“I could do that,” Em said gruffly. My phone chirped from the bureau. “What’s that?”
“It’s...” My heart tripped. “Oh God. It’s my phone.”
“I can see it’s your phone, Dorothy, I—”
“Hello?” I nearly stepped in the paint tray in my eagerness to answer. “Dr.Ward? Hi! I finished my dissertation.”
“I read it.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
“You have until the end of the month to submit your portfolio to the committee. I don’t see any point in waiting.”
“But... I thought you’d have feedback for me. Suggestions.”
“No. You know what you’re doing. If you have any difficulty accessing the guidelines for submission online—”
“Wait. That’s it?”
Maeve’s heavy sigh came clearly through the phone. “I suppose you want me to say ‘good job.’ ”
“Well...”
“Your work is stylistically fluent and technically proficient. You seem able to engage your audience and your characters are interesting.” A pause. “Particularly the wicked witch.”
I jerked, my face flushing. “If you want me to make any changes...”
“Why?”
I floundered. “It’s... I know how it feels when...” The witch was based, at least physically, in part, on Maeve. But what had seemed like an academic exercise when I was writing alone in my room—an inside joke, even a homage—suddenly struck me as the most terrible insult. “I don’t want to write anything you don’t like,” I said feebly.
“Get over it,” Maeve said. “You’ll never get to what you have to say if you’re worried about offending people.”
“Sorry. It’s just... I owe you so much.”
“Then pay me the courtesy of telling your story. I’m sure the committee will be entertained. Women who tell the truth have always been called witches.”
“Thank you. I could never have done this without you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maeve said. “You had the power inside you all along. You just had to find it.”
Thirty-four
I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered writing for Shivery Tales,” Oscar Diggs said when he called.
“Ha. I mean, thank you, but—”
“If it’s moving to New York that’s the problem, most of my team works remotely.”
“Mr.Diggs... Oscar... I really appreciate the offer. I’m flattered, honestly. But a very wise woman told me recently I should tell my own story.”
“Maeve Ward.”
I laughed. “It was. And I actually don’t have a problem with New York. I grew up there.”
Another piece of myself I could own now: Dorothy Gale, the Couch Years. Sure, parts of my childhood had sucked. But without those years, I wouldn’t be me. I’d be a different person with a different story. And there had been good times, too, I thought, remembering story hour at the Brooklyn Library, Chinese takeout, Central Park on a sunny day. Good people, friends who had taken us in. A big, exciting city I wanted to experience as an adult, the same way I’d explored Dublin.
“You should come for a visit,” Oscar said.
