Tonight, though, I can’t resist the urge to sit up in bed, laptop open and a blank screen on the page. The cursor awaits my first sentence, and as in that magical moment in Jerry Maguire, words pour out so fluidly, so perfectly, so honestly, I don’t stop until I say all that my heart feels and all that my fingers can type. I don’t stop until I complete the piece that matters more to me than anything I’ve ever written, or would ever write, for Copper. It’s more important and more personal than the strong-female-in-fiction series, which I’m proud of, which is already on its second feature. That ambitious passion project is indeed important, something I really wanted to do, but it hasn’t filled that creative void as I hoped it would. This, though. This is bigger. So much bigger. For the first time in a while I feel a sense of purpose.
When I’m finished, I scroll to the top of the page. I notice the time—2:14—in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, but it isn’t the lateness of the hour that fills me with urgency. It’s the first line I’ve typed. And it fills me with an urgency to pat myself on the back, to realize I’m standing up and fighting life back, throwing the best punch I’ve got in me.
“A Letter to My Twentysomething Self,” reads the first line.
I read through my letter once, then twice, making a few minor adjustments. After my third reading, I consider it finished enough for the night. There will be no maniacal Jerry Maguire–like moment where I run down to the print shop and churn out stacks of shiny copies to pass around the entire Copper office. No, tomorrow I will read through it again, edit it, polish it. Then I’ll submit it for publication consideration. It will be its own feature in Copper, if I’m lucky. I don’t know if Chantelle will approve it, but I don’t care.
What if, right? And why the hell not?
Twelve
A LETTER TO MY TWENTYSOMETHING SELF, BY HALLEY BRENNAN
To My Twentysomething Self,
Listen, girl. Plans are good to have, as are backup plans. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret: make a plan. In fact, make lots and lots of them. And then brace yourself. Life has a mind of its own. It’s going to knock you on your ass, sock you in the arm, throw you for one loop after another. There are few guarantees in life. Think you’ll be immune? Even the girl with the glittery life—the important job, the dreamy husband, the stamp-filled passport—even she will find her ever-prepared self scratching her head, going, “I didn’t see that coming.”
Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us. And the worst. It happens to us all, and I’m here to tell you not to be surprised when it happens to you.
There will come a day when you realize that stressing over a term paper at two a.m. in the college library was far from your low point. When you will realize that your best friends and your own sister, women with whom you practically share a brain, can harbor secrets and pain that you never saw coming . . . and won’t be able to fix. When you will realize that the spark you felt when you first met your husband has faded. It will change. If you’re lucky, it won’t blow up in your face but just morph into a new kind of spark. One of those familiar, warm, fuzzy sparks—the kind you feel when you share a blanket and a bowl of popcorn, watching reruns of your favorite sitcoms, which, you will also realize, did not prepare you for real life as much as you may have thought. When you will realize that you’re not as mature in arguments as you thought you’d be by thirty; that you’re not processing problems and facing challenges as gracefully as you thought you could by thirty; that you’re not quite that well prepared for the unexpected, because no contingency plan is ever enough for what life will dish out to you. When you will realize that if you haven’t yet tackled War and Peace or learned how to play backgammon or mastered your grandmother’s cookie recipe, you’re probably still going to be waiting to tick off those boxes come your forties. When you will realize that there are also some things perhaps that are probably meant to be bucket list items forever. When you will realize that no magical cream will ever remove stretch marks, and that, yes, stretch marks will present themselves, even if you don’t become a mother.
And since we’re on the topic of motherhood, let me tell you that you may think you want a family, and you may think you have a life plan all figured out. You’ll conceive your first child at twenty-eight, which gives you and the hubs plenty of time to build your careers, acquire a mortgage, put up a fence in the yard, lease a minivan. Baby two will come two to three years later, when you’ve got potty training with your firstborn down, and then once one is off to kindergarten perhaps it’ll be time for the family dog, or at the very least a goldfish. Life, however, has other plans. Baby one comes earlier than expected, sending your entire plan—your life—into a tailspin. Or baby one doesn’t come. You try and you try, and you find yourself waiting and wishing for something you slowly begin to believe may never happen.
Or you’ll have met the perfect guy, if you’re fortunate enough. (And trust me, you very well may not have at this point, so if you do, consider yourself a leg up on life. And if you haven’t, do not despair. Life will throw something else your way.) So you and Mr. Perfect meet, and you mutually agree that it’s you and he against the world, sans children. And then, out of nowhere, someone will change his or her mind. Someone will suddenly want a baby. It can happen. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you.) And if and when it does, you need to pull out this letter and remember that life does not care what you have planned for it. You’re responsible for only so much of what happens in it. You can make decisions and hope for the best, but don’t be so shocked if you find the wind knocked out of you. If you find yourself asking, “What do I want out of life? What is my purpose?” If you find yourself wanting to rail against the world, even against the one you love most in it, because you feel the pressure to conform, to save your marriage. To do something that is not who you are or what you want, not even for the person to whom you’ve promised your heart and life.
The best thing I can tell you is to find a way to stay standing. Find a way to get up and fight back for what you value. Build another plan and prepare to have the rug pulled out from under you, again and again. But be true to you, whatever the hell that means.
