The Wedding Veil(89)

“All right then,” she replied, smiling with a dazzling row of white teeth, which like her dress, were perfectly straight. “Let’s see what you’ve done here.”

I explained my senior living community model, which featured a health and rehabilitation facility at the center, and, around the edges, a robust fitness center, large community garden, three separate dining facilities, and a Google-style lounge for employees. In between, pods that each contained six bedrooms and bathrooms with a common living area, kitchen, and preparation space for one caregiver, who would be responsible for that pod’s residents.

I paused. “Professor? I have a confession.”

She moved her hand in a gesture that told me to proceed.

“I didn’t fix this all on my own. I had a friend who’s an architect help me.” I smiled thinking of Conner, loving the way even the thought of his name sounded in my head. “I have detailed in an attachment which parts were his ideas in the name of transparency.”

“Architecture is a team sport, Ms. Baxter. We have to be able to rely on each other at so many points along the way. Being able to work together is a fundamental strength. Not a weakness.”

“Good to know.” I pointed up and said, “You’ll see on these revised plans how every ADA guideline has been met.” I paused, deciding that a building should tell a story and so should I. “But, Professor, my grandmother, Babs, moved to a graduated living facility a month ago, similar to this one. And, well, I know a thing or two about southern ladies and how much they pride themselves on the aesthetics of their homes. So she and I put our heads together to make some of these features a little more pleasing to the eye.”

“When in doubt, ask the client.” She paused, pointing. “Tell me about these choices for the common spaces.”

And so I did, noting the focus on utilizing technology to increase self-reliance. As I’d learned in my research, the over-sixty-five age group is largely willing to adapt to new technology.

An hour later, I could feel myself starting to sweat. I had truly enjoyed presenting my project, but Professor Winchester was impossible to read. Now the verdict would be laid down. “Ms. Baxter,” she began, “it’s clear that you have worked very, very hard on these drawings, that you have not only studied but also put your heart into them.” She crossed her arms, a smile playing on her lips. “I knew you were up to the challenge. I have to admit, when you didn’t come back right away, I felt like perhaps I’d been too harsh on you.”

I laughed. “So…”

“So I think we are going to have a very productive semester.” She held her hand out, and I shook it. “Welcome back, Ms. Baxter. I trust that you will leave my care ready for any firm you choose.”

I wanted to hug her, but she didn’t seem like a hugger. So, instead, I said, “Thank you, Professor. This time I won’t let you down. I promise.”

She shrugged. “This isn’t a contract with me, Ms. Baxter. It’s one with yourself.”

She was right. I knew that now. As I left, I was floating on air. I had been intimidated by this legend of a woman. But I also felt proud because I had faced my fear. Again. In so many ways, I realized that, perhaps, that was what Professor Winchester had wanted me to do the entire time.

As I headed out to meet Sarah, I realized I had failed in two of the biggest ways I could have imagined this year. But that was okay. That was life. And, as I stepped outside into the cool, crisp air, I thought that maybe Babs was right. Maybe my failures hadn’t actually ended anything. Maybe they were teaching me how to get back up and move forward in a better direction, toward the life I imagined.



* * *



I had reinstated my rightful place in architecture school. Instead of going deeper into student loan debt—and with Hayes’s blessing—I had sold my engagement ring to pay for my last semester and some of my existing loan. I had celebrated with my friends. I couldn’t procrastinate anymore. I had to go see my parents and apologize for ruining the wedding that wasn’t.

I had asked Babs to come too. I knew it was a lot to ask her to come to Raleigh, but she’d argued that we could all do with a nice lunch and visit.

As I pulled up our road, my family’s pretty two-story brick house gave me its usual homey feeling, followed immediately by an uneasy one. Sometimes I thought that maybe that was a little bit dramatic. But, then again, sometimes I felt like it wasn’t dramatic enough. I sat for a moment in my car, admiring the way the trees framed the house from the street. The landscaping was always perfectly manicured thanks to Dad. (I assumed he spent a lot of time in the yard to keep from fighting with Mom). Boxwoods framed either side of the small front stoop and little flowers lined the brick walk.

It looked like the perfect home, and in so many ways it was. We had been a strong family unit, Mom, Dad, and me. I had been so happy—right up until the time I turned eight and started to realize that I was happy. And my house seemed happy. But my parents weren’t happy. At least, not together. The first separation came right before my thirteenth birthday, and honestly, I was relieved. When they got back together six months later, I thought things were better—until the summer I turned seventeen and they split up again. By the time they got back together the second time, this house had quit being a safe space for me. Instead, it was a place of instability.