by Dylan Allen
So today instead of being annoyed that he’s giving me Noogie, I’m nearly dizzy with relief.
The Free Beth
BETH
“I don’t know if I should even bother, they’re never going to let me into the program,” Porsha my roommate laments and I stifle my sigh of impatience.
We’ve been having this conversation since we moved in together two months ago. I’ve been biting back my sighs since day one. I keep reminding myself that she’s got a lot on her plate.
Given her family circumstances, getting her to believe in her own promise is going to be as difficult as it was for me to believe in mine. I know how valid and entrenched those feelings are for her.
“I get it, totally. What if you get in and you can’t find the money? What if you get in and you flunk out? What if you get in and everyone hates you?”
“Exactly.” She waves her hand in a flourish and her face crumbles with misery. “It would kill me to get that close, to actually have that moment and then to lose it. All my hard work, all the sacrifices I’ve made, they’d be for nothing.”
I shake my head.
“But if you don’t try, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been. You might not get in, sure. But what if you do? The reason you’re so scared to fail is because you want it so badly.” Hat tip to Phil for that little pearl of wisdom.
“Yeah, I do. More than anything,” she admits as she flips a cluster of long braids over her shoulder. She rests her chin on her hand and stares at me, her pretty face puckered in a miserable frown.
I pat her shoulder and squeeze it gently.
“Then do it. And if you don’t get in the first time, apply again.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a viral sensation who has people beating down your door to paint for them,” she pouts.
“That’s now. Less than two years ago, someone told me that people with good taste wouldn’t ever buy my work. A year from now, the world might decide it sucks.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.
“It’s true. Success isn’t a final destination - it’s a moment. This won’t last forever. Failure isn’t a terminal condition. It can be a chance to learn or grown. If you really want to go to Columbia, you’ll keep applying, doing the things that are necessary to make your application strong, until you get in. But if you won’t even risk the climb, you don’t get to be jealous of the people who are already at the summit.”
She curls her lips in a begrudgingly impressed smile. “Who’s the therapist and who’s the patient? I’m proud of you. All that hard work is paying off.”
I smile, because it’s true. I’ve come a long way in a pretty short time. But it’s not by accident.
After a month in New York City, I realized that the thing I needed more than anything else, was to sleep well again.
I missed being able to shut my eyes, and escape to the colorful kingdoms my imagination spurred. My dreams have always been so vivid. But after a year of fitful sleep, I found that not even the glittery, gritty, glamor of New York City was enough to get my juices flowing.
When I realized my art was in peril, I knew I had to do something about my grief. I was grieving my brother’s death, and the loss of Carter. But the thing that kept me up at night, was the baby I lost. There were so many emotions tangled around it. So, I prioritized it and found a therapy group for women dealing with pregnancy loss.
I met Porsha on my first day. It was run by a program her CUNY sponsored and run by Masters student. It was her first session.
She wept with me when I talked about losing the baby and then held my hand for the rest of the session.
Afterwards, we grabbed dinner. We talked until the restaurant closed. While we walked to the train, I told her about my living situation.
I was renting a room in a shared house in The Bronx. My roommates were from Japan, Hungary and Italy. I thought it would be fun living with people who all spoke different languages. It turns out that the three of them speak one universal language - Filthy as fuck and not bothered by it, at all.
After a month of cleaning up after them, I was at the end of my rope. The foul smell that emanated from their bedrooms was starting to take over the entire house. I was desperate to move, but was struggling to find a place with a single roommate that I could afford.
She linked an arm through mine and said, “Well, this is your lucky day.”
She explained that she had a “sponsor.” “I’m beautiful and poor. He’s lonely and rich. We help each other out and we both get exactly what we need from each other,” she explained.
“You mean like a sugar daddy?” I’d asked and she’d laughed.
“But, no sex,” she said with a pious shake of her head.
I’ve never met him and in the two months we’ve lived together she’s only been seen him twice. Part of their arrangement includes him paying the rent on a spacious two bedroom Crowne Heights apartment. All I have to kick in for is the cable and internet.
It’s been a dream come true. We’re as close as sisters and I save almost everything I earn from my job at the catering company I work for. She’s nothing short of a godsend. It’s a plus that she’s as obsessive about cleanliness as I am.
I walk over and give her a hug. “I believe in you. And you already know all of this. It’s always so much easier to give advice than to take it. Show yourself the same grace you show me, okay
She’s working on her Master’s at CUNY, but applying for her Ph.D. in Psychology at Columbia. She’s brilliant, but after flunking out of medical school in her home country of Ghana, her self-confidence is shot.
“I know Americans love hugging, but I’m still getting used to it,” she says dryly. But her eyes are bright with affection as we pull apart.
“I believe in you, too. I know you started that account as a fuck you to your crazy ass family, but it’s amazing what you’ve done.”
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You’re a sweet talker,” I tease her. But my smile is proud and wide at her praise.
