Lauren rubbed her roommate’s shoulder, Lexie’s words resonating deeply. “She is still with you,” Lauren said.
“I know,” Lexie said, biting her lip, before changing the subject. “Econ final. I guess it’s time, isn’t it?”
Lauren gave her charm a little kiss, before carefully adding the hot air balloon to her charm bracelet. She walked to her desk and placed Lolly’s card next to her Picasso quote, running her fingers over her grandmother’s writing. She looked over at Lexie and thought of what it would be like to lose her own grandmother.
Is she seventy now? Is that even possible? Lauren wondered.
Lauren looked up and studied her litany of academic, artistic, and athletic accomplishments lining the wall and sighed.
You are so right, Grandma. I do need an adventure.
Lauren stared out her dorm window again at the kids cavorting along the lake. She shut her eyes.
Growing up, she visited her grandmother every summer in Scoops, Michigan, at her cabin on Lost Land Lake. They were the best times in her life, although her mom’s relationship with her own mother had always seemed as chilled as the ice cream cones she and her grandmother devoured nearly every day of the summer.
“Ice cream headaches are so worth it, aren’t they, my dear?” her grandmother would say, massaging Lauren’s temples with her fire engine red nails.
Every day was an adventure with her grandma: She taught her to swim, to paint, to believe anything was possible.
“Laughing and dreaming are the most important things in the world, my dear,” she would always tell Lauren. “Those are the things we forget as adults.”
Lauren thought about Picasso’s words again, returned to her easel, and pulled out her paints.
She could see her grandmother’s face, hear her laugh, feel her warmth. Lauren considered the econ final she needed to study for instead of painting.
I wish I could paint full time, Lauren thought, looking at her wall of accolades. All of those times I made the honor roll, all of those times I won my track meets, and he didn’t even care.
There was no photo of Lauren’s dad anywhere in her room. Save for the occasional note, the check on birthdays and Christmases, she hadn’t seen her father in years. He’d abandoned her, and she had no intention of meeting his new family.
Being accepted into Northwestern was Lauren’s own accomplishment: Her grades and awards had helped, of course, but it was her talent—her art—that had earned her admission.
But when Lauren was beginning to pack for her freshman year, her life had changed: She found the nasty letters from her father in the attic. She discovered the details of the divorce settlement in the garage. She came upon the overdue bills and financial statements in her mother’s rolltop desk, and while her mother was at work, she read the diary her mother had stuffed in a shoebox under the bed. That’s when Lauren learned the truth: Her father had refused to help Arden raise her.
Sometimes you must relinquish your passion in order to survive, her mother had written in her diary.
Guilt had overwhelmed Lauren. She took her mother’s maiden name. She also never realized how much her mother had sacrificed until then, and she vowed that she, too, must do just that: A quarter million dollars for an art degree wasn’t realistic. How could she expect her mother to pay all of that back? But a business degree, and then an MBA? With those, she could help her mother dig herself out of her financial straits. She could help undo the hell her father had created.
And then, if it wasn’t too late, I could still paint, Lauren vowed.
Lauren now understood her mother’s mantra: “Be sensible,” she would say. “Be careful. Be planned.”
It stood in direct opposition to her grandmother’s: “Dream, my dear. Dream!”
Despite needing to study, Lauren began to paint, conscious only of her brushstrokes.
“Wow,” Lexie finally said, knocking Lauren from her trance. “I mean, wow.”
Lauren stopped and studied her emerging work.
When she was painting, the world fell away. She lived in the painting.
“You know how talented you are, right?” Lexie asked. “That’s a gift.”
Lauren smiled and tentatively touched the still-wet canvas, as if the painting were a bird she didn’t want to frighten with any sudden movement. When it was completed, it would be an image of her grandmother licking an ice cream cone, the summer sun melting it quickly, her aging face a mix of childhood happiness and age lines.
“You have her eyes,” Lexie added. “Same color as the sky right now. I’d have to wear colored contacts to make mine look like that, you know.”
Lauren smiled. “Thanks for being such a great friend and roomie.”
“Wasn’t easy,” Lexie laughed. “Remember?”
Lauren nodded.
When she started at Northwestern, Lauren’s initial excitement had descended into near depression after discovering her mother’s financial difficulties and changing her major.