Page 57 of Something About September

I haven’t even told your grandmother this, and perhaps I never will, but you should know. His name is Pierre Margaux, if you ever want to look him up. He told me you were more than welcome to, for family health history matters and all that mature stuff. I know him well enough to know it will all be fine. He is careful and logical and only let himself not be careful and logical for a brief period, when it came to me. That’s over now, and it’s really fine. I’m glad I got you out of it. I promise you, I am. Because you and me…we just feel meant to be.

So now, the things I feel you need to know, as my daughter. As a woman in this world. I hope to be able to add to this over the years, but for now, here goes:

Find the thing that makes you feel alive and let it do that. But don’t be upset if that thing you love also changes over the years. You don’t have to do the same thing forever, or be the same person forever. But carry those previous versions of yourself without shame.

You don’t owe anyone the version of you they prefer.

Roads fork. It’s okay to take one path, then double back. The map of your life is yours, and no one else’s.

Be kind and be brave. (Brave doesn’t mean seeking out conflict. Sometimes it means saying no. Sometimes it means starting again. Kind doesn’t EVER mean being a doormat or not being brave.)

Don’t give up on yourself. Ever.

If you do too much, rest. If you do too little, try again tomorrow.

Laugh at the wrong moments and cry at the right ones (or vice versa). I do that all the time. I’ve learned these emotions come from the same deep place.

When the world feels too harsh, put on a little red lipstick or a red dress, smile at your reflection, and go meet your life.

I love you so much already. I know I always will.

Yours,

Evie (your mom)

By the time Rebecca reached the signature, her vision had gone blurry with tears. She pressed the page to her chest and felt the pulse of her own heart against the paper, and it was as if for just a moment, the paper had a pulse, too.

She blinked her tears away and she read it again. And again, slower. It made her smile and it made her cry some more. It made her know her mother in the way she had always wanted—and she realized that actually, Evie hadn’t been such a mystery. In her heart, it was possible Rebecca had always known these things, had somehow absorbed them. But now she had them in writing.

Go meet your life.

A sound rose in her, half laughter, half sob. She wiped her eyes and looked around at the familiar little room, at the bookshelf, at the cracked glass on the quilt catching the lamplight like ice on a river during the winter that would come whether she wanted it to or not.

She slid the letter back into its envelope, then under her pillow. She moved the broken glass to her desk; she’d throw it away safely the next day.

On the floor lay the photograph, freed from its broken pane. She lifted it carefully and smoothed the edge. In the picture, Evie’s gaze was down and inward, as though she were listening to something. Her inner voice, maybe.

“I hear you,” Rebecca whispered. And in hearing that, she felt something clearing away, pulling loose, with the satisfaction of a splinter removed. She could also hear herself.

She pulled the duvet over her without bothering to take off her clothes, turned off the lamp, and closed her eyes. In the silence, she listened. The apartment clock hummed its small electric hum. Down on Main Street, someone’s dog gave a hopeful bark, then quieted. The dark wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of her mother’s words, floating like fireflies on an early-autumn night. And it was full of her own dreams, ones she was no longer so afraid of. Behind her eyelids, she saw lights. The warm glow of her grandmother’s apple-blossom lamp, the blinking glow of the flashlight messages she and Sabrina used to shine out to each other as girls, and the soft, simple beacon of her mother’s love, a thing she could touch and carry with her now, constantly illuminating her world so she would always know which way to go.

Chapter 36

Rebecca woke before the sun was fully up. For a second she didn’t remember why her pillow had something crinkling beneath it, but then her hand found the envelope and everything returned in a quiet rush. The broken frame, the letter, her mother’s words.

She switched on the bedside lamp. The room glowed soft gold in the still-weak morning light. She felt the way she used to back in school, when she had read something she loved and she couldn’t get it out of her head, as if she were inhabiting an entirely new world. But now the things she was excited about were in her own life, the real world. She was filled with the idea that she could write her own map. That she was in charge. Somehow, she had lost sight of this.

In her desk drawer, she found a fresh composition notebook. She picked up a pen and wrote without thinking:

Things I Want Because I Want Them

She stared at the blank space beneath and felt a surprising lightness. Then she began the list.

Stay in Bramley Hollow a little longer—by my choice.

After she had this down, she opened her laptop and wrote an email to her supervising professor at the university firmly asking for an extension of her leave and indicating that she was at a crossroads, that they should have a conversation in the coming weeks about exactly what this meant. It scared her to send the email, but she did it anyway. And once it was sent, she didn’t feel scared anymore.

Keep the building, she wrote, her heart beginning to race again. Make it a community hub, the way the diner was, the same in so many ways, but also different. Books, warmth, fun, food—the way I imagined it when I was a kid.