Sam rolls her eyes. “Does it rhyme withMargetand have a bull’s-eye as its symbol?”
“No comment,” says Amy.
“‘No comment’ is a comment in and of itself.” Sam pauses. “But you’re normal. Admit it.”
“I think what you’re talking about is being comfortable rather than normal.”
“So you’re comfortable,” Sam concedes. “And normal.”
Amy sighs. “Sure, yes. I guess I’m a little bit of both. And maybe I’m a little bit less than brave. I spend a lot of my time trying toget bored teenagers to care about other people’s writing because I didn’t keep up with my own, as you were so kind to point out to me not that long ago. And then when school’s over each day I march down to the auditorium and direct slightly less bored—but still sometimes bored—teenagers in plays I wish I’d written myself.” She takes a long sip of wine and says, “I get it, Sam. I get why you think my life is small. It makes me sad, because I stand behind all the reasons I chose this life, and I love being your mom, and Henry’s mom—and I really don’t think I’d trade it for what Timothy has. But I get it.” She looks down the beach, where a young woman and a child are trying to walk on the slippery rocks close to the water. The child, a little girl, can’t get purchase on the rocks, and finally the young woman (mother? nanny?) scoops her up and carries her.
“Mom.Idon’t think your life is small.”
Her mom turns to her; in the changing light of an almost-late-summer afternoon, her eyes seem lit from within. “You don’t?”
“No. Of course not. I worry thatyouthink your life is small. I worry that you wanted something bigger, and didn’t go after it. I know I hurt your feelings, at the house that day. I was mad, and maybe I was looking for a soft spot, but I didn’t mean to be hurtful.”
Amy smiles. “Don’t look so worried. It’s okay. I alsolovemy job. I love the nutty hormonal teenagers and the makeshift sets and the makeup stains on my clothes and everything about the plays. I love watching a totally shy kid come alive onstage, even though I know and he knows that he’ll probably never act again once this particular show is over.”
“But do you ever worry? That you chose the wrong path?”
“There is no path, honey.”
“There isn’t? I thought there was a path. I was told there’s a path!”
“Not really. There are just choices, and more choices, over andover again, all the way through to the end, like a big game of Choose Your Own Adventure.”
“But what if you don’t choose? What if things just... happen?”
“I suppose that even what looks like not choosing is a choice. Henry might wake up one day in ten years and wonder why he’s living with someone who color-codes the pantry and vacuums invisible crumbs off the garage floor.”
Sam gasps. “You don’t like Ava? Mom! I thought you loved Ava!”
“Of course I love Ava.”
“Ish,” suggests Sam.
“Notish. She’s got her head on straight, and she loves the heck out of your brother, and there’s a lot to be said for that. She was there for Christmas, unlike some people.”
“Ouch,” says Sam.
“I’m just saying what looks like a very tidy life right now can explode into something messy in the future. And what looks messy now can tidy itself up quite nicely one day. That’s what I’m saying.” They’re both silent for a moment, watching the waves crash against the rocks. When Amy speaks next there’s a little quaver in her voice. “When you were a little girl,” she says, then pauses.
“Oh, boy,” says Sam. Where is this story going?
“When you were very small, I had you with me at the grocery store. You were sitting in the seat in the front of the cart, I guess you were about three, and this tiny old lady in a giant wool coat came up to us, and she said you reminded her of Shirley Temple.”
“Shirley Temple, like the drink that you add vodka to to make a cocktail?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to add vodka to it. It’s supposed to be a drink for children, Samantha. Shirley Temple the child star. After whom the drink was named. The one with all the blond ringlets? I thought this was a funny comparison, because obviously you aren’t blond. But you were curly then.”
“Now I’m just wavy.” Sam sighs. “Unless I blow it out.”
“Anyway, this adorable old lady said it was a ‘twinkle in your eyes’ that reminded her of Shirley. And you’ve always had that. You’ve had this light around you, this beautiful light.”
Sam is quiet for a moment. She feels like she’s lost the twinkle, she’s lost the light. How can she get it back? She makes a little pile of sand, knocks it over with her foot.
“Mom?”
