“No, no.” He grips the back of my neck. His fingers are hard and reassuring, keeping me from putting distance between us. “I’m just glad you’re alive. That’s all. You’re not a bad person. Please don’t think that.”
“But I lied to you. And the transcription is important.” My hands creep up his sides, around his back, to his shoulders. “Writing and college and doing what you love. That’s important.”
He squeezes me, hard. We fall against my car and sink to the ground.
“Not as important as your life.” He sniffs again, loud, then sits back and lets me go. I rock toward him, then force myself to sit back too. Wallace uses his shirt collar to wipe his face. “Dammit, I’m going to poke my eyes out, I’m shaking so hard.”
I laugh, just a little, because even though I still feel like a shitty person and an even shittier friend, I’m shaking too. It’s a constant tremor from nerves held taut for so long, and it radiates from the base of my skull out through the rest of my body.
“Were you really going home?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Please don’t come back here.”
I nod. I don’t want to. I won’t.
Wallace grabs my hand and holds it with both of his against his stomach. Closes his eyes. His palms are rough where he fell on the pavement. “I was so scared.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” Wallace hulks when he sits with his head bowed like this, and his hands dwarf mine. Thick hands, thick wrists, thick arms. Every part of him shivers with guilt, and so does every part of me. There are no rights and wrongs between us anymore. At least, I hope there aren’t.
“Wallace.”
He looks up.
“I want to be happy,” I say.
“Me too,” he says.
We sit in silence for several long minutes, until we both stop shaking. I stand and tug him with me, but with his weight it’s more like me leaning into air until he picks himself up. He hugs me again, softer this time.
He watches me get in my car and head toward home. I wake up to Sully tossing an envelope at my face.
Sunlight streams through my bedroom window. Davy lies on my feet. Sully leaves the door open, letting in the sounds of Mom and Dad and Church moving around downstairs. On the front of the envelope is my address, and a return address that’s just a P.O. Box with no name. The handwriting is flowing script in heavy ink. I pry open the flap and pull out a note written on thick parchment.
I know whose signature will be at the bottom before my eyes ever get there, but it doesn’t make it any less unbelievable.
Dear Eliza,
Thank you so much for your letter. I don’t often write letters, and it has been some time since I’ve corresponded with someone outside a five-mile radius of my home, so excuse me if any of this comes off as strange.
I should start by saying you are not pathetic. I don’t know you, yet I know that by no stretch of the imagination are you pathetic. Most people aren’t, and only think they are. Knocking yourself out on a cafeteria table does not make you pathetic. (Though I’m certain it couldn’t have made you feel very well.)
Being exposed to the public is certainly difficult enough without also being in high school. And being a teen girl, no less. I was a teen girl in high school once, and I do not remember it fondly. My sister loved high school. I didn’t have her knack for navigating schoolwork, extracurriculars, and social circles, often all at once. I never begrudged her this, though, because I was able to escape into my writing.
I feel this may not have been the case for you. My popularity didn’t come until later in life, when I was well settled and hadn’t thought about school for many years. Yours has been with you all this time; from what I’ve gathered in the few news articles I’ve had relayed to me, you’ve been working on this story for most of your time in high school. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to keep that secret while sharing this part of your heart with so many people.
Creating art is a lonely task, which is why we introverts revel in it, but when we have fans looming over us, it becomes loneliness of a different sort. We become caged animals watched by zoo-goers, expected to perform lest the crowd grow bored or angry. It’s not always bad. Sometimes we do well, and the cage feels more like a pedestal.
I hope I haven’t scared you off with this zoo metaphor. I didn’t expect it to turn as sour as it did. This is part of the reason I never finished Children of Hypnos—at the time I felt as if my writing was going through a shift, and I feared the fifth and final book wouldn’t sound like the others. I was afraid my fans would notice and hate it. I was afraid they would never buy another one of my books. That was ultimately what stopped me from continuing: fear. Fear drove away my motivation and love for the story.
