Charlottesville, Virginia

May 29, 2010

The University of Virginia Rotunda glowed in the buttery light of a balmy May evening. Dr. Miriam Stewart snagged a glass of white wine from a passing uniformed waiter and forced herself to sip it slowly. She pasted on her networking smile for members of the Preston Foundation Board of Trustees and honored guests. Charlottesville’s elite were gathered to celebrate this landmark accomplishment in her decades-long career. Chin up, Miriam. You’re about to receive a multi-million-dollar grant. You can make a little small talk.

Dr. Dennis Patterson had agreed to be her plus-one tonight, bless him. All these years of friendship, how could he refuse? Actually, he could have. But, thankfully, he didn’t. He’d caught her deep-breathing earlier, when he opened the car door, handing his Mercedes keys to the eager parking valet.

“You okay?” Concern sparked in his brown eyes.

She stepped out of the car and grasped his hand. “I owe you big time. I know you hate these things as much as I do.” She kept her voice low.

“Hm. Maybe I’ll plan to attend a charity ball or two in the fall. Bring you as my date.” His lopsided grin said he was being sarcastic, but her eyes widened anyway. Dennis continued, “But we’ll talk about that later. For now, I have to say, Walt did a fabulous job. You look beautiful.” He gave her an appraising look. She smiled, feeling more relaxed. He could always boost her confidence.

Walt—Dennis’s partner—had picked the dress from the classic standbys she kept stuffed in the back of her closet. She’d much rather be wearing her usual lab coat, button-down shirt, and slacks. She reached up to check the diamond-studded clip holding her wavy silver hair in place and quickly lowered her hand. Walt’s voice rang in her head, “Stop fidgeting with your hair, Mimi.”

When they’d entered the rotunda, Dennis had detached to circulate. He’d agreed to get her in the door, but she’d insisted she didn’t need babysitting. Now, after several sips of wine, she cast her gaze about, trying to choose someone to start a conversation with. Ugh. She was beginning to rethink her position on Dennis staying by her side. He was so much better at these things. She nodded and smiled as she passed several well-wishers—fellow physicians, CEOs, philanthropists—all accompanied by their spouses. She hadn’t meant to end up alone. But there had always been so much to do. And now? Now, she was facing retirement… old age… obsolescence.

The wine hit her empty stomach, and she wished she’d remembered to eat something. The mingled scents of expensive perfumes and colognes tended to make her nauseous. She glanced at her watch. Another hour until dinner. Her hunger was replaced by instant irritation when she realized she was still wearing her work watch—antique brass, wide face, leather band. She’d forgotten to change to the white gold one Hugh had given her for her sixtieth. Well, Hugh wasn’t here, was he? The pinnacle of her career and he was gallivanting about somewhere in Africa. But—she reminded herself—you didn’t invite him.

She searched the waiters’ trays. Surely there were some kind of fancy canapes. This was Virginia, after all. Dennis, who had apparently made the rounds once, appeared at her side. Relief rushed through her, followed by gratitude. He held out a small china plate with three elegantly designed hors de oeuvres. “How’s the mingling going?”

She bit into something that might have been caviar and shot him a look as she chewed.

“Mm hm. Just as I thought,” he said.

“I’m getting there. Takes me a minute. You know that.” She munched on a second delicate bite—this time something with olives on a crostini—while stepping slightly behind Dennis’s tall frame. She surreptitiously removed her work watch, opened her evening bag, and dropped the watch beside the cell phone nestled inside. Out of habit, she glanced at the screen. Blank.

A nudge from Dennis snapped her back to the moment. “Incoming dignitaries.”

Miriam brushed breadcrumbs from the corners of her mouth and tried to look poised as the Chairman of the Preston Foundation Board, Dr. Albert “Buddy” Preston, Jr., approached with his daughter, Rachel, her arm linked with her husband, Beau Howell.

“Why look, Daddy, here’s our guest of honor,” Rachel announced. Mindful of an unspoken protocol, Miriam reached to shake hands first with Buddy Preston.

Miriam still couldn’t get past the irony. The grant she was about to receive was funded by a man she’d only ever known as Rachel’s dad. Preston’s medical career had moved well beyond the small Staunton practice of Albert Preston, Sr.—his father. Buddy had built a financial empire from investment in pharmaceuticals.

