Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s been a busy twenty-four hours.
I didn’t think much would come from the leaflets, but after Mom left I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I mean, it wasn’t like they were just going to accept me into nursing school, right? Obviously something would go wrong. It couldn’t be as easy as all that. Anyway, I figured I’d call a few to check – no harm, no foul, right? The worst that would happen is that they’d tell me it was a ridiculous pipe dream and I was too old, then I could go back to… well, back to my life at the diner. I could live with that. At least I’d know I’d tried.
Except when I called, the woman on the other end of the line didn’t have any answers to any of my questions. She just assumed I was a prospective student asking for information about their Open Day: a time when people from all over the state – from all over the country, even – would be headed to town to see if the school was a good fit for them. People in the same situation I should have been ten or so years ago, all planning out their futures. ‘It’ll all be fine,’ the receptionist on the phone told me. ‘Any questions you have about late admission, you can ask them tomorrow. We’ll let you know everything you need then.’
Tomorrow.
As in, twenty hours away.
I mean, obviously I couldn’t just put everything off to trek across the state just to be told that I wasn’t qualified and that I’d wasted all my time. That would be crazy. And even if I did decide to do that, how would I even get there?
Well, I thought, Pete does have his truck. I could make it to Austin in about five hours or so. Sure, it would be a long trip and an early start, but…
But I was no stranger to early starts. I’d be up around that time anyway.
But it’s ridiculous.
Oh, absolutely. But so what? Maybe a little bit of ridiculous wasn’t the worst thing in the world. So what if I got there and I was the oldest person in the class by half a decade? So what if I got there and they turned around and said no? Maybe there were worse things than giving up before you’d started. I’d spent too long talking myself out of things.
So I’d asked Pete if I could borrow his truck, one last time. Twenty minutes later, it was sitting outside my apartment with a full tank of gas, with my mother and Pete beaming out at me from the front seats like twin headlights. ‘Knock ‘em dead, kiddo,’ he had said as he handed over the keys. ‘I’m sure you’ll do great.’
‘It’s not an interview,’ I said. ‘Just a chance to look around, that’s all. Probably nothing.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, knock ‘em dead anyway. They’d be lucky to have you.’
Oh, Pete, I thought. If I do wind up going, I’m pretty sure I’m going to miss you most of all.
He headed back to my mother’s side and put a hesitant arm around her. I could see him watching me, trying to gauge my reaction for the first time. I gave him a little nod, and he smiled. Whatever makes you happy, I tried to tell him with my eyes. You deserve it.
My mother came up to me next. ‘I’m proud of you, Carrie,’ she said as she pulled me in for a hug; apparently that was a thing we did now, not that I was complaining. It was sort of nice to be close to her, even if it had only happened when I was finally ready to leave. ‘I really mean it. And if he were here, your dad would be too.’
Well, that settled it. After my mother had seen me crying hot, ugly tears for the first time since I was a teenager, I pretty much had to go.
~~~
Don’t think about it.
That’s what I keep telling myself. It’s easier that way. When I’m packing my bag and start to worry if Pete’s truck will get me all the way to Austin. Don’t think about it. When I’m in the shower, washing my hair so I can get an early start in the morning and wondering about how I could possibly afford to go back to school. Don’t think about it. When I climb into bed and set an alarm, and imagine myself surrounded by eighteen year olds – children, really – all laughing and wondering about the old lady who wasted a decade waiting tables. Don’t think about it.
It’s easier said than done.
In the dark stillness of my bedroom, with only the steady hum of the air conditioner for company, it’s hard not to let the doubts creep in. When I eventually manage to fall asleep, it’s a jumble of confusion that doesn’t seem to have any end. I catch snippets of sleep over the course of hours, minutes and seconds snatched wherever I can get them; no matter how I position myself, no matter what I do, my body is restless and my mind even more so. Eventually, just as I hear the chirping of birds outside my window – the official wake-up call for anyone who’s ever had to get up to open a restaurant for the breakfast shift – I give up on sleep entirely. I head to the bathroom, and then pull on the clothes I laid out so painstakingly for myself the night before – anything to make the trip easier. By the time I’m all buttoned up and ready to go, it’s still only three o’clock.
Don’t worry about it, I tell myself. People do this every day. You’re smart, and you’re capable, and you’ll get through it, just like they do. Besides, it’s just an Open Day. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re still a long way off getting accepted.
Somehow, that doesn’t help as much as I might have hoped. I try not to think about that either. Instead I just pull a book down off my shelf and flick through the pages, hoping for something – anything – to keep me occupied until I can justify going downstairs and starting my journey. I start with an old book, one I haven’t read in a long time: a dog-eared copy of an old Raymond Chandler detective novel, once owned by my dad. When I was little, we used to watch movies like that together – me on one end of the sofa, him on the other, with an enormous bowl of freshly-made popcorn sitting between us, so rich and salty and buttery that it would leave grease stains on your fingers for days afterwards. Philip Marlowe – Bogart, always Bogart in my mind – is bouncing around from pillar to post in search of a murderer, always with the right line for the situation. Easy as that, I think. If only real life were as simple as having someone behind you, picking out just what you should say to make sure the plot kept on merrily ticking along. If only you could be sure by the end of it all that the bad guys would end up in jail and the hero gets to ride off in the sunset with this week’s love of his life. Dad always used to hate stories like that: he’d say they were unrealistic, that life didn’t always come with a happy ending. Then again, he married Mom and spent a lot of blissful years with her… well, until he got sick, anyway. As endings go, that one must have felt a little bittersweet.
Oh well, I tell myself. Dad wouldn’t have wanted me lingering on that, not today of all days. There’s no point in worrying about it. All you can do is try and enjoy the story while it’s happening, and hope for the best.
Maybe he really would be proud of me for heading off to do my own thing. Maybe getting out of Eden really is my happy ending after all. Maybe –
I’m so lost in my thoughts and the book that it takes me a little while to register the noise: a sound I haven’t heard in years.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Stones, tapping against my window frame. Little beads of granite calling for my attention, one after the other.
Beckoning me outside.