MARY
(Has a realization, to Messiah:)
You want my spot.
(Beat.)
I remember now. You didn’t even eat that second taco I brought you. I found it stuffed into the port-a-potty next to the stand. On my break. I had to go to the bathroom, but I couldn’t, because it wouldn’t flush and I didn’t want to leave it unflushed.
It was all still bobbing in the bowl. You owe me for that second taco. I went out on a limb for you, and this is how you repay me!
(Beat.)
Say something. You can’t say you’re the Messiah, give me a new breast and then clam up.
(Beat.)
You can’t have my spot. You’re not a breast cancer survivor. You’re not even a woman.
(The Messiah and Jane, a group member, head for the clinic entrance.)
Go ahead. Deny it.
(Mary tries to block their path.)
Tell me you just weren’t hungry. That you had good intentions. Tell me that my taco stand was an accident, and that the breast—tell me you were just trying to be nice.
Tell me you were broke and you didn’t want to stiff me on the tip. Tell me you thought we took credit cards. Tell me you never would’ve done it if you’d known I moved and bought all that furniture.
Or tell me it’s all right you messed up my life, because you can fix it!