“Miriam, dear. Good to see you.” Preston’s smile was as charming as she remembered. He wore the patrician features of an old-money Virginian. Early eighties, tanned skin, a full head of white hair. Even the gold-handled cane he used was stately. Miriam flashed back to her teenage years when Rachel’s parents had seemed so elegant and refined compared to her own. Her father, a country carpenter; her mother, a mountain midwife. Both born and bred in the holler, as they called it. How Dr. Preston had intimidated her in those days with his pronouncement, “Now, listen to me, Miriam. Medicine is not a field for women.”

She’d never forgotten Rachel’s response, either. “Oh, Daddy, leave her alone. She’s the smartest girl in our class.” Rachel’s choices might have completely flummoxed Miriam over the years, but somehow their friendship had remained an unbroken thread.

After high school, they’d gone on to Mary Baldwin College together. That was when things had started to change. Their first year, Miriam read The Feminine Mystique and her worldview had exploded. Rachel had joined a sorority and started planning her wedding. Rachel wanted marriage and babies. Miriam wanted a career and independence. Logic said they shouldn’t be friends. Yet, here they were, decades later. Seeing Rachel again was always seeing the road not taken. She met Rachel’s gaze and smiled. There it was. The old connection.

While Rachel and Beau looked on, smiling, Miriam clasped Buddy’s oddly clammy hand. “Dr. Preston…” She sorted through what to say, suddenly conscious of the uncomfortable sense of obligation the pending award created. She pushed it aside. “Thank you so much. I—”

Preston raised his hand. Miriam noted the tremor. “Now, now. No need. Rachel has told us all about your stellar work. I’m sure you’ve earned this opportunity.” Before she could say more, he patted her arm and turned to greet another ancient physician, who had rolled up in a wheelchair. Rachel remained attentive at her father’s side; the perfect Princess as the King greeted his guests.

Dennis, who stood patiently at Miriam’s elbow, whispered in her ear, “I think you’ve been dismissed.”

Miriam smirked. “I think you’re right.” Annoyed by the old, too familiar feeling of being patronized, she forced herself to breathe. Remember what you can do with five million dollars. As Dennis chatted with Beau, she took the opportunity to study Rachel.

 Buddy Preston beamed as he introduced her to his cronies, always so proud of his little girl. Rachel, like Miriam, was an only child. Her father and his now deceased wife, Sandra, had even moved to Charlottesville to spend their retirement years close to her and their grandchildren.

Impeccably dressed, as always, Rachel wore the latest fashion her favorite Charlottesville boutique had to offer. She looked lovely in an off-one-shoulder gown of slate blue silk charmeuse, tucked in all the right places to flatter her figure. Her persistently blond hair was swept into a French twist. It appeared she may have had more “work” done. Her wide smile seemed unusually tight. A pang of sadness gripped Miriam. Rachel was beautiful. Why did she try so hard to look younger? Olivia’s voice chimed in her head. “Mom, it’s a form of self-expression. A woman can choose how she wants to look.” A Women’s Studies doctoral student, Olivia believed herself to be an expert on modern feminism. But, in Miriam’s day—oh, god, did I just think that? She winced. In my day? Am I that old? Maybe. Nevertheless—in her day—cosmetic surgery was an attempt for women to stay relevant—to men.

She scolded herself. If Dennis could hear what she was thinking, she knew what he’d say. “Miriam, give a little grace, my friend.” What is it tonight? All these nagging thoughts. Must be nerves over the award, being in the spotlight… measuring up. Dennis was right. She so needed to learn to be more gracious. Something else to work on in retirement.

Rachel stepped away from her father and focused her gaze on Miriam. Miriam braced herself. “It’s so good to see you.” Rachel’s voice was warm and genuine. She reached for Miriam’s shoulder, moved in for an air kiss, and said softly, “How are you, darling? I know how you hate a fuss, but we are so proud of your accomplishments.”

Miriam gave Rachel a wry smile. “Thank you. I’m well.” She chose not to respond to the comment about hating a fuss. It rankled a bit, but she had to admit Rachel was right. Being the center of attention was miserable. Deep breath, Miriam.

Rachel smiled demurely at Dennis and Beau. “Why, all I ever did was raise my three girls and follow Beau around.” She laughed. The tinkling sound of Rachel’s laugh had never changed. Miriam’s jaw clenched. Why did her comment somehow seem like an insult to Miriam’s choices? Rachel reached out to take her husband, Beau’s, arm. He patted her hand, smiled indulgently.

