“Do you still love her?”
“I’ll always love her. Just like I’ll always love you and Stephanie. We’re a family.” He said the word gently, with a newfound reverence. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with me and your mom, but I know this: You’re my heart, Jaybird. Always.”
She looked at him then, her eyes watery with tears that didn’t fall. “I love you, Daddy.”
He pulled her into his arms.
By the time Elizabeth returned to the house from the airport, it was almost completely dark outside. Night coated the trees; they stood in black relief against the neon pink sunset. When she opened the door and went inside, she opened her mouth to call out for Anita.
I’m home.
But Anita was on an airplane, flying east.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and went up to her bedroom, where the papers Meghann had sent to her were stacked neatly beside her bed. She picked them up, stared down at them. Letterheads blurred before her eyes. Columbia University … SUNY … NYU. All New York schools. Near Jack.
Pretty subtle, Meg.
She tucked the papers under her arm, then grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen. Downstairs, she took a seat at the kitchen table and began filling out the forms. When she’d finished that, she picked up the phone and called Meghann.
“Hey, Meg,” she said without preamble. “I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me. I’m applying for grad school.”
Meghann screamed into the phone. “Oh, my God! I’m so proud of you. I’m hanging up now; I have to draft a letter that makes my best friend sound like da Vinci in a bra and panties.”
Elizabeth hung up, then called Daniel, who had pretty much the same reaction. She spoke to him for a few minutes, gave him the schools and addresses, then hung up. A third call to the University of Washington had her dusty transcripts sent out.
There were only two things left to do. Photograph her work so that she’d have slides to put in a portfolio to be included with the application, and write her admission essay. Three hundred words on why they should let a forty-six-year-old woman into graduate school.
She poured herself a glass of wine and returned to the kitchen table.
She opened the yellow pad to a blank page and began to write.
Right off the bat, I should tell you that I’m forty-six years old. Perhaps that’s relevant only to me, and then again, perhaps not. I’m sure your school will be inundated with applications from twenty-one-year-old students with perfect grades and stellar talents. Honestly, I don’t see how my record can compete with theirs.
Unless dreams matter. I know a dream is a dream is a dream, but to the young, such a thing is simply a goal to reach for, a prize to win. For a woman like me, who has spent half a lifetime facilitating other people’s aspirations, it has a whole different meaning.
Once, years ago, I was told that I had talent. It seemed an insubstantial thing then, not unlike hair color or gender. Something that had traveled in my DNA. I didn’t see then—as of course I do now—that such a thing is a gift. A starting place upon which whole lives can be built. I let it pass me by, and went on with everyday life. I got married, had children, and put aside thoughts of who I’d once wanted to be.
Life goes by so quickly. One minute you’re twenty years old and filled with fire; the next, you’re forty-six and tired in the mornings. But if you’re very lucky, a single moment can change everything.
That’s what happened to me this year. I wakened. Like Sleeping Beauty, I opened my eyes, yawned, and dared to look around. What I saw was a woman who’d forgotten how it felt to paint.
Now, I remember. I have spent the last few months studying again, pouring my heart and soul onto canvas, and have found—miraculously—that my talent survived. Certainly it is weaker, less formed than it was long ago, but I am stronger. My vision is clearer. This time, I know, I have something to say with my art.
And so, I am here, sitting at my kitchen table, entreating you to give me a chance, to make a place for me in your classrooms next fall. I cannot guarantee that I will become famous or exceptional. I can, however, promise that I will give everything inside me to the pursuit of excellence.
I will not stop trying.
Jack maneuvered his rental car down Stormwatch Lane. It was full-on night now, as dark as pitch as he pulled into the carport.
The house glowed with golden light against the onyx hillside.
He went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer, so he let himself in.
She was in the living room, dancing all by herself, wearing a long white T-shirt and fuzzy pink socks. She held an empty wineglass to her mouth and sang along with the record, “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.” Her butt twitched back and forth.