I reread these first two paragraphs and underline them. “The dream is the truth.” I circle that sentence, and in the margin I write, “The spirit, the hope.” I think that’s what the author means. “The dream is the truth.”
Sam and Mom are busy making hors d’oeuvres for the social hour when I get home from school. Grilled teriyaki chicken with fresh pineapple on tiny skewers. Spears of fresh asparagus, sliced red pepper, broccoli, chunks of warm, crusty dill bread with creamy ranch dip. We serve complimentary appetizers every evening here at Bramblebriar. On the porch in the summer. By the fireplace in the winter.
“I’m too nervous to eat dinner,” I say.
“Have a sandwich at least,” Sam says.
“You don’t want to get light-headed on stage,” Mom says.
I make a half a tuna sandwich, grab some chips and a water, and head up to my room. I look over Emily’s lines again. If the director has us choose a favorite scene to read, I’m going to do the one when Emily gets to return to the living for a day. She has just died giving birth to her second child, leaving behind her beloved husband, George, and four-year-old son. One of the other dead people counsels her to choose an unimportant day to live again: “Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough.” Emily chooses her twelfth birthday. The Stage Manager—who, Mrs. Saperstone was right, is probably the star of the play—agrees to let Emily go back to the world of the living. He says to Emily: “All right. February 11th, 1899. A Tuesday.—Do you want any special time of day?”
Emily answers: “Oh, I want the whole day.”
I imagine my eyes are closed, and when I open them, there is my town. Bramble. “‘There’s Main Street!’” I cry out with delight. “‘Oh, that’s the town I knew as a little girl. And, look, there’s the old white fence that used to be around our house. Oh, I’d forgotten that! Oh, I love it so! Are they inside?’”
I can’t wait to play Emily. I know what it’s like to love a town, to love your family, to be in love with a boy….
Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about competing with Tina for the role. She decided that Our Town wasn’t for her after all. She said, “Well, I love how that Emily girl falls in love and gets married. That’s fun. But then she dies! How sad is that? And I’m sorry, but do you really expect me to believe that dead people can talk? How creepy is that?”
Mom drives me to the theater hall in Sandwich. She shuts off the engine and looks at me. “Do you want me to come in, or should I come back later?”
I’m divided down the middle like my one-side-curly, one-side-straight hair. Half of me wants her to come, half of me wants her to go. “Thanks, Mom, but I think I’ll be less nervous alone. Come back at nine, okay?”
“Okay.” She touches my cheek. “Good luck, Willa. I’ll be rooting for you.”
Something about the way she says “I’ll be rooting for you” makes me want to cry. There were so many years when I felt like my mother was not on my side, not on my team, not watching my soccer games, not rooting for me … I gulp back tears.
I push open the heavy wooden door of the theater hall. It smells dusty and old. A tall, thin woman in black is barking out orders: “Stage Managers, row one. Emilys, row two. Georges, row three …”
I see JFK in the third row. Good. There are about thirty or forty teenagers here for try-outs, no one else I recognize from Bramble Academy. It’s a small theater, about a hundred seats or so. The crimson walls are bare except for the hurricane lamps. There is a ladder on the stage and three rows of folding chairs. Something catches my eye up above, amid the jumble of lights and dangling ropes and pulleys. A small brown bird flitting from rope to rope like an acrobat.
The barking woman must be in charge. I walk toward her, smiling. She does not smile back. She is dressed in a black turtleneck and black pants, her white hair smooth in a ponytail. No jewelry no lipstick, no color about her of any sort. Except for her eyes, a piercing stormy-sea blue. They land on me like a lighthouse beacon. “I’m the director,” she says. “Who are you?”
“Willa.” I laugh nervously. “Willa Havisham.”
The director stares at me for a second and then looks at her clipboard. “Wrong play,” she says, and turns away.
“What?” I am confused. My heart starts pounding.
“No Willa Havishams in Our Town.”
“Wait,” I say. “I’m here to try out for the part of Emily….”
