A Bridge of Her Own

A Bridge of Her Own

A NOVEL

Carey Heywood

A Bridge of Her Own
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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©
2012 by Carey Heywood

ISBN 978-0-9887713-0-7

Published by Carey Heywood

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Mom, you are my lighthouse
.

A Bridge of Her Own

Prologue

There is a quiet insecurity in all of us. A person terrified of public speaking. Someone who always wonders what people will think of her if she says the wrong thing or makes a mistake. So how
is it a girl like this is standing in the center of a University basketball court, at half time, a mic in her hand the crowded stadium listening to her every word?

Chapter 1

Jane was a slight child with long brown hair and big brown eyes. She had been very reserved for a child. When Jane was very young, her mother would receive compliments on how well behaved she was. Mothers at play groups or babysitters would say how lucky she was to have such a perfect little angel.

They would pepper her for advice, making her the center of attention in their mommy and me groups. Her mother glowed under the compliments and nourished these ideals to a fault. Jane was an only child and her mother was a stay-at-home mom. Her first true daily interaction with children came when she began kindergarten. She adored school but was very quiet and shy around her classmates.

She had grown up in the West End of Richmond Virginia. While booming with neighborhoods and businesses today, it was fairly rural when she was a child. Her parent’s owned a classic colonial-style home with green siding and black shutters. Her mother was the neighborhood garden snob with her Kentucky blue grass and prominent flowerbeds. They normally experienced all four seasons, though some winters they did not get any snow. Jane liked fall and spring the best. All of the leaves changing colors and the vibrant blooms of new buds.

Her family would go downtown when going out to eat. There was an area called the Fan with fun restaurants and boutiques. Her mother was very social, and she would go with her most days for lunch with the ladies during summer and school breaks. She would sit primly at the table with the grown ups. Because she was so well-behaved, she was always the only child who could come.

At the bus stop for school, she would lose herself in the beauty around her. She was oblivious to the other children from her street. Her teachers were sweet but did not push her to interact with the other children. She was content to sit back and observe. Jane had been taught by her mother to speak only when spoken to and that it was preferred for children to be seen and not heard.

Jane would sit in the cavity between their sofa and bay window of their living room to observe the goings on of her street. Sitting with her feet curled beneath her, she would watch the kids from her street when they played outside. Her dainty nose inches from the window, she saw them play and jump in puddles on rainy days and run through sprinklers on hot summer days. She was aware of her mother’s opinion of the neighborhood youth. She did not favor them.

Jane however thought they were wonderful and would daydream of the adventures they could have. One particularly muddy day, one of these children braved the well-manicured walkway of the Martin's home to inquire if Jane could come out and play. They were making mud pies, she happily told Jane’s mother. Jane cringed knowing what her mother’s response would be. What agony she felt at that moment. She knew after her mother was finished with this little girl that another invitation to play would be unlikely.

Jane observed her mother wrinkle her nose in disgust. She looked up and down at the filthy tyke on her doorstep. The young girl seemed to shrink under her gaze. She then informed the young girl that Jane was not the type of little girl to play in the mud and to run along. That was the last time any of her neighbors came over to ask Jane to play.

That evening Jane practiced wrinkling her nose in the mirror as she had seen her mother do. As she fluffed her ruffled skirt, she wistfully imagined making a mud pie. From that point on, she would imagine she was part of the group. The fun things she dreamed they had done filled her afternoons. With her eyes closed and head leaned against the back of their sofa, she was content.

Her father traveled for work when she was younger and was gone sometimes a week at a time. Jane wished he were home more often. He, like her, was the quiet sort. Even though he did not come right out and say it, she knew he adored her. He would always bring a state spoon home for her from his travels.

She treasured her collection and had a display case of them in her room. When he was gone and she felt lonely, she would hold the spoon from whatever state he was in that trip and rub the handle. Sometimes she would sleep with that spoon under her pillow. It made her feel as though he was not as far away.

While most of her classmates went to school in blue jeans or corduroy pants and t-shirts, Jane was dressed in a skirt and blouse or a dress every day. Her fingernails were always painted a pale shade of pink, and any chips to her nail polish were not tolerated. Jane had piano lessons and was not permitted to join outdoor activities like girl scouts or soccer. She wistfully listened to the little girls of her school discuss earning badges and selling cookies.

Jane felt so isolated sitting alone each day at the lunch table. Sometimes a classmate would move her way, and she would look up hopeful, but all too often they were just passing her to sit somewhere else.

She brought her lunch from home. Each day, instead of a normal paper napkin, she had fancy linen. She wished she could just buy lunch like the other students, but her mother enjoyed making her lunches. Each day she would leave a note for Jane in French.

Her classmates considered her to be a snob because she never spoke to anyone and was always so dressed up. Children could be cruel. While they shunned her most of the time, sometimes they would even pick on her further to attempt to elicit a reaction from her. They would crowd around her, tugging at her hair and taunting, "Plain Jane!" She never reacted in front of them but would cry and hug herself in a stall of the girl’s restroom when no one else was there.

