Chapter 12 #2
These brilliant teenagers are the reminder I need to fight for my ArtStrong program.
As if I needed any more reason, today is my weekly meeting with those kids.
About ten minutes after the final bell rings, they begin trickling in until all fifteen of them are there.
Fifteen kids in a school this size is no small number for a program they voluntarily attend.
They’ve formed a close-knit group, bonding over shared struggles, opening up to one another through their art and holding each other accountable in their daily life. I refuse to entertain the idea it could be taken from them.
Just as each student is taking their respective seats, the door pushes open and a girl walks in.
Angie mentioned this girl, and I rack my brain to put a name to her face.
I know from her file her parents recently divorced, forcing her to move back to Singing River.
I recognized her mom’s name from the file, as well.
She was several years ahead of me in school, but most people know each other in this town, even tangentially.
The girl walks to an empty desk, and my eyes land on a flute case, a twin to the school-issued one Abby carries. She looks up, a shy smile lighting up her face.
“I’m Amelia. Sorry, I’m late,” she apologizes, chagrined.
My motherly instinct to comfort kicks in, and I walk over placing a hand on her shoulder. “No need to apologize. I’m happy you’re here.”
Turning to the class, I give them the theme of our next project.
“Okay, guys. I’ve got a new one, and I think you’ll like it.
It’s called Rewriting the Narrative.” Several kids perk up, intrigued.
“The idea is to take control of your story. This will be a mixed media project, and it’s pretty open-ended.
You’ll use anything you’d like to create a collage with a new narrative for yourself.
On the table in the back you’ll find poetry books for blackout poetry, magazines, and washi tape.
And of course, all the usual supplies can be used.
” I gesture to the metal supply cabinet at the back of the classroom.
“We’ll work on this for three weeks, so you’re welcome to bring anything from home.
A quote from a book, a song lyric, whatever you want.
Before you jump in, though, I’d advise you to spend some time free writing what you envision.
I’ll set a timer for fifteen minutes. When it goes off, feel free to begin. ”
I set a timer on my phone, and the kids get to work, some deep in concentration and some scribbling furiously in their notebook.
Watching these kids take this project seriously makes my heart swell with pride.
Forget what Principal Ian Stanback says.
Even in my mind, I can’t say his name without a snarl curling the edge of my lip.
This is a noble cause, and these kids are worth fighting for.
I’ll be damned if I back down without giving it my all.
In a sudden burst of inspiration, I do something I’ve never done.
I sit and work on the project along with them.
For the next fifteen minutes, I rewrite the narrative of my own life.
What do I see in that life? I’ve got the best friends anyone could ask for, a strong support group who never falters.
I have two amazing kids, who, despite driving me up the wall at times, are the two greatest joys of my life.
Is that enough to give me a fulfilled life?
My mind tiptoes, inching closer to a string of thoughts, daring me to pull it, letting ideas I have no business thinking tumble down into my head.
Tyler, here, back in my life. When he told me I’d only gotten more beautiful, I think a small part of me believed him.
Without a second’s hesitation, I begin my free write.
I write of a fairy tale life, full of family vacations, movie nights, and picnics by the river.
Nights on the porch watching Jay play basketball with fireflies flickering in the dark.
I write of Christmas mornings and birthdays, a New Year’s Eve with someone to kiss.
My chest warms, an ember of hope, tiny but there, a steady burn.
What a lovely future I’ve painted with words on a page.
The timer goes off, and one by one the kids make their way to the supply table. Glancing at my phone to turn the timer off, I first see a text from my brother.
Chris
Can you spot me $25? I’m good for it this time.
Rolling my eyes, I swipe away from the text without bothering to respond.
Next, I see a voicemail from Morningside I missed. While the students work, I retreat to the hall to listen.
“Josie, this is Nurse Noel. Your grandmother has had some ups and downs today. I think it’d be a nice idea if you could pop in for a visit this afternoon. It’d do her some good.”
And suddenly, that warm glow is extinguished, replaced by reality.
I simply have too many responsibilities.
My focus should be on my kids, my grandmother, and my job.
They deserve that from me. I have no business getting distracted by Tyler.
That voicemail was the reality check I needed.
Squaring my shoulders, I step back into the classroom, take the free write and put it in the recycle bin for the custodian to empty later.
Once the ArtStrong class ends, I gather my belongings, and with one last lingering glance at the recycle bin, I hook my tote bag over my shoulder, flip the light switch off, and head outside to my car. Mawmaw needs me, then I can get home and eat dinner with my kids.
“Mawmaw?” I say, quietly entering. The family photos I’ve hung strategically on her walls—a futile effort to keep her present memories intact—stare back at me as I survey her room. My grandmother’s form is relaxed, sitting in the chair nearest the large window she spends her days looking out.