Don’t get all pessimistic, though. Contrary to how this letter may read, pessimism is not the answer. I believe the best dress for life is one woven out of . . . let’s call it healthy realism, with a smattering of optimism and a can-do attitude! Trust me when I, a women’s magazine contributor, say that full-on pessimism is not the new black. It’s so last season and doesn’t look good on any body type.
Realize, sweet Twentysomething, that men are predictable in that they will never fail to surprise you. Realize that love is a rainbow of colors, from the conditional to the unconditional. Realize that true friends are invaluable and kindness and humility never go out of style. Realize that life is filled with bridges, and you’ve just got to find your way from one side of them to the other. And lather, rinse, repeat.
Realize, darling, that you’re strong and powerful and beautiful, and if you put your mind to it, you’ll figure out most things. Keep on planning, and keep on preparing, because expectations and hope keep us going. And from time to time, well-laid plans do pay off, because the hand of Murphy’s Law—which states that anything that can go wrong will go wrong—can only stretch so far, so often. When it does, though, remember that thirty will be just as fabulous as you expect. And, to your great dismay, it will also be unfabulous in ways you could never expect.
But through it all, know that you will be all right. If you find you. If you be you. If you do you. It’ll all be all right. In the words of Ms. Charlotte Brontë, “I try to avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.”
Keep looking upward . . .
XO love,
Your Thirtysomething Self
P.S.: Even though the damn cream does little to thwart the stretch marks, don’t discontinue its use. Perhaps liberal use in your twenties slows the progress of the inevitable dastardly little lines. It�
��s worth the hassle and expense.
Thirteen
Like kismet, or maybe because I gave life a little of the old one-two, Chantelle and the entire editorial staff love my letter. They said, and I quote, “We love how raw it is.” It’ll make it into Copper’s next issue, gracing newsstands Thanksgiving week. I’m ecstatic—so ecstatic that I nearly do what I’ve always done with good news from work. I almost e-mail Adam a copy of the letter, with a note sharing the thrilling publication news. I then decide that his seeing my piece as an actual feature, in print, will have a stronger impact. On a page in a glossy mag, it’ll say, “Halley’s done it! Halley’s written something that matters, something she’s passionate about, something real.” Adam’ll be proud, and he’ll tell me he knew all along I could do it if I put my mind to it.
The upcoming issue date reminds me that Thanksgiving is nearing, and that means so, too, is my next big step in solving the mystery that is my marriage.
When Charlotte called over the weekend about Thanksgiving, I asked how she was doing overall. She’s clearly got heavier things on her mind than dinner, and a lot to say, but it’s all so overwhelming at the moment. She told me she’d decided to wait to tell Marco about the affair until after Thanksgiving. So the family can enjoy the holiday and, as she said, “Hopefully get to repair some of the damage before Saint Nick comes round.”
I know it’s eating her alive. She isn’t her usual chatty and chipper self. Even in the face of exhaustion, she dons the Super Mom cape and tries to wear the mask of doting wife. She’d argue she hasn’t been herself in a long while. And I could make that argument, too. She’s more subdued these days, even more so than when she was directly under the cloud of remorse, when she bared her dark secret to me.
Charlotte told me that she keeps her chin up, and she tries not to set Marco off, have him wondering if something’s wrong. She drives Alice and George to and from school. Leah is in tow when she’s running errands. She tidies the house and prepares the dinner. She does it all without complaint, all by rote. She makes sure Marco’s dress shirts are back from the cleaner’s well before he needs them, and when he asks if she’s okay with him going golfing on Saturday, she says of course and breaks out the Play-Doh and the goldfish snacks, and even manages to call me for a few minutes, from the temporary silence of her closet. It’s business as usual so as to keep the familial peace.
I know the holiday will be a big breath of fresh air for Charlotte, and not just because she’ll have a full and joyful home, with plenty of distractions from the routines of everyday life. Also because that’ll mean she’s on the cusp of a solution. Or, at the very least, a day away from a confession that’s eating her from within and pleading to be released. Hopefully, in her moment of truth, in her naked honesty, she’ll find that solution. She’ll be able to let the weight lift from her tired shoulders, though only to be replaced by another sort of weight, I’m sure. This won’t be easy on her marriage, and I hope to god that she and Marco have the strength to endure and overcome. Because if there’s something I’ve learned from my separation from Adam, it’s that love requires a hell of a lot of strength. Falling in love is the easy part; staying in it is so much harder.
Every now and then, usually right before I fall asleep, I find myself asking if staying in love should be so hard. If it’s true and requited and real, should it really be so difficult to keep? Then again, maybe true love, maybe requited love, maybe real love is the kind of love that should be so hard. After all, if it isn’t hard, it isn’t worth doing, right? Or does that not apply to something so unquantifiable as love?
