it happened at all, and we’re all going to be a little sad it happened, and of course I wish he hadn’t died before I was born, but no one blames you for it. Except for, well, you.

SARAH: That’s not true. Your mother blames me.

GRACE: That . . . explains a few things. (Beat.) But her opinion stopped mattering when she stepped out of my life. Even when it did matter . . . it was wrong. She was wrong for saying any of it was your fault.

SARAH: You make it sound so simple.

GRACE: From where I’m standing, it is. (Beat.) Will you come back? It doesn’t have to be forever, and it doesn’t have to be very long at all, but will you do it? Come home?

Pause, like GRACE is holding her breath.

SARAH: I can’t.

GRACE deflates, sitting back down. SARAH is leaning against the table, resigned. Neither of them can look at each other. After a pause, GRACE looks up.

GRACE: Do you want to?

SARAH: What?

GRACE: Do you want to come home? Because I want you to.

SARAH: Why?

GRACE: Because I love you.

SARAH: You don’t know me, how could you possibly love me?

GRACE: I love you because my dad loves you, isn’t that enough? (A pause.) So, do you want to come home?

SARAH (almost a whisper, breaking): I don’t know how.

GRACE: I can help you figure it out! Or I can do absolutely nothing. Or . . . here.

GRACE grabs her bag and pulls out a pen and a note card, hurriedly writes something on it.

GRACE: The first one is my number. And the second is my dad’s. And the only thing I’m gonna ask you to do is to text me in the next, like, two days, so I have your number.

GRACE offers the note card the SARAH. Slowly, SARAH takes it.

SARAH: The first one is yours?

GRACE: And the second is my dad’s.

SARAH: First number is Grace, second number is Isaac, got it.

GRACE: Text me soon so I have your number?

SARAH: I will. (Offering a small smile.) Can I . . . can I have a minute?

GRACE: Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll, uh. Do you want me to leave the building, or . . . ?

SARAH: Come back at noon. We can get lunch. My treat.

GRACE (smiling): That sounds great.

GRACE grabs her things, pauses. Hugs SARAH, and doesn’t move until SARAH, shocked, hugs her back. GRACE exits stage left. SARAH’s attention turns on the note card. Beat. SARAH digs through her purse, takes out her phone. She inputs one of the numbers, takes a breath. Exhales. Hits call. Brings the phone to her ear. Her face is pinched in worry and nerves and maybe something else. The phone rings for what feels like an eternity. Someone on the other side picks up.

SARAH: Isaac?

Blackout.

Kristianne Harbaugh is a current student at Brigham Young University studying theatre arts and family history. Recently she presented on genealogy and kinship networks at the sixtieth annual Mormon History Association conference. In addition to writing, Kristianne enjoys reading, playing games with her family, music, and learning.