The Measure(14)
“I have an idea for something different tonight,” said Sean, snapping Maura’s attention back to the present. “And I want everyone to keep an open mind as I explain it.”
Maura glanced at Ben seated next to her. “Gird your loins,” she whispered.
“Already girded.” He smiled.
“Some of my colleagues from other groups have talked about the fact that not everyone feels comfortable sharing things out loud, which is perfectly natural,” said Sean. “And while I hope that this is a safe space where nobody feels intimidated to speak up, I think it could be helpful to try a different method of processing our thoughts.”
Sean pulled two yellow legal pads out of his satchel, followed by a dozen blue pens. “I want everyone to take a pen and a few pieces of paper and write a letter.”
“Is there someone specific we’re writing to?” asked Nihal, ever the good student.
“Nope.” Sean shook his head. “You can address the letter to your current self, your younger self, your future self. Or to someone else whom you’d like to say something to. Or you can just put pen to paper for ten minutes and see what comes out.”
“Sounds like a waste of time,” Carl mumbled.
The notepads made their way around the circle, and Maura stared at the blank page in her lap. Nina would love this exercise, Maura thought. She was so much better with words.
Dear Nina, she wrote.
The next line was proving more difficult. In a world of rumors and meddlesome strangers, Nina was the only person who actually deserved to know everything about Maura’s life, and there were few things that Maura hadn’t shared with her during the past two years.
And through each late-night confession, they had stayed together.
Nina wasn’t bothered by Maura’s restless nature, the fact that in seven years she had held five different jobs, from a downtown gallery to a mayoral campaign to a brief stint at a start-up that abruptly imploded. And she had gone through just as many girlfriends as careers.
While Maura had jumped from career to career, from fling to fling, Nina was never burdened by that sense of restiveness. She had worked her way up at the same magazine since college, and she had had two rather undramatic relationships before Maura, with zero one-night stands in the middle—all of which Nina would speak about almost shamefully, as if it made her seem boring, unadventurous. But Maura actually admired it. Nina was loyal in a way that seemed rare nowadays.
After they’d opened their boxes, Maura had given Nina the chance to leave. But she refused.
“I know that you love me,” Maura said, “but I don’t even have ten years left, and you deserve someone you can spend the rest of your life with.”
Nina was shocked. “I do love you, and that’s why I would never leave.”
Maura suggested that Nina take some time to think. “You wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it.” She held Nina’s hand tenderly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
But Nina had insisted. “I don’t need time to know how I feel.”
Still searching for inspiration for her letter, Maura looked around Room 204. It was clearly an English classroom, decorated with black-and-white portraits of famous authors. They reminded Maura of the posters in her old studio apartment, where the bed took up nearly half of the space, and her collection of vintage celebrity mug shots graced the low white walls.
On their fourth date, the first time that Nina came over, Maura had watched as she studied the photos intently: A stoic David Bowie in a Rochester precinct. Frank Sinatra in the thirties, his tousled hair falling over his forehead with a boyish sexiness. Jane Fonda raising a clenched fist in Cleveland. Bill Gates, looking like a blond Beatle, actually grinning in his portrait from the seventies. And Jimi Hendrix, unfazed, in 1969, with his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a pendant necklace.
“Most of those were just drug-related, pretty minor offenses,” Maura explained. “Bill Gates was arrested for driving without a license.”
“I think they’re fascinating,” Nina said. “I almost want to put them in a four-page spread in our next issue.”
“So, you’re on a date with me, and yet you’re thinking about work?” Maura sat down on the bed and crossed her legs flirtatiously. “How’s that supposed to make me feel?”
“I’m so sorry.” Nina smiled, leaning down to kiss Maura lightly. “I’m actually embarrassed to admit I didn’t know a lot of those people ever got arrested.”
“That’s sort of why I hung them up,” Maura said, looking across the display. “They’re a reminder that sometimes we screw up, and sometimes the system screws with us, but if you live your life with enough passion and boldness, then that’s what you’ll be remembered for. Not the crap that happened along the way.”
Ten minutes had nearly passed, but Maura’s letter was still blank.
She looked around the room and saw that most of the other group members hadn’t stopped writing since receiving their pens. Ben had already finished his letter and was doodling a sketch of the New York skyline. At least Hank seemed to be struggling, too.
Dear Nina,
What could she write that Nina didn’t already know?
There was only one answer, but Maura couldn’t tell her now, not after all of their discussions and decisions. Not when Nina thought that the matter was settled.