Was she? Oona glanced around. There was an open bottle of champagne on the counter along with a birthday cake, yet to be cut.
“I was just here. Is it over? Am I done leaping?” A fifty-fifty cocktail of hope and dread. How thrillingly mundane it would be to live life sequentially. To be able to rely on where and when each year would begin. Though going consecutive now, in her forties, meant a sacrifice. Would it be worth it? She wasn’t sure, but she leaned toward yes.
It was a needless internal debate. Oona shut down the mental pros and cons as she took in the slight differences in this birthday scene. The cake before her had blue icing, whereas moments ago it had been purple. The champagne glasses had beveled edges and gold rims instead of the plain crystal flutes they’d been drinking out of.
“It’s not 2005, is it?” A smattering of wistfulness in the question.
“Close. It’s 2003.”
“Fuck.”
It had to be 2003—the year she’d meet and marry Edward. The year she’d begin funding his restaurant, which would fail as spectacularly as their marriage.
At least I’m in my thirties now. Yay?
“I keep hoping it’ll get easier for you.”
Oona opened her eyes, her mother’s concerned face inches away. She stepped back and lost her balance, grabbing the counter for support, which sent one champagne flute toppling into the other. Both crashed to the floor.
“Well, that explains why the glasses are different next year,” Oona said.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just need a minute to…”
“… read this?” There it was, the now-familiar sealed white envelope.
“I guess.” She took the letter.
“Why don’t you read it in your study? I’ll clean this up and bring you some cake and more champagne.” Madeleine went in search of a broom and dustpan.
On the way upstairs, Oona glimpsed her reflection in a hall mirror. A little thinner and blonder but otherwise identical to next year’s/last year’s version.
At her desk, the letter untouched before her, a futile sigh. What was the point of reading it? She already knew what this year would bring.
Dear Oona,
Sometimes I wonder how much these letters help you. I write them to prepare you, reassure you. But what if my mistake is trying to prevent you from making your own? I haven’t been able to protect you from the shitty things I know will happen, so maybe I shouldn’t try to rewrite our future anymore. After all, you need to experience the lows along with the highs. Otherwise, you end up with a safe, sterile, painless life, and who wants that?
“I want that,” Oona said aloud.
Don’t waste your time wishing for it. No matter how much you try to protect yourself from misery and disappointment, it still waits around the corner.
As does Edward. You know you’re going to meet him, marry him, and divorce him. So what?
Most people’s lives are novels, but yours is a series of short stories. Enjoy the Edward story. After all, you experienced the ending. Why not indulge in the beginning?
All good things end, always. The trick is to enjoy them while they last.
Spoiler alert: your life will be bittersweet, no matter what. But every New Year’s Eve, when that stupid clock strikes midnight, you have another chance at a clean slate and a remarkable year. I promise, some years will be glorious, and not just the younger ones. Youth and beauty aren’t everything.
Stop micromanaging your life and just live it; joy and meaning will follow. Find the happy medium between being daring and responsible. Cultivate that balance. Do your best. Be good to yourself, even when—especially when—life isn’t being good to you.
Love,
Me
P.S. Don’t forget about that citywide blackout. Either stock up on candles or leave NYC in mid-August.
Great, more smug Earlier Oona. So enlightened, so damn patronizing. This Oona couldn’t be as Zen. Pushing forty was frustrating when she should’ve been celebrating her twenty-second birthday instead of being cloistered in a house time travel built, with nothing but a doomed-to-fail marriage to look forward to.
What if I take a different path? What if I don’t get married?
Question after question swam through Oona’s mind. Time to put fate to the test.
I don’t have to choose Edward. I can choose anybody. I could choose nobody.
Fuck enlightenment and fuck marriage. I’m getting out of here.
While Kenzie’s postcards had stirred a curiosity for travel, this was the first real pull she had to leave the country. That was something she was supposed to do in her twenties. With Dale.
Maybe he and I will still see some of the places on our list, she thought as she browsed travel websites. At least we’ll have one more summer together, whenever that’ll be.
And in case she did get there with Dale, Europe was out. So where should she go instead? Should she follow Kenzie’s footsteps and visit Asia? No, this choice needed to be singular, solely hers. This first trip abroad had to be extraordinary, filled with sights that would imbue her with awe and wonder.
As she paced her bedroom, the display case caught her eye. The crystal red Corvette was there, as was the Fabergé egg and the Venetian mask. But the glass igloo was missing.
Alaska?
No. Somewhere warmer.
Also missing was the pyramid snow globe.
Egypt.
She’d explore the Great Pyramids of Giza, the tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the temples of Luxor and Abu Simbel. Maybe she’d even try a Nile cruise to conquer her boat phobia. And while it would be too warm to bring the leather jacket Dale had given her, she’d wear the anniversary watch. In that small way, he could join her.
Flipping through the blank pages of her passport (did she get a new one periodically to avoid spoilers?), Oona promised herself to fill it with stamps, to unmoor the anchor that had kept her tethered to a fifteen-mile radius of her home.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” she asked Madeleine.
“No thank you, my darling. This is an adventure you should have on your own.”
So Oona bought a one-way ticket to Cairo. If that leg of the trip went well, perhaps she’d continue on to Jordan or Morocco. She could spend the entire year traveling and subvert her fate of meeting and marrying Edward.
Internally, she was wearier, more defeated than she expected to be at twenty-two, but externally, she was a youthful thirty-nine. At the airport, she caught an admiring glance here and there. The potential for a travel fling wasn’t out of the question.
A new resolve and optimism suffused Oona as she boarded the Cairo-bound plane. There was no need to be trapped by her flawed chronology or supposed destiny. She wouldn’t tiptoe around her life, suffer the frustration that resulted from chasing stability. She would not be defeated by her known future.
Clean slate, here we go.
She settled into her seat and peered through the thick glass of the window: planes taxiing, carts of baggage wheeled under a flat gray sky that threatened rain. Her destination was sunny and dry. Nothing to see here, so she put on an eye mask.
There was a rustling as somebody sat beside her.
What was that humming? A familiar tune, one that strummed the chords of Oona’s heart.
“‘Sunday Morning.’ Velvet Underground,” she murmured, settling into her seat.