A crisp, shiny new copy of the latest issue of Copper rests carefully in my canvas tote. “A Letter to my Twentysomething Self” by Halley Brennan is on page thirty-one. Adam’s name is on the cover, by way of a Barbie-pink Post-it.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and that gives the city of Pasadena the chance to shut down by midafternoon on Wednesday. Everyone rushes to exit the office so the turkey can be stuffed. Men swing by the grocery store for the forgotten potatoes; women make a mad dash for the last of the frozen piecrusts. The festive four-day weekend is upon us, and I’m kicking off the holiday by clocking out at two with the rest of my comrades. I’m in my car, making my way not to Whole Foods but to Adam’s. The wine and chips have been bought, as well as the organic pumpkin pie Marian asked me to pick up for her—her contribution to the Kroeber family Thanksgiving dinner she’ll be headed to tomorrow afternoon. Today I give myself permission to share with Adam something I’ve been itching to share for weeks.
I contemplated giving a copy of the magazine to him during our lunch on Monday, endless stacks of the new issue of Copper piled about in the office, one all ready and waiting for me to share with my husband. I chose to wait, though, until I can slip it surreptitiously into his—our—mailbox. Right before Thanksgiving, when I know he’ll have time over the long weekend to get around to it when he wants. I don’t want to hand it to him in person, over lunch, where I’d run the risk he’d pry it open right there and read it in front of me. Naturally I want to share with him something I’m proud of, and I know with all my being that he, too, will be proud. But what will he think of the actual letter? It is personal, direct, and yes, raw. It’s filled with things I’ve never actually shared with him, or anyone. Things I, as the title clearly states, wish I’d known a long time ago. And it is nothing if not honest.
Adam’s and my occasional lunches have gone smoothly, even the first lunch after we slept together. It took nearly two weeks for either of us to initiate that postcoital lunch, but it was like every other meeting we’ve had since we’ve been separated when there wasn’t any baby talk. When we kept talk simple and didn’t touch on the serious. I don’t want to spoil the good run we have going, especially before the holidays. Before we’ll see each other, on that vague date of “after Thanksgiving,” to discuss where our marriage is headed.
Right now seems the best time to share my magazine news, so with an “Adam, Have a great holiday. XO Halley” scrawled on the Post-it stuck to the magazine’s cover, I lift the metal flap of our mailbox. I briefly considered hand delivering it—knocking on the door and waiting no more than twenty seconds for Adam to answer. I’d give a casual happy-holiday greeting, tell him to say hi to Nina and the family, and let him know that there was something on page thirty-one he might want to check out. And off I’d go.
Adam’s car isn’t in the driveway, though. He’s most likely one of the busy guys at the office who won’t be calling it a holiday until tomorrow morning.
When I watch the last corner of the magazine slip from view and drop to the bottom of the mailbox, I’m hit by a curious package of emotions. Some odd mixture of pride, anxiety, excitement, and wonder. It is now, in the shaded corridor of the condo complex I haven’t officially called home in more than two months, that I realize this is the first time since I can remember in our separation that I’ve stood here, in our residence, and felt a sense of contentment. It’s strange, given that my cocktail of emotions includes some anxiety. I chalk it up to gathering the courage to write something that I probably should have written a long time ago—something that gives me a sense of accomplishment, despite its being only one small feature. It’s something Adam will be happy to see that I’ve done. Maybe, even, it’s something that will bring Adam and me together. Something that will bring us to a resolution. To a better place.
One can hope.
A couple of hours after I get home, Marian arrives, and we decide to slip into our running shoes and pound some pavement. Preparation for the caloric overload we’ll suffer tomorrow.
Our pace is mild—more ten-minute mile than my usual seven or eight, which allows for steady conversation, even a few laughs. Marian and I cross the railroad tracks and make our way toward a stretch of road less congested by traffic and pedestrians. The winds that started off as a gentle breeze in the morning and have become gustier hour after hour are notably stronger now, in the late afternoon, proving a c
hallenge, as our course is now head-on into what is shaping up to be a Santa Ana.
“So I didn’t get a chance to tell you what happened yesterday,” Marian says loudly.
“Your Christmas bonus came early,” I guess, thinking of the plethora of carrier bags I saw on the dining room table this morning.
“It did, actually.”
“I saw you did some damage with it already.”
“Don’t you know it.”
Marian points to the left, suggesting we make a turn on Marengo. Eager to no longer run into the wind, I take the lead and turn.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, though,” she says. “I went to the firehouse again. Finally.”
“Omigod. And?”
Marian’s bleach-blonde ponytail swishes wildly in the wind, in step with the slowly increasing pace of her run. I kick up my pace to stay alongside her. I can see that the mention of Cole is getting her blood pumping harder; perhaps even an adrenaline rush has begun to course through her body.
“I promise, it’s the last time I’ll go as a chicken,” she says.
“You didn’t talk to him?” I ask, bewildered.
Brow wrinkled in embarrassment and what I assume is regret, she whines out a no.
“Marian,” I scold. “This stalker business is no good.”
“Says the girl who drops off mail in her own mailbox instead of actually seeing her husband.”
“That’s not the same.” Similar, yes. But not the same.
“I do want to talk to him,” she says.
“Sitting in your car and staring at him will definitely accomplish that.”
“I’ve only ‘stalked’”—she actually uses air quotes—“him twice, Hals. I really do want to talk to him. So badly. I’m insanely nervous.”
Everything the Heart Wants Page 20
