Chapter 5
SARAH
I stare at the screen of my laptop, hardly believing the invitation sitting in my inbox.
The Bainbridge Studio in New York has invited me to do a two-week residence as a guest artist. I did a residency in Savannah and one in Atlanta last summer, but never in New York. And Bainbridge has such an incredible reputation.
It’s fairly last minute—someone dropped out, and they’re hoping I’ll fill the spot—but I don’t even care. It’s New York. It’s almost impossible to break into the art scene in New York.
I quickly type out a reply giving them my acceptance, then head across the backyard to tell Anna and Miles the news.
I let myself in through the back patio door and find Anna on the couch in the living room, the girls crawling all over her like she’s a jungle gym. She looks exhausted. Her brown hair is swept back in a ponytail, but half of it has fallen out, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“Hey,” she says when she sees me come in. “Oof. Olive, careful. You just stepped on my belly.”
I glance at my watch. It’s past seven, which means it’s definitely late enough for the girls to go to bed.
“What are you doing here?” Anna asks.
“Nothing. Just came over to see if the girls want to do bedtime with Aunt Sarah tonight.”
“I do, I do!” Poppy calls, standing up on the cushion beside her mom.
“Are you for real right now?” Anna says, hope in her eyes. “Miles said he would do it, but he’s on the phone with an old hockey buddy, so it might be a minute.”
“I’d love to do it.” I reach down and scoop Olive into my arms. “How many books are we reading tonight, girls?”
“Three!” Olive says, bouncing in my arms. I turn around and let Poppy climb onto my back so I’ve got one girl on the front and one girl on the back.
“Hold on tight,” I say to Poppy. We’ve done this before, but they’re getting bigger, and it’s getting harder.
“I want seven books,” Poppy says.
“Seven? How about five?” I say.
“Hmm, how about eight?”
“That’s not very good negotiating, Pops,” Miles says as he walks into the room. “You can’t up your own number.”
Poppy giggles. “I want ten books!”
Miles reaches out and musses Poppy’s hair. “Sorry, Sarah. Looks like you’re negotiating with terrorists. Do you want me to take them?”
“Nah. I got it. But don’t go anywhere. I have news to share when I come back down.”
He nods. “Come here, girls. I need bedtime kisses.”
The girls take turns leaning over to say goodnight to their dad, then I haul them upstairs, my thighs burning by the time we finally reach Poppy’s room.
We’ll read stories in here, then once she’s settled, I’ll take Olive across the hall to her room.
Her room—for at least a few more months.
Anna and Miles converted the crib into a toddler bed, but they’ll need it for baby Fiona once she’s born.
Olive is not enthusiastic about this change and has been resisting her parents’ attempts to get her to sleep in her big girl bed just like Poppy.
Last I heard, they were debating whether they should just cave and buy another crib, but I think Olive will get there eventually. She’s quieter than her older sister. And usually takes a little longer to warm up to new situations.
I pick out pajamas for Poppy, then head across the hall to get Olive’s before shepherding the girls to the bathroom.
Once we finish with bath time, pajamas on and teeth brushed, we climb onto Poppy’s bed and settle in for story time.
Poppy finally agreed to seven books, the number she originally started with (clearly, she really is good at negotiating) but we only make it through four before both girls have fallen asleep.
I close the book and set it off to the side, enjoying the weight of Olive’s bath-damp head against my chest.
I don’t have very many memories of my mom when I was this young.
Our lives were volatile in those days, and sadly, the traumatic moments are easier to call to mind than the happy ones.
But I do remember reading books. Mom would come up to my tiny attic bedroom and snuggle under the covers beside me, and we’d read and read and read.
Picture books, then chapter books as I got older.
It never occurred to me that all moms didn’t spend more than an hour reading stories every night. I just thought that’s what moms did.
In hindsight, I wonder if Mom just appreciated that with his bad knees, Dad would never climb the stairs to my room, which made it a safer space than the rest of the house.
Olive shifts and nestles a little closer, and I wrap my arms around her back.
My mom would have loved being a grandma—she would have loved these girls. But she didn’t even live long enough to see Miles get married.
Her cancer wasn’t as aggressive, as insidious, as what Anna’s mom dealt with. Anna’s mom was healthy one month, then practically terminal the next. It all moved so quickly.
But my mom was sick for years. She was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer right before I turned six. It was an early diagnosis, and the doctors called it highly treatable, so after a year of chemotherapy, she was in remission.
But the cancer came back a few years later, then again a few years after that. By the time I was in high school, the doctors had shifted their efforts from trying to cure her to trying to prolong her life and keep her comfortable.
She lived long enough to see Miles drafted and to know I’d been accepted into the Savannah College of Art and Design. Then she died on my nineteenth birthday.
It’s at least a comfort we didn’t live through the hardest years of her illness with my dad around. Once Miles was drafted, he was able to get us out, away from Dad’s emotional abuse.
Well, emotional for us. For Miles, it was a different story.
I shove the painful thought away and run a hand up and down Olive’s back, comforted by the steady in and out of her breathing.
What I wouldn’t do to give Mom the chance to see this. To see Miles’s little family, to see what I’ve done with my art and know that despite Dad’s best efforts to keep it from happening, we’ve done okay.
We’re okay.
I’m going to miss seeing daily reminders of that fact. Whenever my memories start to haunt me, I can look at my nieces, see them happy and safe and thriving, and that makes the world seem okay again.
Poppy stirs, snuggling deeper into her pillow, and her legs push against where I’m sitting on her bed. She’s clearly ready to have her own space, so I scoot over to the edge of the mattress and stand, careful not to wake Olive. I hoist her onto my shoulder and carry her across the hall to her room.
Once both girls are tucked in, covers wrapped around their shoulders and lights turned off, I head back downstairs, wishing for the thousandth time that I didn’t have to move back to Canada.
