Rain Village
Page 31
She smiled at me with her crooked teeth, her full lips curving into a bow. “Did you know that stars die, Tessa?” she asked.
“Yes,” I whispered. I reached down to touch her face. I expected to feel her skin, which had always been soft and warm, like bread just out of the oven, and was shocked when my fingers dipped into the water. Her image scattered over the surface, then disappeared.
I stared into the water, barely able to breathe. As the surface stilled again, I sighed with relief, seeing the contours of her face and shoulders and hair returning. Her long coiling hair. Her blue eyes. Her strong shoulders that could hurl themselves over and under the bar, that could propel her body through air, slice right through it.
It took me a second to realize it was not Mary in the water, swaying slightly across the surface, looking out at me, but my own face coming into relief. My own long hair, my own wide blue eyes staring out at me. I looked up frantically, up and down the stretch of the riverbank, but I was all alone, just as I had been before. The only sound was the faint lapping of water, the dull wind fluttering over it.
I looked back at my reflection. What I saw surprised me. There was no shock or disappointment or heartsickness breaking over my face. Instead I looked luminous, even beautiful. Like a streak of light on the water. I thought, suddenly, about my thirteenth birthday. How I had stared into the mirror, my face covered with glitter and Mary standing behind me, and realized, for the first time, that I was almost pretty. Not like Mary but not so unlike her, either. People try to shut out beauty wherever they can in this world, she had said, but it’s a mistake.
The moon shifted again, and I watched my image cloud over. I sat back. Stared at the leaves whirling on the surface, the puffs of mud that seemed to churn up from the bottom of the water.
I sat for what seemed like hours, running my fingers through pebbles and grass. I stared into the river and saw myself swinging over and over the rope, creating circles in the air, twirling and stretching into one gleaming white line. I saw my body arcing through the canvas tent, my starfish hands reaching for the bar. Suddenly I was so homesick for the circus, for Mauro, that I couldn’t see straight. That, I thought, was all mine. The circus, my husband, my family. Flight. That feeling of being unbound, of cutting right through the air. Mary might have given it to me, set me on this path, but it was mine after all.
I stood up and wiped gravel from my hands and clothes. The river seemed to rush in my ears, the smell of flowers and spices swirling around me. In one movement I dropped the ring into the water and watched it disappear. Then I turned back to the woods and began walking.
It was only in Rain Village that I realized my life had a shape to it, one that went beyond the outlines of Mercy Library, beyond Mary Finn and Rain Village, past the imprints my father’s hands had left on my skin.
What was all mine, I thought, was sitting with Mauro under the lemon trees, watching Lollie spread glitter across her skin, listening to José’s bitter denunciations of love and all its follies—those moments were as much a part of me and my story as Mary was and always had been, from the day she’d befriended me outside the courthouse in the center of the town square.
I understood, finally, why Mary had worked so hard to keep the names and numbers straight in Oakley, why she had to take life and pin it down in the lists and charts she kept filed away in bursting cabinets. But I wondered what truth Mary had thought she was recording in all those charts and lists and clippings. Did she record the way a girl’s heart can gape open like a wound when her father comes in from the fields? Or the way the tears streamed down her own face as she fled Rain Village and everything she knew, the blood of her lover on her hands? My name was in those files she kept—Tessa Riley—right next to my father’s name, my mother’s name, and the names of my brothers and sister. But nothing about that name suggested the way my heart broke when Mary Finn died in the river, leaving me alone to my fate.
The train ride home seemed to last for months. I couldn’t stand being away from Mauro another minute. Anxiety gripped me, yet all I could do was sit, staring at the wedding ring gleaming from my finger. Waiting. Praying that he would still want me, that all of them would take me back. I was suspended between lives, as if I had just leapt off the trapeze and toward the catcher’s open hands.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to express my love, gratitude, and eternal devotion to:
Greg Michalson, for guiding me through this process with such grace, intelligence, and generosity, and everyone at Unbridled, especially Fred Ramey, Caitlin Hamilton, and Cary Johnson. Elaine Markson, for believing in me for so long, through so many drafts, and her assistant Gary Johnson, for answering 5000000 emails without calling me a stalker. Paul West, in whose classroom I began this book over a decade ago, for opening up all possibilities of language and imagination to me, and for being an inspiration, then and now. Jennifer Belle, for helping me so thoughtfully with these pages, and for being so supportive in every way, at every point. My parents, Jean and Al Turgeon, and beautiful sister, Catherine Turgeon, for all their love and support, copyediting prowess, and general familial awesomeness. And for forcing all their friends to read this.
Massie Harris, who inspired Mary Finn in all her splendor, for being ferocious, devoted, and brilliant, and for writing teenage diary entries predicting this event. Eric Schnall, for all the Doma sessions and incredibly sensitive, thoughtful, spot-on commentos, which helped me see everything more clearly. Tink Cummins and Anton Strout, the Dorks of the Round Table, for all the support, feedback, advice, strategizing, and cheese-filled dinners—for everything, that is, except the name Dorks of the Round Table. Joi Brozek, for all the writing inspiration as well as general fearlessness, brilliance, and glamour. Brenna Tinkel, for reading draft after draft in two seconds flat and giving much sparkling and brainy advice. Peter Schneeman, for setting me on the right path many, many moons ago.
And: Alfred Triolo, for those Italian stories; Richard Morris, for early support; Jonathon Conant, for trapeze stories; Sangeeta Mehta, for so much help and advice; Christine Duplessis, for going to bat; Rachel Safko, for fighting; Dr. Bernard Bail, for endless patience; and J.D. Howell, for talking to me about Washington. And to my gorgeous friends who saw so many drafts over the years, and even read them—Chelsea Ray, Heather Freeman, Barb Burris, Mark Berman, Rob Horning, James Masland, Erika Merklin, Pete Heitmann, Jacob Littleton, Tony Begnal, Robert Wolf, and everyone else—thank you.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Three
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Acknowledgements