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For years, Ive let you run the show on who we are. Im tired of that. Maybe its because Im old and you dont scare me like you used to. Or maybe its because Im alone now, and life looks different to me.
Believe me, honey, I know what its like to be unhappy in your marriage. One disappointment feeds on another until one day you leave him. You become the trapped wolf who eats her own foot to be free.
But if youre like me, you discover that the world is a big, dark place. And love--even if it isnt what youd thought it would be--is the only light for miles.
So, Birdie, darlin, I understand.
I dont have any advice for you. If theres one thing Ive discovered in this life its that deep truths are uncovered alone.
My prayers are with you and Jack and those beautiful girls.
XXOO
Anita
P. S. Dont bother writing back. Im taking your advice and heading to the beach!
Elizabeth read the letter three times, then carefully folded it up, slipped it back into its violet-scented envelope.
She walked over to the French doors and stared out at the ocean. In those few words, Anita had managed to shake Elizabeth up, to cause a subtle shift in perception.
For years, she had monitored the progress of women--friends, strangers, celebrities--whod left their marriages. Often, shed watched with envy as these women picked up stakes and started over. She imagined them living shiny new lives, as different from her own as a quarter from a bottle cap. And shed thought to herself, If only I could start over.
Shed never paid much attention to the women who stayed in their marriages, who hacked through the jungle of ordinary life and found a different kind of treasure.
At some point, Anita had left Edward. Shed packed a bag and moved away from Sweetwater. What had she been looking for . . . and what had brought her back? Had it really been as simple, and as infinitely complex, as true love?
Elizabeth felt a spark of kinship with her stepmother. She wished they could sit down and talk about their disparate and now oddly parallel lives.
She picked up the phone and dialed Anitas number. The phone rang and rang. Finally, an answering machine clicked on.
Her fathers slow, drawling voice started. "Yallve reached Sweetwater. We arent here right now, but leave a message and well return your call. " There was a muffled sound on the tape--Anitas voice--then Daddy went on: "Oh . . . yeah . . . wait for the beep. Thanks. "
Elizabeth was so rattled by the sound of her fathers voice that she hung up without leaving a message.
Tears stung her eyes. She didnt bother trying to hold them back. It was a thing shed learned in the last weeks. Grief would have its way. If she gave in to it, wallowed around in the loss for a while, she could go on.
She sat down on the edge of her bed. On the bureau, she saw a framed photograph of a little girl in a frilly pink dress, white tights, and black patent Mary Janes.
Her seventh birthday party. Later that night, Daddy had taken her to see the musical South Pacific in Nashville.
After the show, when hed tucked her into bed, hed said, Sugar beet, you were the prettiest girl in the theater tonight. I was danged proud to have you on my arm. Then hed pulled her into his big strong arms and made her feel safe.
She needed that--needed him--now.
She sat there a long time, talking to her daddy as if he were sitting right beside her.
The week flew by.
After years of trudging through a gray, wintry landscape of other peoples choices, Elizabeth had finally emerged onto a sunny blue day of her own.
Each morning she woke with a sense of expectation that made her smile, hum even, as she went about her daily chores. Then, at noon, no matter what else pressed at her to be done, no matter what was on her mental To Do list, she ignored everything and painted.
At first, shed tried to fix her class project. Shed added brushstrokes and dabs of color, layer upon layer, trying to add a complexity to the image that she couldnt quite achieve.
Unfortunately, the old saying was true. You couldnt make a silk purse out of a sows ear.
The problem with the orange was that it wasnt hers. The best in art revealed something of the artists soul, and Elizabeths soul had never cared much for fruit.
