Her thoughts are a jumble of confusion and uncertainty, she turns and runs away.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
Already exhausted, running on an over-extended supply of adrenaline, Mary nears total collapse when she at last reaches the bus station. On a bench outside the gray building, she crumples like a spent marathon runner.
Throughout all her recent ordeals— kissing Nate in the forest, confronting her mother, running away, the encounter with Jordan and his car—she has not cried. Now, she does. She places her head in her hands. Hot, fat tears roll over her fingers and cheeks. Spasms of sobbing shudder through her body. She is completely and utterly weary. The tears take away the last of everything she was holding in.
When the sobbing stops, she sits back, experiencing a moment of welcome relief after the release of her pent-up emotions.
No shadows...
A bus pulls up in front of her, hot and stinking of exhaust. Sitting disheveled and tear-streaked on the bench, she’s aware that she must look deranged, but lacks the strength to care.
Movement catches her eye as a stout, dark-haired teenage boy passes her by.
Nate?
No, the boy isn’t stocky like Nate, he’s heavier, and a bit shorter. His cheeks are flushed red with the exertion of carrying a large knapsack. He stares at her as he walks by. Mary stares back and he diverts his gaze, hurrying into the bus station.
You look crazy
A moment later, she becomes aware of a presence beside her. It’s a girl, but no one she knows. She wears an olive-green army jacket three sizes too big, the cuffs of the sleeves rolled up several times. A small, colorful flag is embroidered on the sleeve. Her hair is dirty and her running shoes are mere steps from complete disintegration – one toe is being held on by a loop of duct tape.
The girl gives Mary a smile that is both broad and sweet. Mary looks away, turning her face to look down at her lap. “Sorry,” she mumbles, wiping her cheeks.
The girl reaches over and places a sympathetic hand on Mary’s back. Too tired to fight it, Mary lets herself take some comfort from this silent girl.
The girl slides closer to Mary, putting a full arm around her. There is no warning voice in Mary’s head, no argument, no shadows. She surprises herself by dropping her head onto the girl’s chest. The girl holds her, stroking her hair, wiping away the tears. So close to the girl’s skin, Mary is aware of her odor, a mix of sweat and dirt and spice. It doesn’t bother her.
The girl holds her until Mary sits up on her own, rubbing her face to remove the last of the tears.
“Thanks,” Mary says, settling back down on her side of the bench. She feels like half of her life has been washed away. The girl stands, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder. Mary is surprised at how short she is, barely breaking five feet. She takes a step toward Mary, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. If Mary had any tears left, they would come from sheer gratitude.
The girl walks toward the open door of a bus preparing to leave. She turns and waves to Mary, who returns the gesture feebly. The girl climbs the few steps into the bus. The door closes behind her, and she disappears from sight. As the bus begins backing out of its dock, Mary spots her through a dusty window. They wave to each other once more as the bus pulls away.
The last bus clears the station of passengers, leaving Mary alone on the bench. She sits silently, staring at the ground, watching the city birds at their ceaseless pecking.
Although completely exhausted in both body and mind, she feels oddly relieved at everything that has happened. She’s almost ready to return home, to talk to her mother, to start something new.
But it’s time to let go of old things
She cups her hands together as if she is holding a precious ball. Her eyes close in concentration. After a moment, she slowly opens her eyes and there, resting in the bowl of her cupped hands, is a miniature version of Inky. The little black shadow-ghost bobs gently, its two blank eyes staring up at Mary’s. Her heart warms at seeing her strange, incomprehensible friend.
You’ve been a good friend Inky, but I’m too old for you now
She closes her hands once again, this time pressing her palms together. When they are reopened, not even a wisp remains.
Goodbye, Inky
She pulls Mrs. Chandrakar’s card out of her pocket, considers calling, but puts it away again.
I’ll talk to her at school. It’s time to make decisions for myself
She stands and stretches.
What now?
Not quite ready to return home, she begins to walk, each step a battle on her stiff and tired legs. As she rounds the corner of a building, she spies the footbridge that she crossed earlier. Its long arch is almost silhouetted by the setting of the sun.
Perfect
CHAPTER
Twenty
Despite the fatigue that permeates her body, Mary treads with confidence. She moves with intent, with a singleness of purpose that would shock anyone who knew her. She can feel things sliding into place, like a key turning smoothly in a lock. Strands of dark hair flow out behind her as she jogs across the road. With a few short steps, she stands at the entryway to the footbridge.
She takes just a moment to survey its length and breadth before starting up the curved incline. She is almost overcome by the feeling that this moment is made just for her, that the cogs of the world have turned to bring her to this place, and this time.
I can do this
No voice opposes the thought.
She is acutely aware of her surroundings: the trees with their turning leaves, the dark river below, the slight breeze. To her left, the sun sets in a hot red band while, to her right, the sky darkens to indigo.
