Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  From far away I hear my voice. “Mommy?”

  She nods and extends the infant to me. I take in the soft rise of gold of the child’s hair, the crevice of her neck, the curve of her bottom, the thick folds along her thighs, her eyes and mouth and fat belly. If only I could touch them in this watery dream. “My baby.”

  “Clara,” my mother says. The euphoria within me passes when an older woman appears beside them. “You remember your grandmother, don’t you?”

  I do, of course I do. When she looks to me, my grandmother begins to cry. At first I assume they’re simple tears, but then I see their rigidity, the way they catch and twinkle in the light. They’re hypnotic, mesmerizing the way fire is. Captured within each tear is an ocean of regret.

  “What’s happening?” I want it to stop. My grandmother appears stripped raw and I want to look away, but I can’t.

  “Now she knows your pain,” my mother says.

  When I look into my grandmother’s face I remember, I don’t want to, but I do. What it was like to live in her house, how it felt to be a child who was nothing more than a pustule. I do remember.

  “Make her stop,” I say.

  But my mother simply shakes her head, taking my daughter from me. “I can’t.”

  My grandmother, with her ragged face and swollen eyes, becomes hypnotic, pulling me into a swirl of light and blackness, sucking me deep into her vortex. She shows me the horrors of her life, how she came to be the woman I knew. In the next instant, we’re back beside my mother and daughter in this blissful field. I can hear the river again. Over there, a canopy of magnolia blossoms shades a man leaning against its trunk. Though his back is toward me, I notice he’s nearly the same width as the tree, and tall. When he turns, I know him, I almost do. I’m sure I know him. I start to ask my mother, but my grandmother is still bowed over. “Please, forgive me—”

  “Only if you can,” my mother says, swaying with the baby against her.

  I think back to my childhood of welts and bruises. If only I had known my grandmother came to me at night and caressed my head. How she longed to love me.

  “I forgive you.” Once the words are out, I feel something hard in my chest. It pushes, scraping my insides as it works itself up and out. It’s in my mouth and I spit it into my palm. A black stone with a razor’s edge, so heavy both of my arms strain to hold it.

  “Let it go,” my mother says. “It will only weigh you down.”

  When I drop it, the rock becomes a white puff, a seedling. A warm breeze flows through me and I feel another empty corner of myself fill. In an instant the seedling is carried away. I watch it lurch and sway on the breeze until it plunges into the river, finding its place among the many colors. It glows purely white a moment and then it’s gone, carried off by the rush of water.

  When my grandmother turns to me, her face is clear, free of the strain and grief and bitterness. “Clara.”

  I start to answer, but something sharp tucks into my side and I gasp instead. And then it’s gone.

  “Mother, can we go now?” I have everything I need. Almost. Almost will have to do; it always has.

  She shakes her head. Under the arbor of magnolia branches, alongside that man (I know him) is a queue of hundreds. Most stand, their arms filled with flowers. My mother leads the way, the baby still in her arms, my grandmother beside them. I follow. Together we approach the others, and when we’re close enough I recognize the individual faces within the crowd. I know them all. Another gasp of air fills my insides, catching me off balance, and I reach to steady myself on my grandmother’s arm.

  The first in line is a young girl with loose blond curls. She bounces forward and I recognize her delicate mouth and cornflower blue eyes. Even for three Mary Katherine was tiny when she died. She hands me a bouquet of chamomile (nobility in adversity), kisses my cheek, and then skips away.

  More yet, their faces kind and eager. Soon I’m standing on an island of flowers, dense and fragrant. None wither. They’re given to me by Brooks and Tommy, Juan and Martha, Greg and Melanie. Flowers stretch for miles across the fields, climbing the trees and trailing still farther until they claim the stars and dot the ocean. All are entwined. Another burst of air flows through me, so much so that I remember what it is to feel real pain. I inhale deeply and when I do, I’m taken with the fragrances that surround us. I can smell again.

  There’s a woman whom I knew both in life and in death, and then after again in the photo Mike kept on his desk. Though Jenny’s extending her flowers, alstroemeria, I think I should ask for her forgiveness, for Mike. But I’m not sorry. Jenny nearly touches my arm. “You love him, you miss him.”