I believe what you have to ask yourself, if you truly want to finish what you started, is why did you stop? Was it fear? Pure apathy? Or something else? I’m afraid I can’t answer this question for you, but I can tell you that if it’s because of something inside you, if there isn’t someone in the physical world holding a knife to your throat and threatening your death if you continue to write, then you can work through it. Whatever this is, it will pass. My fear of the reaction to the fifth Children of Hypnos book has been gone for several years now, and every few weeks my interest in it rekindles. The small flame in my chest flickers for a few hours, waiting for more firewood. If I feed it, the interest continues. If I starve it, the interest wanes.
If you want the motivation back, you must feed it. Feed it everything. Books, television, movies, paintings, stage plays, real-life experience. Sometimes feeding simply means working, working through nonmotivation, working even when you hate it.
We create art for many reasons—wealth, fame, love, admiration—but I find the one thing that produces the best results is desire. When you want the thing you’re creating, the beauty of it will shine through, even if the details aren’t all in order. Desire is the fuel of creators, and when we have that, motivation will come in its wake.
I lost the desire to create Children of Hypnos. I could do it still; I could write the final book. But it wouldn’t be as good as it once was, my fans wouldn’t be happy with it, and I would truly feel that I had let them and myself down. I would rather they speculate ceaselessly on the end than have a poor ending they didn’t deserve. More importantly, a poor ending I didn’t deserve—the younger me who created this story originally, who had a love for it I’m only starting to recover.
I hope you don’t lose your desire to create Monstrous Sea. It sounds like a wonderful story.
Much hope,
Olivia Kane
P.S. Truth be told, I don’t mind answering this question. Children of Hypnos may not have an ending that its fans can read, but I did have one in mind while writing it. I think we always do, somewhere in our heads, even if we don’t seriously consider them. Like life, what gives a story its meaning is the fact that it ends. Our stories have lives of their own—and it’s up to us to make them mean something.
Monstrous Sea Private Message
10:58 a.m. (MurkerLurker has joined the message)
MirkerLurker: So…
MirkerLurker: Anyone home?
10:51 a.m. (Apocalypse_Cow has joined the message)
Apocalypse_Cow: the prodigal daughter returns. sorry we weren’t around yesterday—was everything okay? we started to get worried.
Apocalypse_Cow: I mean, who was emmy going to watch Dog Days with?
MirkerLurker: Ha
MirkerLurker: No, I’m okay. I was trying to stay away from the internet.
MirkerLurker: And I wanted to say sorry for disappearing for so long.
MirkerLurker: And also thank you for everything you guys did for me when the news broke.
Apocalypse_Cow: no need to apologize. i would’ve done the same thing. no one needs that much attention on themselves, especially if they’ve been anonymous for so long.
Apocalypse_Cow: an
d you’re welcome—i do deserve much praise for my honorable actions in the eliza mirk scandal operation. perhaps a promotion to god overlord of the forums, and a statue of myself made of solid gold.
10:58 a.m. (emmersmacks has joined the message)
emmersmacks: E!!!!!
emmersmacks: YOURE BACK!!!!!!!
MirkerLurker: Hey, Em.
emmersmacks: HOW HAVE YOU BEEN???
emmersmacks: ARE YOU OKAY???
MirkerLurker: Yeah, not bad. Mostly staying away from the internet.
emmersmacks: People have been loving the Monstrous Sea pages
emmersmacks: They say youre not coming back to finish them
Apocalypse_Cow: seriously though, em. keep your mouth shut.
Apocalypse_Cow: you don’t have to finish them if you don’t want to, e. you don’t have to do anything just because those brats on the forums tell you to.
MirkerLurker: They’re not brats, though, they’re fans. They’re the only reason all of this exists. I have to try to finish it for them, right?
