I read the email at least twenty-eight times before taking a breath.
Dear Cindy,
My name is Reneé Johnson, and my firm scouts out creatives and helps place them in positions that perfectly match their skill set.
Since I’m sure you’re being inundated with offers and requests, I’ll be brief and concise.
My client, Crowley Vincent, president of Gossamer, is looking to expand his brand and move into women’s footwear. To make that happen, he is in search of a team of fresh, new talent. I’ll be honest, you first caught my eye when I was watching over my daughter’s shoulder as she was catching up on Before Midnight, but after speaking with your advisers and faculty at Parsons, I’m nearly positive that my instincts are spot-on. We would like to bring you to New York for a meeting with Mr. Vincent. This is a time-sensitive offer, so please reach out to me immediately if you are interested. We would need you in New York by Friday, July 16.
Your fan, Renée
Gossamer. GOSSAMER. Holy…Gossamer has been around longer than Chanel. They’re a men’s footwear dynasty, and their designs range from sensible and everyday to extravagant and avant-garde. And with Crowley Vincent at the helm, they’ve been breaking rules left and right. Last season they included two pairs of heels in their men’s line and moved into outerwear.
“What day is it?” I ask over the sound of Hilary Duff absolutely belting it out to a concert of thousands as she pretends to be an Italian popstar.
“Sunday funday,” Gus calls from the floor, where he lies on his tummy with his iPad pressed to his face.
“No, like the date,” I say.
Drew glances at her phone. “July eleventh.”
I have five days to get to New York.
After reading my response aloud over and over again to Sierra over Facetime, I email Renée back, and her assistant immediately books me a red-eye into JFK for Thursday night.
I pack and repack my bag at least six times over the next few days. What do you wear to a meeting that could likely change your life?
I spend the week at home—not leaving once. Anna, Drew, and the triplets keep me distracted enough to avoid the news and social media. I catch up with Sierra, and after I give her the scoop on the show, she does her best to distract me with gossip about random people from school. I barely see Erica, as she’s busy working on the two-part finale this week. On Thursday night, the three-hour villa episode will air, followed by a live finale on Friday night. Neither of which I plan on watching.
On Wednesday night, after helping put the twins down for bed, I go back to the pool house and lock the door behind me. It’s time to do something I’ve been putting off for a very long time.
I reach under my bed and pull out the box of Mom and Dad’s stuff. After placing it on my bed, I get situated and take a deep breath, looking up to the ceiling for…something. A sign. Anything.
“Here we go.”
Inside, I find T-shirts of Dad’s with my elementary school mascot, the Panthers. There are Mom’s favorite slippers. A scrunchie of hers. A well-worn Clive Cussler paperback of Dad’s. A folder full of paperwork. Their marriage license, birth certificates, social security cards…All the things you forget exist even after a person dies.
At the bottom of the box is a small velvet box. I open it to find three rings tied together with a thin blue ribbon. Their wedding bands and Mom’s engagement ring. Tears begin to spill as I imagine the moment Dad tied them all together like this. Surely sometime around when he started dating Erica. He must have taken his ring off then, but I guess I just never noticed.
I slide Mom’s rings onto my fingers, despite them being a little too small. I don’t care if they stay on my fingers forever. And even though it’s big, I wear Dad’s ring on my thumb. I’ll do something with them tomorrow. Put them away for safekeeping until I find a necklace to wear them on or a special place to keep them.
Underneath the small jewelry box is a small envelope with my name in delicate letters written on it. The handwriting is too soft to belong to Dad, and I immediately recognize it from the birthday cards I’d saved as a child. Mom. A letter from Mom.
The envelope is sealed, and I’m very careful to open it so that I can preserve it as much as possible. Inside is a note card.
FROM THE DESK OF ILENE WOODS
My dear Cindy,
I told your father to give you this note on a special day. On a day when he thinks you might need it most. So maybe today is your graduation. Or your wedding day. Or the first day at a new job. Whatever day it is, I wish I were there to witness it.
I could fill pages with all my wishes, but instead I’ll just say to you, my lionhearted girl, that you are my wildest dreams come true. And if I had to choose from a full, long life without you and only seven sweet years with you, I’d choose you every time. My greatest hope for you, my love, is that you choose yourself as well. Choose what makes you happy. Things, places, people. Only choose the ones that bring that delight to you. Don’t be a hostage to duty or obligation. I didn’t carry you and birth you and raise you to waste your precious life on anything except unbridled joy. Choose joy. As I lie here, I can tell you my only regrets are the times I did not choose myself.
Maybe joy isn’t always a choice. Maybe things aren’t that simple. But then…maybe they are.
I love you, my dear girl. I love you.
Watching over you always,
Mom
PS: Cut your dad a little slack. And be nice to the new stepmom. Whoever she is. It can’t be an easy job.
I wipe away tear after tear with my thumb before any can drop onto the note card. It’s hard to remember my mom sometimes, but her voice is fresh in my head now. Her words whisper in my ear. Choose yourself. I hear it over and over again as I fall asleep with her letter clutched to my chest and my parents’ rings on my fingers. Choose joy.
As I’m splashing around with the triplets one last time on Thursday morning, I hear my text message alert from where my phone sits on one of the loungers with my towel and water bottle.
When I told Erica I was going to New York, I didn’t tell her what for. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t want to disappoint her and ruin her plans for next season, or maybe I was scared that I’d go all the way there and not get the job offer. Or maybe I was just still feeling a little bit bad about calling her life’s work trash. Either way, Erica seemed a little distant and unbothered, only asking if I needed some pocket money and when I would be home. I lied on both accounts. No, I didn’t need any pocket money. (Yes, I very much did.) And I would be home next week. (Despite only having a one-way ticket booked at the moment. Renée insisted we see how things go and assured me that a return flight could be booked at any point.)
Again, my phone chirps. “Okay,” I say to the kids, “you three stay in the shallow end while I check my phone.”
Mary, who has turned into a cannonball daredevil over the summer, despite her inability to tread water for longer than four seconds, lets out a loud hmmph.
After drying my hands off, I sit down on the edge of the chair and pull up my messages.
Erica:
Are you home?
Beck:
Back in LA. Coming by. Get pretty!
After shooting off a quick message to Erica, I flip back over to Beck and my lips curve into a soft smile. Beck might be one of the best things I got out of the whole experience. I’ve been trying to think of how to break the news to her that I’m not interested in my own season, and if she’s coming by today, I’ll be happy to get it over with before I leave town.