Anna and Miles are still in the living room. A hockey game is on the TV, but the volume is muted. As soon as I sit down opposite Anna, Miles grabs the remote and switches off the game.
“You don’t have to turn it off,” I say, but Miles waves away my comment.
“It’s fine. I can watch it in the bedroom. But not before you tell us your news.”
I look from my brother over to Anna. “I just got an email from the Bainbridge Studio in New York. They’ve invited me to be a guest artist for a two-week residency.”
“Sarah!” Anna says quickly, her face lighting up. “That’s amazing!”
“What’s a residency?” Miles asks, like I haven’t explained this concept to him at least five times. Is he being intentionally obtuse? No matter how many times I explain how things work in the art world, it never seems to click.
“I explained when I had one in Savannah,” I say. “Do you remember the studio you came to see?”
“Where you did the art classes?”
“Among other things,” I say. “The classes were a small part of it, but mostly I just painted. Collaborated with other artists. The studio was open to the public, so people could come in and watch me work. That’s what I’ll be doing at the Bainbridge.
Except it’s New York. So the exposure, the interest it might generate… it’s a really big deal.”
Miles frowns. “How did they find you? Is this something you just…volunteer for?”
I narrow my eyes at my brother. “It’s not volunteer,” not even trying to hide how defensive I feel.
“It’s by invitation only. I could have been recommended by a professor at SCAD, or they could have organically come across my work.
The point is, they only do this a few times a year, and they picked me. ”
“Sorry,” Miles says. “I never understand all the art things. Good job.”
I sink back into my chair. Miles says good job, but it doesn’t really feel like he means it.
“When do you go?” Anna says.
“Soon. A week from Wednesday.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry. I know that leaves you without anyone around to help. But it’s only two weeks.”
She quickly shakes her head, squeezing my fingers right back. “Are you kidding? Do not apologize for chasing your dreams. I’ll be fine.”
“What about when I’m on the road?” Miles says, looking down at his phone. “We’ve got a week of road games right at the same time.”
Anna shoots him a look. “I’ll be fine,” she repeats, this time a little more pointedly. “Maybe it will make us get a little more serious about hiring a nanny since it’s not actually your sister’s responsibility to take care of them. Or me.”
“You know I never mind helping,” I say. “But that’s the thing. This residency is exactly the kind of thing that will help level up my career. It will be great exposure and will make qualifying for my O-1 visa so much easier.”
Miles breathes out a sigh. “I really wish you weren’t hanging all your plans on literally the hardest visa to qualify for.”
“Miles, don’t,” Anna says.
“Why not? I’m over here doing actual work to figure out a way for her to stay, and she’s chasing a pipe dream.”
As much as it stings to hear him question my entire career, that’s not the thing that strikes me the most about his words.
“Wait, what does that mean?” I ask. “What do you mean you’re doing work?”
Miles’s expression shifts. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
I look at Anna, who seems to be very intentionally not looking at me.
“Anna, what is he talking about?”
She looks at her husband. “If you don’t tell her, I will.”
Miles’s shoulders drop, his demeanor a perfect combination of annoyance and resignation.
He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, then he finally lifts his gaze to mine.
“I’m pretty sure I found another way for you to stay.
But I haven’t said anything because I’m still trying to work out the details. ”
“What way?” I say. “I’ve talked to the attorney as many times as you have. There is no other way.”
He tilts his head as if to concede the point. Then he says, “Unless you get married.”
I scoff. “Unless I what?”
“You get married,” Miles repeats. “But only for a year or so. Long enough for you to get your teaching credential. Then you can get a job with someone willing to sponsor you, and you get a divorce.”
“Miles. Are you serious right now? Who would I even marry?”
“That’s what I’ve been working on. I’m pretty sure I can convince one of the guys on the team to do it.”
I immediately think of Carter, and a flush climbs up my cheeks. I won’t deny feeling attracted to him, but that doesn’t mean I’d be willing to marry him. Or anyone else on the team.
I sputter out a few disgruntled sounds, but the shock I’m feeling has left me utterly speechless.
How do I even respond when Miles is being such a colossal idiot?
It’s bad that he’s bringing up the teaching thing again, like it wouldn’t completely derail the career I already have.
But it’s far worse that he thinks I would marry one of his teammates.
Miles and I get along pretty well, all things considered. But over the next ten minutes, we cover all the reasons why this is a terrible idea. Fraud. Felonies. Not to mention the fact that he’s expecting me to live with a man I do not know for an entire year.
I understand he’s coming from a good place. He’s worried about Anna—I get that. But this is too much.
“So I guess you’re saying you wouldn’t do it,” Miles says, the fight completely drained from his voice. “What if it wasn’t a teammate? Someone totally separate from hockey.”
It’s a valid question. Miles knows better than anyone why my history with hockey is so complicated. But that’s not the reason for my opposition.
“It wouldn’t matter,” I say. “I would never expect a man to put himself at risk for me. Any man.”
“Told you,” Anna says. She’s been quiet for our argument, but now, she leans forward, pointing her finger at Miles as she adds, “This is why you should have talked to her first.”
“First?” I ask, and suddenly neither of them will make eye contact. “What does that mean?”
Miles waves a hand in front of him. “Don’t worry about it.”
A wave of dread washes over me. “Miles,” I say slowly. “Please tell me you haven’t already talked to one of your teammates.”
He breathes out a sigh. “Only one. But he said no. For a lot of the same reasons you did.”
I close my eyes, afraid to ask. But I have to ask. “Who was it?”
Please don’t be Carter. Please don’t be Carter. Please don’t be Carter.
“Carter Williamson,” Miles says.
I sink into my chair. At least now I can say I know what it feels like to actually die of embarrassment.