Apocalypse_Cow: no.
emmersmacks: I mean I want to see the end
emmersmacks: But if its going to make you sad then I dont want you to do it
MirkerLurker: Whatever, I didn’t come here to talk about Monstrous Sea anyway. What have you two been doing? And Max, don’t say something stupid like eating Twizzlers. I haven’t sent you any Twizzlers lately and I know the only Twizzlers you eat are mine.
MirkerLurker: Em, did you finish school?
emmersmacks: Yes!!
emmersmacks: Got a 92 in that Calc class
emmersmacks: Suck it Professor Teller
Apocalypse_Cow: she actually said that to him too.
MirkerLurker: You didn’t.
MirkerLurker: Tell me you did.
emmersmacks: I might have
emmersmacks: What they dont tell you about college is how good it feels to stick it to dickhead teachers
Apocalypse_Cow: i’d give you an a+ just for that alone.
emmersmacks: Thank you
emmersmacks: Ooh ooh!!!
emmersmacks: But Max got back together with Heather!!!
MirkerLurker: Really?
Apocalypse_Cow: yeah, it’s weird. I don’t know if you guys knew this, but your loved ones appreciate it when you, like, spend time with them in person. it’s this new thing I’ve been trying out for the past month or two.
Apocalypse_Cow: works pretty well, actually.
Apocalypse_Cow: but she also plays world of warcraft with me three nights a week, so take from that what you will.
MirkerLurker: Ah, that makes me happy! I’m glad you’re back together.
Apocalypse_Cow: how about you and mr. wallace?
Apocalypse_Cow: how’d he feel when he found out who you are?
MirkerLurker: I don’t want to talk about Wallace, if that’s okay.
MirkerLurker: Mostly I got on here to say how much I love you both. You do so much for me. I don’t say that enough.
Apocalypse_Cow: no need to get sappy on us, e.
emmersmacks: You dont have to say it
MirkerLurker: Yeah, I do. I don’t talk to you for weeks and you still let me come back. You always have time for my problems but I never make time for yours. I didn’t know anything was wrong with Max and Heather at first, and I wasn’t even around when Emmy put her teacher in his place.
MirkerLurker: I’m really sorry, you guys.
Apocalypse_Cow: you better stop that, or i’m gonna cry.
Apocalypse_Cow: and if i’m about to cry, what will poor emmy do?
Apocalypse_Cow: she’s only twelve, for goodness’ sake.
emmersmacks: IM NOT TWELVE
emmersmacks: Im fifteen now
On the day of her departure, Faren stayed awake with her. Neither of them spoke. When the crows outside began croaking—the signal of the early hours, since it was the winter months and the sun wouldn’t rise for some time—they both pulled themselves out of bed and got dressed. During their breakfast of watery oatmeal, the alarm Amity had been given vibrated against the table, signaling that Sato would arrive shortly. The two of them stared at it. Amity set down her spoon. Her stomach had gone suddenly hollow.
Amity didn’t want to meet Sato inside the house. She didn’t want any excuse to have to invite him in, or stay here longer than necessary, so she went out to the stone courtyard and sat on one of the low benches there, surrounded by the blackwood trees, with a clear view of the path up the cliffside. Innumerable crows flocked in the trees around her, blackening her surroundings.
Faren disappeared into the house for a minute and returned with one of his chart papers. It was one of the small ones, the brown sheet creased with age; folded up, it fit neatly in his palm. He sat beside her on the bench and took her hand to press the thick paper into it.
“I know White said you wouldn’t need anything, but I thought this might help.”
She unfolded the paper. On it was an unfamiliar constellation. “Did you make this one up?”
He shook his head. “This is one of the Unnamed.”
She turned the paper around to look at it from different angles. It had no particular shape; nothing jumped out at her. The Nocturnians divided constellations into two types: their own, and everyone else’s. Theirs had names like Faren and Gyurhei; the others went Unnamed, because Nocturnians couldn’t claim them. Amity had never quite understood—didn’t you have to know what a constellation was before you could even call it a constellation? If it was some other culture’s constellation, how could you know that without having spoken to them? But the Nocturnians knew.
