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Page 22
“This is the room from my dream.”
“What are you talking about?”
She buried her face into her hands, rocking her body back and forth. Her lips were moving but no sound came out. I didn’t know what to do, so I reached out and touched her hand, but she didn’t respond. I shook her a little harder and then she moved her arms forward and started to crawl along the floor until she reached one of the cement walls. She stood up and lifted them above her head, slowly pounding the wall with her fists.
“Stop!” I yelled.
She kept hitting the wall over and over. She was determined, as if somehow she was going to be able to break through, but finally the assault got less and less intense until all that was left was the flat empty sound of a slap. She raked her fingernails across the concrete and then her body crumbled into a kneeling position.
I ran to her side and tried to get her to look at me. I needed her to tell me what to do. I needed her to tell me why she had brought me here. My breath quickened and I could feel the wetness in the air stick to my temples. My heart beat in my ears and I tried to remember about courage, but then I held my breath because I realized that it wasn’t my heart that I was hearing.
It was footsteps.
With each step, the ceiling above me trembled, as if it were alive. Matilda whimpered as the footsteps got closer to the door of the basement. I looked around, trying to find a place for us to hide, but aside from some boxes in the corner, the room was empty. I didn’t know what else to do, so I thought about Leah. About being the person you are supposed to be.
The letters coming out of me randomly floated through the dank air and then the footsteps stopped and everything was quiet. My sister was breathing heavily, like a child who was on the brink of sleep after a long tantrum. Then, suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs burst open.
The man cupped his hand over his eyes so that he could see in the darkness. As he came down, I took one big breath and the last few letters in my chest heaved out like stray coins at the bottom of a pocketbook. This time they floated up and suddenly I could hear Leah speaking to me. Telling me that I had everything I needed. That I had always had everything I needed because my fate was in my hands. There was a carton on the ground that I rummaged through until I found it.
A hammer.
My knee scraped against one of the boxes as I climbed, but I ignored the sting. I reached the windows and ripped down the material covering them. Each pull let more light into the dingy basement and created a shredding sound that sounded like a shriek and the letters danced with delight.
I looked at the man and I looked at my sister and then I lifted up my arm and slammed the hammer into those red painted windows. I closed my eyes and I hit, listening to the painful sound of shatter, feeling the sensation of breaking running through every part of me, breathing slowly until finally it was quiet and there was nothing left to break. When I stopped, the letters were gone and all that was left were shards of glass showering the basement floor.
I could escape, but I didn’t want to anymore. Instead, I took in a breath of the clean fresh air that was slowly filling the room. Sprinkles of rain hit my face and reminded me of glitter. It got very quiet until all I could hear was crying. But this time it wasn’t Matilda who was crying.
It was the man.
First it was soft and gentle, like a baby. Then deep and guttural, echoing a pain so intense that the only way to contain it was through a scream. And that is what he did. His legs gave way from under him and he collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t cover his face, didn’t hide behind anything. He cried until there was no voice left except for the quiet echo of air passing between his lips.
Matilda and I watched him in silence and I gripped the hammer tighter, but then I dropped it and it made a scraping noise as it landed on the floor. I climbed down off the box and Matilda looked up and so did the man. Then it got quieter than I have ever heard then or since.
It was at that moment that I understood about myself. That I am different because I see things that other people don’t. No one moved and no one spoke, but it didn’t matter because just like my letters, I could hear his words in my head. Pure and strong and sad. And I knew that he was crying for all the things that had been lost. He laced his fingers together and brought them to his face as though he was begging.
For forgiveness.
I watched him walk toward my sister, who was murmuring softly, like a kitten. She whispered something into the air, to me or to him I did not know.
“Matilda.” Something about the sound of his voice made her look up and then she quieted. He lowered himself down to where she sat and extended his hand to me. There was something familiar about him; it was in his face or maybe it was his expression, or maybe it was the way he said her name, like he had been repeating it over and over in his dreams. We sat together, wrapped in a quiet that was occasionally interrupted by the clink of a pipe. We huddled in the corner of that dank and dark basement and it was only when I finally looked up that I saw it.
A crack of sunlight streaming through the air, hitting the shattered glass sprinkled on the floor and making it glisten like rubies.
Matilda
Sometimes I wish I never knew her secrets. I wished she had kept them all to herself. Maybe it’s my fault for prying. For asking. For pushing until there was no other choice. For any of us.
I call them Tim and Therese mostly because it fits and even more because I know it bothers her even though she doesn’t reprimand me. She knows that she deserves to be punished. Deserves to lose her title.
