by Greg Howard
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The memory is like my intro, so I clear my throat, step forward, and sing the first verse as loud as I can so she can hear me wherever she might be.
Good night, my love, it’s time to go to sleep
And let all your worries float away
My eyes itch and instantly blur with tears.
I will be here when you wake again
To love and keep you through another day
My voice cracks and my throat closes up. I take a deep breath, exhale, and keep going. I have to do this for Mama. I have to say goodbye.
And until then I’ll hold you in my arms
And rock you peacefully into dreams
Think of me up with the stars
A sob chokes me, stealing my voice away completely, and I’m not sure I can get through it after all. But then a forceful gust of wind presses against my face and swaddles me into a hug, just like she’s here. I close my eyes and lean into it, breathing in the sweet honeysuckle fragrance of her memory. She’s standing next to me now, like she used to when we directed the Pentecostal corn choir together. Her dark hair is long and wavy again, her cheeks rosy red. She looks as young and beautiful as she did the day of the Christmas parade all those years ago. Her presence gives me the strength to find my voice again.
As you drift away to other lands
All of the things that you mean to me, I hope you understand
Nature’s symphony fades in, right on cue. Mama and I turn to face our corn choir members together. We raise our hands and bring them in on the downbeat for the next verse. The wind makes the choir all sway together in perfect time as they sing. They sound amazing—especially my tenors and basses.
Good night, my love, it’s time to sail away
On magic oceans to a moonlit sea
And if the waves rage all around
You’ll always wake up safe with me
I cue Mama to take the solo on the last verse and nature’s symphony swells to accompany her. I just stand there listening to her voice fill the twilight sky, like a thousand whispers in the wind.
And now, my love, it’s time to say goodbye
Though I promise you are not alone
Through wind and through rain and stormy nights
My voice will always guide you home
As the warm honeysuckle breeze slowly fades away, it brushes my cheek and tickles my nose one last time.
Good night, Button.
I guess I can’t be sure it’s Mama’s voice I hear. My head and my heart could be making up stories again. But why not hope?
So I whisper back, just in case. “Good night, Mama.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My mother died of cancer at the age of twenty-six. I was five years old. At the time, I didn’t really understand what was going on, and the adults around me were so consumed by their own grief that they couldn’t even talk about my mother, much less explain to me what happened to her. It wasn’t until I was in my forties that I had the courage to even ask my father what type of cancer she had. After Mama died, he shut down emotionally, and my brother and I were left to navigate life without her on our own. Pictures of her were taken down because it was too hard for the adults to see them. Family photo albums disappeared. Her clothes and belongings were given away. When my father remarried a few years later, my brother and I were forced to call this strange woman in our house Mama. It was as if my mother never existed. I was a mama’s boy without a mama—without a compass. And the sudden isolation from her and her memory was devastating.
My childhood grief over the loss of my mother didn’t manifest itself as elaborately as Riley’s, but I did seek refuge in my imagination. For example, in the absence of hearing stories and family members sharing memories about her as the years passed, I created my own. One such memory was of my beauty pageant queen mother riding on the back of an open convertible in the Christmas parade as the newly crowned “Mrs. Georgetown.” There was a sign on the side of the car with Mama’s name printed on it. She wore a white hat and white gloves, and had a red corsage pinned to her dress. She was beautiful and looked like South Carolina’s own Jackie Kennedy. For years I remembered vividly standing on the sidewalk as she waved to me from the back of that convertible. I beamed with pride at my mama, Mrs. Georgetown, South Carolina, and waved back like crazy. It was a memory that gave me great comfort for a long time.
Some years later, an old family photo of that day resurfaced. I can’t remember from where or from whom, but I was an adult when it fell into my possession. When I saw it, I realized that my memory of that day was completely self-manufactured. It was the faded color picture I remembered, not the moment itself. Because scribbled in the bottom border in my dad’s handwriting was Miss Georgetown Contestant and a date, three years before I was born. In truth, Mama was only a contestant in the Miss Georgetown Pageant (not the Mrs. Georgetown Pageant) and I wasn’t there at all. I’m not even sure it was a Christmas parade.
