Splinters of Light (38 page)

M
ariana’s gift to Ellie was simple. It didn’t really suit the rules—she hadn’t made it, and technically it was more than one gift. But she’d put it together, and it had felt like making something at the time.

Ellie opened the box and then smiled. “Why do people always give me backpacks?” But she looked excited as she peered into it.

“First of all, it’s not fugly like that one Harrison gave you last year. Second of all, it’s full of stuff for college.”

Pulling things out, Ellie started to laugh, which was exactly what Mariana had wanted. “Nerds.” A huge box of them, the size of two hands put together.

“Because you’ll need so much sugar in college it’s ridiculous.”

Ellie took out an industrial-sized bottle of aspirin.

“You shouldn’t drink when you’re underage.
Obviously.
But if you do, take a couple of those before you go to sleep.”

Poking deeper into the bag, Ellie laughed again. “Chocolate. Coffee. Windex?”

“Because you can clean everything with Windex. Your mom taught me that. Sinks, mirrors, even the toilet in case of emergencies. There are sponges in there, too, and gloves, because who knows who your roommates will be? You’re going to need them.” Mariana pointed. “Open that coupon wallet.”

Ellie unfolded it. “Gift cards! Wow. Trader Joe’s, Starbucks, Amazon, Chili’s . . . These are great.”

“There’s a ton more stuff in there. Sharpies and pencils and erasers and . . .”

“That’s wonderful,” said Nora softly, leaning to look inside. “I wish I’d thought of that.”

Crap,
crap
, her gift to Nora was stupid. So fucking stupid. It wasn’t even a gift. It was just . . .

But her sister looked expectantly at her. She smiled. Mariana’s heart, which had felt so small and black after their fight, twisted again as if trying to right itself.

Using every bit of courage she had, Mariana handed over the small white box. This could be wrong. This could be so wrong . . .

Nora opened it. She looked curiously into it. “A . . . key?”

Mariana handed the other white box to Ellie. “One for you, too. It’s to our house.”

Nora nodded. The bedroom. She’d seen. She understood. Ellie didn’t, not yet, but she would. Eventually.

“And there’s this.” Mariana held out her hand. The diamond winked on her ring finger.

“Mariana! What—you said yes? Yes? But why—why did you change your mind?”

Mariana didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know how to make it not devastating. “I always thought . . .” She’d cried for two days, off and on, after she’d asked Luke if she could still have the ring, laughing through the tears when she had to. It was a dam that had been broken by the weight of the metal Luke had slipped on her finger (the same ring, his grandmother’s—he’d
gotten it back from the restaurant after all). All the levees she’d thought she had in place had failed, every one. Now, as she saw the pain crease Nora’s face, she felt them start again. “Damn it, Nora, I did this for you.”

“What?”

She hiccuped around a sob. “I never thought I could pull off marriage if you hadn’t managed to get it right.”

Nora just stared.

“I never told you this, but I was so glad when he left.” She glanced at Ellie, who sat without blinking. “I’m sorry, sugar. But it’s true. Him leaving brought your mom back to me.”

“But—,” started Nora.

“I know,” said Mariana, twisting the ring. “It’s not fair, but that’s what I felt. But . . . I just figured marriage was something the Glass women didn’t get right. Like Mom. But now . . . Luke and I will be a family. In case we need to . . .” She looked frantically at Ellie, unable to say it out loud. She couldn’t say the worst thing in front of her, she just couldn’t.

Ellie moved to a kneeling position. From the back of her pocket she took out a yellow slip of paper. “I think I should give you your present, Aunt Mariana.”

With shaking fingers, hating the wetness that slid traitorously down her face, Mariana unfolded it.

“I don’t understand.” The paper said “BIMMP99.”

“It’s my password.”

“What does it stand for?”

Ellie said, “Boy Is My Mother Pushy and my birth year.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“For, like, my phone and my computer and stuff.”

Next to her, Nora made a choking sound.

“Why . . . ?”