They are talking to each other now. Slowly and carefully, like walking across a thin sheet of ice, hoping that it won’t crack and send them falling into the freezing water beneath. I live with my grandmother and spend time with both of them separately but not together. Not yet. There are words they want to say to me. I am just not ready to listen. Maybe soon if they are patient.
I spend a lot of time with Franny. We are tied to each other more strongly than most sisters. Maybe because of what we have been through or maybe because we choose to be.
We don’t really talk much about her father. I tell her that without him, she wouldn’t be here. Sometimes I think I should explain it to her better, and other times I know there is no way to explain. And I don’t really need to because, in her own way, she has already made sense of it. Being with her reminds me that things are in the right place.
She is spelling a lot less now. I know because I don’t see the letters flying randomly and angrily from her lips. Her face is softer and, when she speaks, her voice is shinier. We eat breakfast together some mornings at Leah’s house. We sit in her kitchen, which is now painted a buttery yellow and makes Franny’s face glow like the sun. Leah always leaves us alone and I pretend that we are the only two left in the entire world. I wonder what Leah has told her about why she gave her away. When she talks about Leah, she smiles and I wonder if forgiveness can be that easy—if it is, I envy her. I also know there is a sadness for which she hasn’t yet found the words. Doesn’t matter, though, because I will be here for when they come.
Today when we finish eating, she asks me to take her to a park. Simply because she asks, I agree. It’s a sunny day and we stand beneath the trees, hidden from view, almost like we don’t belong, which . . . maybe we don’t.
“We don’t need this anymore,” Franny says and hands me a book.
It is purple and bound by a rubber band so stretched it snaps at my touch. Inside are my notes to her. I pull one out and read through my promises and my despair and my brokenness. She has used a pen to trace over my letters so that now my words belong to us both. Words that remind us of who we were before becoming who we were meant to be.
She is looking at me, waiting for a response, and I nod my head. She hands me a box of matches and I take one and strike it. Nothing much happens except for the quick way it ignites. As the pages crackle and shrivel, a burning smell fills the air around us
that reminds me of roasted peanuts.
We stand and watch as it rages and then quiets and when it is finished, we walk away, leaving what is left behind. We walk holding hands. We walk away and Franny doesn’t turn back, but I do. I look up into the trees and see a twisted thread of smoke winding its way up above our heads, which then disappears into the cool blue air as if it was never even there in the first place.
Acknowledgments
I owe heartfelt thanks to Caroline Leavitt without whom any of this would be possible. She believed that my story was special and did not give up until I believed, too. To Holly LeCraw, for her guidance and support. To my agent, Anne Bohner, who took a chance on me. To my editor, Nicole Frail, for smoothing out all the rough spots.
Thank you to my father, who taught me that nothing is ever really yours except for the ideas in your head. To my mother, for her curiosity, her smarts, and her eternal optimism. To Talia, because she makes me laugh even when there is nothing to laugh about. To Rich, for his emotional and technical support and for still believing in magic. To Kristin, Roni, Jen, and Tamara, who cheered me on. To Maureen, Maya, Ruth, Roseann, and Elaine for reading and reflecting.
Finally, thank you to my children, who inspire me every single day.
Book Club Questions
1. Which of the characters in the novel did you despise or like and why? With which of the characters did you most identify?
2. What insights have you gained about people with autism? Why do you think the author does not use the term autism in the book?
3. Do you find that people who have secrets themselves are more likely to keep other people’s secrets safe? Which of the secrets in the book, if revealed, would have changed the fate of the other characters?
4. Can you find references in the story to The Wizard of Oz? Do you believe that, like Dorothy and her red shoes, fate is in your hands? Or do you believe that destiny is predetermined and out of your control?
5. Are woman and girls in this book the victims of men? Is it unusual that the story is only told from the perspective of the women? Would the tone of the story have changed if the men had been given a more active voice?
6. What is it that draws Therese to Tim? And is it that same character trait that eventually breaks them apart?
7. How is Leah able to bring about Franny’s transformation? What is it about Franny that helps Leah learn to trust herself?
8. What motivates woman like Therese, Leah, Sara, and even Barbara to suppress the voice of reason in order to gain love? Do you perceive it as weakness or strength?
9. Do you have questions about the intensity of Leah and Therese’s feelings for one another? Can women forge such powerful connections with other women without romantic undertones?
10. Do you believe that everyone is capable of overcoming obstacles to become the person they are meant to be?
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Left
Acknowledgements
Book Club Questions