I ARRIVE home with my mom and sit on the couch. My mom sits next to me and hugs me for a solid ten minutes and remains silent. No less than three minutes later, the door is nearly torn from its hinges by Emmett. He storms in, bearing an oversized teddy bear and our mail. It is nothing less than absolutely perfect timing, I must admit, as usual, and completely follows his style. He’s quite good at dramatic entrances. Though I’m not sure he needed to retrieve the mail, that’s weirdly personal.
“You are totally crazy, Car. You never even said good-bye.” I shrug at him and pull down on my sleeves self-consciously; they’ve started to inch up toward my elbows. Regardless of what I did, there are now scars on my arms, and they bother me. They’re big and ugly. I think it’s the antidepressants making me feel that way, but I don’t like them right now. They are visual reminders of pain and heartbreak that should not be relived. They are the past, and I do not care for the past. I am resolved to go forward.
He slams down the teddy bear while simultaneously thrusting it into my vicinity. “Here. I’ve named it after myself for you. So that you always have an Emmett to snuggle with if I’m not around.” His exuberance makes me smile my newer smile. Emmett has somehow made it his personal mission to cheer me up. I’m sure he’s been here at some point every day, driving my mom nuts and trying to figure out the details of my return.
“Aha!” he shouts. “I’ve cracked the Carter back open! My best friend can display emotion! I didn’t know that was possible.” I frown at him. That was rude. I get up and punch his shoulder, gently, minding the doctor’s orders, and move to the fridge, looking for root beer.
After I find my soda, I shuffle to the couch and sit slowly. My mom wraps an arm around me and holds me close. I don’t think she wants to let go.
“Can I have the mail? Why did you even get the mail?” I raise a questioning eyebrow in Emmett’s direction as he shrugs and drops the letters in my lap. I lean forward to put the root beer on the coffee table and free my hand so that I can sort through the random envelopes, most of which I hand to my mom. I see a hospital bill, among other things. I’m worried suddenly, I don’t know if our insurance can cover everything I’ve done.
The third to last one has my name on it with a return address to the National Poetry Accolades. A small gasp of surprise slips out of my mouth before I can stop it, and my mother swoops in and pries the envelope out of my hand. She is a skilled woman who has utterly mastered the subtle art of swooping in and taking stuff. It’s probably a mom thing. I suck at swooping.
But if this is what I think it is, it could not have come at a worse time, and my mother’s swooping skills come in incredibly handy.
As my mom scans it, her eyes fill with tears, and her lip trembles the tiniest bit. My mother isn’t one for tears, and the amount I’ve seen in the past hour is probably more than I’ve seen my whole life. So the magical piece of paper is exactly what I think it is. Emmett looks from me to my mother and back again.
“What is it?” he asks my mother, whose grip on the fragile paper has become white-knuckled. In response, she hands the now wrinkled letter to him. Emmett looks at the letterhead.
“Does the paper clash with my shirt?” I have to smile briefly again, because he knows that the creamy paper perfectly accentuates his purple shirt, his favorite purple shirt. It also matches the teddy bear. I just stare at him pointedly instead before choosing to begrudgingly admit that the letter paper does indeed match, to which he shrugs and sits down in the armchair next to the couch.
“Just trying to relieve some tension, geez. But still, an excellent observation from the Carter,” he grumbled before clearing his throat and continuing. “National Poetry Accolades?” I let his question hang in the air for a moment before answering. I’m busy swallowing the unwelcome lump in my throat. But I awkwardly nod in acknowledgement of the name.
“They ah, the National Poetry Accolades are a well-known group in the poet community. They celebrate new poets with awards named for the old. It’s one of the highest honors you can get for a published poem. Will you read it?” Emmett looks distraught. I think he heard the barely contained emotion in my voice. I don’t know what emotion it was, though. He looks to my mom again for confirmation, and when she nods, he looks to me again, and I nod encouragingly.
“I need to hear it,” I whisper. And so Emmett scans the letter and begins to read it aloud.
“Dear Ms. Carter Rogers, my name is Alexander Brown, and on behalf of the National Poetry Accolades, I would like to congratulate you on all of your successes in the art of writing poetry. Your poems are well created and developed, but we choose today to address one poem in particular, which you have written and submitted to one of our competitions, that received the first place award, entitled ‘An Experiment in Verse.’
“We would like to invite you to a gala honoring young poets on the Sunday evening of September the fifteenth in our national center in New York City, where you will be awarded the Walt Whitman Award for Poetic Excellence and a small prize. Lastly, we will be publishing a collected anthology of poems with yours included that will be distributed to a small chain of national bookstores on behalf of the Accolades. You are a stellar example of the modern poet and we would be highly honored if you choose to join us.
“The event is a formal black tie. We ask that you dress appropriately. There will be a banquet dinner with the awards ceremony following. You may bring two guests. Reservations will be made for you and your guests at a nearby hotel.
“We encourage you to join us and explore one of the busiest cities in the world. There is a formal invitation attached, which we ask be mailed back to us with your choice of main course selected.
Regards,
Alexander Brown
President, National Poetry Accolades.”
I’m not sure how to react. I’ve always thought I was pretty good. Emmett clears his throat. He isn’t done, I suppose.
“There’s more. A, well… a handwritten, well not handwritten but it’s, like, attached and not part of the formal letter. The font is different. It’s a PS from this Alexander Brown guy.” He clears his throat again and reads, slowly this time. “A note for Carter: I’ve seen your recent struggles as covered by your fellow poets in the social media world, among other places. We all think that you are a strong girl. Do not give up. We would like to see you there on September 15th.
“Also, we will be unveiling our newest project, a magazine for young poets. We would like you to be on the cover of our very first issue with an accompanying interview. Please e-mail us back with your response so that we can arrange a meeting. Thank you again, Carter.” My mom looks at me.
“There’s an e-mail address attached here,” Emmett finishes.
“Do you want to…?” My mom doesn’t finish, letting her question hover in the air, unanswered.
I shrug the question off and look out the window. September is only two months away. A photo shoot would be much sooner if they need to put it all together. My mom is still seated next to me. She hasn’t moved other than to lean forward and place her elbows on her knees so that she can lean on her hands.
“What do you say, Car? Want to? You haven’t written a poem in months. You’re losing your purpose. Maybe this can get you going again.” She is staring intently, making complete eye contact. It’s unnerving. But there is a familiar glint in her eyes when they bore into mine. She must think this will be something that will propel me even further into “my purpose” as she so lovingly calls it. She’s always believed that people have these special purposes and that’s why we’re here, and mine has always been poetry. I break the contact by looking at my left arm. I refuse to acknowledge the part where it ends. I focus on the scars that are edging out from under my sleeve, for lack of a better place to stare.
“I lost my purpose when I lost my hand. I can’t write decent poetry anymore. Why should I even try?” And with that, I stalk out of the living room, up the stairs, and into my room where I flop on the bed. I proceed to stare grumpily at the ceiling for the eleven seconds that I can before my mom comes in—seventeen if she tells Emmett to wait despite the fact that he will, inevitably, follow.