The impulse is odd only because it’s been dormant. I used to love to draw. Painting is my preferred medium, but whenever I left the house, I used to bring a sketch pad with me in case inspiration struck. I would only show my work to Mom, Lottie, a few teachers at school, and eventually Henry.
“That’s, like, really good,” I remember him saying the first time I showed him something I created. “Like, really, really good.”
My plan after college was to work at a magazine, learn the ropes, and eventually become an art director. I knew making it as an artistis near impossible, but this way, I could at least be around art, and maybe that was enough. The plan was to work on my own projects on the side.
I applied to internships at every major publication and studio in New York City. I got the standard mass rejection emails—hundreds of them—but one offered me an interview. It was for a position as executive assistant to Clive Bozeman, an art director at a prestigious fashion magazine. His name sounded almost too pretentious to be real, but the role was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I borrowed business clothes from Rose, took the ferry to the Cape, and then rented a car to drive to New York. I came with pitches, ideas for more content, a list of my favorite covers going back ten years.
When Clive called to say that I had the job, I felt the world spinning, as though for the first time everything, absolutely everything, was moving for me. The whole world conspiring for my success. My dreams within reach.
The delusion lasted for a while—a few months maybe, if that—but then it faded away to reveal the truth, the way all lies we tell ourselves eventually fall flat.
“Who’s that man your mom is talking to?” Josie points toward the bar, where Rose is standing suspiciously close to the older guy from earlier, the one in the Nantucket reds who was with the blond jerk.
The man is leaning in closer and closer. Mom is smiling, but it’s hard to tell if the attention is wanted or not. Like I said, she’s a magnet, even in slippers.
The man’s younger, smarmier counterpart is leering at me, a smirk teasing his lips.
“Oh no.”
When Rose returns, her cheeks are flushed.
“Who was that?” I ask. “Did he ask you out?”
“Who?” says Rose, playing dumb.
I roll my eyes. “The man at the bar who was obviously hitting on you.”
“Oh.” Her blush deepens. “Yes, I suppose he did.”
“Are you going to go?” Josie’s glee is apparent. She claps her hands together in excitement. “He was handsome!”
Josie thinks everyone is handsome.
“Maybe,” says Rose, suddenly shy. “I don’t know.”
I often wonder why she doesn’t date more. I know she wanted to protect me when I was younger, but I always assumed—and hoped—that when I went off to college, she would find someone. Now, with Lottie gone, too, I worry about her future loneliness. Nantucket is a beautiful place, but at the end of the day, it’s an isolated one, too. I don’t want my mom to become an island of her own.
“You should go,” I encourage, even though the man isn’t exactly my cup of tea. I want my mom to know she has my blessing. “You should give it a try.”
“You think?” Rose scrunches up her nose, considering. “Maybe.”
We’re silent for a moment as she seems to contemplate the idea, but I’ve moved on to something else that is still bothering me. “Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“When we were talking earlier about the ‘can’t eat, can’t sleep’ kind of love, you said it wasn’t like that for you and my father, but it seemed like you had someone else in mind. Who was it?”
Her blush is now maroon. “Oh, never mind all that.”
“Wait, this sounds juicy! Tell me more!” chimes in Josie. I’m surprised she doesn’t know either. Rose has always been reticent, quietly stoic and self-sacrificing, but surely she must have told someone about this mystery man?
“It’s in the past,” says Rose, waving dismissively. “Ancient history.”
“Come on, tell us!” insists Josie.
Rose squirms in her seat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mom squirm before. She’s usually preternaturally composed.
