by Swan Huntley
“You collect rocks,” I said to him.
“My mom has this thing about moving rocks around the world. I’ve been doing it forever.”
“Why are you supposed to move rocks around the world?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never asked her.”
After that I started looking for rocks. I’d never looked for a rock in Manhattan before. It never would have occurred to me. I didn’t realize that finding a rock in the city—a real rock, not a piece of concrete, not construction rubble—is actually kind of rare.
•
I remember the day I looked at William and truly thought he was the answer. That with him, my life could be beautiful. I had thought that beauty was in the flashy, pretty things you acquired to prove that you were happy. But a flash is just a flash. It blinds you and then it disappears.
Now I think real beauty might be in all the small and obvious places I had overlooked. Oh, a rock in Manhattan. Oh, an empty street in Manhattan. Oh, my sister and me watching a movie. Oh, the sky. Our lives could be beautiful in the quietest ways, and already were.
52
FEBRUARY 18
I’ve avoided writing in you, journal, because I haven’t been sure how I want to remember this time. If a story is constructed by the evidence it leaves behind, what do I want these little pages to say? Maybe I’m overthinking it. I’ll just try to be honest. That seems like a good goal.
I am so pregnant. I am huge. I am a house. It’s uncomfortable, but I kind of love it, too. I feel less selfish already.
I’m ready to have the baby. Also scared. What if he can’t forgive me for choosing William as his father? He’ll probably hate me for a little while when he’s a teenager and then grow out of it. I hope that’s true. And I guess it could be worse. It’s not like William is an ax murderer. He was just greedy. And so was I, when I stayed with him after I knew who he was, just to get the money. I still can’t believe I did that, and I wonder, if the circumstances had been different, if Dad hadn’t written the no-Stocktons clause in the will, would I be with William now? I might be.
I can’t imagine I would go the lengths that William went for money. Tracking me down, luring me in like that? It was so insane. But maybe if I’d had William’s life, I would have made his choices.
According to my Google searches, the causes of sociopathology are more environmental than genetic, which means the baby will probably be okay. Maybe William wasn’t loved enough as a kid. Maybe he was neglected. Maybe lots of things. I’m still not even sure he was a sociopath. Google confirms they’re hard to spot.
I feel conflicted. I hate his guts, I feel sorry for him, I hate his guts, I feel sorry for him. Sometimes I actually still wonder if he loved me. I really want this to be true because it means the baby was created out of something good.
Caroline thinks the baby will be fine. If she turned out fine, the baby will be fine. “William’s not my real father anyway,” she says. “Dad was my real father, just like Dan will be your baby’s real father. William’s just a sperm donor.” She’s been great at finding the humor in the whole thing. She thinks it’s hilarious that I slept with her sperm donor, in a so-bad-it-has-to-be-funny way. In my more forgiving moments, I think it’s kind of funny, too. Caroline and I are really close now, which I never thought would happen. I think I was right. Disaster brings people together.
Dan. Without the William tornado, I might not have been open to dating Dan. So I guess, okay, maybe I’m glad it happened. I wouldn’t change a thing, because it got me to where I am now. Isn’t that what people have to say when shitty things happen to them? Oh, what a wonderful learning experience! Ha! I think it’s a little too easy, but I see what they mean.
I’ve started listening to violin music. I think I miss hearing the boys play. Even though only Stan is playing now. Dan and I ran into Max and Doreen at the farmers’ market and Max was so excited to tell us his mom had let him switch extracurriculars. He’s learning Chinese now, which Doreen thinks is better for college anyway.
I apologized to Mae for being a bitch. She said she totally understood—she would have been angry, too. I’m still not sure what I think happened that night—did my mother really know I was in the bathroom?—but maybe it doesn’t matter. Mae is supposed to come over for tea sometime. I’ll have to tell her to bring her rock crystals. Dan will probably be into that.
