Story Girl (20 page)

My grandmother felt like a soft and refreshing breeze after years spent in a mildewed box.

“I wish I’d felt this way earlier on, but most people live things backwards,” she said. “It’s only the rare ones who don’t.”

She looked deep into my eyes, as if she needed me to absorb every vowel and consonant, “Most people do only what others expect, and they fail to ever really know themselves. And when they can’t live with the boredom, they think themselves a failure. But the only failure is in the succumbing.”

It was as if she could read my mind, and I was suddenly scared that I was fantasizing all of this too – conjuring up a matriarch who could confirm my very best hunch.

“No
succumbing
to any truth other than your own.” Her words had trailed off to a loud whisper just as my mother entered the room. She gave us a very suspicious look.

“What?” I asked.

“I thought I heard something.”

“You mean
suck or coming
?” Mary asked.

My mother could only stand and shake her head, and I wondered when exactly she’d lost her sense of humor.

“I said
succumbing
, for goodness’ sake – warning Tracy of the dark side.”

“You’re going to make her even more confused.”

“I don’t think she’s confused at all, and maybe that’s where all the confusion comes in.”

I felt a ping in my gut, and figured she may be on to something. And if that were truly the case, I’d have to reconsider
Space Boy
. My very own grandmother was reminding me that I did indeed have a point to make.

My mother grabbed her car keys from their hook, “Help yourselves to the fridge, ladies. Turkey cold cuts and lots of bingo leftovers.”

“I don’t eat meat,” I said.

“That’s your issue.”

“Where are you going, Mom?”

“To inspect the shed.”

chapter
28

N
O MORE LIFE
support for my baby.

I would coax my dream right out of its coma.

I needed to compose a list of all the possible and impossible leads for
Space Boy
. I was so sick and tired of breaking my own heart, but something in me refused to listen to reason or be tamed by logic. Success, like gambling, was a numbers game; every rejection was like a breadcrumb leading me one step closer to the big jackpot.

And I was actually receiving phone calls from Hope’s executioners – they could have thrown my scripts in the garbage, used them for kindling, or simply ignored me forever. One of them even told me to keep writing. So it all had to mean something. In a town full of near desperate hopefuls, I could almost see myself as the chosen one.

My father entered the kitchen with the cordless phone.

“I was about to make a call when I heard a voice on the other line,” he whispered. “I think it’s a boy.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He handed me the phone and left the room.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“James?”

“Yes. Is it a bad time?”

A long pause followed as I tried to decide what I should do with him – a fly that had voluntarily trapped itself in my web.

“How was your date?” I asked.

“It sucked.”

Luckily, I was so depleted from the last three days that I no longer possessed the mental speed to throw the appropriate poison at the situation. The normal barbs, passive-aggressive jabs, and lightning-quick comebacks would not be coming with their usual alacrity. Or maybe I just didn’t want to ruin my own chances for peace by turning against someone I cared for.

“Why did it suck?” I asked.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

“Oh. So who was she?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you may never speak to me again.”

That meant only two possibilities, and I very much doubted he’d bother with Ann Coulter.

“Sheila?” I asked.

“How did you know?”

“Who else could it be?”

“You’re furious, aren’t you?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what I was – all I knew was that I had to get off the phone. Now.

“James, I have to go.”

“But we really need to talk.”

“Maybe we’re just not cut out for this.”

“Yes, we are.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just promise you’ll call me back in an hour… or two. Please promise.”

“Okay, James – I promise.”

I hung up the phone thinking that I might need to puke. I looked down at the piece of paper I’d been writing on:
POSSIBLE LEADS FOR A SPACE BOY LAUNCH – WELCOME TO THE STRATOSPHERE!

Maybe I really did have a lead. I dialed Sheila’s cell phone, surprised that I’d ever bothered to remember the number.

“Hello. This is Sheila.”

“Hi – it’s Tracy.”

“Oh. Hi. Tracy.” I could hear the fear in her voice and wanted to bring her to a slow boil.

“Is this about James? Because it was just a friendly dinner – emphasis on friendly. We talked about – you know – nothing much.”

“Listen!” I barked.

“Okay.”

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Sure, whatever you need.”

“I’m finishing up a script about space.”

“Space?” she asked – her voice balancing precariously on the edge of sarcasm.

“I remember you mentioning some guy you know over at Creative Artists.”

“Mitch.”

“Yes, that’s right. Mitch.”

“Okay.”

“I’d appreciate the chance to pitch the script to him.”

“A pitch for Mitch,” she laughed.

“Listen here – I’m serious.”

“Well, he only deals with big names – established writers.”

I was stone cold silent.

“Tracy?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you hear what I said?” she asked.

“No, I was thinking about the conversation I just had with James.”

She was quiet, silently calculating what I was worth to her.

“Sheila?”

“How long would this pitch take?”

“Give me ten minutes with him.”

“I’m sure he could spare that – especially if I agreed to that coffee he’s always begging for.”