As she reaches the apex of the bridge’s arc, she stops to survey her surroundings, looking down at the river, over to the buildings, up to the trees.
No one is in sight.
All of the effort she has been expending has made her sweat. Shrugging her shoulders, she sheds her brown suede jacket and lets it fall to her feet. The breeze caresses her bare arms, drying the thin layer of moisture that has formed there.
Much better
Just as she has seen Kristyn do, she places both hands palm down on the concrete ledge of the bridge, feeling every grain of sand, every pebble, every mark. With a small hop, she brings her hips up to rest on the ledge. The light of the setting sun warms her face.
Do not be afraid
Holding on tightly, she leans backward, edging her shoulders out above empty space. She closes her eyes and smiles, soaking up the gentle heat. She sits upright once again and lets go her grip, raising her arms slightly, letting the sun strengthen her resolve. She reaches deep inside herself, to the core of her being, to the dark place where the shadows nest.
It’s so easy now
For the first time in her life, she draws them out into the light of day. Soon they appear, not as a series of spineless black forms, but rather as a single, flowing mass, floating before her on the otherwise empty bridge. At her will, the mass transforms into a living sheet of black silk. She brings it toward herself. Beginning at the nape of her neck, then across her shoulders, the shadow cloth flows over her, moving downward over her body, draping her in an undulating ebony gown that draws away the exhaustion from her limbs and spirit.
Her eyes close with effort as she pushes the shadows ever further. The blackness curls outward from her shoulder blades. It swirls behind her, tendrils of smoke threading the air.
And if someone sees?
The spiraling lines of black filigree merge into the form of immense butterfly wings.
Who cares?
When the wings have fully solidified, they unfold, hinging along her spine and spreading wide as a house.
And if they’re not real?
They close again, wavering slightly in the wind while at rest.
They’re real enough for me
Eyes squeezed shut, she thinks of her mother, her fath
er, her friends, and teachers. Of Nate and the silent girl.
Thank you for caring about me
She thinks of emerging from this day as a new person, of her life to come. Strangely, the words of her hated teacher, Mr. Woodrow, come back to her. Would he think this too obvious? Too on-the-nose?
“Fuck him,” she whispers.
She opens her eyes, and her heart warms at the sight of the brilliant pink sunset.
Her powerful wings push against the air.
INTERVIEW WTIH DOUGLAS DAVEY
What gave you the idea to write M in the Abstract?
There was no single source, although I did work backward from the final image of the metamorphosed girl on the bridge. How did she get to be there? Interestingly, the character of Mary began to form while I was working on a different novel, the protagonist of which makes a brief appearance in this book. Mary was supposed to be a minor character in that story, but as I began to flesh out her narrative, I started to fall in love with her. I’ve known a few people like her, people with these deep reserves of emotion that are completely blocked off. It’s hard to keep that much of yourself bottled up for any length of time. Something always gives.
P.S. Two of my biggest loves are comics and music. Check out my Web page for some examples that inspired me: www.douglasdavey.com
Was it challenging to enter into the point of view of your female protagonist?
Not at all, but I suppose it’s up to my female readers to decide how successful I was. I’ve always had plenty of girls and women in my life: I have three sisters (no brothers); I’m a librarian (a predominantly female occupation); and I have lots of female friends. Because I rely heavily on dialogue, I find girls to be much more interesting to write about as they tend to be very expressive with their emotions. When guys complain that girls are a mystery to them, I always think: then you must be one lousy detective.
As for Mary’s general mindset, I can certainly remember times in my life when my thinking resembled hers. ’Nuff said.
What aspects of writing a novel do you most enjoy? Are there parts of it you don’t like?
Writing a novel is like creating an enormous puzzle: this bit foreshadows that bit; a word goes here, which means it can’t go there; this event precedes that event, so the latter must reflect the former, and so on. I wrote it all out of order and enjoyed putting it together. I also love writing dialogue. For me, it’s the most natural way to reveal a character’s true nature. In real life, we have to base our opinions of others on what they say and how they act because we can never truly know what they’re feeling inside. I tried to bring all of my characters’ truths out in the words they say, even if those words were lies. When I was writing Mary’s dialogue, external or internal, I always imagined a certain person I know saying the lines. Would my friend ever say that? If not, it had to be rewritten.
I enjoy all elements of writing, although the editing process that follows can be arduous, especially if, like me, you are a naturally anxious person. Imagine that you’re the proud parent of a new baby and someone says, “Your baby’s kind of funny-looking.” Editing is like that. It’s hard work, and it’s sometimes hard to hear, but it’s all worth it in the end. I was lucky to have the fabulous Kathy Stinson guiding me through the process.
Which scene was most fun for you to write? Which was the most difficult?
