by Rita Woods
“The baby,” she croaked. Petal’s baby. She had seen it go into the fire. Just before …
“The baby is fine,” answered Margot.
And then she slept, waking from time to time with a scream, fighting her way back from a nightmare. It took a week for her to regain her strength, before she was well enough to step back out into Remembrance. And then she saw that everything had changed.
She saw the burned places, the ground where nothing would grow. She saw the odd-shaped stone at the edge of the Central Fire. And she saw the fear. For the most part, everyone in Remembrance steered clear of her, edging past her on the trails, refusing to meet her eye. On the rare occasion when she couldn’t be avoided, they would stutter a greeting, their eyes jittery with terror. All except Dix. With his ugly new scar puckering the side of his face.
They were grateful, said David Henry, truly they were, but it was all a bit much. Everybody just needed time.
She’d nodded, and on the night of the winter solstice, she’d walked away from the only home she’d ever known.
She didn’t turn when he came up behind her. She stared out across the rolling, frost-covered landscape.
“Bad times comin’,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Best be gettin’ on, then. Folks gon’ be needin’ a safe place against the storm.”
Josiah walked past, the sweet cherry from his tobacco borne on the wind. He was young again. Or younger. Looking the way he had always looked.
She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and followed him into the misty Ohio dawn.
Gaelle
The phone buzzed from somewhere inside the tree.
Eleven.
She’d stopped counting the texts from Rose after they’d reached eleven, stopped reading them long before that. The first had come in at midnight.
Jwaye Nwel, sè.
Then: Gaelle?
Are you angry with me?
Gaelle, please.
Sè, answer me, tanpri.
Until finally, she’d thrown the phone deep into the branches of the Christmas tree. The phone buzzed again and she sat up with a groan. The tree lay on its side in the corner, where she’d dropped it three days before. Taking up nearly every square inch of the tiny living room, its branches obscured the television, the coffee table, most of the couch. She had no idea how she’d managed to get it home and then into the house. And no idea why she’d bothered.
She remembered Toya, sitting on the couch at the funeral home, her face blank, her two remaining sons sitting mute beside her. She’d not spoken a word since the morning she’d found Kevin bleeding to death in the snow, her car still running. When Gaelle bent to wrap her arms around her friend, Toya was as hard and cold as marble. She’d held on tight, forcing the heat from her body into Toya’s, warming her, sensing her soften in her embrace, just a little.
“It will be alright, chè zanmi. I promise,” she whispered. “We will survive.”
But in that moment she was not sure this was true. Not everything could be survived. One could be broken just so many times, wi?
She hugged the boys and fled. She drove aimlessly through the icy streets of Cleveland for hours, getting lost in unfamiliar neighborhoods, then doubling back only to get lost again. The sun was setting when she stumbled on the tree lot. This close to Christmas, there were only a few trees left, all too big for her little carriage house. She bought the biggest one. It had taken the tree man nearly half an hour to lash it to the roof of her tiny car, and now it lay bare and crammed into her living room. This was her Christmas.
A naked tree.
Alone.
In a cold apartment. That would not belong to her in just a few short weeks.
She leaned and pressed her face into a branch. The clean, fresh smell soothed her. From its hiding place inside the tree, the phone buzzed again.
“Ase,” she hissed, jerking upright.
She clutched a handful of pine needles in her fist, relishing the cool, prickly texture.
Grann was gone. Rose was gone.
In her hand the needles began to smolder, a wisp of earth-scented smoke wafting into the air.
Kevin was gone and Toya, his mother, her only real friend, shattered.
The needles glowed a soft orange.
And soon they would try to take her home away.
There was a faint sound, like paper crinkling, and the pine needles burst into flame. She threw them on the floor, smiling in satisfaction as they scorched the old rug before quickly burning out.
She pushed herself to her feet, and the room spun for a moment. She tried to remember when she’d last eaten. Yesterday? The day before? She still wore the clothes from Kevin’s funeral, the black skirt wrinkled and sticky with sap. She took a deep breath and grinned, feeling clear and focused, despite the wave of dizziness.
Pushing past the tree, she pulled her backpack from a hook on the closet door. She had few valuables. Pictures of the three of them—Rose, Grann, and her—at a wedding, a bracelet of her mother’s, a tiny jade heart Toya and the boys had given her for her birthday the year before. She stuffed it all into the backpack.
She didn’t know where she was going, but she’d promised Toya it was going to be alright. There had to be a way to make it alright. The old man’s voice echoed in her head. “How much more will you allow this world to take from you?”
“No more,” she whispered.
