Wider than the Sky

by Katherine Rothschild

  My mom took the sketch I’d gotten out of my backpack. “Charlie. Look at this.” She handed him the drawing. “They spent a lot of time on this.”

  “I like this. A lot . . . but . . .” Charlie scratched his neck. “Where would I live?”

  “What about renovating the attic?” I asked, thinking of a Swiss Family Robinson–type apartment. “It has great views, just like the apartment. And there’s a bathroom.”

  Charlie gave a frustrated sigh. “I could never leave the apartment that Mick and I built together; you know how special that place was to us—”

  “We gave up a lot to be here,” Mom said. “And so far, we’re the ones who have made the most sacrifices. The girls left the only home they’ve known.” She turned and gave me and Blythe proud smiles. “I need you to think about Mick. He never imagined we would live here. Or that his children would need something to remember him by.”

  I wanted to say, Yeah, Charlie, but I remembered my dad’s arbitration rules. “And if you’re in the main house, you’ll literally be living inside of Dad’s dream. You’ll be part of it.” I bit my lip.

  Charlie gave me an appraising look. “But the plans will have to be redrawn, and the architect was expensive—”

  “I just got a new client. Mr. Cade,” Mom said, then Maryann Interiors took over talking. “He knows everyone in Thornewood, and he’s willing to recommend my services to some wealthy Historic District families so I don’t need to keep flying back to Orange County to make money. I’ll be here more to help, and I’ll have more money to put toward new plans.”

  Charlie lifted his hands in surrender. “Well . . .” He looked from me to Blythe and back to me. Then he smiled a rueful little Southern smile. “I do love the idea of a garden memorial.”

  That’s how, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, Kai, Nate, Blythe, Emma, Kai’s brother Keanu, Mom, Charlie, and I watched as the Mission Project volunteers came in like a swarm, dropping off slabs of stone, bags of dirt, and dozens of plants in little black buckets. They unloaded all the one-gallon plants into a staging area, tilted out burlap-wrapped maples, and hauled the bluestone and gravel to the circle. Then they left us with instructions and a dozen pairs of gardening gloves, and were gone.

  “We have our work cut out for us!” Charlie pulled on his gloves, and he and Keanu got to work moving the stone. Kai and I looked over my plan, deciding what should happen next. When we’d given everyone else jobs, we got shovels and began digging holes for the trees.

  Kai looked at my drawing again. “You know, there’s a landscape architecture major at UC Davis.” He grinned at me. “I’ll go for premed. You go for architecture.”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “Design sounds good.” I tapped a splatter of mud off my boots and gave him a significant look. “But I’m not sure outdoor work is for me.” I loved a garden, but what I really wanted, I’d realized as Emma and I worked on Blythe’s Emily dress, was to design, like Emma. Or, maybe, like me. He laughed, looking at my attempt to wear gardening-ish clothes (knee-high boots, matching tights, and a short minidress with long sleeves under a short red jacket.) The gardening gloves ruined the look, but every time I took them off, Kai handed them back to me. I stepped in close to him now. “I do like the idea of being with you, though.”

  He smiled, his eyes lighting over my face. “Good,” he said, and pressed a kiss to my temple before stepping on his shovel to push it into the damp ground.

  I walked around to check everyone’s progress. As I did, I could hear my dad’s voice reminding me of plant names and of which plants did well in what types of light. His gardening gloves might not be on the kitchen counter, but he was here.

  My mom patted down lavender plants, and Blythe pushed mulch over all the uncovered surfaces. Nate mostly whistled. Then, underneath the willow, Charlie and Keanu set the last bluestone. Charlie called me and Blythe over.

  “Let’s chalk out his name,” he said. I waited for Blythe to join me, and we chose where his name would go. I chalked it out, and Blythe added fancy lettering. Everyone was quiet. Even the birdcall faded.

  “I’ll have the engraver come in the morning. He’ll mark Mick’s name here,” Charlie said. “For us to remember.”

  Kai came to my side and took my hand. I stepped back and looked up at the willow tree. The branches swayed, dizzying me. I closed my eyes, imagining my dad standing in this exact spot. I’d never know what he was thinking then, in that moment, on that day, but I knew him. I’d always known him, and I always would. My heart felt like it was opening, breathing. My heart felt wider than anything I could imagine.