Just then I see Mariel Sanchez walking toward us. She moves with the grace of a ballerina, head up, shoulders back, like she doesn’t have a worry in the world.
“I’m the director,” the woman in black barks at Mariel. “Who are you?”
“Emily,” Mariel says, so loudly people turn to look. “I am Emily Webb.”
“What’s that?” the director asks, pointing to a white piece of paper like a label high on the sleeve of Mariel’s shirt. There is something written on it.
“My dream,” Mariel says.
The director and I lean closer to read the label.
It says EMILY.
CHAPTER 15
The Real Emily
The whole world’s wrong, that’s what’s the matter.
—Our Town
When that weird woman, who never even tells us her name, calls up “those auditioning for the role of Emily,” I strut up on stage first, towns of butterflies in my belly and everything. I give it my best effort, but even as I speak Emily’s lines, I can’t get fully into the part. I keep trying to spot JFK in the audience. I worry about how good Mariel will be.
Several other girls try out after me.
Mariel Sanchez goes last.
She walks up the steps and onto the stage like she owns it. Like she is Emily. Like this is her town.
Mariel Sanchez might have been Mariel Sanchez of the raunchy, run-down Oceanview Inn of Bramble when she walked onto that stage, but when Mariel Sanchez turns and faces the audience, she is Emily Webb of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, May 1901:
“‘Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me…. Just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy.’”
And as Mariel speaks, I imagine her speaking to her own mother … telling her to go and leave and be happy.
Mariel has me in tears. She has the whole theater in tears. We are mesmerized. Mariel is Emily. The real Emily.
And JFK is the perfect George Gibbs:
“‘Listen, Emily … I think that once you’ve found a person that you’re very fond of … I mean a person who’s fond of you, too …
“‘Emily, if I do improve and make a big change … would you be … I mean: could you be …’”
Yes, yes, yes, my heart shouts. Yes, I will marry you.
***
When the auditions are over, the director announces, “Well done, people. Thank you for your time. I will save you the agony of a sleepless night by posting the leads right now. Practice starts Monday, promptly at seven p.m.”
She pins the list on a bulletin board. I don’t even have to read it.
Mariel is first in line. “Yes!” she shouts, clasping her hands together. Then she runs to JFK, her face glowing jubilantly. “Joe, you’re George,” she shouts, hugging him tight.
No. I stand there watching. No.
It’s like the time when I was six and we were at the National Seashore and I was standing in the water daydreaming about something and all of a sudden this gigantic wave knocked me over and my body was hurling, no, no, water filling my nose and mouth, no, and then my face crashed down against the gravelly sand.
“Willa,” JFK says, pulling himself away from Mariel to walk toward me. He looks so sweet and handsome and sorry for me.
I can’t stand him feeling sorry for me. I turn to leave.
“Willa, wait.”
I run outside and down the block. I sit down on a bench, my head swirling. I look back toward the theater, hoping JFK is right behind me, but he’s not.
> I sit crying for what feels like hours, and finally I see him coming. I wipe my face quickly and blow my nose. He sits down. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the part, Willa.”
I don’t answer him. I picture JFK and Mariel in the wedding scene in Our Town. He is watching her walk down the aisle toward him. He looks so happy and handsome in his tuxedo. She looks so happy and gorgeous in her wedding gown. I start to cry again. Grow up, Willa. You’re such a baby.
“Willa.” JFK puts his arms around me. He speaks in a soft voice. “It’s just a play. There will be others. I didn’t realize how much that part meant to you.”
“I don’t want you kissing her!” I shout with such anger it surprises me.
JFK laughs. “Whoa. Is that what you’re worried about?”
“It’s not funny” I say, standing up.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out for my arm. “Sit down.”
It’s dark, but the moon is bright. JFK wipes tears from my cheeks. He puts his hand under my chin and props up my face so he can look straight into my eyes. “Listen to me,” he says. “I mean it, listen. When I kiss her, it will just be acting. When I kiss you, it’s for real.” Then his sweet, warm lips are on mine, and I feel like I’m melting, melting.