The silence was only seconds. Miriam glanced at Dennis, but knew better than to make eye contact with him. He knew her too well. She might feel less annoyed if she didn’t know that Rachel was every bit as intelligent as she was. Unlike Miriam, she’d never had to study. She could have done anything. Olivia’s voice again, “Mom, you’re devaluing the role of the woman who chooses to be a wife and mother.” Aargh, she’d never get it right.

Rachel released Beau’s arm and moved to pull Miriam aside. “I so appreciate you doing this dinner on such short notice. Daddy thinks he’s in better health than he is. And…” she lowered her voice. “He got the news just two days ago. His sister died. You remember; the one who lived in France.”

Miriam vaguely recalled Rachel’s stories from their teenage years. The mysterious aunt who left Virginia and never returned. Miriam had always thought her life sounded grand… carefree. Part of her always envied that. Carefree wasn’t exactly her bailiwick. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Was that the ‘crazy’ aunt you always talked about?”

Rachel produced a sad smile. “Yes. One and the same. She died in Paris. That’s where she’s been living all these years. Daddy’s too old to travel there for the funeral. And, well, I never knew her. But, still, he’s just heartbroken, you know?”

Miriam nodded and fished around for another conversation topic. “How are your girls?” she asked. No matter the number of months, sometimes years, that passed between seeing each other, asking about Rachel’s girls was a sure topic. Rachel had her first baby within a year of her marriage to Beau—1968, right out of college. She’d already had two more before Miriam’s daughter, Olivia, was born in 1980.

Rachel leaned closer and warmed instantly, tapping Miriam’s arm with perfectly manicured nails. “Oh, they’re all doing fabulously. My oldest, Madison, and her husband, Bradley, are seriously considering leaving Richmond. Beau and I have been doing our best to get them to Charlottesville. I’d be pleased as punch, of course, to have my grandbabies closer…”

Rachel paused to accept a glass of wine from a waiter. Rachel had graciousness down pat. So perfectly equipped for the roles she’d chosen—attorney’s wife, doting mother—now grandmother, former PTA President, Junior League Social Chairwoman. Not for the first time, Miriam asked herself: what would it have been like to be Rachel? Rachel turned back, caught Miriam scrutinizing her. Miriam looked away and took a sip of her drink. Rachel chatted on. So good at it. “And how is your mother doing? And Olivia? Is she still out there in Boulder?”

Rachel looked past Miriam’s shoulder as she spoke, scoping out the other guests. Miriam debated about how much to tell her. She remembered Dennis’s gentle urging. “Maybe if you were a little more open with people. Let them know what’s going on with you.” Determined to share, she opened her mouth to speak, but Rachel was distracted when Beau approached and touched her elbow.

“Honey, I’m going to see if they’ve got something stronger at the bar.” He held up a half-full wine glass. “Do you want anything?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” Rachel waved Beau away and made eye contact with Miriam. Just as Miriam started again, Dennis joined them. Dr. Preston had ambled off and was deep in conversation with a group of older ladies. Rachel flashed her brilliant smile and grasped Dennis’s hand. “So good to see you again. When was the last time…?”

He leaned in and grazed her cheek with his lips. “I believe it was the event for the horses?” Dennis’s eyes widened.

Rachel laughed. “Yes, that’s the one. Seems you always get roped into these things with Miriam.” She winked. Charming. Always so damn charming.

She had to give it to Rachel. When it came to fundraising, she was a powerhouse. No one could say no to her. Most—no—all of the black-tie events Miriam had attended, up until now, were for Rachel’s causes. Miriam figured she could at least show up for Rachel’s events, even if she didn’t have the skill set to participate in country club conversations in an intelligible way. When they were younger, Dennis had suggested Miriam try spending time at the Farmington Country Club with Rachel and her collection of professional wives. “Maybe you should go and… I don’t know, be part of the group. Learn to do the girl-talk thing.” Dennis had looked as in-the-know about girl talk as she was.

And she did try. But, inevitably, one of the women ended up complaining to her about painful periods, or how sex with her husband was not what it used to be. She had begun to feel like a cross between a gynecologist and a sex therapist. Being “one of the girls” did not turn out to be her forte.

She’d tried golf, but was terrible at it. Tennis? Exhausting. It seemed she only had one talent—her career. Conversations about decorators or the best preschools seemed so frivolous. The contrast between the haves and the have-nots jolted Miriam every single time she walked into an exam room at one of her rural clinics. Left her feeling at turns angry and hopeless. Her solution? Work harder. Her friendship with Rachel paid the price. It became event-based. Sustained mostly by the knowledge of who they’d been, by the secrets they’d shared.