  So this was what forgiveness felt like. It was a little like flying. I felt a pull in my chest, and when I opened my eyes, there went my hope bird flying up and up, until it was just a happy yellow speck against the clearing sky.

  Acknowledgments

  It has taken a medium-size village to bring this book into the world. Everyone I thank here played a role in giving me the confidence to share my story. I’ll begin at the beginning—with gratitude for women writers who were strong and brave enough to share their words with the world before I could. It was love of books that led me to love writing, and to apply to the undergraduate creative writing program at University of California at Irvine. UCI is where I began to gather the confidence I would need as a writer.

  My first thank you is to my writing teachers. From Mr. Rasmussen in high school to my instructors at UC Irvine, you have all given me confidence in my words. A big thank you to Geoff Wolff, my creative writing teacher at UCI, who told me to go to graduate school for writing. Without your support I would not have had the confidence to go, and meet the amazing Brenda Hillman, Carol Beran, John Fleming, Lou Berney, and Lynn Freed, who all took turns helping my confidence grow. In graduate school, I grew close to the woman who would become my writing buddy, my champion, and a friend through all things, Jennifer Chambliss Bertman. When it seemed like I would never figure out the book I was working on, she sent me Sarah Dessen’s The Truth About Forever, and I realized I wanted to write young adult. I thank her still for the subtle hint. Jenn, thank you for all your support, but mostly for your belief in my writing. Each time you encouraged me, my confidence grew.

  I wrote over many years, but it wasn’t until I joined a critique group that I truly gained the confidence I needed to share my work with a wider audience. Thank you to the original members of that group and particularly Corina Vacco and Sally Engelfried. You two have been the core of my writing community for so many years. Corina, I have you to thank for a place at your dining room table and a place in your heart. And Sally, there are no words for our journey. I knew we’d be in this together from the first time we met. And thank you to my current critique group, the Panama Math & Science Club: Stacy Stokes, Lisa Ramee, Lydia Steinauer, Sally Engelfried, and Rose Haynes. Thank you for your wise insight, your editorial eyes, your snarky comments, your predilection for wine, and for giving me the confidence to send my first book into the world. And when I faltered in my confidence, a wider community of writers supported me, including my teen reader, Ellie Ryan. Thank you to the Society for Children’s Book Authors and Illustrators (SCBWI), Better Books, and the Vermont Studio Center for all supporting my writing financially. And thank you to Darcey Rosenblatt and Lisa Schulman—if you two hadn’t staged an intervention, I might never have sent another query.

  When I did find an agent, I could not possibly have chosen a better one. My agent never gave up on me, never doubted me, and never allowed me to doubt myself. Rena Rossner, you are truly a gift in my life, and I thank you: sun, moon, and stars. Thank you, too, to Kathleen Caldwell of A Great Good Place for Books in Oakland, California, for supporting this little book and keeping the faith always, and to Misa Siguro, Jandy Nelson, and Nina LaCour for supporting my work with your wisdom and kind words.

  Many editors encourage their writers to think about their manuscripts in new ways, but my e
ditor allowed me to try on his eyes and look at my manuscript in a way I never could have alone. Dan Ehrenhaft, thank you for lending me your gaze; it has made this book everything I hoped it might be. Your patience, kindness, and shrewd vision will be with me always. Thank you also to the entire amazing and endearing Soho Teen team, and in particular Rachel Kowal, Paul Oliver, Alexa Wejko, Monica White, copyeditor Janet Rosenberg, and Bronwen Hruska. And thank you to my cover designer, the incredible Helen Crawford-White, for a stunning vision of the fictional Magnolia Street.

  First and last, then, now, and always: thank you to my family for their support. Thank you to my mom for modeling dedication to words and writing, thank you to Rebecca for reading all my drafts and catching all my typos and texting late at night to remind me that everything will be okay, thank you to my young daughters for understanding when mommy has to go away to write, and thank you to my husband. Blake, thank you for listening to me read my work, and with every listening showing me how important my voice is. Thank you for always lending me your confidence when mine goes missing. I love you always.

  And finally, the journey ends with a book in someone’s hands.

  So, my last thank you is to you—thank you, my readers!