Mom’s hanging in there. That’s what we keep saying. But the truth is she’s getting worse. Last time I saw her, she asked when we were getting on the boat. What boat? Was she thinking of the cruises we used to take? The worst thing about it is that there’s nothing to do but hang in there with her. I’m trying to enjoy her as much as I can while she’s still here.
I’ll end this entry with an ode to my mother. Last night Henry and Susan came for dinner. Dan made a vegetarian feast—quinoa and sweet potatoes and kale—and we had carrot cake for dessert. Oh, and I may have bought two new pairs of shoes today.
C
53
Oliver West was born on April 13 at one o’clock in the morning exactly. It was a Friday. Dan assured me that Friday the thirteenth was just something Americans made up. In Japan the number four is unlucky. All that matters is what you believe matters.
I worried that when they put the baby in my arms, I would feel no connection to him. But it didn’t happen that way. I loved him instantly, and so much. I had become a person who was capable of loving another person. For a long time I thought I was broken, but what does that actually mean? If you’re broken, you can be put back together. I had never been broken. I had just been wandering in the dark, not aware that I was lost.
It’s funny. My life only came together after it blew up. It exploded into all these pieces, and after I realized I hadn’t died from the impact, I put the pieces back together in a slightly different way. I say slightly because I’m still the same person: I shop too much (I’m trying); I don’t eat enough (I’m trying); meditating makes me want to punch someone in the face most of the time. I have, however, taken the subway a few times recently, though I still think it’s gross down there and prefer cabs. The only hope we can have for ourselves, Dan says, is to change by one degree, or maybe two.
•
Oliver is almost six months old now. I’ve lost all the baby weight, thank God. If I’m going to be totally honest, yes, he looks like William. He looks a lot like William. He is devastatingly handsome. He is also a chatty baby. I wonder if William was a chatty baby. It’s impossible not to think of William when I look at Oliver. I hope this gets easier with time.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about the future. I’m still not sure what we plan to tell Oliver about his father, or when. We can’t tell him everything at once—that’s too much for a child to hold. But eventually I do want him to know the whole story.
•
I had always pictured my perfect family like the little pink and blue peg people in the game of Life, moving through the world in set, safe, dry-cleaned moments. I had probably imagined a baby from a commercial, and a kid from a clothing ad, and a college grad with a very white smile, proudly throwing his tasseled hat up in the air.
It took me a long time to understand that what I had wanted was not a picture of something perfect. I already had that. What I had wanted was the feeling inside the pictures, the thing I had been trying to buy and drink and eat and not eat and fake my way to all my life. I wanted what everyone wanted. I wanted love.
Acknowledgments
I am so thankful to all the people who helped me get to the part where I get to thank them in a book.
This probably wouldn’t be happening without my you-can-do-anything parents, and I’d like to thank Mark Huntley, in particular, for letting me take over the ohana many times, for many months at a time. I’m also very grateful to Rich Propper, whose relentless optimism gave me something to float on more than once.
Thank you to the MacDowell Colony and the Ragdale Foundation for the gift of quiet time an
d space.
Thank you to Ashley Nelson, Ann Hood, and the Eckerd College Writers’ Conference.
Thank you to Sterling Watson and Dennis Lehane for being such generous mentors over the years. And to Stacey D’Erasmo: your support has meant the world to me.
This book actually wouldn’t exist without the inspiration of my brilliant editor, Jenny Jackson, who made these pages much more beautiful, nor would it exist without the incredible enthusiasm of Allison Hunter, my wonderful agent.
Last, thank you to the people who’ve read all the versions, from the very beginning. Tasha Tracy, your so-honest feedback and your hilarious way of delivering it made writing this more fun. And Jen Silverman, your clarity and kindness inspire me all the time. Also: this is for us.
A Note About the Author
Swan Huntley earned her MFA from Columbia University. She’s received fellowships from the MacDowell Colony and the Ragdale Foundation. She lives in California and Hawaii.
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