37

Maybe they weren’t lying. Maybe we’re all just missing the point. In some cases, there’s more to these stories than I thought. When I started thinking about the reasons why people do what they do—why they hurt others or act out of fear or expect other people to solve their problems—I realized that the storybooks emphasize the wrong things, like, all the time. The story with the old lady who poisons the pretty girl? It’s about the old lady being afraid of not being seen as beautiful. A textbook self-esteem problem. In another story, a girl is bullied by her sisters and generally made to feel like nothing, and she believes them. It takes someone showing her—making her notice—she’s special before she believes she’s more than they told her she could be. At the end of the day, when the magic wore off and the clock struck midnight…she couldn’t hide behind her ball gown. Like it or not, when things get scary, we’ve gotta be willing to at least try and make our own magic. I don’t want to be a waiting-and-wanting girl. I want to be a believingand-doing girl.

I put them on pedestals like every girl does, but maybe they’re more than I give them credit for. Maybe I have more in common with them than I thought.

“So, Imogen.”

“So, Therapist George.”

He smiles a little as he gathers his pen and notepad from his desk. The room is a warmer shade of brown today, and his shirt is a brighter shade of blue.

It’s a good day.

Just one good day. But that’s enough for now.

“What are your cufflinks today?” I ask.

He looks down to his sleeves and back up to me with a question in his eyes. “You notice those?”

“Every time.” I smile at him, and he squints his eyes before he answers.

“They’re baseballs,” he says with a grin.

He sits back in his chair and flips through some of his notes. The window behind him is already open all the way, and the sun is creeping across the rich patterned carpet.

“So I guess we should talk about what happened last week?” He uncrosses his legs and sits forward a bit on his chair.

“We will, but not today.” I smile at him and scoot over, closer to the armrest so I can lean on the big brown leather couch. “Do you remember a couple years ago when I told you my mom wrote something on this huge mural at school and I couldn’t find it?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I found it at the Rally on Saturday night.”

“Really? What did it say?”

“It was the very same inscription that I’ve been carrying around in my book of fairy tales since I was five. The very same.”

I bring my middle finger to my mouth and start to nibble as TG jots something down in his notes. When he’s done, he looks up and says, “Wow.”

Yeah, wow.

I shake my head at him and look back out the window.

“So don’t leave me hanging. What’d it say?” he asks.

I use my hands to shape the words in the space between us. “For a Happily Ever After: ‘The End’ is just the beginning.”

“That’s good,” he says with a coy grin. “She’s good.”

She sure is.

My heart squeezes just a bit.

That ache.

The most familiar feeling I know.

“Yeah, I know. Of course, I probably should have ‘gotten’ that message a long, long time ago.”

“When doesn’t matter. The getting it matters. So what’s it mean to you?”

“I guess just that, when it’s done and you’re done and everything has happened, that’s when it’s time to get up and start making things happen for yourself.”

He smiles. “That’s a really, really good start, Imogen. I’m proud of you.”

His face is gentle.

“Thanks, George.”

“So how do you feel now?”

I close my eyes for a second, and under the hum of the air conditioner, I can hear the answer echoing through my mind.

I feel like a door has been unlocked by a key that was in my pocket the whole time.

I’ve been broken, but I’m not broken.

That pain won’t disappear anytime soon, maybe not ever, but it’s not all I have.

As I inhale, my lungs fill completely before I speak.

“It made me feel like I am whole. I am more than just the pieces that I see. I am stronger than I seem.”

I look out George’s great windows and see the cloudless sky filling the wall of his office. The deep, vibrant blue spreads out before me, but I find myself looking up instead of down. A bird soars past the window, wings spread wide. Her sad song doesn’t bring her down. She flies upon the strength and truth of her tune. I consider the rush and exhilaration of joy and feel certain that it’s not actually a match for falling.

Maybe flying instead.

In a world of so many beginnings, it kinda makes me wonder if endings really exist at all.