Miriam and Dennis glanced at each other. She caught a tiny twinkle in his brown eyes when he said, “It’s always a pleasure to see you again, Rachel. Miriam speaks so fondly of you.”

Miriam shot a sideways look at Dennis. He was completely composed. Fondly? Yes, she loved Rachel. They were bonded in a way she’d never even shared with Dennis. But, really? Fondly? She grasped Dennis’s arm, probably tighter than necessary. Time to change the subject. “Dennis has recently accepted the position of Medical Director for Biochemical Genetics.”

“Isn’t that impressive?” Rachel crowed. “Genetics is so fascinating, isn’t it?” As Dennis began to tell Rachel about his new role, Miriam startled when her handbag vibrated. A silenced cell phone message. She excused herself and stepped aside, opened her bag, and looked at the screen. Her breath caught. The text was from her daughter, Olivia.

Need to see you before the award ceremony. Leaving home now. Be there in 15 minutes. Meet me on The Lawn?

 She immediately edged toward the doors, avoided eye contact, and hoped not to appear rude. The guests spilled through the wide-open doors onto the expansive marble steps, mingling and sipping cocktails. Looking beyond the small gathering crowd, she tried to spot her daughter. Olivia had said to watch for her on The Lawn, the historic grassy expanse spread before the Rotunda in dappled verdant green. She had no idea what was so important that her daughter had to see her before the ceremony. Olivia should not even be out of bed right now; not after what happened. But the text message had not left room for Miriam’s opinion. And she definitely had one. Infuriating sometimes, her daughter’s stubbornness. Olivia might be thirty years old, but Miriam was the one with the medical degree. She tried to keep her face placid as she inched toward the door.

 Dennis appeared at her side. “What’s going on?” He kept his voice quiet. “I saw you looking at your phone.” Worry tightened his voice.

  “It was Olivia. She says she needs to see me before the ceremony.” Miriam continued walking as she spoke. “Said she’d be on The Lawn.”

 “Wait.” Dennis caught her arm. “Is she all right?”

 “I don’t know.” She placed her hand over his. “Cover for me, okay? I’ll be right back.”

The evening air was sweet, scented from the nearby rose garden in full bloom with Lady Banksia roses. As Miriam worked her way down the steps, she scanned the wide expanse of lush green grass. Finally, she spotted her daughter’s tall, solid frame. Her pulse quickened. Olivia paced restlessly across the quad, stopping frequently to rise up on her toes, crane her neck, and examine the crowd. She wore loose-fitting sweats and a baggy t-shirt; her curly black hair wild around a worried face. Frowning, she gripped something flat, the size of a large envelope.

  Miriam swallowed hard and raised a hand to catch Olivia’s attention. Olivia spotted her and returned the wave. Miriam allowed herself one look back at the festive crowd before walking to meet her daughter. As Olivia drew closer, Miriam saw that what she held was a file folder. The old-fashioned medical office type, brown manilla with lines on the outside to record visit dates. The kind used in doctor’s offices before patients had medical record numbers. Her heart quickened and cold dread filled her chest. She ignored the feeling and focused on her daughter’s stubborn expression.

  Olivia stopped abruptly, breathing hard. Miriam charged forward. “You really shouldn’t be out of bed—”

“Mom, I’m fine.” Olivia’s tone stopped her short.

“But couldn’t this wait? What’s so important that I have to see now?” Irritation crept in. “The dinner is about to start. And this award?” She forced Olivia to meet her gaze. “It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.”

 “I know, Mom.” Olivia’s voice was edged with impatience. “But before you go in there and accept that grant, I need you to look at this file.” Olivia’s hand shook as she held out the worn file folder. “Just read it.”

 Miriam looked at the folder, but did not reach for it. In the fading evening light, she’d need her glasses to read the name—probably typed on the folder decades ago. She glanced once more toward the Rotunda. It seemed to glow with opportunity. Filled with her colleagues, supporters, and those with the money to make her dream—to offer Appalachian women contraceptive choices—possible. So close.

  She turned back and stared at the object in her daughter’s hands. A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach let her know: this small, thin file would force some kind of choice. Her hand seemed locked at her side, her arm unable—or unwilling—to move. On the veranda of the Rotunda, a young man, dressed in a white waiter’s jacket, black tie, and black pants rang a soft gong. Cocktail hour had ended. The guests moved toward the stately interior to locate their gilt-edged place cards for the pre-award dinner.