Before The Applause

Eliza ran through blades of dry grass that cut lightly at her bare feet. The hot late autumn sun beat down on her with no clouds to offer relief. A laugh escaped her lips as her wide-eyed son chased his doting mother through the field. Suddenly, she heard a thump and a cry.

“Mama!” His young voice trembled, tears now streaming down his face. “Oh, Max!” She rushed back to find her seven-year-old holding his ankle, and a mail package lying there. She saw the tire marks, “We need to put up fences, I’ve been telling Shawn for months!” She scooped him up in her arms, because although he had grown taller this summer, he was still her little boy.

“Shawn, help me.” She called quietly, so as not to alarm Max. “I think he twisted his ankle on this package.” “Come here, daddy will wrap you up, and take good care of you.” He comforted his son. Eliza opened her mouth sharply, then stopped herself when she watched him kneel in front of Max.

“Shawn,” more gently than planned, “we need to put up fences, the mail truck drove through our field again. The box is so scuffed up that I can’t read the address. It came from Amazon, but there’s no way to tell who the recipient is.” Shawn took their son into the living room, placed him in the big recliner with an ice pack, and gently wrapped the ankle.

“Why don’t skeletons fight each other? They don’t have the guts.” Max and Shawn laughed. “There’s a smile!” Shawn reached for Max’s favorite story and placed it in his lap. “Here, start on this; it will help distract you until the medicine starts working.” Shawn kissed his forehead and retreated to the kitchen, where Eliza was on her phone with an Amazon agent.

“What should I do with it? Can I drop it off somewhere?” She narrated for her husband's benefit. Shawn reached around to the counter behind Eliza, and she moved just enough for him to reach the apples in the fruit basket. He took a paring knife out of the drawer and began peeling one slowly, sharing glances between it and his wife. She put her phone down, glanced at the package, then at her husband. “They told me to keep it. The agent on the chat said it happens often.”

“What do you think it is?” He asked. “Let’s open it now!”

“Shawn, what if it’s someone’s birthday gift they were expecting? Oh, I feel bad now,” she admitted. “Eliza, you know, Amazon, they’ll send them another one when they complain it never came. Maybe it’s something expensive we can sell elsewhere.” He said.

He offered her a bite of apple, and she asked him, “How can you eat now, won’t it fill you up before dinner?” “Me, full? How dare you?” he jokingly scoffed. “Nothing can stop me from enjoying a steak.”

“Are you ready to open it?” he asked anxiously.

“Open what? Oh, the package. Okay, sure, let’s see what’s in there. Maybe it’ll distract me from my nerves.” They cut open the package, and inside was a book. “La Belle Vie.” It was a short story collection.

“Shawn!” Eliza exclaimed. Startled, he replied, “What is it? It’s just a book, isn’t it?” She replied, “Yes, but look at the title.” “La Belle Vie”. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the same title as mine!” Eliza studied him expectantly. “No, sweetheart, yours is 'The Art of Living Beautifully,'” he said.

“It means the same thing.” She opened the volume and glanced at the pages. “It’s French, it means ‘The Beautiful Life.’”

“Oh, well, okay.” Shawn tilted his head. “That’s a common saying, right? That just means you picked a good topic to write on, dear. Besides, you love reading, add it to our library, and I’ll celebrate that we didn’t buy yet another hardcover, it was gifted.”

“The publication date is twenty years before mine.” She sat down slowly at the kitchen table. Shawn softened his expression, “Don’t start spiraling.” You wrote a captivating novel, had it published, and won an award! Let’s go celebrate, sweetheart.” She held her face in her hands and rested her elbows on the table. “I’m nervous.” He tossed the core and wiped his hands on the dish towel. “My love,” looking deep into her eyes, “You deserve this. I can’t wait to hear your introduction. Please welcome Center for Fiction First Novel Prize award winner Eliza Doolittle!"

She crossed her arms, “Doolittle? Really.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You know I love that movie,” he said. She scanned him up and down and rolled her eyes. “Well, this fair lady is going to get ready. Ah, but I feel so bad leaving our boy when he just got hurt.” They both watched him reading from the kitchen. “He’s alright, he’s not even crying, I bet it’s not even twisted. Probably startled him more than anything”. He gave her a gentle nudge.