I enjoyed describing the setting and striking of the stage, so to speak. Any scene with Kristyn and Cammy was a blast to write. They’re so full of that tense energy that only teenagers have. The chapter where you first meet them is extra long in order to convey what must seem to Mary to be a marathon of human exposure. Plus, I was having too much fun to stop. Much of Kristyn and Cammy’s dialogue is a pastiche of conversations I remember having when I was younger. As a teen, I spent a lot of time broke and wandering around the downtown area of different cities. You meet a lot of interesting – occasionally terrifying – people that way. I’ve had some memorable conversations while waiting for the bus to come.
I wrote the first and final scenes very early on so that I’d know where I was coming from and what I was working toward. I enjoyed them because they let me get into some really magical, descriptive language.
Any scene with Mary and her mother was a challenge. I needed to keep their interactions very much grounded in reality and not let Mary’s mother become a cartoon. At times, their relationship is so strained that it was quite painful to write. It was like inviting friends over and then treating them terribly.
Water and flying are recurring motifs in the novel. How conscious of them were you as you wrote it? Did you set out to put them there or did you discover them there as you worked?
Flying was there from the start; water came shortly thereafter. To me, flying represents freedom and change. Water can too represent freedom and change, but, depending on the situation, it can also be used to create a feeling of turbulence or stagnation. Mary is in the process of emerging from her past, growing up, and finding out who she wants to be. I tried to make her exterior world reflect the fluidity of her interior life.
Other motifs developed as I was writing. For example, at some point I realized that I had begun to subconsciously assign specific colors to certain characters. I then went back and integrated significant colors into all of the major characters. Nate, for instance, always wears red. Mary’s mother is always in blue. Mrs. Chandrakar wears bold colors and lots of jewelry, making her, in some ways, the opposite of Mary. Still, the two aren’t without their similarities. I’d like to think that they could have been friends if they were classmates together.
There are more, but I’ll let the readers discover them.
Why do you feel that a character like M is important to present in a book for teens?
Most female protagonists are spunky. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with that. Readers (and authors) love strong, heroic characters. But what about that withdrawn girl who doesn’t speak to anyone? What’s going on in her life? In my experience, there’s always more to everyone than there seems to be. I understand why fragile, shy characters are rare – they’re harder to write and probably harder to read. But I do love a challenge, as long as that challenge doesn’t involved heavy lifting.
Why did you choose to leave some questions unanswered?
To my way of thinking (which, admittedly, is a tad off-kilter), all of the major choices are made, which is enough for me. It’s true that some questions don’t get completely resolved, but I chose to keep them that way so that the reader would experience Mary’s own sense of unknowing. And besides, life doesn’t always give you closure. Everyone has things they wish they could have said or done but, for one reason or another, were never able to. What do you do with your regrets? That becomes the real question.
You never state which town M lives in. Was that intentional?
Yes, very much so. I wanted the town to be generic enough that a reader could imagine what it looks like without being biased by any preexisting ideas. That being said, I’ve lived in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, for over twenty years and, in the interests of keeping my geography straight, Mary’s town is laid out on top of my own. I’m sad to say that, unlike the city in the book, all of my used record stores closed years ago. Tragic.
Having successfully completed your first novel, what advice would you give to young writers about to embark on such an undertaking?
Well, I’m new at this, but I guess my first suggestion is to write, write, write. Even if you don’t know what you’re going to write, the very act of putting pen to paper or hitting the keyboard will take you somewhere. It doesn’t hurt to read, read, read, either.
My second suggestion is to describe your story in as few words as possible. This will help you get to the essence of your idea. It doesn’t matter how long the story is, you can always break it down. Here’s The Lord of the Rings in twenty words: “A diverse group of heroes struggles against impossible odds to destroy a dangerous, magical ring and defea
t an evil sorcerer.” Whittling a story down to its essence will force you to consider if everything you’ve written serves to further the central idea. If not, you’ve got work to do.
My third and final suggestion is to share and edit your work. It doesn’t matter how embarrassed you are by your writing, at some point, you have to have the intestinal fortitude to put it out there. Once you get it back, you have to be ready to accept your readers’ comments, even if what they have to say is painful. That’s how you make your story better. Once you’ve got your comments, you’re ready to edit, which, for me, is like exercise: I don’t want to do it, but I know that I should, so I drag myself up to my laptop and get working.
Occasionally.
Copyright © 2013 Douglas Davey
eBook Copyright © 2014 Douglas Davey
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Published in Canada by Red Deer Press, A Fitzhenry & Whiteside Company
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Published in the United States by Red Deer Press,
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Edited for the Press by Kathy Stinson
Cover and text design by Daniel Choi
Cover image courtesy of iStockphoto
We acknowledge with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
M in the Abstract Page 13