People did it all the time.

Of course, I’d never abandon my kids at the library. I’d stay until a suitable replacement could be found. And, of course, in the bigger picture, quitting was the worst-case scenario because it meant giving up my entire life here. But I wasn’t looking at the big picture. I was looking at this one part of it: Did I want to be powerless—or take charge of my own destiny?

Distilled down to that one question, the answer was easy.

And easy answers always feel good.

The idea of escape unclenched my heart and just pumped relief through my body. I had choices. None of them were particularly good choices … but that was beside the point.

I’d start over. Not impossible. I’d done it before, and I could do it again.

I’d start looking for school-library positions in adorable small towns. Maybe Babette would even come with me. She could probably use an escape, too. And if Babette was going, Alice might come. Hell, we could start a whole new utopia in a historic fishing village in Maine, or a forgotten ghost town in Colorado.

There was no going back to sleep now. I sat up in bed and flipped on the light. It was still dark as night outside.

I felt better. And not just better: invigorated.

I was taking back my life.

Now all I had to do was just endure seeing Duncan again for a little while. How long could that meeting possibly last? An hour? I’d grit my teeth for one hour, and then I’d set myself free.

I’d made my decision. The hard part was over.

Though I still had one decision left: what to wear.

It’s a big deal to see someone you were once in love with again after so many years—for anybody. But for me it would be an extra-big deal.

Because I had changed so much.

When we’d worked together before, I’d been mousy. By choice. I’d been … hiding. But I wasn’t hiding anymore. Now, in fact, I did the opposite.

That first seizure I’d had after my epilepsy came back?

I’d been driving when it happened.

I’d crashed my car into the side of a 7-Eleven.

I’d wound up in the hospital with a broken arm, a black eye, sixteen stitches across the top of my head, and a bald patch where they’d had to shave it.

No one else was hurt, thank God … but I hadn’t set foot inside a 7-Eleven since.

After the accident, on the morning when it was time to go back to school, I just couldn’t. I got all dressed, and I worked to cover my bruised eye with makeup, and I put on a little gray stocking cap to cover my bandage. Then I put my satchel on my shoulder, picked up my car keys, caught my reflection in the mirror … and started crying.

I was still crying after second period when Max called to see why the library was still dark.

I wound up taking a personal day, but that night he showed up at the carriage house with a present for me: a hat covered all over with tissue-paper flowers.

“This is certainly … very bright,” I said.

“It’s Babette’s,” Max said. “I asked her if I could give it to you.”

I let Max in, and we sat on my sofa. I could not even imagine what I would do with a Technicolor flower hat like that. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s really got … a lot of flowers.”

“I think you should wear it to school tomorrow,” Max said.

I eyed the hat, not wanting to be rude. “It’s … a little bolder than my normal look.”

“Yes, it is,” Max said. “And that’s why you’ll spend the whole day talking about the flowers, rather than talking about the seizure.”

I nodded. I got it. “Or the stitches.”

He gave a little shrug. “Or the 7-Eleven.”

I studied the hat a little longer.

“What’s your hesitation?” Max asked.

“Have you ever seen me wear anything like this?”

“Flowers are very joyful,” Max said.

“I’m not really feeling joyful.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “That’s what the flowers are for.”

I shook my head at the flower hat. “I’m just not sure I can pull this off.”

“Just give it a try,” Max said, nodding at it, like Go on.

And so, gently—as much for the paper flowers as for my stitches—I put it on and turned toward the mirror, and suddenly, I didn’t look like a sad, frightened, disappointed, relapsed person who had almost just died in a car accident of her own making. I looked like I was headed out for a parade.

And then I burst into tears again.

I couldn’t even have told you exactly why.

Because of everything. Because my stitches hurt. And because I missed my mom. And because I didn’t want to go back to school—ever. And because after well over a decade of being cured, I suddenly wasn’t cured anymore. But also because of the unrepentant beauty of those paper flowers. And Max’s kindness. And that stunning, ridiculous, marvelous hat.

He put his arm around me and just let me cry. Just stayed right there until I’d run out of tears. And then, when I finally quieted, he said, “I want to tell you something smart I’ve figured out about life.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And I want you to make a mental note, ’cause this is a good one.”

“Okay.”

“Ready?”

Now I was smiling. “Yes!”

“Okay. Listen close. Pay attention to the things that connect you with joy.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. I leaned away and turned to frown at him. “What does joy have to do with anything?”

“Joy is important.”

Was it? “I don’t know. Not having car accidents is important. Joy seems pretty expendable.”

But Max just smiled. “It’s one of the secrets to life that no one ever tells you. Joy cures everything.”

I flared my nostrils. “Everything?” I challenged, pointing at the bandage over my stitches.”

“Everything emotional,” Max clarified.

“I don’t think you can cure emotions,” I said.

But Max just nodded. “Joy is an antidote to fear. To anger. To boredom. To sorrow.”

“But you can’t just decide to feel joyful.”

“True. But you can decide to do something joyful.”

I considered that.

“You can hug somebody. Or crank up the radio. Or watch a funny movie. Or tickle somebody. Or lip-synch your favorite song. Or buy the person behind you at Starbucks a coffee. Or wear a flower hat to work.”

I shook my head. “One flower hat can’t fix all my problems.”

“No, but it can sure help.”

I sighed.

“It’s not about fixing all your problems, anyway,” Max said. “You’ll never fix all your problems.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.”

“The point is to be happy anyway. As often as you can.”

I let out a shaky sigh.

“I know you’re scared,” Max said, squeezing my hand. “But you’re going to get up tomorrow and put on that crazy hat and walk over to school … and no matter what, you’ll be better for it.”

I wanted to believe that. “How do you know?” I whispered.

“Because,” Max said, “courage makes everything easier next time. And I’m not going to let you live your life in fear.”

* * *

The next day, I wore the hat to school.

And—just as predicted—all anybody noticed was the hat.

The kids were beside themselves with delight—and so were the teachers. I could see it in their faces when they saw me—the happy surprise of it. People lit up when they saw me—and stayed bright as they walked away, carrying that feeling off to whatever they were doing next, and whoever they’d see, passing it on.

Nobody talked about the car accident, or the seizure, or the fact that my life had just collapsed in on me. We talked about the hat. Where had it come from? What was it made of? What did it feel like to wear it around?

“Fabulous,” I’d say, and I meant it.

Did the hat solve everything? Of course not.

But it brought me flashes of joy every time I saw it ignite joy in someone else. It shifted my ratio of “okay” to “not okay” just enough that I could function, and go to work, and do my job.

It wasn’t a lifeboat, exactly—maybe more like a preserver. Just enough to hold on to.

But it worked.

That realization changed my life. My whole way of dressing and being in the world. My quiet wardrobe of tans and navies was gone within the year—replaced by polka dots and stripes, beads and fringe, and bright pinks, oranges, and blues. While I waited for my hair to grow back, I took to wearing headscarves, and big polka-dot sunglasses, and flowered leis as necklaces.

I got so addicted to color that, once I had hair again, I dyed my bangs cotton-candy pink.

I’m telling you: The year after that first seizure, I had a renaissance.

A fashion renaissance.