I wake up and reach for my journal, but it’s not there. My face is dry and hot, eyes gritty, and my whole body hurts. I sit up, panicked, searching the room for something to help me understand the sob lodged in my chest. My journal is half-open on the floor and I breathe out, relieved. It must have fallen during the night. I pick it up, hoping it will explain this prickling sensation that makes my hands shake when I press them into my stomach. Already I see a line in my journal that resonates somewhere deep inside me. You lost the baby. I close the journal, squeeze my eyes shut. I remember this. Don’t I? In the tunnel, when the headache was so bad I couldn’t see, even then I knew I was going to lose her. When I open my eyes, I see a sticky note on the cover of the journal. My heart beats painfully because the writing is mine but jagged, with lines pressed deep into the paper. And the words make my eyes blur. Mirabelle lived. Mirabelle lived. The journal falls from my hands, and when I look up, I see my whiteboard is filled with my mother’s handwriting.
Your father (who died last year) wanted us to all be together. He was tired of waiting for you to be ready. I live here and I’m sober. Tate and his daughter, Maree, live here too. Maree is your daughter, Claire. She is Mirabelle and Mirabelle lived but you couldn’t remember.
It’s so much information at once. My father is dead. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around my shins, and rock, trying to connect the dots, resisting a strong desire to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. My mother is sober. Tate lives here. And my daughter, Tate’s daughter, Mirabelle, is alive. A fluttering deep inside me gives rise to a surge of hope. My heart aches for it to be true at the same time that I want to pick up the eraser and wipe the board clean. She lived?
There’s a photo album beside your bed. Look at the pictures and come out when you’re ready. You can do this, Claire. You’re stronger than you know. Love, Mom
The first picture is one of me, facing to the side, rounded belly protruding away from my body. In my father’s handwriting, the caption reads, Claire, 8 months pregnant. My eyes prick with tears because this I do remember, and my hand involuntarily rubs what is now flat and empty. There’s another picture of me and Sefina, standing on what I think is Shotgun Cove Road in snowshoes, my belly straining against my winter coat, and a caption: Claire, still on her snowshoes, 9 months pregnant. I almost smile. It was a cold day, and I was so out of breath and heavy with the baby that I couldn’t go very fast, and Sefina made a big deal about beating me to the end of the trail. There are a few more pictures of me pregnant, and then come ones that are from after, ones of me with a baby. I can’t feel my hands and my face is frozen, but I keep flipping the pages and my heart presses against my ribs. Claire and Mirabelle at the hospital. I lay on a hospital bed, tiny baby resting in a bassinet beside the bed, her brown hair clinging to her tiny head in gentle curls, thumb stuck securely in her small mouth. A baby, Mirabelle. It’s not possible. I glance at my journal, flip to a page worn thin from time and use. I had a seizure. My baby died. I press my arms into my stomach, try to ignore the way I hurt from wanting it to all be true.
Tears slip from my eyes, burn my cheeks. I turn the page to find another photo of Tate holding the baby in a front carrier out by the water. I’m in a chair, mouth twisted as if I’m in pain, Dad beside me with a fishing pole. The sky is a perfect blue, and the water reflects its entire canvas. I cover my mouth, shocked at the listless expression on my face, my empty stare at the camera. My hands shake when I turn the page to find another picture of Mirabelle lying across Tate’s chest, asleep, and the camera captures only the side of his face because he’s staring down at her. I swallow hard, touch the picture. I start flipping the pages faster. Find another one of me kissing her chubby, perfect cheek while she stares at the camera with her big dark-blue eyes. There are more pictures, mostly of Tate and the baby, who grows into a beautiful little, brown-haired girl. The photos make it real and a fairy tale at the same time. And it hurts so damn bad. A thousand bee stings. What happened? I hit the bed with one fist. I want to remember. I want to remember. I want to remember.
There’s a sticky note on the last page of the album with my mother’s handwriting. Your baby lived, Claire. You asked Tate to raise her away from you. Her name is Maree and she lives in Whittier with Tate. She doesn’t know that you’re her mother yet, but she already adores you. Look through the other photo album. Maree made it.
I open it to pictures of me and a little girl in cat-eye glasses too big for her small heart-shaped face. I touch her face in the picture, longing to remember, and notice a strong resemblance to my mom: dark-blue eyes, wavy hair, a little dimple in her chin just like Dad’s. Nose like Tate’s. Sorrow sticks to my insides, regret clamps on to my heart, making the air in my bedroom stuffy, claustrophobic.
A sticky note on the last page of the album. When you’re ready, we’re waiting for you in the living room. Love, Mom
I hold the albums to my chest, breathe in, and open the bedroom door. Ruth is at my table. Tate and Mom are on the kitchen stools. Ruth starts to speak. “Alice and Tate both live here—”
I hold up a hand to stop her, look at Tate—tall, handsome. My Tate. “My baby lived?”
