It seemed as if doors were closing along a hallway. First, Jason leaving, then her career narrowing to one sad possibility. Finally, the door that led to a life as a mother had slammed shut.
Lee had spent her life trying to shield her family from pain. Using Jason’s credit card and purchasing a vacation package had been her last gasp, she saw now. Even Lee, the ultimate fixer, couldn’t keep Charlotte from growing old. She couldn’t save her sister’s marriage. And, she realized, she wasn’t going to be able to change—to become a mother, to become an actress. She’d tried her best, she truly had. But even thousands of dollars of plane tickets and excursion passes and fun days at sea hadn’t been good enough.
She understood, as her father had, that there was only one answer. It suddenly seemed so clear. She had considered suicide before—swimming into fantasies of everything ending—but had always been able to pull her mind back from the idea. Now, it was obvious she needed a way out.
Lee’s hands shook as she applied her makeup. For some reason, it seemed important that she look her best on her last day. She was, after all, the Beautiful One. Lee slipped into her gold sheath, put her hands on her empty body.
On her balcony, she considered the sea. As she had since she was a child, back when she believed she could be one, Lee admired the dazzling stars. But instead of a list of wishes, she had only one: for the unrelenting pain of wanting and never getting—of aching with no relief, of life—to end.
CHARLOTTE’SSPLENDIDO EVENING NEWSLETTERannounced the Passenger Talent Show. Charlotte thought it was odd that no one had contacted her about reading her essay, but when she checked the contest website again, there it was, clear as day:The winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest will read his or her prizewinning story aloud at the Passenger Talent Show on the final night of the cruise of a lifetime!
Charlotte dreaded returning to Savannah. She no longer wanted to do her own laundry, slice her own cheese, or pour her own Chardonnay. Sure, life aboard theMarvelosowas like living in a bubble: four thousand people making a mutual decision to disregard the possibility of sinking. There were no choices or grocery shopping; there was no painful or difficult news. There was the thrill of waking each morning and finding a new view from her balcony. Oh, how she would miss the horn sounding, champagne glasses ringing together when theMarvelosopulled from shore.
Sadly, the trip had only reinforced the distance between Charlotte and her children. She didn’t even know where they were—when she ate supper in her room, she’d expected a flurry of concerned calls but her phone had remained silent. There was a certain amount of relief knowing they probably wouldn’t be in the audience during her performance, however, so Charlotte decided to get in touch with everyone in the morning, when it was all over and they could enjoy a last day of sightseeing after disembarking in Barcelona and before flying home to their separate lives.
The Teatro Fabuloso backstage area was smaller than she’d imagined. One wall was crammed with costumes on hangers—Charlotte could see tantalizing strips of leather and sheer black shirts. Such magic burst forth from these cramped quarters! She could almost smell the dancers’ perspiration. Charlotte borrowed a can of hairspray and misted her coiffure, peering into a circular mirror surrounded by lights, cupping the ends of her hair, patting the curls into place.
Bryson approached with a clipboard. “Are you here for the talent show?” he asked.
“Of course I’m here for the talent show!” said Charlotte.
“Put your name right here,” he said.
Charlotte was puzzled: Bryson didn’t seem to know that she was the winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest. Before Charlotte could allay her fears, however, he took the clipboard and walked toward another woman, who was even older than Charlotte. “I’m singing show tunes,” the woman said. “A medley fromGuys and DollsandCarousel.”
“Fantastic,” said Bryson.
After eight other passengers who apparently had talent, or thought they did, which maybe (thought Charlotte) was the deciding factor, Bryson took to the stage with a few lame jokes about the ship’s toilets (small) and his male member (large—ew, but also, hmm). Charlotte sighed and reapplied her lipstick. She cleared her throat, felt her heart pound as Bryson said, “And for the last act of the evening, please welcome Charlotte Perkins, reading an essay she calls”—he peered at the clipboard—“ ‘The Painter and Me’!”
Bryson turned to Charlotte, beckoning her onstage. She blinked.
“Go on,” said a stagehand, pushing Charlotte’s back.
“But I won the contest,” said Charlotte. “Why isn’t he saying I won the contest?”
“Please, it’s time,” said the young woman.
“Charlotte Perkins?” said Bryson. A spotlight swung toward Charlotte, blinding her.
“But I’m the winner,” said Charlotte.
“You are a winner,” said the woman, speaking slowly, as if Charlotte were demented. “You are definitely a winner.”
“I’m not demented,” said Charlotte.
The woman took Charlotte’s hand and yanked her toward Bryson.
“Here she is!” said Bryson.
“Who won the contest?” said Charlotte.
Bryson chuckled. “Welcome to the stage!” he said.
“The Become a Jetsetter contest,” said Charlotte. “I won.”
“What a comedian!” said Bryson. He leaned toward her, and whispered, “It was canceled. The contest was canceled. Okay? Nobody won. Now please read your essay.”
He smiled at the audience again and put his arm around Charlotte. Her mind spun. If she hadn’t won the contest, how was she on this ship? Was she dreaming?Wasshe demented?