“Does that mean you’ll whip me up some of those pancakes for breakfast before I go?”
I roll my eyes, but grin and hop down from the barstool and walk around the counter into the kitchen.
The pancake recipe is one Carter taught me. I make them almost every morning. They are delicious. But, it’s mainly so I can enjoy the flood of memories that assail me when I’m whipping this up.
I hoped that having exposure to new people and experiences, and the group therapy would help me make sense of my feelings for Carter so I could start to get over him.
It’s been the exact opposite.
Three months ago, I landed at LaGuardia with the Trip Advisor app as my only guide. I knew I wanted to paint. But that was it. I also wanted to play a little.
I got in my taxi and gave the name of the Times Square Hotel I’d booked. It was the dog days of summer and the height of the tourist season, so the rates were astronomical, but decided I deserved a splurge.
Less than sixteen hours early, I had been in a wedding dress, about to put my life into the hands of the man who orchestrated the events that led to my brother’s death.
It felt like a real near death experience and I was exhausted, relieved and scared.
That night I slept in a strange bed, in a new city, without a single soul to answer to and it had been the best sleep I’d had since the last nigh I spent with Carter.
And at $800 a night, it was also the most expensive. I stayed a week and left poorer of pocket, but much richer in spirit.
I stepped out of my hotel every day and life swept me away. New York City was the place I should have been born. I felt in my bones.
There was no avoiding the stares and double takes at my port wine stain, but no one asked me questions about it. No one hesitated to hire me, no one frowned. I covered it with make up on the days I was feeling less than confident, but most days, I went out just as I was. And if people still stared, I st
opped noticing.
I was still looking over my shoulder, though.
Not just for my family, but for the other shoe to drop. I’d never had so much freedom before. But I was well aware of how fragile the peace I’ve carved out for myself was. I was waiting for my father to find me and try to force me to do his bidding. So, I was careful to lay low and I didn’t tell anyone, except for the realtor I rented my first place from, my real name.
A month after I moved in, Porsha sent me a text with link to an Instagram profile with a note that said “Is this you????”
I scrolled through each perfectly styled and filtered picture on the account and with each swipe of my fingers, my dread grew.
I didn’t know how they’d explained my absence at the wedding. But I could see now. My profile was full of pictures of a woman whose face was never turned toward the camera. She was blonde, dressed the way I used to. Her profile proclaimed
“This account the official account for Liz Wolfe, daughter of candidate for Governor @TheRealDrewWolfe. I want to inspire women all over the world who feel inadequate to the challenges they face. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t have it all I’m living proof of that lie.”
I felt sick as I scrolled to the first picture, one of “me” standing on a beach arms outstretched and the wind blowing my hair all over my head. The caption said, “I’m moving on. I walked away from a man who broke his promises. With the support of my family, I’m making the most of my new life. Follow me for daily inspiration.”
Post of after post was full of images of “Liz” living her best life in Austin. I understand the appeal of the image they’re selling.
The Liz Wolfe in those pictures lived a charmed life. She lived in a beautiful home, wore beautiful clothes. She gardened, did yoga without sweating. Sat behind a desk and wrote in a gold filigreed journal with a gold pen held in her perfectly manicured hands.
Every meal she ate looked delicious and decadent but was balanced and healthy. Her lips were painted the same shade of pink in each picture, her blond hair, thick and lustrous, flowed over her shoulders in shining, fraudulent waves.
Nothing about her was real. But the most destructive part of the profile - the thing that made me feel ill were the comments from the profiles almost 100,000 followers.
They call themselves #LuckyCharms because apparently that’s what @LizWolfeOfficial calls them. When I search the hashtag, the pictures make my blood run cold.
They all dress in pink and most of them are blond. And according to their posts, they’re miserable because no matter how hard they try, they don’t have anything like the life they see emulated in the pictures on my account.
I didn’t want that to be what my name is synonymous with. I tried to log into the account, but found all the permissions changed.
When I talked to Porsha about it, leaving out all the details about Carter, she suggested I started a new account.
I could counter it by making something real. That same day, I created a new account and called myself @TheFreeBeth.
My first post was a video. I didn’t show my face. Instead, I held up the picture I’d painted of myself - a replica of the one I’d made when I first got back from my grandmothers. I just introduce myself and offered to paint them a mirror, too.
I’d been scared to post it. But as soon as it was done, I’d felt nothing but a sense of rightness. And, I was sure no one would ever see it.
I was wrong. People saw and responded. I got a lot of requests. I’ve painted three “mirrors” since then – and only because that’s the most I can make time for. I love it, and I’m excited to see where it takes me. But, it feels good to make other people feel good.
The last two years have a been trial by fire. But what’s been revealed as I walked through it, is a girl who has learned to trust her wings so that when she falls, fear is the last thing she feels.
“Oh my God, I knew that song was familiar,” Porsha’s loud exclamation snaps me out of my daydream.
