Why Can't I Be You (26 page)

M
onday morning sucked.
I’d spent the weekend painting and I was still on Seattle time, so when my alarm went off, it felt like it was really three a.m. All my clean work clothes were still in the suitcase Deagan left, which was still sitting exactly where he’d left it. They exploded all over the floor when I unzipped the case. And every single piece of clothing, from pantyhose to underwear, was completely and totally wrinkled. I hung the clothes I wanted to wear in the bathroom while I showered, but it didn’t do much to relax the wrinkles.

I was so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open while I tried to iron my blouse, and I rammed the hot iron into myself, leaving a thin, angry red line across my belly.

My fingernails were still stained from painting, but I didn’t notice until I was in the car on my way to work. I ran my nails over my teeth to try to get the paint out from underneath them, but it didn’t do any good and I was left with the base, musky taste of pthalo green in my mouth.

I made it to work on time, but I should have gotten in early. On time basically counted as late in the realm of associate account executives.

Someone had unloaded a case of Ivolushun on my desk. Candy-colored bottles of cheap booze littered every free inch. There were piles and piles of memos and faxes and reports. My voicemail was full, and I didn’t even bother to turn my computer on. I didn’t want to know about the e-mail situation.

I went to get myself a cup of coffee. Luanne stared at me from her cubicle, but when I gave her a weak smile, she looked away.

As soon as I got back to my desk, mug full and ready to sort through all the piles, my phone rang.

“Jenny, it’s Monica. Can you come in here for a sec?” She had her metered work tone in effect, so I couldn’t tell if it was good news or bad news or something completely inconsequential.

I hung up the phone and took the biggest swig of coffee I could manage, before dashing down the hall to Monica’s office.

Monica leaned against the front of her desk with her arms crossed and her long legs stretched in front of her. I had heard rumors that she’d modeled when she was younger, and I believed them. She knew how imposing she was. She knew how to make someone feel less put together, less shiny, less pretty without even saying a word.

“Oh,” she said, with the slightest hint of surprise on her face when I sat down. “That haircut is an improvement. You look nice.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering what her thoughts had been on my hair before the cut.

“I heard from my friend Olga that you missed the last day of meetings.” She crossed one slender ankle over the other, flashing the red sole of her shoe. I wondered if she ever got airplane bloat. “Is there a good reason for this?”

I shook my head. “There really wasn’t anything worthwhile happening in those meetings.”

She raised an eyebrow at me. I realized there wasn’t a point in being anything other than honest, not about my extracurricular activities, of course, but about the conference. I sighed. “It was just people talking about concepts without ever saying anything practical. Throwing out big ideas and making umbrella statements with no thought of implementation. I mean, really, how much time can you spend making keyword clouds on the dry-erase board and call it working? I’m so sick of all of it! No one is really accomplishing anything!” I realized, as soon as I stopped talking, that I’d gone one step too far. I waited for the nerves to kick in, but they didn’t. The truth of the matter was that I didn’t care anymore.

I expected some sort of reprimand. Penance. Grunt work on the Ivolushun account or making a clippings report for one of Luanne’s clients.

Instead she just looked at me with what appeared to be genuine concern and said, “Jenny, do you think you’re in the wrong line of work?”

“Yes,” I said calmly. “I really do.”

“You could be the best at this if you wanted to be.”

“Maybe being good at something doesn’t matter if your heart isn’t in it,” I said.

She nodded.

“Why don’t we consider this my notice,” I said.

“Can you stay through the Ivolushun launch?”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t want to. The last thing I felt like doing was pimping an alcoholic energy drink that tasted like rancid cough syrup. But I needed the time and the paychecks to figure out what should come next. And I’d agreed to take the account to begin with. I needed to follow through, not for the boneheads at Ivolushun, but for Monica.

“Thank you, Jenny,” she said, smiling a very tired smile.

I got up and walked out of her office. I took a deep breath when I got past her door. I’d actually made the decision I’d desperately wanted to make.

I
looked for other
grad programs. I really did. I researched and submitted and applied. I studied work by various instructors. I called former professors for recommendations. I sent slides. I had phone interviews. But in the end, the best program for me was in Seattle. I loved the work the students were producing. I’d written a paper on one of the painting and drawing professor’s thesis projects when I was at Ithaca, and I couldn’t let go of the idea of being his student.

I painted at night, after work, in the makeshift studio space I cleared for myself in the dining area of my apartment, and dreamed of the way the light streamed through the windows in the grad student studio. I finally gave myself permission to go for what I wanted with everything I had, and everything else fell in line behind my goal. I only had three weeks until the application deadline.