I look up at the sky. “‘The moonlight’s so wonderful,’” I say, quoting one of Emily’s lines. “Isn’t it?”
JFK laughs. “Yeah, but that director chick’s scary, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say laughing, starting to feel better. I look at my watch. “I’ve got to get back, my mother will be here any minute.”
“Listen,” JFK says. “Don’t hold this against Mare, okay? She’s had a lot of hard stuff in her life. This part, this particular play, is really important to her.”
“Why this play?” I feel my anger rising.
“I didn’t know until now,” JFK says, looking away, down the street, back toward the theatre. “She just explained it to me inside. Remember how I told you her mother ran off because she landed some big role in a play?”
“I remember.”
“Well, the play was Our Town.”
When my mother pulls up, I get in quickly, close the door and face the window.
“Willa, what’s the matter?” Mom asks, all concerned.
“Nothing.”
Sam is up waiting for us, all hopeful, in the kitchen. Mom shakes her head and puts her fingers to her lips like, Don’t ask.
I walk past guests chatting in the living room, run up to my room, close the door, crash on my bed. I hate that girl. I hate that girl. Why is she trying to ruin my life? I was supposed to he Emily. I was the perfect Emily.
I lie in bed playing each scene over and over again in my mind. How great JFK was auditioning for George Gibbs, with that goofy baseball cap and glove. How good I felt auditioning for Emily, but even as I was up on that stage trying to be Emily, I kept thinking about JFK and Mariel. I couldn’t stop being Willa long enough to be Emily. And then Mariel. How she was Emily. The real Emily. And then how it felt so good when JFK hugged and kissed me on the bench in the dark under that perfect moon. And then how bad it felt when he explained why “Mare” needed this part so badly.
Just before I fall asleep, I picture JFK’s face. I could see in his eyes just how deeply connected he is to Mariel, to her situation, to her story….
And the tears come like a sea storm. I sob like a baby, like I’ve already lost him.
I have JFK’s picture in a locket, but Mariel “Sea Bright” has his heart.
CHAPTER 16
Mother’s Day
And this is Mrs. Webb’s garden. Just like Mrs. Gibbs’, only it’s got a lot of sunflowers, too.
—Our Town
It’s Mother’s Day, and Mum is delivering the sermon at BUC. We are in our usual row near the front—me, Mom, Sam, and Nana. I’m trying to listen to Mum, but I keep thinking about Mariel Sanchez. She’s sitting back in the last row, alone.
JFK and his family are off Cape this morning, visiting his grandmother in Boston.
“Like the great author Alice Walker explained it,” Mum says, “in search of our mother’s garden, we find our own. We need to know our mother’s story and we need to know our father’s story, because they made us and we’ve got their roots and we can’t grow strong if we don’t know what sort of plant we are.”
I look sideways at my mother’s face.
“I’m not saying you have to grow the way they did,” Mum says. “Each one of us branches out and moves toward the sun in our own new, crazy way. But those original roots are deep down there, whether we like them or not. And we have to dig in the muck and pluck them out and study them, see them good, as much as any person can ever truly see another, and then, and only then, can we be free to bloom.”
I start thinking about my mother, Stella Clancy Havisham Gracemore. Even though we’ve gotten closer this year, there is still so much I don’t know about her past. What was she like when she was fourteen? What did she dream about? Who were her friends? Who was her first boyfriend?
“Now, here’s your assignment,” Mum says with a chuckle, fanning her face and adjusting the neckline of her rainbow-colored robes. “Sure is hot in here.”
The congregation laughs. Mum always ends her sermons with an assignment. Something she expects us to do between now and next Sunday.
“My mama is long since gone to the angels,” Mum says, “and I know many of you have lost your mothers too. This is a hard day for us. Yes, it is. But if you’re lucky enough to still have your mother here in the living, or some good woman who is just like a real mother to you, I want you to look her straight in the eye and say thank you.”
