“I have an idea,” he says.
He grabs a pencil and pad of sketch paper he always has on hand, sits on the bed and begins to draw. David still puts pencil to paper to sketch ideas. He has long lamented that many younger architects no longer do this. It’s a process that makes him feel creatively alive.
His pencil dashes quickly across the paper, and slowly the abstract lines become buildings, and a vision springs forth from the ash.
“Birchwood is a truly historic property,” David says, his words spilling out, like they do when he’s in what I term a “creative trance.” “One of a kind. Those log cabins and that lodge. If we gave them some mid-mod elements...added lots of light...new tech...a juxtaposition of the new with the old...”
After a few minutes, he moves his hand, and my face breaks into a huge smile.
“Camp...” he starts.
“Clover...” I add. “Camp Clover. I can see it. I can really see it. Camp Clover. An old camp with new traditions.”
“You’ve invested in my dream,” David says. “I want to invest in yours.”
“Really?”
“Can I tell you something I don’t think I’ve ever told you?”
I nod.
“I went to a summer camp in upstate New York when I was a boy,” David says.
“You didn’t ever tell me that,” I say. “I can’t imagine you at camp.”
“It was just one summer, because my family moved around so much, like we have, but I remember it vividly, mostly because I wasn’t an athlete or extrovert. I drew. Kids thought that was weird. Anyway, this camp had a group activity called The Bucket Brigade. All of the campers were split into two teams, and we lined up in long rows that snaked from the lake to the center of camp. A bucket was filled with water, passed along the rows of boys to the very end of the line, and then dumped into a huge trash can. The empty bucket was passed back, and that continued until the trash can was full. When it overflowed, one team won.” He stops and shuts his eyes for a moment. “I wasn’t the strongest of boys. More book smart, like your Emily.”
I smile and nod.
“You know, the first time that bucket was passed to me, it was so heavy, I dropped it. All the water poured out, soaked all the boys around me, and the empty bucket had to be returned to the lake. A lot of my teammates started mocking me. They asked the boys in front of and behind me to skip me the next time the bucket came. But the kid right in front of me said, ‘No way. That’s not how we do it. That’s not a team. We win together. We lose together.’ Next time that bucket came, he helped me hold it and pass it to the next guy. A few buckets later, I no longer needed his help. I learned I was just scared. All I needed was the confidence to do it. And we won. We won Bucket Brigade.” He stops. “That actually changed my life. And the sad thing is, I don’t even remember the kid’s name who stood up for me, but I remember what he taught me. After all these years. That’s why what you all have is so special. Because you all never forgot, and you should never forget. Because you all have the chance to change future generations.”
David opens his arms, and we hold one another until the light slides away.
And then, out of nowhere, David begins to sing “She,” the Charles Aznavour song he used to sing to me, and he does not stop until he has sung the whole song, until I am weeping happy tears, until I swear I can hear the Michigan peepers singing in round with my husband.
Rachel
“You can’t quit. I will sue your ass.”
“Really? You? Sue me? Now, that’s irony at its ironic best.”
I stop and give my finest death stare to Ralph Ruddy.
“It’s my business, and I choose to walk away,” I say.
“What if I lose the election?”
“The world will be a better place,” I quip.
“I’m not paying for your last month of service,” he says. “Not paying,” he repeats, before storming out.
I wave goodbye—to Ralph, my career, my income, my past—with my middle finger raised in the air.
Despite everything he’s done, I’ve done, and everything he will likely do, Ralph will probably win. Politics too often is no longer about who wants to do what’s right for our country, our state and our citizens. It’s not about who’s most qualified, or who truly wants to effect change that will better the world. It’s about who’s filled with the most hot air, who’s able to bounce back the quickest from all the blows, who’s able to inflict the most damage, who has the most cash in the bank.
I smile, thinking of the Romper Room punching clown I had as a kid. I would hit it, kick it, smack it, attack it, and it would always bounce right back up, a huge smile plastered on its face.
“So, that’s it?”
One of my assistants, Gary, is standing in the doorway, his arms folded. He’s all of twenty-one, an intern, poli sci major, student senate. Gary is fresh-faced and all promise. He’s yet to be knocked around by either life or politics. Gary’s beliefs are absolute, unwavering, and he knows everything about everything, and that’s a nice little place to be when you’re young, but I know that someday soon reality will greet him with a thunderous gut punch, and Gary will not bounce back. He doesn’t have it in him.
“No, that’s not it,” I say. “This part of my life may be over but the next part isn’t. Whatever that may be.”
“How can you just quit? Walk away?”
I jerk upright. Old Rach would have gutted him. New Rach takes a breath.
“I’ve never quit a thing in my life,” I say, teeth gritted.
But I know that’s a lie. I quit on my friends. This old dog may have learned some new tricks, but she doesn’t quite know how to utilize them yet.
“Sorry,” Gary says, his voice hurt.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “Emotional day.”
He gives me a slight smile and nods.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I say.
Gary walks away, and I turn in a circle to say goodbye to my office. I feel like a caged bird, and I can see that the door is open.
