Shaking her head, she turned away from the view and went to the television, turning it on. As soon as Marah woke up, she was going to make her daughter march outside and pick up the toys. A temper tantrum was sure to follow.
The television came on with a thump. ABREAKING NEWSbanner ran beneath Bernard Shaw's grave face. Behind him, a montage of Princess Diana photographs reeled off, one after another. "For those of you just tuning in," Bernard said, "the news from France is that Princess Diana is dead . . ."
Kate stared at the screen, not quite comprehending.
The princess.Theirprincess. Dead?
Beside her, the phone rang. Without looking away from the TV, she answered it. "Hello?"
"You're watching the news?"
"It's true?"
"I'm in London to cover it."
"Oh, my God." Kate stared at the images on the TV—young, shy Diana in her plaid skirt and bomber-type jacket, with her eyes downcast; pregnant Diana, looking hopeful and radiantly happy; elegant Diana, in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder gown, dancing with John Travolta at the White House; laughing Diana, on a ride at Disneyland with her boys; and finally, Diana alone, in a hospital far from home, holding a malnourished black baby.
In those few images were the whole of a woman's life.
"It can be over so fast," Kate said, more to herself than to Tully. She realized a moment too late that Tully had been talking and she'd interrupted her.
"She was just starting to come into her own, too."
Maybe she'd waited too long to try. Kate knew about that, about how frightening it could be to watch your children grow up and your husband go off to work and to wonder what you'd do with the sliver of life that was yours.
Familiar photographs filled the screen: Diana, walking alone at some event, waving to the crowd, then the image changed to the front gates of one of the castles, where flowers were beginning to pile up in remembrance. Life could change so quickly. She'd forgotten that somehow.
"Kate? Are you okay?"
"I think I'll sign up for a writing class at UW," she said slowly. The words felt pulled out of her somehow.
"Really? That's great. You always were a kick-ass writer."
Kate didn't respond. She sank down to the sofa and just stared at the TV, surprised when she began to cry.
Almost immediately, Kate regretted the decision she'd made. Well, that wasn't entirely true. What she actually regretted was that she'd told Tully, who'd told Mom, who'd told Johnny.
"You know, it's a great idea," Johnny said a few nights later as they lay in bed, watching television. "I'll help out with whatever you need me to do."
Kate wanted to give him a laundry list of reasons that it was too burdensome for her schedule. He and Tully made everything sound so easy, as if life were a combo plate you could order and pay for. She knew how wrong they were, how it felt to find that you weren't good enough.
In the end, though, she could lie to herself and make excuses for only so long. When Marah went off to school, waving wildly, Kate was left with the empty hours of her day. Chores and obligations could only fill some of her time.
So, on a hot Indian summer day in mid-September, she dropped Marah off at school, drove onto the midmorning ferry, and merged into the downtown Seattle traffic. At ten-thirty she parked in the visitors' lot at the University of Washington, walked to the Registration Building, and signed up for a single class: Introduction to Fiction Writing.
For the next week, she was a nervous wreck.
"I can't do it," she whined to her husband, feeling sick to her stomach on the day of the first class.
"You can do it. I'll take Marah to school so you won't be stressed about catching the ferry."
"But I am stressed."
He bent down and kissed her, then drew back, smiling. "Get your ass out of bed."
After that, she moved on autopilot—taking a shower, dressing, packing her backpack.
All the way to UW she thought:What am I doing? I'm thirty-seven years old. I can't go back to college.