The teasing eventually escalated to pushing, usually from behind. She would fall, rip her tights, and dirty her hands. Her mother would rail at her over her state of appearance after these events. She was deaf to Jane’s attempt to tell her what happened. Once so distraught over her lack of friends, she confided to her father, tears streaming down her face.

"Janey, anyone would be crazy not to like you," he soothed.

Her mother, who was eavesdropping, announced those girls were simply jealous but promptly enrolled Jane in a small all-girls private school. Unfortunately, many of her new classmates had already been attending the school together for years. Since Jane was too shy to put herself out there, she was doomed to repeat her experience from her last school.

However, since the school was so small and with fewer students to keep watch over, her teachers were very observant. This gave any would-be bullies less opportunity to strike. Also, since there were uniforms at this school, she wasn’t thought a snob for the clothes she wore. She would lose herself in books as a way to pass time. Mostly, it was just Jane and her parents.

She would have loved a cat or a dog, but her mother was allergic to both. Caving, her father finally got her a goldfish. She loved her little goldfish, Watson. It named after one of her favorite characters, the doctor from Sherlock Holmes. Watson’s bowl rested on her bedside table. In the dim glow of her clock radio, she would talk to him at night before she fell asleep. He was a good fish, but she really craved a pet she could snuggle close during rough times.

As she grew, there were times she would catch her mother observing her with a very satisfied look on her face. Jane was able to tell that she was doing everything just right. However, when Jane brought home a B on a schoolwork assignment or during awkward times when her skin broke out or she needed braces, it was clear that her mother was disappointed. These times made Jane feel miserable. All she ever wanted was to make her mother happy.

Her father was always content with her company. When he was not traveling on business, she would gravitate to him. In the evening after dinner, she would sit and watch National Geographic with him in the den while her mother watched her shows in the living room. These were the most peaceful times Jane remembered from growing up. She was able to relax.

Otherwise, she turned her homework in on time and was a favorite among her teachers. She just seemed to be lacking a spark of interest in anything. Each day was the same as the next. As the years passed and her schooling evolved, Jane began to find enjoyment in her Art classes. There was something liberating about it. After learning the basic methods, they were free to decide subject, color and any variation of the end output for their work.

Jane especially loved to draw. Putting charcoal to pad, she would portray her life how she wished it was. She was riding a bike or surfing with dolphins flanking her. Inspired, Jane would lose herself in books chronicling the lives and works of her favorite artists. It struck her that someone as famous and well-liked as Picasso, for example, could use shapes that in no way resembled those of a human figure to create a human figure.

While the shapes were far from symmetrical, not only she but the masses at large found beauty in the imperfection created. She even attempted to deconstruct objects in her own drawings. She particularly enjoyed the idea that different styles and formats of artwork spoke to people differently. That one painting could hold so many different stories.

She quietly passed through her remaining years at school. When the time came to select a college or university, her eyes wandered far away from home. Her mother, however, would not consider her perfect, innocent daughter going so far away. She was given the choice between three in-state schools, all within a two-hour drive from home. Her initial thought process was to pick the one furthest from home and call it a day, but after deeper study of the different programs available at each school, she in the end selected the closest.

It had the best Art History program. Jane’s mother did not care what she studied as long as it wasn’t anything bohemian like Women’s Studies or masculine like Engineering. Besides, her mother believed it wasn’t as though Jane would ever work for a living. She was clearly destined to marry a future CEO or politician. There was nothing undesirable about studying Art History as long as she wouldn’t become or date an artist, her mother thought.

Besides, it would be the perfect excuse to take a family trip that summer to Europe. That way, Jane could see some of what she was studying in person. What professor wouldn’t appreciate a scholar who was world-traveled? Jane wasn’t even accepted yet, and her mother was already contemplating how she could assist her daughter in maintaining her perfect image. Jane mentally counted the days until graduation. She was accepted to her first-choice school and was thrilled to learn of her mother’s planned vacation.

With her parents in tow, she blissfully toured the finest museums of Europe. They spent three separate days touring the Louvre in Paris. Well, at least Jane did. Her father bowed out after the first day claiming an aching knee. Her mother gave up after the second day. She could not understand Jane’s manic desire to see everything but acknowledged that this was an appropriate desire given her course of study. So while her father napped and her mother shopped, on the third day Jane floated from exhibit to exhibit all by herself.

There were some wonderful museums in her hometown, but this was the most famous museum in the world. She breathed in the spirit of artists long since gone but immortal through their work. She imagined masters of their craft embracing their creations and wondered what it would be like to touch something Da Vinci or Van Gough created She would never actually risk it, but at one point in the day, she sat on a bench in front of the ‘The Bathers’ by Renoir and visualized tracing her fingertip over every swell and stroke of color.