The Charm Bracelet(4)

No one wants to be a writer anymore, they want to be a celebrity, just like the ones they cover, Arden sighed.

“Mail!”

Arden heard a loud plop, and turned to find a mountain of mail already sliding across her desk. She walked over and began to rifle through it.

“Same ol’, same ol’,” she said, shuffling through press releases and early samples of celeb perfumes. A return address on a padded envelope caught Arden’s eye, and her pulse quickened. Arden’s desk began to rumble, and as she looked out her window to see the El screech by again, its tracks shaking violently, she could feel her headache begin anew.

Arden picked up the puffy package and nabbed a pair of scissors from a Paparazzi coffee mug on her desk to cut it open.

A little card came tumbling out.

Arden’s heart leaped into her throat. Her mother’s beautiful handwriting was no longer the looping, expressive cursive of her youth. Instead, it was jagged, slanted, hunched.

She read the card:

ALICE:

But I don’t want to go among mad people.

THE CHESHIRE CAT:

Oh, you can’t help that. We’re all mad here.

How’s the writing going, my dear?

Remember, we all must go a little CRAZY sometimes to find our happiness.

Hope you can visit this summer. I miss you and love you with all my heart!

All my love to Lorna Lauren.

Mom

Arden’s heart began to beat in her temples, then in her eyes.

Lorna? Oh, Mom, Arden said to herself, seeing her mother’s mistake. How could you get your own granddaughter’s name wrong?

Arden picked up the envelope and turned it upside down. A little box rolled across her desk. She popped it open and sitting atop a velvet throne was a silver charm of the Mad Hatter.

“Alice in Wonderland!” Arden smiled. “My favorite book!”

Arden studied the charm, placing it in her palm and rubbing her fingers over it.

Still with the charms, Mom? Still believe they’re somehow magical?

She thought of her mother’s charm bracelet, thick with charms, the one she never removed, the one that drove Arden crazy growing up with its incessant jangling.

How long has it been since Lauren and I have been home to Michigan? Where does time go? Arden felt a tinge of guilt and then her laptop dinged.

Deadlines. That’s where.

Arden picked up the card and reread it.

“Hope you can visit this summer.”

Her mother rarely asked for anything, much less a visit. Visiting home was tough for Arden, a lot like, well, Alice falling down the rabbit hole. It had not been easy for Arden growing up in small-town America. She had been an awkward kid, and it had not been easy having a mother like Lolly Lindsey.

“It’s not that she’s a bad person,” Arden said to the charm, as if it were a therapist. “It’s just that she’s…”

“Debbie Reynolds!”

Yes! Exactly!

Bigger than life. Always on stage, Arden thought.

“Arden?”

Arden jumped and turned to find Van standing in her doorway, his blue bow tie adorned with yellow boats twitching around his neck.

Wait. I didn’t say that? she realized.

“Debbie Reynolds is dating a twenty-five-year-old! Story’s coming now! We have an exclusive. We’ll need it online in less than fifteen minutes!”

“Of course,” Arden nodded. Van was already walking away when she called, “But when I’m done, I think I’ll take an early lunch, if that’s okay. I need a little fresh air.”

Van stopped, moonwalked back three steps, and checked his watch, before shooting a finger at Arden.

“Sure thing. We need you fresh. But it’s still too early. Make it a late lunch, okay? We have a lot happening today. No plans tonight, right? Or this weekend? That promotion to web news director is still up in the air…,” Van added.

Arden opened her mouth to respond, but Van was gone.





Two

May 2014—Lauren

Pablo Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.”

Lauren set down the quote she kept framed on her dorm desk and stared at her MacBook, her econ notes blurring in front of her eyes.

A warm breeze raced through the window of Lauren’s dorm room and tousled her blond hair.

She inhaled deeply, the smell of Lake Michigan and the approaching summer air filling her lungs and her room, that sweet perfume of flowers and fresh water, newly cut grass and warmth, that smell of … hope.

She heard playful screams outside and stood, leaning over her desk to study the scene: Her dorm on Northwestern University’s campus looked out at the lake and student beach. Even though the breeze off the water was still a bit chilly, boys played Frisbee without shirts and girls in bikini tops soaked up some rays.

There was something about the simple scene, of her fellow students enjoying a day free of care, which caused Lauren to stand, yank off her purple Wildcat hoodie, and walk over to the painting easel she had perched by her desk.

She lifted her brush.

“Ice cream!”

Lauren jumped, as her roommate twirled into the room like a tornado, dark curly hair flying, carrying two ice cream cones.

“I thought we could use these,” Lexie said, speaking even faster than her typical New York style, “between being stuck inside studying for finals on this gorgeous day and … well, I just found out Josh is playing me again.”