To the Stars

My mother named me Nevada because I was conceived in Las Vegas. Funny, considering I’d never actually been to Vegas or Nevada. But to be fair, I hadn’t been much of anywhere in my eighteen years due to what is technically called agoraphobia, but which I just call the big shakes. I’ve spoken with countless therapists over the years, and though the faces and business casual attire fade into each other over time, they all basically asked the same question.

What are you afraid of? Ha! I wish I could laugh in each of their pseudo-sympathetic faces. Don’t you think if I could answer that question, that I wouldn’t be here? And despite their multiple doctorates not a single one of them, from their tweed pants to their long noses, could convince me to leave the house. In fact, I check the purple watch on my wrist, perfectly positioned between freckle number 17 and number 18, my newest “counselor” should be calling at any moment. The familiar Skype ring alerts me to the big shakes’ newest contestor. I roll my neck and crack my knuckles. Let’s see if this one is any good.

“Nevada,” she states my name like a fact despite her toothy smile and peers into the camera. Her too-yellow teeth make my skin itch. “My name is Doctor Goode,” I cover my mouth to repress my laughter at the irony but a single snort manages to escape. The corners of her smile tighten and I can tell we are not off to a good start. “But enough about me, let’s talk about you.” I open my mouth to begin my speech, starting with my childhood and ending at my fears and failures, when the doorbell rings. Ding-Dong. My shoulders shoot skyward in a full body flinch at the sound. I dislike any reminder of the outside world. “Do you need to get that?” Doctor Goode’s voice is like a cheese grater against my ears.

“No.” I answer, pinching the inside of my arm. My skin is itchy, and I’m having trouble focusing on the screen in front of me. Who could be at the door? My mother is pulling a double at the hospital, and my father never came back from a work trip fifteen years ago. Did mom order a package? She usually warns me about that kind of thing.

“Nevada,” Dr. Goode’s voice snaps me back to reality, only this time her tone is gentle. I hate this even more. “When was the last time?”

“The last time, what?” I feign innocence, twisting the skin on the inside of my arm so hard that my eyes water. Her eyes narrow and I chew on my lip as I wait for her to ask the question again. I briefly consider just closing my laptop and walking away but I promised mom. So instead I take a deep breath and brace myself.

“When was the last time you went outside?”

“I don’t know.” I lie, my skin crawling like it always does when the outside world is mentioned. But I do know. It’s been six years, eight months, nine days, and eleven hours since I last stepped foot outside of this house. I check the purple watch. Make that twelve. More questions come, and to no surprise, Dr. Goode has no more insight to offer than the last. Have you tried just not being scared? Gee thanks doctor, it never occurred to me. I’ll try that. The back of my knees are slick with sweat by the time the session ends and I leave the dining room table headed for the shower. It’s going to take a good amount of scrubbing to get Dr. Goode’s questions off of my skin, and the memory of her yellow teeth. I shudder, but freeze as my footsteps bring me past the front door. A small brown paper box tied with a piece of twine has made its way across the threshold of my sanctuary from the outside world through the horrid, twisted mouth of the mail slot. I should have nailed that thing shut ages ago. I recoil at the sight, but one small detail keeps me from bolting up the seventeen stairs and fifteen paces between where I’m standing in this moment and what will most likely be an entire body of lavender body wash. My name, scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting. Nevada Marshall. The pounding of my pulse rings in my ears as I lean in for a closer look, every fiber of my being screaming to run away, reminding me of the possibilities of what could be writhing unseen on the well worn paper. But for some reason, my hand reaches out and I watch as my fingers with nails chewed to the quicks, pull at the twine wrapping. The box unfolds like a flower and what’s left is a rectangular vessel made of polished, gleaming wood. I run one tentative finger over the smooth surface, not daring to breathe. With hands shaking, I lift the lid to find that the interior is lined with a deep red velvet, a single white envelope resting inside. I swallow. An envelope is a familiar sight, hundreds have come through the mail slot before. But never packaged as carefully as this one. What could be inside? For some reason I hear Dr. Goode’s voice repeated in the back of my mind. Why don’t you try and be brave? You’re more capable than you know. Motivated by the sheer pleasure it would give me to see Dr. Goode’s pinched mouth drop open with surprise when she finds out that I touched something from the outside world, I slide my thumb beneath one of the ends of the seal flap and retrieve the contents of the letter.

To my dearest daughter,

They say that when you reach the end of your life, you are faced with regrets for the things you should’ve done. My biggest regret is leaving you. I won’t try to justify it, and I don’t expect you to understand, but if anything, I hope you learn from my mistakes.