He nods.
The strength leaves my legs, and I sink into the couch to keep from falling. I open the album and point to a picture of me and a baby. “What happened?” I croak.
They let Ruth answer. “Mirabelle lived, Claire. They were able to save her, but you couldn’t remember her. It upset you every time to learn that, and eventually you asked Tate to raise her without you.” Ruth looks at me, and it’s in that strong way of hers. The kind that is a beacon of light in the middle of a raging storm. “We tried to convince you otherwise, but it was your decision. You loved her so much. You did what you thought was right for her.”
The room spins. I point to the album that Maree made for me. “But she’s here now and I know her.” I have to swallow because suddenly I’ve lost my voice, and in a hoarse whisper I add, “And she knows me?”
Tate kneels in front of me, takes my hands in his own, and he is the Tate I remember—older, but with the same kindness that deepens his green eyes. “She doesn’t know who you are, Claire, but she’s g . . . g-rown to love you anyway. As the person you are right n . . . n-ow, memory loss and all.”
“She doesn’t know I’m her mother?”
Mom takes a seat on one side of me, Ruth on the other, and Tate kneeling in front of me. “Not yet,” he says. “I w . . . w-anted to . . .” His mouth forms an O and I wait. Finally, he says, “I hoped to find the right time.” He smiles. “But Maree got to you first.”
I flip through the albums again and again, over and over, wishing I could burn the images into my mind, knowing it’s a futile wish. My heart grows, pushes against my chest until it fills me with a paralyzing longing for what I can never get back. I stare at a picture of Maree and me by the reindeer. She tilts her head into mine, big grin on her face. My smile is wide and real, and I can see the happy moment reflected in our eyes. “You were everything I wanted,” I whisper to the girl in the photo. “Why would I have ever given you up?”
Mom brings my face up with her finger until our eyes lock. Her gaze is steady. “You did it because you love her, Claire. But you’re ready to be her mother. It’s time. Your father knew it, I know it; Tate, Ruth, even sweet Maree knows it on some level. Now you have to believe it.”
“How?” I cry. “How can I be a good mother like this? How can I be anything more than I am now?”
“That’s the thing, honey,” Mom says. “You don’t need to be more. You just need to be you.”
I notice Tate has pulled out a tablet and is typing away, Ruth is writing on note cards—Maree is your daughter. Maree is your daughter. She scatters them around the apartment like a flower girl.
Their efforts start a tingling in my body and my heart thumps faster. “But how will I remember her, Mom?”
Her face softens and she takes my hands into her own. Th
ey are soft and warm, and I am six years old and she is the mom I always wanted. “You’ll remember with our help, Claire. We can all be your memory.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Claire, July, one year later
Summer arrives quietly to Whittier, in bits and pieces—a budding leaf here, a wildflower there—until it’s an explosion of new life. The harbor is bustling with activity today. Cruise ships and fishing boats crowd the water while people mill around town, overrun the parking lots. The port is busy with tourists who come to stare at our odd little town and wonder how anyone would ever want to live in one building in the middle of nowhere.
I smile and turn from the window, allowing my attention to drift to the buzzing phone. Time to wake up your daughter, Maree.
I stare at the screen, a hand to my cheek, breathing in this knowledge that I have a daughter. It drifts inside me like a feather, tickles my brain, until it lands in a pile of similar feathers, and I am left feeling that this information is not new, even if my heart nearly explodes at the idea of it.
But that’s okay. I could read this kind of news for the first time every single day of my life.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up, nearly falling out of my chair at the man who smiles down at me. Tate. His black hair is short, with fine bits of gray winding around his temples, and his eyes are that same deep green that makes me weak in the knees.
“G . . . g-ood morning, beautiful,” he says and sets a steaming cup of coffee on the tiled coaster on my desk.
“Hi, Tate,” I say. A blush heats the tips of my ears. I nervously touch my hair. Have I showered today? I look down to find I’m still wearing pajamas, wish I’d thought to put something nice on, and squirm in my seat, embarrassed by a sudden rush of teenage-like hormones.
“Relax,” he says, and leans down, kisses me on the lips, and while it feels new and exhilarating, he kisses me with a comfortableness that must mean he does this quite often. He breaks away but keeps his face close to mine. He smells like pine trees and coffee beans. “We got married this past winter. It was a perfect Alaskan day, gray and foggy, with so much snow we couldn’t make it to the reception, so we held it here. You were stunning and our daughter spilled all the flower petals before she made it down the aisle. It was perfect.” He hands me a tablet and it’s scrolling through pictures that I can guess are from our wedding. Me in a long white dress standing next to a dark-haired girl who looks like a combination of my mother and Tate. He kisses me once more before going into the kitchen, and I hear the sizzle of eggs frying, smell bacon in the air. I press a hand to my cheek, feel my stomach doing cartwheels. I’m married to Tate.