I’m ready to fly, Em, I think. To where, I’m still not sure.
I check my watch and exit, saying goodbye to my staff and my career. Most, I know, will be hired by Ralph and other candidates. I’ve done too good a job. I don’t worry about their careers. I worry about their souls.
And then I walk out of the building, get in my car and head to the most important lunch meeting of my life. I park, take a huge breath and head inside the restaurant.
“Rachel!”
I stop cold in my tracks and then smile brightly. I wave crazily, like a first grader to her parents when she’s on stage at a school concert, simply to cover my initial reaction to what I’m seeing.
My mother has had some work done.
A lot of work done.
She is sitting at the bar, sipping a glass of rosé, chatting with the bartender as if they’re old friends. I walk over and hug her, tentatively.
“Hi, Mom! It’s good to see you.”
“You, too. How long has it been?”
My mother is not one to mince words. Wonder where I got that from?
“Too long,” I answer, trying to calculate silently how many years it has been since we’ve actually seen each other in person. Two years? Three years?
“That disastrous Christmas,” my mother says.
Ouch.
I don’t respond, but she continues. “You remember that one where we discussed the election, and things got heated and your uncle threw a turkey leg at you. That one?”
Ouch again.
“Would you care for a drink?” the bartender asks.
“I ordered you one, but I drank it,” my mom says with a laugh, winking at the bartender. Or she tries to wink. Her eyes are pulled back very tightly, almost like a trout.
“Aren’t we gett
ing a table?” I ask. “Having lunch?”
“Let’s start with a drink, shall we?”
“I’ll have a glass of very dry rosé,” I say.
“Attagirl,” my mom says.
When my drink is set before me, I lift my glass and say, “To new beginnings!”
“Indeed,” she says.
“You’ve changed,” I say to her, my voice and bravado wavering.
“No, honey. You did.” She takes a sip of her wine and leans toward me. “So I had a little face work. I don’t want to look like your grandma did at my age. Women have choices these days.” She gives me a wary look. “At least for a little while longer.”
Ouch times three.
“It’s me who doesn’t recognize you anymore.” She takes another sip of wine. “My own daughter. I don’t even know her.” I flinch. “I’m sorry to sound so mean, but I’m nervous, Rachel. Really nervous. I was so glad to receive your call from camp. I was so happy to hear your voice and listen to how you’ve changed, but I can’t tell if it’s real. Can you understand that? I mean...” She looks around the restaurant, and, for the first time, I realize people are staring, pointing, taking pictures. “...you’re not exactly Dolly Parton.”
“What?”
“Universally loved. You’re more like...” My mom attempts to scrunch her face, thinking, but it doesn’t move much. “...well...cilantro. Some people have a keen taste for you, and others think you’re downright nasty.”
“Which camp are you in?”
“I prefer parsley,” my mother says.
“Truce,” I say. “For today. I’m just here to talk.”
“Today truce then,” my mother says. She stares for the longest time at the throng of diners who surround us.
“We’re becoming such an isolated country,” my mom finally says. “But look around. We cannot operate—we cannot live—in isolation. We cannot beat our chests, scream and proclaim, ‘We are strong!’ That’s just fear and cowardice wrapped in bravado. Isolation doesn’t make you bigger, it makes you smaller.” She turns and focuses her eyes on me. “This was not the life your father and I envisioned for you, all of this one-sided, partisan nonsense. We were middle-class. We sent you to a nice school and a wonderful summer camp even though we didn’t have a lot of extra money to do so. We did that because we wanted to open the world up to you. We wanted you to be surrounded by diverse people and viewpoints. That’s the beauty of education, travel and experience: you’re changed as a result of others’ lives, politics, faiths, backgrounds and points of view. You’re better because of them because you see the world in a completely different way. You understand there are more things that unite us than divide us.”
My mom stops and takes another sip of wine. “Steeling myself,” she says with a small laugh before asking, “I really just have one question: Did you believe what you were saying? I always felt like I was watching an actress portray my daughter.”
“You were.”
“Then why, Rachel? Why?”
I pick up my glass and study the wine for the longest time. “I think I’ve never felt good enough. I’ve never felt seen.”
“You?” My mom’s staccato laugh is shocking.
“I think I’ve seen myself as being in competition with women my whole life rather than being in sync with them.” I stop. It’s hard to look directly at my mom, but I do. “I felt adrift after dad died. I felt like I needed to prove myself to him, or to me, or to someone, I don’t know. I just wanted to fill that void. I wanted to be needed. And then, after my acting career crashed, I was considered a joke, and I didn’t want anyone—man or woman—to be in control of my destiny again.”
“But what about your soul? Who was in control of that?”
I lower my head and sigh deeply.
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t mean to be so harsh, but—as a mother—I’m just trying to understand. You’re not the girl I knew. You haven’t been since your father died, and that just breaks my heart.”
“It breaks mine, too, Mom,” I say. “I fought with you for so long. I was awful. I know that. I just didn’t know how to deal with my grief. And that consumed me. I ended up distancing myself from my best friends, from all the women who tried to shape me.”