Live with no regrets,

Dad

The box and the letter crash onto the floor as my hands go numb. I sink down onto the ground with them, tears freely cascading down my cheeks. Why after all these years? The knot in my throat makes it hard to swallow and as I blink through the tears I notice that the impact of hitting the floor has knocked aside the velvet casing from inside of the wooden box and another envelope has tumbled out from beneath it. I crawl on hands and knees for the second letter, desperate for some sort of explanation. Anything.

The Last Will and Testament of Anthony Marshall.

My mouth feels dry as I skim the words. It’s been so long since I’ve heard his name. My eyes scan the document which is mostly dense legal jargon but two-thirds down the page something catches my eye.

...in the sum of $1,000,000.00

I blink, quickly backtracking to the paragraph before it.

My child, Nevada Marshall, shall be the sole recipient of my residuary estate in the sum of $1,000,000.00 should she complete all articles stipulated below:

My heart leaps in my chest as, with hands shaking, I reach the stipulations.

Ad are per aspera- “To the stars through difficulties” Nevada must visit the Aster Cafe in Minneapolis, Minnesota and order the ‘Soup Du Jour’ and ‘Hibiscus & Lemon Carlota’.

Alis volat propriis- “He flies by his own wings” Nevada must complete 40 hours of private piloting lessons at SunState Aviation in Kissimmee, Florida.

Ars longa, vita brevis-”Art is long, life is short” Nevada must take a tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

Omnia iam fient quae posse negabam-“Everything which I used to say could not happen, will happen now” Nevada must visit her namesake in Las Vegas and take a ride in a hot air balloon over Red Rock Canyon

My stomach sinks as the list’s demands continue to grow more and more absurd. When I reach the end, my entire body is shaking, but not with fear this time. No, the emotion that tears through my chest is white hot anger. How dare he.

If my father had bothered to get to know me for even one second, instead of abandoning me, he would know that what he is asking of me is impossible. This bizarre list only goes to show how much he doesn’t know me at all. I stuff the letter back in it’s ridiculous box before stomping up the stairs and shoving the box beneath my bed, where it is destined to gather dust for the next eighteen years. But when my mother gets home hours later from working a double shift and I spy the stack of past due notices in her hand and the dark circles beneath her eyes, I feel a pang of guilt in my chest. The whole thing is insane, especially for me, someone who hasn’t left the house in six years, eight months, ten days, I check my watch, and five hours. And yet...that kind of money would mean no more night shifts for mom. The only thing my father had ever done for me was offer a cliche piece of advice, live with no regrets, and a chance at one million dollars.

As much as I want to, I can't seem to shake his words, and when I’m upstairs, alone in my room, hair still wet from the third shower of the day, I find myself lying in the darkness, looking up at the glow in the dark stars, dreaming about what it would be like to do even one thing on that list. When I do finally fall asleep, my dreams are full of hot air balloons and steaming bowls of soup, and when I wake in the morning, I feel more steady than I have in months. While it’s true that my father has done absolutely nothing in the way of raising me, it feels wrong to ignore such an offer, even if it does mean facing my greatest fear. So, when it’s time for my daily session with Dr. Goode, I find myself bringing up the letter, reading to her each of the impossible demands. When I finish, I’m surprised to find her staring at me expectantly, brown eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.

“I think you should do it.” She announces, peering down her long nose. “I think this is just the push you need.” I pinch the inside of my arm, but the familiar pain is no match for the tumultuous emotions waging inside.

“How?” I squeak, my words tripping over one another on the way out. “I can’t even leave this house! How could I ever-”

“-Nevada,” her voice is full of urgency, “the world is a beautiful place. While your father may not have been everything you needed growing up, he’s presented you with exactly what you need at this moment.” She leans in closer. “You’re a smart girl, and you’re more capable than you know. All you’ve got to do is take the first step.” It’s these words that propel me towards the heavy front door with it’s brassy mail slot and faded green paint several hours after our video call, the list of stipulations in my pocket.

Ad are per aspera, “To the stars through difficulties.”

I reach for the worn, shiny door knob.

Alis volat propriis, “He flies by his own wings.”

I pull the door open.

Ars longa, vita brevis, ”Art is long, life is short.”

I blink my eyes against the blazing afternoon sunlight.

Omnia iam fient quae posse negabam-“Everything which I used to say could not happen, will happen now.”

With a deep breath, I step outside.