Page 118 of Jane Deyre
My heart gallops. I squeeze Ward’s hand harder...
Meryl: “The Oscar goes to... Jane Deyre for her performance inRain on Me.”
“Oh my God!” I breathe out, my hand flying from the pearls to my mouth as the audience breaks out in cheers and applause.
Ward smacks a kiss on my lips before I stand up. My legs wobble. I’m in a state of shock. With so many diverse, mega-talented actresses vying for the award, I was a long shot. No one predicted I would win. Even I didn’t.
After another hot kiss and a pat on my butt, I run up to the stage, hoping I won’t trip. I’m wearing Edwina’s red dress. The one she wore. Grace was able to salvage it after the tragic fire. And bring it back to its glory.
Nervously, I accept the golden statuette from Viola and triumphantly hold it up in my shaking hand. Thinking I was never going to win, I don’t have a speech prepared.
My voice wavering, my heart palpitating, I praise my fellow nominees and then thank all the people who have helped my career. Agents, writers, producers, the Academy, and, of course, my beloved husband. Beaming, he blows me a kiss.
My eyes stay focused on the first row.
Next to Ward is my mother. Sitting in the aisle in her wheelchair. Now, almost eighty, her Parkinson’s is advanced. Her doctors have told us she doesn’t have much time. Getting her here tonight wasn’t easy, but there was no way she was staying home.
Overwhelmed, tears welling up in my eyes, I take a thoughtful pause. “Last but not least, I share this award with my beautiful mother, Edwina Rochester, who taught me everything. Not only how to act, but how to realize my dreams. And to never give up hope.” My gaze stays on her as do the cameras. She puts a frail, shaky hand to her chest. Her lips quiver. The audience applauds wildly and gives her the standing ovation she deserves. My heart swells with love and admiration. I often wonder what it would have been like to have grown up at Thornhill with my mother. Though you can’t take time back, I feel so blessed to have had her in my life for the past ten years. And for my children to have known her and been incredibly loved by her. The crowd sits back down and a kernel of sadness unfurls inside me. Deep in my heart, I know she won’t be with us next February. The Queen of Thornhill will be among the legends the Academy pays tribute to yearly. Her moniker will live on.
My misty eyes remain fixed on her and then look straight ahead into the cameras. A soft smile lifts my lips. I think about my kids... beautiful sixteen-year-old Adele, an aspiring artist who wants to go to Yale, ten-year-old Edward, the spitting image of his father and the brainiac of the family, and our adorable three-year-old twin daughters—Brontë, my spitfire mini-me, and Georgette, my little drama queen, who looks much like Ward’s blond mother but has my mother’s violet eyes. The four of them are home tonight with an ancient Grace Poole—and an even more ancient Pilote—watching the awards from our house in Oregon—the cozy beachfront cottage we expanded to accommodate our family. Ward was right... it was the perfect place to raise our children. Not Thornhill, which is now the headquarters for Edwina’s foundation. Gone Baby. A safe place for bereaved mothers and homeless children, who can stay until they are found or adopted. The portrait of Edwina in her red dress still resides there in the great room above the fireplace.
Before the “gong” music sounds, I wrap up my speech.
“Adele... Edward... Brontë... Georgette... I love you! Now go to sleep.”