At the door she turned and broke a small branch from the tree and placed it in the backpack. For a long moment she stared at her hand, the brown skin, dry from the frequent washings at work, the nails short and ragged; then, squatting, she grabbed hold of the tree’s trunk.
Special.
She wasn’t just a survivor. She was special.
Heat trickled down her spine, filling her. But even as the room grew hotter and the water inside the trunk turned to steam and hissed away into the air, she felt cool, calm.
With a whoosh, the tree caught fire, the trunk turning a deep orange, the needles a bright yellow. She waited, watching as the old rug, then the fabric of her secondhand couch ignited. She straightened and backed away. She gave a soft whoop of joy and stepped from the house, closing the door behind her.
He was there. Standing at the end of the alley under the broken streetlight. Christmas Eve. It was Christmas Eve, she remembered.
He was no longer old. Still wearing the expensive jacket, he stood straight, his hair now completely black. They stood staring at each other as smoke began to fill the small living-room window.
She stepped closer. The dark glasses were gone, and she saw that his eyes were the color of oyster shells, reflecting light like polished glass.
“Who are you?”
“Josiah.”
“The old woman, Winter, is gone.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Josiah looked up at the lightening sky. Streaks of pink and lavender announced the coming day. “It is no longer her time.”
She sighed, the euphoria of just moments before beginning to fade. She felt the emptiness seeping back into her soul. “What do you want from me?”
“The world has been waiting for you,” he said, an echo of what he’d said to her in the parking lot days before.
“Poukisa?”
“The world needs a protector.”
She blinked. “Protector?”
She laughed, the sound harsh to her own ears. Tears pricked her eyes.
“I can protect no one.”
Josiah raised an eyebrow and cocked his head back toward the carriage house. They could see the reflection of flames dancing in the smoky window. He smiled and held out a hand. With a glance at the burning building, she laid her hand in his, gasping in surprise as she felt a surge of electricity engulf her.
“You are so much more,” he said.
“Wi,” she said.
Acknowledgments
It is nearly impossible to express my thanks and appreciation for my amaz
ing agent, Joanna Volpe at New Leaf Literary Agency. From the moment we met at the Midwest Writers Conference in Muncie, Indiana, all those years ago, until now, she has been a tireless advocate for and an enthusiastic champion of Remembrance. She never lost faith in me or the story. Her unflagging efforts led Remembrance to the perfect home with Diana Gill at Forge.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Diana and the Forge team. Diana was relentless in her drive to make Remembrance the best that it could be, and her critical editorial eye was unparalleled.
I am forever grateful for the friendship and unflagging support of the Scribes, a group of women who have had my back both personally and creatively. Diana Hurwitz, Cy Adams, Sharon Pielemeier, Cameron Steiman, thank you for everything you do and everything you are.
And to Kym Gotches, Jennifer Bethmann, Julie Augustinas, Anke Schulte, my storytelling friends, I miss you.
About the Author
RITA WOODS is a family doctor and the director of a wellness center. When she’s not busy working or writing, Dr. Woods spends time with her family or at the Homer Glen library, where she serves on the board of trustees. Remembrance is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Gaelle
Part One
Margot
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part Two
Abigail
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Gaelle
Margot
Chapter 12
Abigail
Chapter 14
Gaelle
Part Three
Winter
Chapter 17: Mother Abigail
Chapter 18: Winter
Chapter 19: Margot
Chapter 20: Mother Abigail
Chapter 21: Winter
Chapter 22: Mother Abigail
Gaelle
Chapter 24: Winter
Chapter 25: Margot
Chapter 26: Mother Abigail
Chapter 27: Winter
Chapter 28: Margot
Gaelle
Part Four
Winter
Chapter 31: Margot
Chapter 32: Winter
Chapter 33: Winter
Chapter 34: Mother Abigail
Chapter 35: Margot
Chapter 36: Winter
Chapter 37: Winter
Chapter 38: Margot
Chapter 39: Winter
Chapter 40: Mother Abigail
Gaelle
Chapter 42: Winter
Chapter 43: Winter
Gaelle
Chapter 45: Margot
Chapter 46: Winter
Chapter 47: Winter
Chapter 48: Mother Abigail
Chapter 49: Margot
Chapter 50: Winter
Chapter 51: Winter
Chapter 52: Mother Abigail
Chapter 53: Winter
Chapter 54: Margot
Winter
Gaelle
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
REMEMBRANCE
Copyright © 2019 by Rita Woods
All rights reserved.
Cover photographs of woman and window © Arcangel Images
Cover design by Mary Schuck
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
120 Broadway
New York, NY 10271
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-29845-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-29847-8 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250298478
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: January 2020