  How can I? Here I have everyone beside me. Nearly so. Here there’s no fear, only twinges of phantom pain, and mostly comfort. But I nod—I do miss him. I know Jenny loved him without regret. I wish I could say the same.

  Another burst of air whips down my throat, expanding and then contracting, knocking me down hard. I roll a bit, a cramp forming deep within my core. Lying on my belly, weak, my vision wavering, I see him, the man who’s been standing under the magnolia tree all the while. He walks toward me, his huge lumbering self. Even here he exudes a warmth the others find irresistible. They retreat, though, and my vision narrows to only him.

  I can barely lift my cheek from the ground with the terrible pain settling into my chest and shoulder, sharp and heavy. He stands over me and I want to touch him, but it’s as if a wall of glass lies between us.

  “Clara,” he says.

  All I can feel is a yearning, a need to hold his hand, to crawl into his lap and lay my head against him. Burrow myself a niche there the way a child would, my nose pressed into the musk of him, knowing he’ll keep me safe: I’ll take care of you. He told me he would. Yet I didn’t believe.

  When I twist my head to see Linus more clearly, I feel each wring of my ligaments, every vertebra bend and crack. I hold on to the pain, wallow in it, blinded, and when I see again, there’s a girl standing beside him.

  Trecie. She steps between Linus and me, and I understand now. I finally know.

  “Linus,” I say, and he lifts me to my feet.

  Trecie tugs on my arm and points to the fields of wildflowers beyond this one. “Like your house.”

  Then she bends and I feel a tickle against my ankles and along my calves. She pulls some flowers free, but they grow too thick to leave a bare patch. She hands a bunch to me.

  “I waited for you.” Her voice is muffled, her face buried within my side. Such a lovely dream.

  “Waited?”

  She tilts her chin to meet my eyes. “We’re finally here.”

  I weave my fingers through her hair, still I try to give her comfort. I start to speak, but it’s as if my mouth is smothered, something pushing itself into it and inside of me, and then lightning explodes along my side.

  “Are we dead?” I ask Linus.

  A terrific shudder overtakes me and in an instant I’m returned to my basement workspace. My vision is blurred, but over there are the tools strewn about, the book of flowers now against the far wall next to Ryan, who’s shifted. And above me, Mike. I can smell the formaldehyde and hairspray, the blood. Ryan’s and mine. I taste my own. I taste Mike, too. There’s a whoosh from deep within when he releases the contents of his lungs into my mouth. He’s pressing his lips against mine, the breath that he took forced into me. One-two-three, I hear him count it out; every second’s an hour. His fear is mine. He places his hands, fingers laced one over the other, onto my heart, but he doesn’t bother to count. Instead the sounds coming from him are guttural, primal, until there’s clarity, Breathe, Clara! Through his touch, I feel the give of my chest, the slackness of my mouth, and the power of his willing me to live. I feel everything. This I know is real.

  A hurricane blows within, and I’m gone from him, back to this beautiful dream, to Linus and Trecie. We’re in an infinite field of sweetssmelling asphodels, in the distance, the river. There’s nothing else, no one else.
When I right myself, a throb begins to form in my shoulder and along my side. It’s almost enough to distract me from this moment.

  “He’s calling you back,” Linus says. “He’s working real hard to save you. You’re going to have to make a choice. Not much time left, not much at all.”

  “I don’t want to leave you again, but . . .” The ache in my shoulder, running the length of my side, is ablaze.

  Linus lowers his voice until it’s soft and rolling, thunder on the horizon. “Clara, you’re dead. Problem is you never lived. All those flowers . . . what have you ever allowed to take root?”

  I look at Trecie.

  “True, you tried.” He places a hand on Trecie’s shoulder. “It happens sometimes. It’s a terrible thing, naturally, but on occasion some get lost along the way. Maybe they’re just stuck in that netherworld waiting on someone, or on some kind of justice. With Trecie here, it was a little bit of both, wasn’t it?”

  She nods, her eyes meeting mine. I don’t understand what he’s saying. She shifts toward me, pressing her head against my waist. I can feel her.