More pictures slide by, and I sip my coffee and watch. There are pictures of me with Mom on a boat with a caption that reads, Claire and Alice on a fishing expedition. I smile. She’s sober now. Another of me and Tate and Maree standing at the top of Portage Pass Trail. The pictures scroll on and I watch, enjoying every one that shows a full life. Even if I can’t recall the details, I think I feel them in the warmth that radiates through my body.
A hand touches my shoulder, squeezes gently. I look up, smile. It’s Tate from the pictures. My husband. He hands me a note card. “Maree likes for you to wake her up every morning.” The handwriting on the card is even but slightly messy in that familiar kid kind of way. Hi Mom, please wake me up. This is Maree your daughter I love you. I stand in front of a closed bedroom door, with the card pressed against my chest, and I smile and breathe in this new life of mine.
I knock and, with my heart in my throat, push open the door.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A few years ago, I watched a documentary on the town of Whittier, and I was struck not by the remoteness of its location, or the harsh weather, or the oddness of a town under one roof, but by a comment from a community member: “We don’t always love each other, we don’t always get along, but when something awful happens, everyone is going to be there to help you.” I thought that was such a poignant reminder that beauty and kindness are found everywhere, even and especially in unlikely places and people.
I couldn’t wait to set a story in a town like Whittier.
But this story of love and loss, addiction and recovery, failure and forgiveness would not have happened without the insight of the many people who took the time to speak with me, answer my questions, or be my own personal tour guide. And it is to them and to so many others who are integral parts of the book-writing process that I want to extend my sincere thanks.
To the people of Whittier, especially Anna and Dave, who opened their home, invited me to meals and morning hikes, and made sure I was introduced to everything Whittier, including a late night at the Anchor. Thanks to Theresa for being the first to welcome me to town before I drove through the tunnel for my first time, and Victor, Millie, Becca, and Mathias for your willingness to share your experiences. And thank you to Beverly for singing my favorite song, and to June for a lovely stay at your bed-and-breakfast, where I was treated to stunning views. I tried to maintain as much accuracy as I could in regard to location, weather, environment, and historical data regarding Whittier, but I have taken artistic license in creating a select few fictional locations. I hope you all enjoy the view of Whittier through the eyes of my characters and the lens of this story.
To Dr. Melissa Duff, associate professor in the Department for Hearing and Speech Sciences at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, and to Dr. Nicole Licking and Dr. Veena Mathad for taking the time to answer my questions regarding Claire both over email and phone. It was very important to me that Claire’s experience with the world of memory and memory loss was as authentic as possible for someone with anterograde amnesia. Thank you, Dr. Duff, for your work with people who experience this kind of challenge and for the empathy you made sure I brought in developing Claire’s character. I hope I got the job done.
To my editor, Chris Werner, who saw what was special about Claire from the very first draft and believed her story was worth telling, even if I still had a few rounds to get there. And to my agent, Jessica Faust, for your optimism, expertise, and honesty and, as always, for your support of writers at all stages of the craft. To the deeply talented Tiffany Yates Martin for yet again walking beside me on the editing journey and deftly guiding this story to levels beyond my expectations. And to Gabe Dumpit, Laura Barrett, Rachel Norfleet, Kellie Osborne, and the entire Lake Union team for shepherding this book to publication. You make it look so easy.
And to all my early readers and critique partners, who see my writing and storytelling at its absolute ugliest, but whose honesty I depend on to create a better story: Sara Miller, Mary Johnson and Elizabeth Richards, Christi Moffat, Nicole Hackett, Taryn Young, Matt Adams, Mindy Pellegrino, Sarah Chase, and Denise Boeding. And to Emery Archer for sharing your love of music and guitar know-how with me.
And to the people who let me live in a made-up world, obsess over characters, travel to far-flung destinations, and love and support me every step of the way—my family. Mom and Dad, for making me believe I could do whatever I set my mind to. Ella, Keira, and Sawyer: my life is infinitely richer because of you. And finally, to Sean, my heart, my best friend, the man who makes me coffee every morning: you are the perfect partner to this wild adventure.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2018 Eric Weber Studios
Melissa Payne is the bestselling author of The Secrets of Lost Stones. For as long as she can remember, Melissa has been telling stories in one form or another—from high school newspaper articles to a graduate thesis to blogging about marriage and motherhood. But she first learned the real importance of storytelling when she worked for a residential and day treatment center for abused and neglected children. There she wrote speeches and letters to raise funds for the children. The truth in those stories was piercing and painful and written to invoke in the reader a call to action: to give, to help, to make a difference. Melissa’s love of writing and sharing stories in all forms has endured. She lives i
n the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with her husband and three children, a friendly mutt, a very loud cat, and the occasional bear. For more information, visit www.melissapayneauthor.com.
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