“The man on the end of my string?” Mom asks. “Who’s to say, but I know I’ve been waiting for perfect circumstances, and those don’t exist. It could be that he’s my stringmate for right now. And maybe that will turn into forever. We’ll see.”
“It probably helps that you didn’t work with him,” I say. “You were right about Jack, but I wasn’t careful. I told him what he meant to me, and he made his choice clear. You know I met him a year ago today, on the night of the Lantern Festival?”
Mom nods. “Tonight’s full moon is supposed to be spectacular.”
“It feels like a different lifetime. We haven’t spoken since the show.”
Through the window, we watch dry brown leaves swirl around the sculpture garden after a strong gust of wind blows through.
“There were no signs in my life that told me I’d have you,” Mom says. “Or maybe I missed them, ignored them. I really thought children weren’t in the cards for me. Sometimes I think maybe the signs weren’t even there, and that I just made every other sign up. But then you happened. Obviously.”
I pat myself down. “Yep. Still here.”
“I taught you about the Red Thread of Fate not to keep you from living and loving but to remember that there are bigger things happening in the world beyond ourselves. That we can influence the world, but that the world can also influence us. Damn, put that on a poster,” she says. “This is all coming out because you’re back and need guidance.”
A laugh escapes. “Uh-huh, it’s not because you’re in love,” I say.
“Nope. Dusty’s just a body to keep me warm at night,” Mom says, suppressing a smile. “I get not wanting a plan to guide your life, trust me. I went as far as the creative winds took me and never looked back. Even when you have a plan, though, unexpected events will still present themselves and surprise you.”
“Like me.”
“Like you. Like Dusty. Like your newfound appreciation for Los Angeles.”
“It’s still no New York City, but it grew on me,” I admit.
Mom tilts her head toward me. “And yet this city was your forever home.”
“As far as I know, it still is.”
“You can continue reading into signs and letting fate decide your life for you, or you can own up and show up for the decisions that you can make yourself,” Mom says.
I exhale as I think, my thoughts wrestling one another. “It’s not like I’m completely dependent on signs and fate to function.”
“For the big things, though, like work and love, what you decide matters,” Mom says. “What you choose for yourself matters. When you make the choice to do something because you want to, not because something greater does, it feels rewarding. Like how you felt when you owned up to the world about who you are. Whether something is a success or a failure or is just in progress, there’s satisfaction in knowingyoumade whatever it is happen. I’ve experienced both, and only one of those things makes me feel invincible.”
“I don’t think I could ever not believe in the Red Thread. It’s deeply engrained in who I am. It’s a big part of my work. I’m in too deep.”
Mom raises her eyebrows in thought. “Look, the Red Thread ofFate is not meant to control you but to add a little magic to a world that can often seem bleak.”
I tug at the ends of the scarf draped around my neck. “I always thought it was romantic to be tied to someone, that your lives could be on different trajectories but you could still end up at the same place. I guess that’s not enough. Jack wanted to be a choice.”
“And what’s so wrong with wanting to be chosen?” Mom poses. “Maybe true love has no strings attached. That one’s more of a bumper sticker than a poster.”
I swallow any form of defense I can think of because, deep down, perhaps I know she’s right. My pulse quickens at the thought of having tangled everything up to the point of no untangling.
“Tell me the truth,” Mom says. “If your stringmate walked up right now with a glowing red string on his ankle that was attached to yours, would you forget everything, everyone, and be with him?”
I imagine the scenario: the shortening of the string between me and a stranger, the thread bouncing up and down as it untangles and straightens out after decades of journeying, the man clasping his hand in mine telling me how happy he is to have finally found me.
It’s admittedly an exciting thought. A romantic one, in a way. Truth is, I don’t know that man kneeling in front of me. I don’t know if he likes Times Square or making freeze-dried ice cream or if he’d know that butterflies run cold. He wouldn’t have the sliver of a moon on his bottom lip and probably wouldn’t know why the northern lights shine like they do. He’d probably not call me a lobster and let me touch anything I wanted in the clean room. And what good is that?
The fact of the matter is, the hypothetical man whose string leads to me, well, he wouldn’t be Jack.
And if he’s not Jack, I don’t want him.
“No,” I say firmly.
“No what?” Mom asks.