I look at my mother. There is a tear rolling down her cheek.
“It might not be all flowers and happy feelings between you,” Mum says, “but I know if you think about it long enough, you can think of at least one important thing to thank her for. Something she taught you or gave you or did for you. Got it?”
“Yes, Mum,” we say.
“Good,” Mum says. “Now, let’s close our eyes and breathe easy for a minute and thank the other one we need to thank.”
That would be God.
Mum says the only prayer you ever need is just two little words long.
Thank you.
I hear the heavy door at the back of BUC open and close. I turn around to look.
Mariel Sanchez is gone.
***
After the service Sam takes us out to Moonakis for breakfast. We like the owner, Paul. He’s originally from New York City, Brooklyn. The food is great, and Paul makes every customer feel special, coming around to all the tables, shaking hands, paying compliments. Paul says people should be “aggressively friendly.” I like that. Aggressively friendly.
Soon our table is laden with cheese omelets, chocolate chip pancakes, sausage and bacon, cinnamon Danish, strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream. We eat until we’re stuffed like turkeys.
I give Mom Gift from the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Sam suggested it.
“Thank you.” She kisses me on the cheek. “You are such a thoughtful daughter, Willa.”
“You’re welcome, Mom.” I get this weird feeling inside. This time next year my mother will have a new daughter or son. Soon there will be another child calling my mother “Mom.” I can’t believe it, but I think I’m jealous.
Mom and Sam give Nana a gift certificate to Mahoney’s Nursery.
“Thought you’d like to pick out some annuals, Mother,” Mom says to Nana. “They’ve got all the geraniums in now. We’ll drive you over later, if you’d like.”
“That would be great, dear, thanks,” Nana says. She opens my present next.
It’s a small garden statue, a cherub reading a book.
Nana makes a squeaking sound. Her lips tighten. I know she’s thinking about Gramp, trying not to cry.
“I’m sorry Nana. I didn’t mean to make you …”
“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart. It’s perfect.�
�� She wipes away a tear, kisses the cherub on the head, and smiles. “I bet your gramp’s got all the angels reading up there. He’s probably starting book clubs and making God read the classics.”
Sam, Mom, and I burst out laughing. Nana laughs too. A good, hearty laugh that makes us all feel better.
When we get back to the inn, Rosie is finishing up for the day. It hits me how it’s Mother’s Day for her, too, and here she is working instead of home with Liliana.
“Take a quiche with you, Rosie,” Mom says, “and, here, I’ll pack up some fruit salad and banana nut muffins. And anything else you’d like.”
Rosie’s face tightens. She hangs her apron on the hook, smoothes a wrinkle in the fabric. “Thank you, Stella, but we’re fine.”
I think Rosie is insulted. She is a very proud person. I wish she could have an easier life. I wish she could be a millionaire chef, like that Rachael Ray girl on television. Then she could set her own hours and be home with Liliana more.
Rosie has been working hard on a recipe for the Bramblebriar signature wedding cake. So far I’ve taste-tested at least five that I thought were winners, but Rosie still says she can do better. She comes in early and stays late trying out various combinations of sweet ingredients. Rosie says she’s close, very, very close, and that it’s going to be amazing. Who knows, maybe Rosie will create the perfect wedding cake. Make her big break. Get her own TV show. Sell the recipe for a million bucks. Become famous.
It’s a gorgeous, sunny day, perfect beach weather. I call Tina, but the answering machine is on. Maybe JFK is back. I pack my beach bag and bike to his house.
When I turn the corner onto his street, there are no cars in the driveway, but someone is getting off a bike. The curly black hair is unmistakable. Mariel.
My heart starts pounding. I pull my bike over behind a huge oak tree to watch.
She has a wicker basket in her hand. Is she bringing him a picnic?
Mariel walks up onto the porch, rings the bell, waits a minute, looks around, rings it again, then sets the basket down in front of the door. She gets on her bike and pedals off.
Willa by Heart Page 7