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Rahim: BTW, did u get home OK?
Ma: Hey, Sugar Plum. Made it back home safe. Flight was blissfully uneventful. Everyone says hi. We love you and are so proud of you!
Chrissy: Sure you don’t want to think about Hollywood? This is shaping up to be Winnie Ashcroft’s year. You’re hot right now, boo.
The doorbell chimes again, and I jump out of bed, bumping my toe against the bed frame on my way to get it. “Mothertrucker ...,” I mutter as I fling the door open. I expect to see Chrissy on the other end, but instead, it’s a delivery guy in a purple-and-yellow uniform. He thrusts an iPad with a touch screen pen into my hands. “Winnifred Ashcroft? Sign here, please.”
I do. After I’m done, he passes me a thick stack of newspapers and magazines.
“Wait, who sent me this?”
The guy shrugs. “I’m just here to deliver stuff, ma’am.”
He turns around and walks away.
I splay all the magazines on my dining table and open the theater section in each of them. There are four new reviews forThe Seagull.
“In an ensemble full of relatively seasoned actors, Ashcroft shines as the tragic heroine of the play, with her silken, dreamy look and coquettish fragility.”
“Broadway has a lot to answer for. It is unheard of, almost criminal, that Winnifred Ashcroft has yet to grace any of its stages.”
Even the less eager reviews are still somewhat favorable.
“While Calypso Hall cannot be accused of producing high-quality, thought-provoking work in recent years (or at all), Lucas Morton’s take on one of Chekhov’s more famous plays may not be a reinvention of the wheel, but provides a solid, riveting escape from reality.”
I put the newspapers down and dig my palms into my eye sockets. Of course I looked tragic up there onstage. That’s because Iamtragic.
The first sprouts of true resentment spring inside me whenever I see the last name Ashcroft next to my name. It seems all wrong. I’m not an Ashcroft. Paul’s parents barely take my calls anymore, whenever I try to reach out and check on them. I’m a Towles. Always have been.
And it’s not just that. The true meaning of what Paul has done is finally beginning to sink in. He burdened me with his last name when I should’ve always beenWinnifred Towles. The starry-eyed girl from Mulberry Creek who dreamed big, and finally—accomplished it.
Arsène is right. Paul and Grace don’t deserve our sympathy, our loyalty, our devotion. He’s right about a lot of things. I should never feel powerless. And itisokay to have a bit of an ego. It’s better than cancelling yourself just to be “the Wife of.”
And there’s one more thing he is right about ...
Call your doctor.
I pick up my phone and make the call.
“Sullivan OB-GYN Medical Group, how can I help?” a chirpy voice answers. I open my mouth to make an appointment, but no words come out.
I need to see my doctor.
There are tests I need to have run.
I’m not okay, I may never be okay, and I’m scared of what it might mean.
“Hello? Hello?” the receptionist asks on the other line.
I hang up, shoot up to my feet, and storm into the bathroom. I grip the edges of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. “You’re such a coward, Winnie Ashcroft. Such a darn coward. I want Winnie Towles back.”
For the first time in a long time, I recognize the face staring back at me. I see the girl from Mulberry Creek. Her freckles. Defiance. Hopes. Dreams. The laughter in her eyes.
“Winnie!” I bracket the mirror with my hands. Wonder and relief swirling inside me. I see the girl who visits kids at the hospital to make them happy. The girl who snuck around with Rhys Hartnett, captain of the football team, during prom night and lost her virginity in the boys’ locker room while he apologetically muffled her moans with his kisses. The very same girl who showed up at the Nashville airport with half the town behind her when she bid Tennessee farewell and moved to New York.
The girl who taught the neighbors’ kids to do cartwheels on her dewy front lawn. Who secretly enjoyed going to church every Sunday, because it gave her a sense of community, of grounding. Who read the classics and dreamed big, imagining herself in the shoes of Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennet.
I love this girl. She is still here, and she was the one who saved me on that stage last night.