I left work at five every day, leaving the other associate account executives to play the “who leaves last?” game. My work didn’t suffer for not putting in the correct amount of overtime penance. Caring less made me more productive. I got as much done in an eight-hour day as I used to in ten or twelve hours. I picked up dinner at Wegmans on my way back to my apartment, and stayed up until well past midnight, painting. On weekends, I ate cereal and ordered pizza. I slept in my paint-covered clothes, and worked with more focus than I ever had before. I had four canvases going at once. A break from one painting meant it was time to work on the next. I worked so hard that I didn’t have the energy to fight all the fears and insecurities I carried with me. I poured them into painting. I felt like a raw nerve. I didn’t hold anything back.

I got my portfolio together and finished my application just before the University of Washington deadline, running to the post office on my lunch break so I could get my package postmarked at the very last possible minute. I was nervous when I handed the envelope over to the man behind the counter. My hands shook. Sweat beaded up on my lip. I worried that he might think I was handing him some sort of mail bomb.

When I got home from work that night, I found Anita’s business card and dialed the number. I sat on my kitchen counter and swung my legs nervously while I waited for her to pick up the phone. I felt like my heart might burst.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Gilbert’s friend Jessie Morgan.”

“Yes,” Anita said. “I remember you! I’m so glad you called.”

“Only, I’m not actually Jessie Morgan.” I explained about Myra and the class reunion, Deagan and my mom. She asked questions. I answered them. I told her about purple glitter and broken glasses and how painting was the only thing that ever made me feel right. I confessed more than I probably should have. I thought it would put me out of the running, but I had to be honest. I couldn’t start the next part of my life with any lingering lies. I had to face up to being myself.

“So,” Anita said, “I’d really like to see you do a series of paintings about identity. I think you’ll have an interesting perspective.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” I asked, picking at a chip in the laminate countertop, exposing the plywood underneath it.

“Honey,” she said, laughing, “if you’d had a normal life, you wouldn’t paint. Perfectly happy, well-balanced people don’t spend all their time trying to examine life or capture moments. They live.” She sighed. “I mean, you don’t have to be a tortured artist or anything, and I don’t get the feeling you are. Good art comes from people who have been knocked around by life, made some bad choices, nursed hurt feelings. We’re all a little nutty here. We’ve just learned to use it to our advantage. What doesn’t kill us gives us superpowers, right? And I think that’s what you’re doing. You’re using your paintings to make sense of your world. I saw it in the work you showed me, and I’d like to see more of it.”

I told her I had submitted my application and was in the process of quitting my job. She said I wouldn’t be able to start classes until the next semester, but there was an open spot as a research assistant that they wanted to fill before that.

“We’re hoping to create a better focus on the effect of social media in art,” she told me. “I can’t say anything for sure yet, of course, but it seems like your perspective could be very useful.”

When I hung up the phone, I closed my eyes and pictured what my life could be. A tiny apartment walking distance from the school, late nights drinking tea and poring over art history texts, a huge studio to paint in. Instead of exercising in the dark little gym in my apartment complex, I could jog out to the beach at Carkeek Park. Maybe I’d even learn to kayak.

T
he day before
the Ivolushun launch, Monica called me into her office.

“Are you still leaving us,” she asked, “after this is all over?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’m moving to Seattle. It’s not a hundred percent certain yet, but I’m hoping it all works out.” It felt nice to be honest with her and not feel like I had to scramble to tell her what she wanted to hear.

“What’s in Seattle? Another agency?”

“MFA program, in studio art. Painting.”

“You paint?” she said, raising her eyebrows. She gave me one of her dazzling smiles. “No chance I could move you over to art direction in the ad department, is there?”

I smiled.

“Listen,” she said, sitting down in the chair next to me, like we were friends having a chat. “I get it.” She rubbed her fingers against her left temple. “I was on track to be a psychologist. I was employing some of the right interests—it just wasn’t the right channel. And then, when you find it, you can’t stay on the same path. This isn’t your channel. I get it.” She laughed. “I want to chain your leg to your desk, but . . . ”

“Really?”

“You’re surprised by this? Why do you think I sent you to Seattle? You’re my workhorse. The best and the brightest. Low drama, high productivity.” She shook her head. “You have a knack for telling the client exactly what they want to hear. It’s killing me to lose you, but I do get it.”

“Thank you,” I said, blinking hard, worried I might cry. It reminded me of what Anita said: “What doesn’t kill us gives us superpowers.” Of course I was good at telling clients exactly what they wanted to hear. I was raised to tell everyone what they wanted to hear and then scramble to make good on it as best I could. It just wasn’t the right channel for me anymore.

“Can you give me another week?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m going to hand your accounts over to Luanne, and I’d like you to get her up to speed.”

I hesitated.

“I’ve noticed you two aren’t exactly chatty lately. Fix that, okay?” She raised an eyebrow and tried to look stern, but I think it was a personal suggestion more than a professional request.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good,” she said, reaching her hand out to shake mine. “I wish you good things, Jenny.”

“Thank you,” I said, “for everything. I’ve learned so much from you.” And it was true. As much as the scramble to keep Monica happy had worn me down sometimes, it had also forced me to up my game.

“Use it well,” she said, and I think maybe, just maybe, she was fighting tears too.