Childhood traumatic grief may occur with the unexpected loss or even the anticipated death of a parent or loved one. One of the effects on the child can be the creation of an alternative narrative, possibly one in which there is hope of the deceased loved one returning, as in The Whispers. To put it into Riley’s own simple words, your head and your heart tell you a different story in order to protect you. And like Riley, I don’t think my head and my heart meant any harm by creating memories out of faded photographs. They were just looking out for me. So, I forgive them.
For more information on childhood traumatic grief, contact the National Child Traumatic Stress Network at nctsn.org
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My amazing editor, Stacey Barney—where do I begin? Your passion for this book was evident during our very first phone conversation and then by how you simply would NOT take no for an answer until you got the book. (I mean, like, we considered getting a restraining order.) You weren’t going down without a fight and without convincing me that Putnam was the perfect (and only) home for The Whispers. Of course, you were right. Working with you and the Putnam team has been a dream from the beginning to the end of the process. I could not be happier to be part of the Putnam/PRH family and look forward to crafting many more stories with you in the years to come. Most of all, this book would have been woefully incomplete without your superb (sometimes annoyingly so) editorial direction. And thank you for making me feel special—like a real live author person.
My own personal boho-Barbie superhero, Bri Johnson (aka B-Jo, aka the best agent in the history of agents!)—you have worked your butt off for me since day one and I appreciate it SO much. My life has changed and it all started with you taking a chance on me. The Whispers truly would not be the book it is if not for you. Your initial editorial insights pushed me to dig deeper and take this thing to a whole nother level. You believed in this book and encouraged me to run with it before anyone else caught the vision. Thanks for holding my hand through the big scary publishing auction storm and navigating this ship safely to shore. (And a big shout-out to our Lindas!)
Cecilia de la Campa and the subrights team at Writers House—thank you for getting Riley’s story told around the world and in so many different languages. Hopefully I will finally learn Spanish by reading my own book. How meta would that be?! (*mind blown*)
Vivienne To—I won the lottery with this cover and your gorgeous, on-point illustration is a huge part of the reason why. I knew you were good, but dang! I realize now how lucky we were to get you on this project, because I don’t think anyone else could have nailed it like you did. Thank you for sharing your amazing talent with me and the world.
Lindsey Andrews—thanks for your guidance with the cover design, pulling all the perfect elements (and people) together and allowing my input throughout the process. I can’t begin to tell you how much I love it!
Courtney Gilfillian at Putnam and Allie Levi
ck at Writers House—you guys keep all of us on track and pick up the many balls that I drop. Thank you and count me as a lifelong fan!
Emma Jones at Puffin/Random House UK—thank you for your passion for The Whispers from the beginning. Whether you realize it or not, the enthusiastic support of the UK team helped seal the deal!
Mary Pender at UTA—thank you so much for believing in this book and its message WAY early and for taking such care with its journey from page to screen. You are a game-changer.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Luke McMaster and Arun Chaturvedi, for breathing musical life into my “Good Night, My Love” lyrics. It’s just so beautiful and perfect, I could pee myself.
To all the librarians, booksellers, teachers, bloggers, and reviewers who have recommended The Whispers, please know how much I appreciate it and never doubt that you are changing lives every day. “That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald
Finally, to my husband, Steve—my biggest fan and loudest cheerleader. You get excited about every tiny bit of book news I share with you. You shield me from the happiness vampires. You take my story questions seriously and don’t sugarcoat your opinions. You never complain when I’m falling asleep before eight p.m. because I got up at four a.m. to write, or when I spend all weekend writing or editing. You remind me to say when instead of if regarding all the exciting possibilities of this journey. And you never once doubted that I would get here. I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Greg Howard grew up near the coast of South Carolina. His hometown of Georgetown is known as the "Ghost Capital of the South" (seriously...there's a sign), and was always a great source of material for his overactive imagination. Raised in a staunchly religious home, Greg escaped into the arts: singing, playing piano, acting, writing songs, and making up stories. Currently, Greg resides in Nashville, Tennessee, with his husband, Steve, and their three rescued fur babies Molly, Toby, and Riley.
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