I take a big sip of rosé and then look her in the eye.
“I have a lot to share with you,” I say.
My mom swivels her stool my way and crosses her legs. “Share away.”
And so I do. I tell her more than I previously had about Em’s trust, Birchwood, Liz and V, our plans to reopen the camp. I tell her about my specific vision, about how I want to teach young women to get involved in local politics, become politically active, ensure their voices and votes matter and nurture them to run for office. I tell her about Dad and the trees, losing Color War and rope burn. I tell her about how I hurt my friends and Liz leaving.
“I lost,” I say. “Everything.”
My mom reaches out and grabs my hand.
“No, honey. You won.” She gives my hand a little shake. “Everything. You fought the right way. I’m so proud of you. You just have to fight a little bit harder for your friends now.”
“I’m trying.”
“Your dad would be so proud of you.”
I get goose bumps.
“I just want you to be proud of me, Mom.”
My mom smiles at me. “You just need to be proud of you, Rachel. And that’s a really hard thing to do, isn’t it? Loving yourself? Some people never get there.” She shakes my leg and continues. “But you can’t run forever. You can’t live with regret. Take it from an old woman.”
“You’re not old, Mom,” I say. She gives me a funny look. “Well, you don’t look old, Mom.”
She laughs. “Those are quite the friends you have there. Look at the impact they’ve had on you and your life, even though you didn’t realize it at the time. And isn’t it amazing the impact those who are gone, like your father and Emily, have on our lives? She was such a sweet girl. You know, she sent me a book a few years ago.”
I sit up on my stool. “What?”
“Don’t get in a tizzy. She sent me a biography of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Sort of a sign of solidarity, I’m sure.” My mom looks at me. My eyes are wide. “I think she just wanted me to know she was thinking of me. Anyway, she highlighted a quote in the book that I’ve always remembered.”
“What was it?”
“RBG said, ‘The true symbol of the United States is not the bald eagle. It is the pendulum. And when the pendulum swings too far in one direction, it will go back.’”
I smile. A lone tear trails down my face. My mom takes her napkin and wipes it away gently.
“I quit my job today, Mom. Walked away from everything.”
“You buried the lede.” My mom laughs. She lifts her glass and motions for me to do the same. “Congratulations,” she continues, clinking my glass.
“Thank you.”
“So,” my mom says, polishing off her wine, “which way is the pendulum going to swing?”
* * *
I dash from my Lyft, an umbrella over my head to protect myself from the rain.
I tiptoe in my heels along the sidewalk and slide through the revolving doors. I stop in the lobby, lower my umbrella and look around. I take a deep breath to steady myself. My heart is racing, and I feel a mix of adrenaline and dread.
I take the elevator to the studio for Red, White & You and check in at the front desk.
“Please have a seat,” the woman says. “Someone will be with you in a moment.”
TVs fill the waiting area, which is worn and dated. I once thought TV was incredibly sexy and glamorous until I lived in front of a camera as an actress and spokeswoman. Sets are cheap, dressing rooms are minuscule, green rooms are dirty and dated. Everything is fake. All that you see on your TV is a tiny, carefully e
dited window that makes you believe something.
Growing up, most kids hated Sunday nights because it meant school was the next day. But I loved Sunday nights, because it meant I got to watch all my favorite shows with my family. Usually, we’d head to my grandma and grandpa’s house for Sunday dinner, and then settle in the den to watch TV: my grandpa and grandma loved Lawrence Welk, my dad adored Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, and my favorite show was The Wonderful World of Disney. I felt so safe curled up on the couch next to my family, or slumped into a beanbag chair with a quilt draped over me. TV doesn’t make anyone feel safe anymore.
“Are you alone?”
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I jump when I hear a woman’s voice. I look up. It’s Dana, the producer.
Dana scans the lobby and looks at me again.
“Are you alone?” she repeats.
Her question unnerves me for some reason.
I am, I think.
“Just me this time,” I say.
“No makeup?” she asks. “No assistants.” I shake my head. “Oh, well, follow me.”
Dana ushers me into a green room. “You’re on in twenty.” She begins to scurry from the room.
“Dana,” I begin.
“Rachel,” she says. “I’m busy. I really don’t have time.”
“I just wanted—”
Dana exits without a word. I set my bag down, shed my jacket and turn to look at myself in the huge mirrors. Rows of bare bulbs encircle them, much like my mom’s old makeup mirror on steroids. The bulbs are so bright, it’s like a slap to the face. I lean in and stare at myself. I don’t even recognize who I am, or who I was.
I just know who I want to be.
I grab makeup from my bag. Old Rach would have gone full clown; new Rach just doesn’t want to look like a zombie. A little mascara, some lipstick, foundation to cover the bags under my eyes...
Today, I have no notes. I have no rehearsed lines. I have only myself.
I haven’t felt this nervous in ages, I think. I haven’t felt this naked and vulnerable.
Dana’s question ricochets in my brain: Are you alone?
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