Page 37 of What I Should've Said

It’s either the most brilliant, freedom-giving interview I’ve ever seen, or the beginning of an episode of Dateline.

I choose to believe the first because, to be honest, I’m running out of other options.

Shedding Lillian’s Chanel jacket and setting it aside carefully, I roll up the hem of my pants as much as I can and kick off Lil’s Versace heels too. They’re not the kind of clothes you paint in, especially if you’re only wearing them on loan.

Now physically ready, I stand in front of the empty wall and try to wrap my mind around how to get mentally ready.

So…paint the wall?

Right.

Come on, Norah. Just paint the shit out of this thing.

Each can’s lid has a small swatch of the color that’s inside, and I have no shortage of colors to choose from. White, black, blue, hues of yellow and gold, pastel pink, army green, prison-jumpsuit orange, and shades of purple and brown. There must be at least thirty colors here, obviously more if I mix them.

I choose one color, a soft pinkish and orangish peach that reminds me of the kind of Red Bridge sunsets I used to witness when I was a kid.

And I paint the wall, blending in yellow and even red closer to the top and bottom.

At first, I start with a little paintbrush, but when I realize it will take me hours upon hours to paint this entire wall, I locate a paint roller that only requires a little setup and allows me to reach the top without getting on a ladder.

After that, my pace speeds up tenfold.

After a few hours of mind-quieting activity, I put the last coat on the bottom corner and step back to admire my work. It’s pretty—and makes me feel good—but I have no clue if it’s what the artist is looking for.

All I can do is give myself the permission to be okay if it’s not. This doesn’t have the stain of my failure to recognize the evil in people or the unyielding need to please someone who doesn’t care anything about me.

This is me starting over at twenty-six, and surprisingly enough, I think I’m okay with it.

Glancing down at the mess of brushes and paint cans, it occurs to me that cleaning up after myself might be part of the interview—like, that’s what I’d be looking for if I were an artist needing an assistant.

Without delay, I seal back up the paint cans I used and gather my brushes and roller to take outside. I’m not sure where, but I imagine there has to be a water spigot somewhere that I can use to clean and rinse them.

Walking cautiously on bare feet, I circle the barn all the way to the back before finding what I’m looking for—a standing spigot with a blue handle about halfway up toward the house on the property, in the middle of a pasture. The sun warms my shoulders thanks to the tank top I chose to wear under Lil’s jacket, and butterflies flutter on floral grass. It’s like a scene out of a movie or a storybook, and I find myself tipping my face up into the warm sunlight as I walk.

Growing up in New York, I felt like my life was the equivalent of running full speed on a treadmill. My mother dragged me from one after-school activity to the next and then to whatever social engagements she’d scheduled after that. We dined and we mingled, and we bent ourselves over backward to find “the right people.” When I was in college, we met Thomas, and unfortunately, I was naïve enough to think that meant we’d succeeded. But the truth is, there is no finish line when you’re obsessed with being the best.

Out here, like this, I feel like I can hear myself think. Like there is no world outside of whatever I choose to create for myself, no goal to be achieved. Rather, it’s this and these little perfect moments that are worth striving for, and even better than that, there’s no finish at all—just infinite opportunity.

Fingers crossed that all of that opportunity starts with me getting the job.

Wednesday, August 11th

Bennett

“Jeez, Daddy. Hurry up!” A sigh follows that mouthful of sass, leaving the lips of the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Even though she’s rarely ever on her own two feet, she’s a tiny thing, standing at only three foot five. She loves girlie stuff and sparkles and reality television. Her birth certificate reads Summer Beatrice Bishop, but to me, she’ll always be my Summblebee.

This little girl right here was love at first sight for me. And the past seven years have only made me love her more. Love her more than I love myself.

“I’m moving as fast as I can, Bossy Pants.” I roll my eyes at the annoyed purse of her lips, but I laugh a little at the same time as I unclick her custom-made mobility seat from her wheelchair and lift her up with the carefulness I’d use to carry around an egg made of glass.

God, I hate that she feels lighter in my arms than she did a few weeks ago.

As I walk us from the living room toward the front door, I never once take my eyes off her face, watching like a hawk for the first sign of discomfort.

Once we’re on the porch, the warm wind brushes through her blond ringlets, and her bright blue eyes stare up at me. A cute little pirate’s smile follows, crinkling her nose, and my heart expands inside my chest.

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