Chapter 7: A Room With My Name

My residence key came with a blue plastic tag. WREN HALE — 614. I read it three times. The residence assistant thought I was checking whether the number was correct. "Sixth floor," she said. "Elevator's around the corner." "Thanks." I carried my suitcase upstairs. Room 614 had white walls, a narrow bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a closet. Nothing impressive. Nothing expensive. I loved it instantly. I put my suitcase in the middle of the floor and closed the door. Then I locked it. Not because I was afraid. Because I could. No one could walk in and announce that half my closet now belonged to Vanessa. No one could move a gaming setup against my wall. No one could stack luggage on my bed. I opened the closet. Empty. Every hanger would be mine. I opened the desk drawers. Empty. Every drawer would be mine. I sat on the mattress. Mine. The word felt almost dangerous. A knock came ten minutes later. "It's Maya from across the hall. Residence meeting in fifteen minutes." I opened the door. A girl with curly black hair and enormous glasses stood there holding two mugs. "You look like you just moved in." "I did." "Tea?" I stared at the mug she offered. "Why?" She blinked. "Because I made too much?" "Oh." I accepted it. "Thank you." She grinned. That was how I made my first friend in Toronto. Not because I completed her assignment. Not because someone told me to help her. Not because she needed me to sacrifice something. She had made too much tea. That was it. Over the next week, my life filled with ordinary firsts. I bought my own groceries. The first time I stood in the supermarket, I froze in the cereal aisle. There were dozens of boxes. I picked one. Then put it back. Picked another. Put that back too. Maya found me ten minutes later. "Are you okay?" "I don't know which one to get." "Which one do you like?" The question made my chest ache. "I don't know." She stopped smiling when she realized I wasn't joking. "Okay. We buy the small boxes until you figure it out." So we did. Three different cereals. No one accused me of wasting money. I discovered I liked cinnamon. I disliked marshmallows. I preferred strawberries to bananas. I liked studying in the library's fourth-floor corner. I hated instant coffee. I liked my room cold at night. Tiny facts. At twenty years old, I was meeting myself. My family kept calling. At first, constantly. Then less. Mom sent long messages. Wren, please tell us where you are. We're worried. Whatever happened at the party, we can talk about it. Dad's messages were shorter. Call home. This has gone far enough. You need to tell us you're safe. Grandma had already told them I was safe. What Dad meant was that I needed to make him feel in control again. I didn't answer. Then Vanessa messaged privately. Mom is being weird because of you. A second message appeared. She keeps asking whether we treated you badly. Then: Tell her we didn't. I blocked Vanessa. Derek messaged the next day. Did you seriously leave the country? Then: You always were dramatic. Five minutes later: When are you coming back? That one made me pause. Not are you coming back. When. Even now, he assumed leaving was temporary. I put the phone away. Back home, the balance of the house was collapsing. For years, I had absorbed whatever couldn't be divided neatly. If Derek and Vanessa wanted the same thing, I gave mine up. If chores caused arguments, I did them. If one twin received an award, my achievement could be transferred to the other. If the family needed someone to be reasonable, that person was me. Without me, every conflict landed exactly where it belonged. Between the people creating it. At dinner, Mom served four steaks. Then froze. Four. For once, the portions divided perfectly. Mom stared at the plates and suddenly lost her appetite. Dad noticed. "What?" "Nothing." But she remembered the message she'd sent me during the storm. We bought for two. Figure it out yourself. That night she went to the grocery store alone. She walked the aisles trying to remember what I liked. Cereal. What kind? She didn't know. Yogurt? She didn't know. Fruit? She couldn't remember. She stood in the snack aisle and thought of my peanut allergy. For the first time, she began reading labels. Her face slowly changed. How many times had she bought food without checking? How many times had I quietly gone without eating because I knew better than to trust it? She abandoned the cart and cried in the parking lot. I knew none of that. My world had become assignments, orientation sessions, and the research fellowship Professor Elaine Mercer encouraged me to apply for. When she first suggested it, I asked whether someone else needed the opportunity more. She stared at me. "Wren, do you want the fellowship?" "Yes." "Then apply." "But—" "No. Opportunity isn't a birthday cake. You don't have to cut your piece smaller because someone else exists." My throat tightened. She had no idea what she had just said. "Apply," she repeated. I did. That evening, I called Grandma. I told her about the fellowship. She immediately said, "You better apply." I laughed. "Professor Mercer said the same thing." "Smart woman." Then I asked the question I had been avoiding. "Did Mom ask about me?" "Every day." My chest tightened. "Is she angry?" "Sometimes. Mostly at herself." I looked around Room 614. My textbooks were lined up on the shelf. Maya had given me a tiny cactus. Three cereal boxes sat on top of the wardrobe. My life. Small. New. Mine. "Don't tell them where I live." "I won't." Grandma sighed. "Wren, you don't owe anyone access to you just because they regret losing it." I closed my eyes. "I know." The jewelry shop called the next afternoon. My necklace was ready. The silver heart was whole again. A thin line ran down the center. Visible if you looked closely. Beautiful anyway. I touched it. "You were right," I told the owner. "The repair?" "It tells the truth." He smiled. I put the necklace around my neck. For the first time since my birthday, Grandma's heart rested against my chest. Not perfect. Not untouched. Still mine. When I returned to residence, an envelope had been slipped under my door. University letterhead. I opened it. Congratulations. I had been selected for the research fellowship. My hand flew to my mouth. I read the letter three times. My phone was already in my hand. For twenty years, whenever something good happened, I had called home hoping this time someone would celebrate me. My thumb hovered over Mom's contact. Then I backed out. I called Grandma. She cried louder than I did. Afterward, Maya dragged me out for cake. At the bakery, she asked, "What flavor?" I looked at the display. Chocolate. Vanilla. Lemon. Strawberry. For once, no one else's preference entered my mind. "Lemon." Maya ordered two slices. We sat by the window. She lifted her fork. "To the fellowship." I smiled. "To the fellowship." The cake wasn't divided into two equal pieces. No one asked me to hand mine over. No one said we'd celebrate me later. I ate the entire slice. And for the first time, an achievement belonged only to me.