Ellie said, “Because Mom needs my password to make sure I’m not meeting inappropriate men on the Internet or something.”

“I’ve never used it,” Nora said.

Ellie gave a strange, sweet smile. “I know.”

The password was for her. For Mariana. Ellie was giving it to her for the same reason she would marry Luke—to make a safety net for Ellie, a stronger one, a better one.

Ellie put her hands flat on the coffee table in front of them. “You know the chances are that I’ll be eighteen before we need to really worry about any of this. Then I’ll be able to take care of myself. And besides, they’re coming out with new meds all the time.”

“I know,” said both Mariana and Nora at the same time. It was a catchphrase they all used.
New meds. Science.
New hope. And after all, who knew what might happen tomorrow?

“I still haven’t given Mom my gift.” Ellie reached in her back pocket again and pulled out a white envelope that had been folded in half. “Here. Don’t be mad.”

T
he envelope was soft, well creased. It said “Mills College” on the outside, and it was addressed to Ellie Glass, and it made absolutely no sense at all.

Congratulations on your Early Decision acceptance to Mills College.

“What is this?”

“That’s where I’m going.”

“In Oakland? This Mills here?” Nora pointed at the back door as if the college were hiding somewhere in the backyard.

“Yeah.”

“You’re going to Smith.”

“No.”

“But you applied to Smith College.” Nora was getting used to the feeling of not quite keeping up, but Mariana had the same
look on her face, a frowning concentration, as if, if they just listened harder, they could make the words make sense.

“No. I applied ED to Mills instead. That’s where I’m going.”

Nora slid backward and ran into the couch behind her. She scrambled up it. Good. Now she could look down on her daughter and tell her what was really going to happen. “I haven’t saved all that money for Smith for nothing. I know we can talk to the registrar, we can explain what happened—”

“You can do whatever you want,” said Ellie evenly. “But I’m going to Mills.”

Nora could feel the hot pink of her cheeks had moved to flare over her whole face and neck. “No way. You’re going to the school you
want
to go to. I won’t allow you to stay here and take care of me.”

“You can’t really stop me.”

“I won’t pay for it.”

“Then I’ll get a loan.”

“That would be perfect. Start your grown-up life financially strapped to loans you’ll never be able to afford to pay.” Nora searched her mind desperately for another argument. “Well, you can’t live with me. Not when you’re supposed to be in a dorm in Massachusetts.”

Her daughter just smiled, as if she’d expected this. “I’ll just wait till you forget you said that.”

“Jesus!” Nora had a split second of admiration for this creature she and Paul had made. “You ornery little thing. You’re a horrible person.”

“I know,” said Ellie. “I got it from you.” She appeared satisfied.

Next to her, Mariana laughed and then gave another sob followed by a hiccup that sounded so much like one of Ellie’s.

“You’re crying,” said Nora in wonder. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen Mariana cry. Maybe after their mother
had died, during that twenty-four-hour period they’d stayed in bed before they started organizing the funeral. Even then, though, Nora could remember Mariana turning her face away.

Now she wasn’t doing that. Mariana just sat there, letting the teardrops roll off her cheeks to her gray silk shirt, where they darkened as if in emphasis.

“I’m still so
angry
at you,” said Mariana.

“I know.” And then Nora said, “You’re not a fuckup. You’ve never been one.”

Mariana shook her head. “Stop.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it all back, everything I said. I’m so sorry I hurt you. For so long.”

“You didn’t know me.” Mariana’s lower lip trembled, slick with tears.

“I’ve
always
known you.” From the first moment she could draw breath, she’d known no one else.

“But you didn’t see me.”

That part was true. “I’m so sorry.” Nora had thought she would cry, too, apologizing, but strangely, with Mariana weeping, she didn’t feel like she had to. “I listened to your app last night.”

“You did? You always said you couldn’t do that.”

“I thought it would be too weird to hear your voice, but it was wonderful. You’re amazing.” Nora had left the earphones in while she lay in the bed next to Harrison, her sister’s voice telling her to breathe the last thing she remembered hearing. It had felt like being embraced by light.