“Good thinking, Sheila. When will you know?”

“You’re not even finished the script yet.”

“Doesn’t matter – I’d be pitching the idea.”

“What if he asks for the script?”

“They never do.”

“But, Tracy.”

“You literally have to force the script on them – and then, God willing, one of their assistants might read the first few pages.”

“But – ”

“Just set it up and call me back with a time.”

“How’s it going out there anyway?”

“Gotta run, Sheila – late for a double root canal – just call me back when you have a time.”

I hung up the phone, and stared down at the piece of paper that didn’t look quite so blank anymore.

Mary drove us out to our favorite pond, the one she used to take me to when I was small. It was not unlike the pond behind the bingo hall. She’d made us a picnic out of the anniversary remnants, a huge basket of cheese sandwiches and cheesecake. We sat near the marshy edge of the water and watched a family of ducks glide along the surface.

“Are you in love, Tracy?”

I thought about James and shrugged my shoulders, “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in the world.”

“My mother thinks I’m wasting my life.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe she’s just never seen such luminosity.”

I had to blink at the bright new picture she was painting of me, “Luminosity – really? I’m sure she’d have a different opinion.”

“How do you feel?”

“Nothing I try for ever turns out.”

“Maybe that’s because what you’re trying for takes courage and heart and perseverance.”

The tears actually felt nice against my cheeks.

“It’s okay to cry, Tracy.”

“I know.”

“We’re allowed to muddle about – to play a little bit.”

“But I’m tired of it.”

“That’s life. Just hold on and try to find your own joy – not someone else’s attempt at it.”

“Are you talking about my parents?”

“I’m talking about conformity.”

“Oh.”

“The kind that comes from conditioning.”

“Weren’t you conditioned?” I asked.

“Of course I was.”

“And you conditioned others?”

“Yes.”

“So – what gives?”

“I just finally started listening to the deepest, most buried, most under-appreciated part of myself.”

I cracked open a soda pop and pent-up fizz erupted all over our picnic blanket, “Don’t worry about me conforming. I don’t want to, and I wouldn’t even know how.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits, “Conforming can lead to pretending.”

She spoke as if she were a spy, passing on vital information. It felt like we were in a scene from
Julia
. I checked the woods for movement, just in case.

“And pretending creates a world of secrets, Tracy.”

A tiny breeze was gathering force, but it was her words that made me shiver. And I grew cold wondering at all the secrets – the ones that stirred restlessly behind the perfect veneer of what was expected.

chapter
29

W
E WERE TAKING
comfort in the countryside.

Like two figures left in peace at the far edge of a pleasant watercolor.

“But doesn’t everybody want to belong somewhere?” I asked. “Isn’t that just a normal part of being human?”

“Let me ask you a question – would you rather erase yourself in the presence of others, or be fully drawn and alone?”

“That’s a hideous choice.”

“Some people slip through their own fingers – but at least they’re not alone.”

“I don’t think I could ever erase myself.”

“Good – you can’t stay forever attached to anything anyway.”

I thought about how much I’d like to be attached to James. He would come home after a long day of dodging his angst, and I would be there to rub his shoulders and his feet. Then we’d sip tea and nibble raisins until the moon was full over the platinum sprawl of our city.

“Tracy?”

“Yes?”

“You were day-dreaming.”

“Sorry.”

“The young man?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to call him?”

“No.”

A mother duck led a procession of her babies through the tall grass.

“I pushed him away a little and last night he went on a date with someone else.”

“That happens,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“With a friend of mine.”

“Oh.”

“I guess he was trying to hurt me or get my attention, because sometimes I can be cold.”

One of the smaller ducks had left the procession, and was wandering toward the tree line – a rebel stray that I could relate to.

“Real relationships are never going to be perfect – not when they involve two living, breathing individuals. Besides, perfect is dead.”

“So when did you become a Zen master?” I asked.

“Zen Master I am not,” she said, in her most perfect Yoda accent.

We both started giggling which started the ducks quacking.

“Since your grandfather died, I’ve been doing a lot of stuff – meditating, reading, walking for miles by myself. But mostly I’ve been excavating the rubble, trying to salvage what has value.”

We took turns sipping tea and brandy from a large thermos. Her honesty freed me of my acrimony, something I automatically reverted to when overwhelmed by fables.

“You never would have done this twenty years ago,” I said.

“Done what?” she asked.

“Shared a thermos. You would have considered it germy and you would have insisted on separate mugs, or shall I say, cups. Tea is properly served in cups, and preferably china cups for formal occasions. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

“Yes, and I apologize. If it pleases your spirit, you can drink your tea out of a boot.”

“So you’re unlearning?”

She studied the sky, searching the clouds for a sign of that which I wasn’t sure.

“Sometimes the unlearning can be a very painful process, Tracy. All those years wasted on such nothingness – like trying to dust a beach. When you come to realize it, there is sometimes a lot of anger.”