“Why’d you draw this one?” she asked
“Because this one is yours.” He took the paper and righted it in her hands. There was no correct direction for constellations, but at the bottom of the paper he’d scrawled AMITY. “I found it a few years ago. Before the Watcher. Amity isn’t its proper name, of course. I don’t know what it is. I wish I could tell you. But I thought . . . for this one, we could make an exception.”
She looked again at the picture. “This is . . . you found my name in a constellation?” It was easy for Nocturnians to do, because they were named after the stars. But for her to be linked to one of the Unnamed . . . did that mean she came from whatever culture that particular constellation belonged to? If she could find out what it meant, where it came from, would she know where she came from too?
He had found her in a constellation.
She flung her arms around his neck. The pressure in her chest shut out all other feelings. He locked himself around her, one hand fisting in her hair. His lips pressed to her neck.
“I’ll come back,” she said. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
CHAPTER 43
I take Davy for walks every day. I sit on park benches and listen to birds sing. I watch my brothers’ summer soccer conditioning. I help my parents with chores around the house, because as it turns out, Mom’s clothes-folding yoga is actually really relaxing. Especially when combined with my new anxiety medication.
My therapist calls it a summer of discovery, and the first thing I discover is that I like being outside. In parks, in the woods, at lakesides, out in the country by cornfields. Wallace takes me to this place where his dad used to play football, a big open field in the middle of nowhere, edged by trees. There are no nearby roads or highways, and no electrical structures. The silence is so absolute it’s eerie. I fall in love with it instantly.
Two months pass, and I think of Wellhouse Turn maybe every other day. The thought is still there, but the seriousness of it comes and goes.
I only go back on one of the nonserious days, and only with Wallace. We stand at the top of the hill, next to the cross and the offerings. I move the rock I put there months ago; in exchange, Wallace leaves the football jersey that once hung on his wall. WARLAND 73, shivering on the cross in a gentle summer breeze.
Wallace starts going to his own therapist. He doesn’t tell me
much about the visits other than the exercises he’s supposed to do to get himself talking in front of strangers. He must talk to this therapist about his dad, and everything he told me in his email, but we don’t talk about it, and I think that’s okay. Instead we talk about the fact that he’s going to college in the fall for business, with a minor in creative writing. We talk about how we’re going to see each other while he’s gone. And we talk about the new chapters he gives me of an original story of his he’s been thinking about for a while.
We go to see his friends. He’s talked to them plenty since the news came out, but I haven’t. Megan, as I suspected, is the most understanding. Leece is just excited to know me. Chandra takes a bit to warm up, then gets flustered that I’ve seen her artwork. Cole takes the longest. We sit at our table at Murphy’s, and he spends most of the first hour watching Wallace. When Wallace doesn’t kick me out of the building, Cole glances at me and says, “So. Yeah. I guess this is pretty cool.”
I don’t know if they can be my friends too, after all this, but I hope they can.
Wallace convinces my brothers to start playing football with him in the afternoons. Mom and Dad join in, because they’re Mom and Dad, and any form of physical exertion is a small form of happiness. It’s strange, at first, to watch them play and realize for the first time that they do it for fun. This isn’t a punishment for them, and it’s not a way to pass the time. It makes them happy the same way drawing made me happy.
It’s strangest with Wallace, because it’s one thing to hear that he loves playing football, another thing to see it. And he’s good at it too, which seems unfair. How can one person be so good at two drastically different things? How does he have enough love for both football and writing? But with him it seems there is no limit, that it’s not a matter of picking and choosing, that he draws no lines between his sport and his art.
They get some of the neighborhood kids to play, and after a while they have a weekly thing going. One day in August, I walk Davy past the open lot where they play and hear Wallace yelling across the field.
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