There’s no music playing. I pour the buttermilk into the mixture of eggs and vanilla. “What song?”
“The one you were humming a second ago.”
“I don’t hum,” I say, frowning as I beat the batter into a fluffy wet cloud.
She gives me her incredulous wide eyed stare that she gives the guys she dates when she catches them in a lie.
“What? I don’t,” I insist.
She presses her fist to her lips and laughs wildly. “Oh my God, are you for real? You’re always humming, Beth. And I swear that song you’ve been humming is the same one I heard on the radio when I was getting dressed.
“Since when did you lower yourself to listen to the radio?” I ask, and ladle two dollops of batter onto the smoking hot griddle.
“Since I decided Spotify is too expensive. Damn! What’s it called? It was beautiful, kind a tragic, but so romantic.”
She snaps her fingers and her brows furrow like she’s thinking really hard.
“It’s not that serious. You look like you’re about to bust a blood vessel. Chill.“
“No, hold on, I know…” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through it.
She shimmies her shoulders and presses play. “Here it is. The band is called Blue Clover…the song is Between Now and Heartbreak. They’re calling them the next Coldplay. And they’re all sexy as hell. Look.”
She turns the phone around to show me the album cover which is a tapestry of gold and blue four leaf clovers. But I can barely see it through the haze of tears in my eyes. The blood is rushing in my ears when the song - our song - starts to play.
I vaguely register Porsha’s loud exclamation when I drop the spoon I was using to mix the batter.
I stumble back to the chair, sit down and close my eyes while Carter’s beautiful voice covers me like a blanket woven from every good thing in the world. I’m transported back to a place where every day felt like flying.
When I close my eyes, I can feel the vibration of his voice against my ear, the way I did on the many nights he sang me to sleep.
Joy and pride burst through the dam of denial and deprivation I put between my heart and all of the memories we made. I can’t hold back the happy tears shed for my best friend and the dream he’s made come true.
“What happened?” Porsha asks and rushes around the counter, pulling me into an embrace. I breathe in the familiar scent of her almond body lotion and marvel at the turn my life has taken in the last three months.
She’s a safe place. She’s proven that in the few months I’ve known her. She’s got rough edges, but they’re never ever used on the people she loves. I can trust her And I need to tell someone.
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is so right. I’m just where I should be. And so is he. The man singing that…he’s the love of my life. And I’m the love of his. That song is about us.”
“The love of your life?” she repeats slowly.
I just nod. My heart breaks to hear how surprised she sounds. Loving him is an essential part of me, and I’ve kept it a secret.
“So why is he there and you’re here?” She asks, her voice full of question, but soothing at the same time, as if she knows I need the tenderness.
Telling her the truth means I can never pretend otherwise - but I need to rip the Band-Aid off so that I can start finding a way to heal and move on.
“Because after I fell in love with him…we found out we have the same father.”
A Woman’s Will
LIZ
THREE MONTHS LATER
“Hey Princess, they’re playing your song,” Joe, my downstairs neighbor calls after me when I rush past his door toward the stairs.
“Sorry, Joe, I’m late for work,” I call over my shoulder. I usually stop and talk to him on my way in. I’m covered in paint and sweaty from a day of teaching at the YMCA. I hear the slow shuffle of his slippered steps behind me and stop my climb.
It’s moments like this that make me wish for the money I forfeited w
hen I walked away from my wedding. I hate how Joe struggles to navigate the staircase down to the ground floor of our building. The elevator is broken and our landlord hasn’t said when he’ll get it fixed. I called to see about hiring someone to look at it myself, I almost died of sticker shock.
“You’re working again? Don’t you take a night off?” he chides, a broad smile, with remarkably white, straight teeth takes the sting out of his words.
“They needed help and I need the money,” I tell him, digging my keys out of my purse.
“You wouldn’t be if you would sell one of those paintings, or let those little crumb snatchers you spend all your free time teaching actually pay you,” he repeats his daily refrain and even though I love my students, I can’t help but snicker at his “crumb snatchers”.
“I don’t want to sell those paintings and I don’t do it for the money.” I remind him and a flutter of excitement lightens my stomach. I just mailed one of the most amazing pieces I’ve ever done, and I’m still giddy about it.
After I mailed my first set of mirrors to the women who shared their stories with me, everything changed. They started posting their pictures, tagging me in them and my following starting grow. One of my subjects was a woman whose face had been scarred by a brutal attack. The attacker was her husband. I didn’t know she was a nationally known fiction writer. When she shared her story and her “mirror” with her nearly 1 million IG followers, the requests flooded in. I’m booked solid for the next year and have a waiting list for the one after.
Sometimes, they ask me to just tell them what I would paint if I had time to.
It was like the day I decided to leave Winsome…the reward for that choice outweighed the effort it took to push past my fear. What started as a whim turned into a mission.
I have almost half a million followers and that grows every day. I’ve never shown my face or revealed my real name.