“But if you don’t try, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been. You might not get in, sure. But what if you do? The reason you’re so scared to fail is because you want it so badly.” Hat tip to Phil for that little pearl of wisdom.
“Yeah, I do. More than anything,” she admits as she flips a cluster of long braids over her shoulder. She rests her chin on her hand and stares at me, her pretty face puckered in a miserable frown.
I pat her shoulder and squeeze it gently.
“Then do it. And if you don’t get in the first time, apply again.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a viral sensation who has people beating down your door to paint for them,” she pouts.
“That’s now. Less than two years ago, someone told me that people with good taste wouldn’t ever buy my work. A year from now, the world might decide it sucks.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.
“It’s true. Success isn’t a final destination - it’s a moment. This won’t last forever. Failure isn’t a terminal condition. It can be a chance to learn or grown. If you really want to go to Columbia, you’ll keep applying, doing the things that are necessary to make your application strong, until you get in. But if you won’t even risk the climb, you don’t get to be jealous of the people who are already at the summit.”
She curls her lips in a begrudgingly impressed smile. “Who’s the therapist and who’s the patient? I’m proud of you. All that hard work is paying off.”
I smile, because it’s true. I’ve come a long way in a pretty short time. But it’s not by accident.
After a month in New York City, I realized that the thing I needed more than anything else, was to sleep well again.
I missed being able to shut my eyes, and escape to the colorful kingdoms my imagination spurred. My dreams have always been so vivid. But after a year of fitful sleep, I found that not even the glittery, gritty, glamor of New York City was enough to get my juices flowing.
When I realized my art was in peril, I knew I had to do something about my grief. I was grieving my brother’s death, and the loss of Carter. But the thing that kept me up at night, was the baby I lost. There were so many emotions tangled around it. So, I prioritized it and found a therapy group for women dealing with pregnancy loss.
I met Porsha on my first day. It was run by a program her CUNY sponsored and run by Masters student. It was her first session.
She wept with me when I talked about losing the baby and then held my hand for the rest of the session.
Afterwards, we grabbed dinner. We talked until the restaurant closed. While we walked to the train, I told her about my living situation.
I was renting a room in a shared house in The Bronx. My roommates were from Japan, Hungary and Italy. I thought it would be fun living with people who all spoke different languages. It turns out that the three of them speak one universal language - Filthy as fuck and not bothered by it, at all.
After a month of cleaning up after them, I was at the end of my rope. The foul smell that emanated from their bedrooms was starting to take over the entire house. I was desperate to move, but was struggling to find a place with a single roommate that I could afford.
She linked an arm through mine and said, “Well, this is your lucky day.”
She explained that she had a “sponsor.” “I’m beautiful and poor. He’s lonely and rich. We help each other out and we both get exactly what we need from each other,” she explained.
“You mean like a sugar daddy?” I’d asked and she’d laughed.
“But, no sex,” she said with a pious shake of her head.
I’ve never met him and in the two months we’ve lived together she’s only been seen him twice. Part of their arrangement includes him paying the rent on a spacious two bedroom Crowne Heights apartment. All I have to kick in for is the cable and internet.
It’s been a dream come true. We’re as close as sisters and I save almost everything I earn from my job at the catering company I work for. She’s nothing short of a godsend. It’s a plus that she’s as obsessive about cleanliness as I am.
I walk over and give her a hug. “I believe in you. And you already know all of this. It’s always so much easier to give advice than to take it. Show yourself the same grace you show me, okay
She’s working on her Master’s at CUNY, but applying for her Ph.D. in Psychology at Columbia. She’s brilliant, but after flunking out of medical school in her home country of Ghana, her self-confidence is shot.
“I know Americans love hugging, but I’m still getting used to it,” she says dryly. But her eyes are bright with affection as we pull apart.
“I believe in you, too. I know you started that account as a fuck you to your crazy ass family, but it’s amazing what you’ve done.”
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You’re a sweet talker,” I tease her. But my smile is proud and wide at her praise.
“Does that mean you’ll whip me up some of those pancakes for breakfast before I go?”
I roll my eyes, but grin and hop down from the barstool and walk around the counter into the kitchen.
The pancake recipe is one Carter taught me. I make them almost every morning. They are delicious. But, it’s mainly so I can enjoy the flood of memories that assail me when I’m whipping this up.
I hoped that having exposure to new people and experiences, and the group therapy would help me make sense of my feelings for Carter so I could start to get over him.
It’s been the exact opposite.
Three months ago, I landed at LaGuardia with the Trip Advisor app as my only guide. I knew I wanted to paint. But that was it. I also wanted to play a little.
I got in my taxi and gave the name of the Times Square Hotel I’d booked. It was the dog days of summer and the height of the tourist season, so the rates were astronomical, but decided I deserved a splurge.
Less than sixteen hours early, I had been in a wedding dress, about to put my life into the hands of the man who orchestrated the events that led to my brother’s death.
It felt like a real near death experience and I was exhausted, relieved and scared.
That night I slept in a strange bed, in a new city, without a single soul to answer to and it had been the best sleep I’d had since the last nigh I spent with Carter.
And at $800 a night, it was also the most expensive. I stayed a week and left poorer of pocket, but much richer in spirit.
I stepped out of my hotel every day and life swept me away. New York City was the place I should have been born. I felt in my bones.
There was no avoiding the stares and double takes at my port wine stain, but no one asked me questions about it. No one hesitated to hire me, no one frowned. I covered it with make up on the days I was feeling less than confident, but most days, I went out just as I was. And if people still stared, I stopped noticing.
I was still looking over my shoulder, though.
Not just for my family, but for the other shoe to drop. I’d never had so much freedom before. But I was well aware of how fragile the peace I’ve carved out for myself was. I was waiting for my father to find me and try to force me to do his bidding. So, I was careful to lay low and I didn’t tell anyone, except for the realtor I rented my first place from, my real name.