Of course, I’d never abandon my kids at the library. I’d stay until a suitable replacement could be found. And, of course, in the bigger picture, quitting was the worst-case scenario because it meant giving up my entire life here. But I wasn’t looking at the big picture. I was looking at this one part of it: Did I want to be powerless—or take charge of my own destiny?
Distilled down to that one question, the answer was easy.
And easy answers always feel good.
The idea of escape unclenched my heart and just pumped relief through my body. I had choices. None of them were particularly good choices … but that was beside the point.
I’d start over. Not impossible. I’d done it before, and I could do it again.
I’d start looking for school-library positions in adorable small towns. Maybe Babette would even come with me. She could probably use an escape, too. And if Babette was going, Alice might come. Hell, we could start a whole new utopia in a historic fishing village in Maine, or a forgotten ghost town in Colorado.
There was no going back to sleep now. I sat up in bed and flipped on the light. It was still dark as night outside.
I felt better. And not just better: invigorated.
I was taking back my life.
Now all I had to do was just endure seeing Duncan again for a little while. How long could that meeting possibly last? An hour? I’d grit my teeth for one hour, and then I’d set myself free.
I’d made my decision. The hard part was over.
Though I still had one decision left: what to wear.
It’s a big deal to see someone you were once in love with again after so many years—for anybody. But for me it would be an extra-big deal.
Because I had changed so much.
When we’d worked together before, I’d been mousy. By choice. I’d been … hiding. But I wasn’t hiding anymore. Now, in fact, I did the opposite.
That first seizure I’d had after my epilepsy came back?
I’d been driving when it happened.
I’d crashed my car into the side of a 7-Eleven.
I’d wound up in the hospital with a broken arm, a black eye, sixteen stitches across the top of my head, and a bald patch where they’d had to shave it.
No one else was hurt, thank God … but I hadn’t set foot inside a 7-Eleven since.
After the accident, on the morning when it was time to go back to school, I just couldn’t. I got all dressed, and I worked to cover my bruised eye with makeup, and I put on a little gray stocking cap to cover my bandage. Then I put my satchel on my shoulder, picked up my car keys, caught my reflection in the mirror … and started crying.
I was still crying after second period when Max called to see why the library was still dark.
I wound up taking a personal day, but that night he showed up at the carriage house with a present for me: a hat covered all over with tissue-paper flowers.
“This is certainly … very bright,” I said.
“It’s Babette’s,” Max said. “I asked her if I could give it to you.”
I let Max in, and we sat on my sofa. I could not even imagine what I would do with a Technicolor flower hat like that. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s really got … a lot of flowers.”
“I think you should wear it to school tomorrow,” Max said.
I eyed the hat, not wanting to be rude. “It’s … a little bolder than my normal look.”
“Yes, it is,” Max said. “And that’s why you’ll spend the whole day talking about the flowers, rather than talking about the seizure.”
I nodded. I got it. “Or the stitches.”
He gave a little shrug. “Or the 7-Eleven.”
I studied the hat a little longer.
“What’s your hesitation?” Max asked.
“Have you ever seen me wear anything like this?”
“Flowers are very joyful,” Max said.
“I’m not really feeling joyful.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “That’s what the flowers are for.”
I shook my head at the flower hat. “I’m just not sure I can pull this off.”
“Just give it a try,” Max said, nodding at it, like Go on.
And so, gently—as much for the paper flowers as for my stitches—I put it on and turned toward the mirror, and suddenly, I didn’t look like a sad, frightened, disappointed, relapsed person who had almost just died in a car accident of her own making.