“No, I’m in,” I say, cutting her off. “I do trust you. I believe you.” I’m working on that again. Trusting people just because I can. “We’re both guilty of not believing the warnings. Of wanting them to be better.”
We schedule a meeting, a chance to talk through everything. To game plan. The allure of finally being heard, no longer censored or erased, is all I can think of.
But before the cameras can roll, the world shifts again. I open Threads as I’m arriving at our filming location to see her name trending.
#AltheaRalston
My blood goes cold, and I freeze in my tracks. The tray of iced coffees sloshes onto my arm.
Then it hits me all at once, the headline.
Althea Ralston—Activist, Author, Educator—Dead at 64
Her obituary floods my feed, being shared by every news station, every influencer. My world tilts on its axis. At some point, both hands are on my phone, and my feet are soaked. I realize I dropped the tray of coffees, though I don’t remember when or how it happened.
Posts and articles pop up within minutes of the news breaking, celebrating her pioneering contributions to feminist theory, her indelible mark on women’s studies, and her legacy of courage and intellect.
I stand there for what feels like days but must only be minutes as my world ends.
By the time I finally make it into the small building where we’re meant to film, Havenport has already sent out a press release. A small scholarship is being established in Ralston’s name. She will be remembered. She will be missed.
Even in disgrace, she’s a martyr to most—proof that the system forgives the sins it needs to. When I find Stella, I know before she says a word she’s already seen the news. She draws her lips in, tears in her eyes, and she doesn’t have to say it.
It’s over. For now, at least, it’s over.
If we attack a dead woman, no one will listen. The time for vitriol has passed. My heart pounds while I sit across from the small desk Stella’s camped behind.
There’s no mention of the women Ralston stole from in any of the articles, no hints to the rumors, the silenced voices. When you Google Althea Ralston now, all that comes up is a legacy of fighting for women, not against them.
Back at home I lie in bed, reading the same articles, the same words over and over. I cry, I scream, I check my bank account—which is dwindling.
No offer ever came for a second book, so—luckily?—I was spared the agonizing decision of whether to accept it. My royalties have all but dried up. I’m back to working freelance journalism, and just last week I accepted a job copyediting a manuscript.
It’s fiction and remarkably well-written, but it’s just another way I’ll be erased. I’ll be lucky to get a line in the acknowledgments of someone else’s dream.
The words aren’t mine. The story isn’t mine.
Even in death—especiallyin death—Ralston won.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
TWO YEARS LATER
The air in the park buzzes with energy the way it does after a storm, as if we’re all just waiting for lightning to strike. And, in a way, I guess we are.
The evening sky is a strange grayish purple, but my first thought isn’t of Havenport like it would’ve once been. It’s of the purple hydrangeas in the bouquet Professor Bell sent me to celebrate.
Healing is in the small things, the subtle shifts.
Groups of people buzz past, hands loaded with snacks and oversized drinks. Two men dressed in suits zip by me, eyes glued to their phones. A handful of women split around me, brushing my shoulders in a hurry to get somewhere, their floral maxi dresses billowing around their legs as they laugh among themselves. There are men in T-shirts and men in tuxes, women in crop tops and women in formal wear.
The vibe here is chaotic—like the festival is still trying to figure out exactly what it is.
I pause as an older woman positions a younger version of herself—her daughter, I’m assuming—in front of one of the screens, snapping photo after photo.
My nerves have wound themselves so tightly in my chest, it feels like a bundle of cords I can’t untangle.
The woman meets my eyes with an apologetic smile and a hand raised. She mouths,sorry, but I just shake my head. No apologies needed.
