Fixing Delilah

by Sarah Ockler

  I swallow a bite of sautéed zucchini and look at her with raised eyebrows. “Mom, you don’t do risk, remember?”

  “Well, this one’s a very calculated risk. I’ve done financial projections across several market scenarios, accounting for climate changes and fluctuating maple production levels, both of which directly impact the tourist industry in Vermont. I also looked at… hey, don’t laugh! It’s still a risk! Anything can happen. It’ll be an adventure.”

  “So… we’re moving to Vermont?” I ask.

  “Not right away,” Mom says. “Not necessarily at all. It’ll take time to get all the right permits to get it zoned and up to code. We’ll need to do some upgrades, which I’m leaving in Jack’s capable hands, and I need to plan my transition from DKI. Rachel needs to work out her catering schedule for the Toronto Film Festival and Sundance before she can commit to dates here. And you need to finish out your senior year at Kennedy and decide what comes next. One day at a time, right?”

  I consider her plan, not surprised that she’s accounted for everything.

  “Besides,” Mom says, “Rachel did our cards, and according to the Eight of Wands, it’s time for some fresh opportunities. Oh—I also got the Ten of Pentacles in my ‘best outcome’ spot. Abundance, family traditions, strong family ties—I thought that was telling.”

  “Absolutely,” Rachel says, pouring us all another round of hibiscus tea. “I also thought it was cool that the Empress appeared in both of our spreads this morning. That means it’s a good time for female creativity, and work ventures will likely lead to material comforts.”

  “Whoa. I want my cards read!” Patrick says.

  “Seriously,” Em says. “You should do lakeside readings for the guests. Um, starting with us.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Rachel says, reaching for Mom’s notebook on the counter behind her.

  Everyone around me is laughing, chatting, passing food, telling stories, eating, forks scraping on mismatched plates, chipped cups clinking together, no more invisible guests for invisible dinners at the big empty table.

  “Okay,” I say over the happy sounds filling the room. “You win, guys. Three Sisters B and B. I’m in.” I spoon another pile of mango chutney over Rachel’s organic grilled seitan. “I just hope next season’s guests aren’t holding out for actual bacon with their breakfast.”

  Mom laughs. “We said one day at a time, Del. We’ll cross the bacon bridge when we get there.”

  After dinner, Mom packs up the rest of her mobile office while Rachel walks Emily back to Luna’s. Everyone promised to come over tomorrow morning to see us off, but tonight is the last I’ll have alone with Patrick before my summer in Red Falls draws to a close.

  Side by side, we walk along the lake shore, watching the turtles and sailboats like we did the first time we saw each other under the bleachers that day. Neither of us wants to acknowledge the good-bye sitting there on the horizon, to ask the questions about when we’ll see each other again. They’re not on our lips, but I know they’re in our minds, both of us silently counting and recounting the hours and the miles between New York and Pennsylvania.

  “I told my father about college,” Patrick says. “He knows I’m going.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He didn’t freak out as much as I expected. He was more upset that I didn’t tell him how I really felt a long time ago. He said that he never meant to push his own dreams on me, and that if I don’t want to work for Reese and Son, he can hire another partner. He actually seemed kind of proud about the college thing. But I know he’s not crazy about the music major. I don’t think he’ll ever be comfortable with the artist gene in our family.”

  “Did he try to talk you into a new major?”

  “Architecture. But only for about thirty seconds. Then he said that as long as I don’t expect him to take the subway or a taxi, or wear a suit, he might possibly perhaps maybe come to one or two of my shows in the city. That is, assuming I find any work.” Patrick laughs.

  I hate thinking about him not being right next door after tomorrow, but picturing him onstage again, even if it’s all the way in New York City, makes me smile.

  “I’m really proud of you,” I say. “For telling your father the truth and for following your heart. Just promise me something, okay?”

  He puts his hand over his heart. “Anything.”

  “Don’t sing that song for anyone else, Patrick. I mean, unless you get a record deal or something. Then I’ll make an exception.”

  Patrick wraps my pinky in his. “If I get a record deal, I’ll fly you down to the studio so I can sing it for you there. Promise.”

  I smile, pulling him closer.

  “So aside from visiting me like every single weekend in New York, what are your plans after Red Falls?” he asks.

  “Plans. Let’s see. Big plans. Well, there’s another exciting year left at Kennedy High.”

  “Senior year,” Patrick says. “The home stretch.”

  “I guess. I’m also thinking of getting a job at a coffee place or something,” I say. “Just a few hours a week. Get some job experience before college.”

  “That sounds cool, but if you’re going to work in a café, you have to promise me something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t let anyone else sing to you.”

  “Oh, no problem.” I hold up my pinky again. “I’m only doing it for the free chocolate hazelnut lattes.”

  Patrick squeezes my hand. “Delilah?” he asks. “What about… are you going to look for your father?”

  My father. I turn to watch a small blue sailboat making its way across the lake, wondering if I’ll ever have the answer to that question. That first night I found out? Yes. I wanted to look for him. I was mad, and I needed someone to scream at. If I had the money, I probably would’ve bought a ticket to L.A. just so I could track him down and stand in front of him and tell him all about it.