She looks up, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, trying to place me.
Each time this happens, the pain in my chest is almost unbearable.
Watching the person who raised me, the only mother figure I’ve ever known, look at me like I’m a stranger.
Well, that right there is its own kind of torture.
Slowly, I move further in, and her face lights up.
“Evelyn!” she exclaims. “I’ve been wondering when you’d come back.
” Evelyn was her sister who passed away at least ten years ago.
All my life, Mawmaw has said I’m the spitting image of her.
My shoulders fall in disappointment when I hear the name today, though.
I hate this disease that’s ripping me from my grandmother’s memories.
When she looks at me, I want her to light up because it’s Josie, her granddaughter.
It’s a selfish thought, I know. What must it be like, moving in and out of reality and time, sometimes completely aware of your surroundings, and other times frightened?
And for these reasons, and because the nurses always remind me to go along with whatever reality she’s in at the moment, today I’m Evelyn, and she’s my sister Martha.
“Hey, Martha!” I say, summoning a smile with fake cheeriness.
“Come sit with me.” Mawmaw pats the arm of the chair next to her. “I’ve been watching for hummingbirds, but haven’t spotted one yet. Maybe your eyes are sharper.”
I take a seat and peer out at autumn trees, full of amber and gold tipped leaves, where anyone without memory loss would see it’s not hummingbird season. Quietly, I pretend to scan the view for any sight of a ruby-throated hummingbird.
Around Singing River, Mawmaw was known for her garden full of hummingbird feeders. Like clockwork, the tiny birds would appear in the spring, spend their days flitting around Mawmaw’s backyard, before making their journey south in the late summer.
She’s still gazing out the window, so I take a moment to examine her from the corner of my eye.
I know the nurses here take good care of her, but still, I’d never want something to slip past any of us.
Her hands, veiny and spotted with age, lie clasped on the crocheted blanket draped across her lap.
Her nails are neatly trimmed and her clothes are unwrinkled.
The only thing that is heartbreakingly different is her hair.
My grandmother dyed her hair at home, painting her gray to blonde, as far back as I can recall.
And without fail, every Saturday she’d have it curled and set at the beauty shop.
Now it lies stuck to her head in limp gray clumps.
“Quit your perusal, Evelyn. We both know you’re the better looking sister.” She turns, a teasing glimmer in her hazy blue eyes. Though it pains me, I return the smile.
We spend a short time making small talk about the comings and goings of Singing River.
Despite not recognizing me, she’s clear minded as we discuss the ladies from her Sunday School class and what the preacher’s sermon was on last week.
The nurses are always sure to pull it up online for her to watch.
All the while, my heart is heavy as she remembers seemingly everyone but me.
When she begins bookending our conversation with frequent yawns, I decide it’s time to excuse myself and head home. I place a kiss to the top of her head, but as I’m pulling away, she wraps a frail hand around my own.
“Evelyn, if you see Jim outside, tell him to come on in and wash up. Josie’s little art show is tonight and I wanna get some supper in him before we go.
He’s so proud of her and loves being the first to arrive.
” Jim was my grandfather who passed away five years ago. Blinking back tears, I smile and nod.
The drive from Morningside to my house isn’t a long one, but it’s enough time for me to do what I always do when I need to hear recognition in my Mawmaw’s voice.
I listen to one of the dozen voicemails I keep saved on my phone.
When I hit play on my phone screen my eyes sting but still I smile hearing her voice.
“Josephine, I know you’re busy, but if it's not too much trouble, be a dear and pop in after work. I need help figuring out this blasted cell phone. I don’t know how you young folks manage this technology. I love you and I’ll see you this afternoon.”
After having such a good visit last week for Thanksgiving, I had high hopes for today. But I know her mind can turn on a dime. I’ve watched it happen countless times.
I turn onto my street and my heart picks up speed at the sight of the black Volvo parked along the edge of the grass.
I’d totally forgotten Tyler was coming for their first tutoring session today.
Lisa always sits at my house with my kids on my late days, and I didn’t even think to warn her.
Surely Abby and Tyler both filled her in on the plan, though.
Jay dribbles his ball on the driveway, practicing free throws, so I park along the grass as well. Walking past him, Jay doesn’t glance my way, concentrating on his form as he shoots. It bounces off the rim, I catch it, and toss it back to him.
Heading inside, I toe off my shoes in the entryway. Smudge is running circles, excited to be the first to greet me. My gaze lands on a pair of large tennis shoes, sitting neatly amongst the rest of ours, and my traitorous heart tumbles back to that fairy tale in my classroom recycling bin.