Eliza walked into the living room and knelt down in front of Max, using her fingers to move his hair out of his eyes and touch his cheek. “Max, Grandma will be here in about an hour to take care of you while Mama and Daddy go to the gala. Are you well enough? Should I stay?” before she could finish, Max sat up. “Mama, I’m okay, besides Grandma promised pizza and to let me stay up past my bedtime…oh…oops!” He tried to recant, but it was too late, so he instead tried to distract her with the dimples on his chubby cheeks. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she conceded.

She had just finished blow-drying her hair and was applying makeup. A stunning formal gown hung in the corner. More fancy than she had worn since her own wedding day. Long and flowing, emerald green to match her eyes, long sleeves, and a delicate neckline.

Shawn was dressed in the same suit he had worn to their wedding nine years earlier. “I told you I didn’t need a new suit. Look, I still fit,” he said, showing it off.

Eliza took a moment to pull the book out once more and give it a look. “Hmm,” Eliza, simply. Shawn noticed, but didn’t remark.

On the considerable drive to the venue, she continued reading La Belle Vie. Every so often, she would stare out the window.

“You brought it with you?” Shawn asked. She nodded.

The banquet hall was decorated with sophisticated fabrics, and ornate paintings graced the walls. Everyone was charming and elegantly dressed. They had all put forth great effort to make this evening memorable for them and others.

Introductions were made, and Eliza did her best to be in the moment. She couldn’t help but escape often to read the book. The more she read, the quieter she became. She relived moments from her own journey and recalled the past ten years of writing the story that would earn her this prestigious award.

A couple of hours into the evening, after all of the board members were recognized, a brief intermission was held. “Shawn,” Eliza finally closed the book. “This is my story, maybe not word for word, but somehow it feels the same.” A tear in her eye now. He squinted and darted his gaze to the book and back to his wife. “I’ll get you some water, sweetheart.”

While she was waiting for her husband, one of the board members approached her. “Good Evening, I want to say congratulations. My name is Joan.” She reached out her soft hands and took Eliza’s into her grip like a clam shell.

“We are all very impressed with your debut novel,” she began, but noticed the way Eliza was looking down at the ground and around the room.

The lady turned to walk away, “Joan? May I ask you a question?” Eliza’s breath caught in her throat.

“Of course, dear.”

“You’ve been writing most of your life and won many awards. How do you spend so much time on the written word, and still craft original works?” Eliza’s lips parted slightly, and she furrowed her brow. Joan leaned over and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“The human experience is universal, and there is nothing new under the sun. Rather than focusing on originality, which I admit gets a lot of praise, I focus on building something real, even within the fiction. I take the tools given to us already, and layer by layer, I build a world that I hope people would see themselves in.”

The lady walked back to her table, and Shawn returned with water. “Here, I had this flown in from Alaska, try it.”

“Thank you.” She drank it slowly.

The time had come for the awards, and she was first up. “Eliza Holdsworth!” The crowd began their applause, and she took the stage, graciously shaking the presenter’s hand.

She glanced at her notes written in bold red, opened her mouth, and began to speak. Before any words left her lips, she paused, regarded the audience, then turned her index cards over and laid them to rest on the podium.

Finally, she spoke softly, and everyone hushed to listen.

“Thank you all for this award, truly. It has been such an honor to be here this evening with all of you.” She took a deep breath, peeked at the smiling faces, and continued with more confidence now.

“Did Victor Hugo copy Charles Dickens? Or did they share the same mortal journeys and favor the same manner of storytelling? I always thought a great story had to be completely original. That thought stopped me from writing many times. Even today, I doubt myself. Now, I understand that I didn’t win this award because of originality. I won it because I wrote anyway, and you were able to see yourself in The Art of Living Beautifully. This recognition belongs to every author. Thank you again for this award. I accept it on behalf of all storytellers, known and unknown.” And with that, she held up her plaque with steady hands.