The doorbell rang.

All three of them jumped but none of them moved toward the door. It would be Luke, since Harrison always came in through the kitchen. Mariana laughed through her tears, rubbing her face with her hands. “Oh, god. Wait. I need something from you.”

Nora bit her bottom lip. Everything depended on this moment. She felt Ellie slide her hand into hers, and she wasn’t sure who was consoling whom. She wasn’t sure it mattered.

“I need . . . ,” Mariana finally said, her voice breaking. “I need help knowing how to turn off the waterworks. Since I started”—she pointed at her cheeks—“they just won’t stop. I’ve been doing this for weeks. Literally.”

Nora felt the light from the night before fill her again. It occupied the lining of her lungs, enveloping her soul. She knew the answer to this. She might not know much but she knew this. “You just open your arms.”

Another laugh. “That’s all?” Mariana held her arms out wide. “I can do that.”

Then Nora, with her daughter and her sister, formed a ball, holding one another so tightly that later they’d be bruised. The doorbell rang again, but the outside world could wait. For that moment, there was no one else in the world but the Glass women: occluded, battered, transparent, but beautiful.

Stronger than almost anything else in the world.

APPLICATION ESSAY,
MILLS COLLEGEELLIE GLASS—TIBURON

My mother is a storyteller. You might know her: Nora Glass. She’s famous. Specifically, she’s famous for writing about me and her divorce from my father. When I was a kid, I hated it. I absolutely abhorred that the way I lisped my esses was something strangers knew about. People would come up to me at book readings and touch my hair, reminiscing about the time I chopped off my right pigtail, leaving the left one long. I knew nothing about them or their lives, but they knew how I couldn’t sleep in the dark after my dad left. It didn’t seem fair.

But recently, I’ve learned what my mother already knew: that power lies in the storytelling itself. If you choose to share
the information, you own it. You’re in charge of it. If you go through a bad breakup and you tell yourself, “I’m heartbroken,” then you’ll cry yourself to sleep every night. But if instead you tell yourself, “I’m better off without that loser,” then you pat yourself on the back (rubbing in small circles, like my mother does, but you probably already knew that) until you fall peacefully asleep.

The strange thing is: stories with different endings can be true at the very same time. I can be brokenhearted about a boy and also happy to be by myself again. I can be terrified of losing my mother and excited to go to college in the very same second.

I’d always wanted to go to Smith College (you’re probably not supposed to say that in a college essay to a rival school, but it takes quite a bit to scare me lately, and this doesn’t). When my mother got sick, I still wanted to go. Honestly, I wanted to get as far away from her as possible. Maybe then it wouldn’t be true.

But what I learned in my most recent favorite online game,
Queendom
, is that only by protecting yourself can you protect anything that you love. I couldn’t take care of my mother until I learned to take care of myself. I had to figure out the answer to:
What do I want the most?
I want so much in this world. I want to play video games and save the Dragon Queen all by myself. I want to write stories like the ones I make up in my games. I want to be successful enough to be able to afford to buy any car I want. I want to be happy. I want to be loved.

Mostly, though, what I want to be is a strong Glass woman who will make the other Glass women proud.

There’s a beach near Mendocino where you can lie on your stomach and dig your chin into the sand and watch the ocean through millions of pieces of storm-churned beach glass. The world looks different, fractured but beautiful, and
you realize that you’re not looking through a kaleidoscope: you
are
the kaleidoscope.

Fractured but beautiful—isn’t that a good thing to aim for?

I want to go to Mills so I can be near my mother even though she thinks she would be fine if I left. I want to go to Mills to learn how to be a successful storyteller, and then I want to tell the stories that will break people apart, fracture them into splinters of light and color and sound, and then put them back together again in their own kaleidoscope of beauty.

I want to be a storyteller, like my mother. I want to be a keeper of truth, and when necessary, an inventor of it. That is, after all, how we keep going.

I learned that from my mother.