FROM:Meredith Lawton
DATE:March 4, 2019
SUBJECT:I didn’t know...
TO:Josephine Bordelon
Dear Josie,
I must say, Josie, you looked drop-dead gorgeous on Saturday night. It takes a certain complexion to pull off that color orange and you were simply radiant. I’m so disappointed Christopher couldn’t be there to meet you, I know you two will get along famously. I’ve always known you are the top director of admissions of any private school in town, but in that outfit, there couldn’t be a possible doubter in the room.
Speaking of doubt, I want you to know that I have never doubted your professionalism and power to determine if Harrison is a qualified Fairchild Country Day School student. When I told Nan about the scholarship you were putting together with Beatrice Pembrook I simply wanted to support your aunt Viv and her service to the school since you and I have become such good friends through this whole emotional admissions process. I was so distraught at your house the other morning I didn’t know which way was up. That’s why I read your text from Beatrice. Obviously, I wasn’t myself. But again, Nan seemed thrilled with the news about the scholarship when I told her about it and asked that I not share with you, so it could be an even bigger surprise for you and your aunt Viv at the party. I promise I was by no means trying to skirt around you to be in cahoots with Nan to ensure Harrison’s entrance into Fairchild. I would never do that—that would be plain silly, right? We both know what a truly remarkable candidate Harrison is.
It would be fun if you, Christopher, and I grabbed dinner sometime. We would love to get to know you better in the next couple of weeks. Are you available this Thursday?
Love and peace in these difficult times,
Meredith
Revisionist history is a remarkable thing. People love to spin a story to make themselves look good, as an innocent bystander or a victim of circumstances, all to ensure they end up with what they originally wanted. I believe that’s what plantation owners did until the Civil War came along. And that’s what black people have been watching white people do since the founding of this country. Talk about a tale as old as time. I’m sure Aunt Viv has an old-school Aesop’s fable about this exact scenario.
Oh, how I wish I could e-mail back to Meredith, if my job wasn’t already teetering on the edge. At least I think it is, based on the six e-mails I passed over from Elsamyassistant asking me to call the school immediately, if not sooner, at Nan’s insistence. I’d like to tell Meredith that jumping from my ship to Nan’s make-believe yacht was a novice parenting move, not to mention a completely transparent one. How Meredith missed thefuture is femalememo that you don’t step on the necks of other women to climb your way to the top, is beyond me.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Etta bursts through the auditorium doors right into my arms. The tears flow immediately and while I should be asking her what’s wrong, my first thought is one of relief—my baby still needs me. And while it may not feel like it right now, or in a couple of days, it will be okay that the audition didn’t go well. Like I’ve always known down deep where a mother’s intuition lives, it’s her brain that’s going to take Etta to the places she needs to go. Meredith Lawton, this is what real parenting looks like. I squeeze Etta even harder and remind myself that the money we spent to go on this trip will be worth it if it opens Etta up to considering other options for her future. Cornell and Dartmouth, you still have a chance.
“Oh, baby, don’t cry. I know you. I know you tried your absolute hardest. Today just wasn’t your day and that’s okay, the world is still waiting for you to do amazing things. Whatever you set your mind to I know you can do, your determination inspires me every single day.” As we hug, I stroke her back and I can feel the heat radiating off her body from giving her audition maximal effort. Her body weight falls heavy in my arms as she releases months of preparation and desireand now it’s all over. I will myself not to think about the snot she’s rubbing on the shoulder of my favorite celadon-green cashmere sweater.
“No, Mama, you don’t understand,” Etta ekes out through sobs or hiccups, I’m not sure what farm sound she’s making now. I do understand. The pained expression on her face is a carbon copy of me as I looked back and forth over four pregnancy tests in the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Eighteen years later and I still remember the horror of realizing the course of my life as I had envisioned it had changed forever. The sobs and wrecked face are the first acknowledgment of the end of an era. In this kind of moment there is no imagining there can be any sort of good or positive next step, but time will prove otherwise even if it does not completely heal. “Mama, I was incredible. The best I’ve ever been. I did it. I really did it!”
I pull back from Etta, so I can clearly see her face. “These are tears of joy?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“I think they’re mostly tears of relief.” Etta wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands, pulling herself together. “And yes, happiness, too. But mostly relief. Mama, you should have seen me up there, I was a star. My best ever. I promise if you had seen me you would know this is where I’m meant to go to school. I’m meant to dance, Mama, I know it. I know I’m meant to be a dancer.” I take a step back to get a full view of Etta. Her limbs are long and lean, held naturally in first position. The baby pink of her leotard and tights is in sharp contrast to the young woman standing in front of me. Her smile is so broad it might break her face. Her whole body oozes an aura of hopefulness. And in this moment, though I don’t want to admit it, I, too, know she’s meant to be a dancer. Etta is not meant to study the science of motion, she’s meant to be in motion and, after all these years of nurturing this girl into a strong, independent young woman, who am I to stand in the way of her trajectory?
“Where’s Aunt Viv? I can’t wait to tell her all about it.” While Ettapulls on her leg warmers, pants, and wrap sweater I group text Etta’s San Francisco fan club: Lola, Roan, Poppy, Krista, Jean Georges, and Ty.
Their responses flood in.
Krista...
KRISTA
?
1:18 P.M.
Roan...
ROAN
LOVE THAT GRRRRL!!! And by the way Nan hasn’t left her office once today.
1:19 P.M.
Jean Georges...
JEAN GEORGES