  “Trecie?” I say, pulling her closer.

  “No one was ever that nice to me,” she says. “You tucked me in with all those pretty flowers. I didn’t want to leave you. You loved me.”

  Suddenly her arms are filled with daisies, stems straining into buds, then unfolding into blossoms. Trecie keeps her head low against my belly. My own hands fall there. I already know what I’ll find, but still I seek it. When I push the hair back, the hair that had once been shorn away, it’s there: a perfect pink star.

  “Precious,” I say. “Precious Doe.”

  Another gust, but this time it’s as if Mike’s lips are pressed to mine. I can no longer see Linus and Trecie, this place. I feel only Mike, his breath inside of me, the pressure of his hands against my heart.

  The river is somehow closer now. I’ve crossed the field without moving and now I’m here, lying on its banks, too tired, too pained to raise myself. The others have come with me. My mother stands above me, holding my baby tantalizingly close, my grandmother by her side, Thuy, too. And there’s Linus, Trecie beside him, her hand tucked into his great one. I can no longer see the others.

  My mother kneels beside me and I remember how it was, what it was to be adored.

  “Please,” she whispers. My daughter strains toward me and I reach for her, but her skin is slick.

  Now Trecie, too. Her hand in mine, but it’s too heavy to hold.

  The sound of wind rushing within me is so great, I barely hear Linus say, “It’s time to decide, Clara.”

  My toe dips into the river—it’s terribly cold and yet it tugs at me. It slams against its banks, and contained inside the roar I hear something else, a voice, Mike’s. It’s calling to me, pleading. The pain within my shoulder and side is dulled, replaced by a greater ache. I want him. “I want to live.”

  Linus sets Trecie down beside me. She whispers to me—I can’t hear her, but I know what she says. Then Linus spreads his palm against the expanse of my head. “Ah, and you didn’t have a chance to meet my boy. Next time.”

  His fingers, the only warmth left, push me then. My body starts to slip into the river and before the current jerks me under and away, I see Linus standing there, tossing in a bouquet of irises.

  I’m whipped by a fierce current, knocked against the sandy floor. There’s the smack of the river’s bottom against my skull, it’s ice moving through my veins. All at once I need to breathe, but can’t. The pressure inside my chest explodes against my lungs. Pain is everywhere. I’m carried along deeper, faster, and I’m so very, very cold.

  I try to grab the bank, but instead I touch the arm of a man rushing past me. He smiles just before the current whips him around a bend. There are more people all around me, each being whisked along his own route.

  The sound of water pounds within me, it pushes and jerks. Crashing. A flash of brilliant light and then I smash against something hard.

  From nearby I hear Mike, let us take over.

  We’re losing her, a different voice calls.

  Another, Still no pulse.

  Then one I know whispers in my ear. “Don’t leave me.”

  It’s as if I’m lost in a well, its blackness enveloping me. Straining toward the surface there’s light, a blurring of colors and figures, the tang of blood and the nasal-prick of alcohol. Every limb burns, the bag that covers my mouth and nose pierces me with air, the hands that crush again and again against my chest, the jab in the bend of my elbow; leaden pain.

  It’s almost too much until I hear Mike’s voice again. “Come back to me.”

  It’s soft and pleading, fearful and true. I want to hold fast to that sound, tuck myself into it and bind my life to its promise. His hands are at my temples, caressing my skin with long smooth strokes, his lips against my ear. He is with me. He is with me.

  “Clara . . .”

  A word, a single word imbued with a tone, an earnestness that implies everything.

  And so I choose to breathe.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Though the commonly held perception is that the writer’s life is a solitary one, I don’t imagine that’s quite possible. My own journey has provided me with touchstones and rocks, those who’ve inspired—either knowingly or not—and those who’ve supported me every step along the path.

  To the members of The Writers’ Group: Lynne Griffin, Lisa Marnell, and Hannah Roveto—extraordinary writers all. None of this would ever have happened without each of you. You are my boulders.

  My uncle Richard D. MacKinnon, funeral director of MacKinnon Funeral Home in Whitman, Massachusetts; Boston firefighter; and a man of unwavering faith and honor. You make me believe.