  Now, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d really say or do or feel, and I don’t want to. I’m not ready to know him. I’m not ready for him to know me.

  More than that, there’s still Thomas Devlin. And I’m not ready to say good-bye to him.

  I pick up a rock from the path and throw it sideways at the lake, watching it skim the water twice before it disappears. “Honestly, I have no idea what to do about Casey Conroy,” I say. “I’m not ready to think about it yet. I’m keeping Thomas for a little while. Maybe a long while.”

  Patrick smiles.

  “I was just thinking about this story he did on elephant poaching in Africa,” I say. “He basically lived with them on these wildlife preserves where different animal rights groups were working to rescue and treat the elephants wounded by poachers.

  “In the article, he talked about family dynamics in elephant herds. The matriarch builds up a kind of social memory, so the older she is, the more she remembers about the family and the rest of the herd, about which outside elephants are friendly, about where all the best food is, stuff like that. But these older elephants are usually bigger, with bigger tusks, and that’s what poachers go for. When the matriarchs die, all of those memories go with them, and the rest of the herd is kind of lost.”

  We stop to watch a family of turtles scuttling up a rock near the shore. Patrick puts his arm around me.

  “At first, the story kind of reminded me of my grandmother and how everything got so screwed up and lost when we left Red Falls that year. But then I realized something.”

  “What’s that?” Patrick asks.

  “We’re not exactly like the elephants. We have the ability to pass our memories on. We just have to tell them to someone.”

  “All right,” Patrick says. “Here’s one for you. My earliest memory of Red Falls Lake happened right over there.” He points along the shore past the turtles. “I must have been about four. I was playing in the sand when I noticed these tiny silver fish swimming in a shallow pool next to the lake. They looked so spar
kly, like little flashes of light in the water. I remember how much I wanted to see them up close, to see if they would still sparkle in my hand.

  “I tried to grab them, but they were too fast. They kept speeding away whenever I got close. A woman was watching me from the beach, and when she figured out what I was doing, she came over with a red bucket, crouched down next to me, and scooped up the water and the fish so I could get a better look.”

  I lean into him, closing my eyes to envision the story of Little Ricky and his shiny silver fish. The more he talks, the sharper the picture becomes, until finally…

  “Patrick, wait! I totally remember that day! I was there!”

  Patrick smiles. “You know, I tried to write a song about it once—about that moment—but the words kept slipping away, just like the fish. I guess it was only meant for us.”

  “Look at the fire fish,” I whisper. “That’s what she called them. That’s what she said to me.” It’s all there for me now, the old lake stories sailing clear and bright into my mind like they were there all along, waiting for the sun to shine sideways and reveal them swirling and bobbing below the surface like the little silver fish. My grandmother waved me over to peek inside the red pail with Ricky, holding our hands on the shore as she smiled in wonder at the way the fish sparkled like diamonds in the water.

  “See,” Patrick whispers. “You didn’t forget anything.” He pulls me into a kiss, and as his arms close around me, I know that of all my Red Falls memories, this will be my favorite. After we leave tomorrow, no matter what awaits me in Key as Mom and I put the pieces of our lives back together, no matter what I decide to do about my real father, no matter what happens at school, no matter how long it takes to open Three Sisters, I will always come back here. I will close my eyes and smell the summer honeysuckle and feel the setting sun on my face and Patrick’s lips against mine and I will come right back exactly here, back to the turtles and the fish and my grandmother holding our hands, back to this kiss on the best and last night of my second first summer in Red Falls, Vermont.

  “Delilah, I know we haven’t worked out visitation rights for Holden Caulfield yet, but I’ve decided that you should be the official keeper of the family portrait.” Patrick passes me a square of paper from his pocket and I unfold the caricature of us he commissioned at the Sugarbush Festival, studying it until I’ve learned the curve of our smiles and my tears blur the exaggerated lines of Holden Caulfield’s big, beige antlers.

  “I miss you already,” I say, resting my head against his chest. “Thank you for this. And for Holden. And the fish story. And the song. And about a million other—”

  “Delilah,” he says, lifting my chin, “you’re missing it.” He stretches his hand toward the blazing orange and purple sky before us. As we watch the last sliver of sun dip behind the water, he whispers against my lips those words from the lake that night and I memorize them and the smell of his skin and the honey light in his eyes and the fish sparkling in the water and I know that this time, whatever the universe is saying, I’m listening.

  And this time, I’m not going to forget any of it.

  A Q&A with Sarah Ockler, author of Fixing Delilah

  When did you come up with the idea for Fixing Delilah?

  I always knew that I wanted to write about the crazy, ever-changing relationships between mothers and daughters and the way that even the most caring, genuine relationships can get so far off track. I also wanted to explore family secretswhy we keep them, and how deeply they can hurt the ones we seek to protect from the truth. Two of my aunts had recently passed away, and I kept wondering about all of the things we didn’t get the chance to know about them and how, even in death, the bonds between women in a family are so strong. But I didn’t really know how to tie it all together until one night in 2007 when I was driving home from work. I was thinking about the threads of the book when Brandi Carlile’s “The Story” came on the radio. As soon as I heard that song, Delilah and her family came to life in my mind, and I got to work!

  Which character is your favorite in Fixing Delilah?

  I adore Delilah. She’s complex and frustrated and just screaming for her mother’s attention. I can relate to that so muchthat extreme love/hate roller coaster relationship teen girls so often experience with their mothers. But I also have a soft spot for Aunt Rachel. She’s like the coolest cool auntsmart, zany, passionate, loving, persistent, woundedthe best parts of all of my own aunts, mixed in with a good dose of my dear friend Rachel, for whom the character is named. Then there’s Patrick and all that singing and making Delilah laugh. . . . Sigh. This is a hard question!

  Where do you get your ideas?

  EVERYWHERE! Every single person I meet inspires something in my characters, whether it’s a physical quality or a quirk or something she’s said. Every place I visit, job I’ve worked, movie I watch, book I readall of these things inform my fiction. I also read the newspaper for ideaseven the shortest news story can spark an idea for a character or plot point. I’ll start with one or several of these little gems and make the rest up as I go! That’s one of the great things about fiction writing. The seeds of ideas are everywhere, just waiting to be planted and watered and grown into something cool.

  How long have you been writing? Did you always want to be an author?

  I started writing stories and poems back when I was still losing teeth and wearing tank tops without a bra. As for wanting to be an author, sure, that was always the dreambut it was just that. A dream like becoming a princess without royal ties or an astronaut without NASA training. I didn’t think it was possible to become a real author until I was in the midst of completing Twenty Boy Summer, and my husband helped me see the truth: that I am a writer, and that becoming an author is my dream, and the only one who can stop me from achieving it is me.

  In other words, since I was a toddler, and yes.

  Did you go to college to be a writer? Do you think students who want to become writers should major in English or literature?

  I studied communications in college, which has some writing components but not a creative writing focus. I don’t think you need to major in English or a writing-related discipline to become a writer. I definitely recommend taking writing classes, joining a critique group, and reading tons of classic and current literature, but you can do all of those things while majoring in astrophysics or psychology or architecture if you want to. And if there’s something you might love writing about, like history or anthropology or earth science, then yes, you should definitely follow that course of study. But only if you’re really into the subject, because you’re making a pretty big financial, emotional, and time commitment to study something for two to four years, so whatever it is, make sure you really want it!

  What is your favorite part of the writing process?

  I really love coming up with new ideas, because it’s always fun and exciting to work on a fresh and limitless blank page. But I think the part I get most excited about is the revision process, because it’s in revising that the truest core of the story comes through, stripping away the excess to reveal the jewel of a book beneath. At least, that’s the goal of revision, anyway. But whether I’m revising for an early agent draft or alongside an editorial letter, I find that revision is when I finally figure out what the book is really about, and it’s a great moment.

  What’s the most difficult part of the writing process for you?

  Finishing. Seriously. I’m so obsessive, constantly questioning whether I used the right words, said the right things, described everything in a way that perfectly translates what’s in my head to what goes into the readers’ heads. Finishing is scary and painful, and whenever I send a manuscript to my editor, it’s like I have to really talk myself into hitting that send button, even if I know I’ll have another chance to make changes. It’s a long road. The last mile is always the hardest, right? And my second favorite part, on a less philosophical notewriting the synopsis. I might rather have a cavity filled! Argh!
>
  For more Q&A, Sarah invites you to visit her online at www.sarahockler.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The inspiration for Fixing Delilah belongs in part to the women of my family: my late great-grandmother, Florence, and my late grandmothers, Marjorie and Elizabeth, who filled my childhood with memories of the big yellow house on the hill, “Betty’s Boutique,” and a thousand hidden treasures among the old things; my mother, Sharon, who stayed home with us for as long as she could; my aunts, Linda (my sage, tarot-reading OMLFG), Shelly, Connie, Amie, and our beloved angels, Marcy and Sharon, who brought food and laughter; and my beautiful cousins, Joycene, Katie, Kellie, Allie, Haley, and babies Julianna and Kenna, who carry on the stories. I am also indebted to Brandi Carlile, whose music was the muse that brought the Hannaford women to life. “The Story” says it best.

  Though writing is often a lonely endeavor, a great community of people supported Delilah on her journey from these early inspirations to her final place on the bookshelf.

  My editor knew Delilah’s heart from the first draft, and while her quest to make me cry was unsuccessful, her vision for the Hannafords was not. Thank you, Jennifer Hunt, for your wisdom, your trust, and your sense of humor. Because of you and the Little, Brown Books for Young Readers family, including Saho Fujii, Pamela Garfinkel, Amanda Hong, Alvina Ling, Zoe Luderitz, Ames O’Neill, Andrew Smith, Victoria Stapleton, Kate Sullivan, and many others, Delilah is out in the world of books at her absolute best.

  “Sarah, if anyone can do this, it’s you,” Ted Malawer said (as many times as I needed to hear it [and maybe a few more]). Ted, your encouragement, guidance, friendship, and mutual appreciation for dessert have set the gold standard to which all literary agents should aspire.