  Marshfield Police Detective Steve Marcolini, an honest-to-God hero, who lent his experience working on the front lines combating child predators.

  Officer Michael MacKinnon, who instructed me in every facet of police work and shared some stories of his own. Not only are you the kind of big brother a sister dreams of, you’ve dedicated your life to protecting the rest of our community.

  To Brockton Police Officer Al Gazerro for sharing his expertise about the department. Each member of your force is a credit to the great city of Brockton.

  Scott Murray, whose work with children helped to shape this story.

  Every writer should have the bedrock of a writing community and mine is found in Boston’s only independent writing center, Grub Street. Special thanks go to Eve Bridburg, Chris Castellani, Whitney Scharer, Sonya Larson, and some of the instructors who’ve astonished me: Arthur Golden, Hallie Ephron, Lara JK Wilson, Michael Lowenthal, and Scott Heim.

  Years ago, when I assumed writing a book was a quixotic chore, I heard Jonathan Franzen on Terry Gross’s Fresh Air say that writing The Corrections counted as among the happiest days of his life. Unwittingly, both encouraged me to try, and that very day I started. Edith Pearlman’s Self-Reliance inspired me to be bold, and Susan Landry taught me by example how to write. Thank you.

  To every editor who ever gave me a chance, especially Clara Germani, Beverly Beckham, Dr. Danielle Ofri, JoAnn Fitzpatrick, Sarah Snyder, Irene Driscoll, Linda Shepherd, Viki Merrick, Jay Allison, and Cathy Hoang.

  To those who pointed me in the right direction when I thought I’d lost my way: Heather Grant Murray, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Kristy Kiernan, Gail Konop Baker, Michelle L’Italien Harris, Julie Zydel, and my high school English teacher, Roberta Erickson.

  And to the greatest agent a writer could want, Emma Sweeney. Thank you for not giving up on me even when I considered giving up on myself.

  My editor, Sally Kim, is both brilliant and humble, capable of coaxing out the best from every story. Words are not enough.

  Years ago, I interviewed my publisher, Shaye Areheart, for a story that never ran. Though she doesn’t recall it, I never forgot. It is quite literally a dream come true to work with you, but to have the support of the entire SAB and Crown team is m
ore than even I imagined. Thanks to each of you.

  My UK editor, Sara O’Keeffe, offered such wonderful insight and suggestions that made for a better story. Many thanks.

  Every child should have parents like Robert and Mary MacKinnon. Thanks for giving me the greatest gifts a child could ever hope for, unconditional love and support.

  To my beloved children, Alex, Ian, and Devon Crittenden, for the gifts of time, patience, and love. As much as you believe in me, I believe in you a thousand times more.

  And, finally, to my husband, my love, Jules. You were right.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  1. In the opening pages of chapter 1, Clara Marsh prepares the body of an old woman. Before reading this, had you given much thought to how a body is prepared for burial? How has the novel changed your ideas about how we treat the dead? Has it affected your choices (e.g. burial versus cremation)?

  2. Clara buries each body with a flower carefully selected to represent the life of the deceased. It binds Clara to the dead, revealing something of the life each lived, but does it say more about her? How so?

  3. When we first meet Trecie, she could be many things: a wayward girl from the neighborhood, a manifestation of Clara’s own self as a child, a ghost, or Clara’s doll, Patrice, as metaphor. Who did you think Trecie was? How did that evolve as you read the book?

  4. In chapter 4, Clara reveals one of the secrets she’s kept from Mike: Precious Doe’s birthmark. Why didn’t she notify him when she first discovered it? Is the death of his wife just an excuse she tells herself to justify her inaction? What do you make of Trecie spying on the wake and Linus’s exasperation with Clara for not offering to help the child?

  5. In chapter 6, Officer Ryan O’Leary is revealed as a somewhat conflicted character. He offers to care for the orphaned dog, Peanut, yet eats the dead man’s food. He jokes about Mr. Kelly watching the movies, but lunges to turn it off when he sees how it affects Clara. What did you first think of Officer O’Leary? How did your perception of him change as you continued reading the novel?