What's Become of Her

by Deb Caletti

  And more, more, more! Oh, Isabelle, you beauty! You fellow seeker of shelter and justice! Police say that two bloody towels were found in an initial search of the house, as well as a trail of dried blood on the floor. Investigation is ongoing. She recently sold her business, and only that day deposited a large sum into his account! He just bought a boat! The rest of her funds are unaccounted for…

  Nevermore, Mr. Marvelous.

  It’s a heyday.

  It’s the last word.

  Weary likes to imagine that winged heart of Virginia’s, at peace at last. He needs to get to the airport, but before he leaves, he kneels by his bed. He folds his hands. He says a prayer for Virginia. And he says a prayer for Isabelle, too, that she may be happy here, that she may feel the glory that safety gives. Dear God, he prays, with his little religious soul. Please.

  What can you do? He went to Catholic school! It will never leave him. Weary believes that Catholics are like alcoholics. You can stop partaking, but you’ll always be one.

  He loves God, and life, and rightness and goodness. He feels utterly heady. Today, he will finally meet Isabelle, at long last. The professor has filled the tank of his Jeep for the ride to the airport. He has tidied his home. He has put fresh Amborella trichopoda in the guest room where she’ll stay until they find her a place of her own. The creamy white, delicate flowers are endemic to New Caledonia. But more important, they bloom on the longest branch of the oldest tree, the first plant to ever flower.

  Professor Weary has also made a dessert. His kitchen still smells warm and sweet from the baking fruit. Everyone loves his special peach tart. The fabulous, satisfying scent makes him think of his favorite news report yet, a video, one he has watched and watched again, because he still loves, loves, loves the Internet. It’s Henry North, being hustled into a squad car. He is hunched, hurrying away from judging eyes. Quite clearly, you can hear him say, They framed me! But the most lovely part of this video is what comes next. The way the clip cuts to the news anchor, who quite clearly smirks. Her mouth goes up ever so slightly in the corner. Her eyes don’t roll, but they don’t have to. Framed? Uh-huh. Right, her face says.

  What must Henry feel now, knowing that Sarah is alive somewhere, and Isabelle, too? What must he feel, understanding that they have finally and successfully avenged Virginia’s murder? Well, what did Poe say, about old Fortunato? A wrong is unredressed until the avenger makes himself felt to him who had done the wrong. At long last, Weary can sleep like a baby.

  Flight is a mystery and a miracle. Did it evolve when small dinosaurs went from trees to the ground, or from the ground up to the trees? No one knows. Only Archaepteryx, first bird, original bird, 150 million years ago, might have an answer. There are the scientific principles involved: the shape of the wing, the strength of the breast, the thrust and swim against air currents. There is the pressing down and the pressing against.

  But, too, there is the simple beauty of the act. The impossibility of it. In a flock, there is a strength, endurance. There is a sense of purpose. There is will. They cross over the earth, going from where they began to somewhere else. It’s survival; it’s majestic. So light in feather, so hollow of bone, so small in a huge sky, and yet: They rise.

  Chapter 37

  She is not Grande Terre’s Corvus moneduloides, or the Northwest’s Corvus caurinus. But she is flying. She is Isabelle Austen, on United Airlines flight 272 to Nouméa. No. She is Katherine Wiley, flying United Airlines flight 272 to Nouméa. Flight says, you can leave whenever you’re in danger, whenever you need to be better fed, whenever you just plain wish. Flight says, you can change direction, with your own muscle and desire.

  Her seat is in the upright position, and all carry-ons have been stowed, because they are about to land. God, she’s nervous. It’s like she’s had six cups of coffee. Even after this long trip, she’s awake as a newborn at some wrong, early hour.

  Now, as the old man in his zipped sweatshirt and athletic shoes rouses from sleep beside her, she thinks of her father, running away from home. She is like him, she understands. She is someone who has a too-soft step, who’s had to learn about anger. She is someone who reaches the end of tolerance with sudden finality and swiftness and totality, someone who flees, for worse or for better. But she is like her mother, too. She is fierce, a force, full of rage, full of determination.

  She is the fusion of both. Fight and flight. From here on out, she’ll have to claim the messy whole, and she’ll have to fight for the messy whole. She’ll hold her kindness close and wield it; she’ll hold her anger close and wield it. See that woman, the one in the next row who clutches the armrest as the plane’s wheels hit and screech on the runway? See her grip? That’s how hard Isabelle will have to hold both father and mother, both the girl on the toy box and the woman who says Fuck you.

  Oh, she can hear the chorus now. Forgive all the injustices against you! Let go of your anger!

  She can hear her own voice, clearly, though. Nope. Uh-uh. No way. Anger is necessary, and don’t you forget it.

  She has such a small bag in the overhead bin, and a new purse, tucked under the seat. She bustles and shoves with the rest. Out the row of tiny airplane windows, there are palm trees swaying. The door is lifted. They walk down the steps onto the tarmac. Heat hits, the surprise of a new climate.

  She waits in the customs line, with her heart galloping. But the officer only glances at her and then at her photo on the passport. He stamps the blank page with a decisive ca-shunk.

  The airport is small, and only a few people wait there for the new arrivals. Even if the crowd were large, though, Isabelle would know her. Even with her gray hair pulled back, even with no makeup and cargo shorts and a man’s summer shirt, Isabelle would recognize the face she’s seen so many times in photos and news stories.

  “Sarah,” Isabelle whispers, as they embrace.

  “Isabelle.”

  When they separate, Isabelle is surprised and touched to see that the professor’s eyes are wet with tears.

  “Welcome home,” Sarah says.

  They ride in her Jeep. Professor M. Weary’s Jeep. The professor is talkative. He’s way more animated and cheerful than Isabelle expected. Way more joyful than she’d been led to believe. It’s the chatter and glee and caw-caw-caw of a Corvus reunion, but Isabelle doesn’t know that yet. She has no idea. Not a clue. It’d be easy, if you could read the future, but then you’d miss all the surprises and delightful discoveries: a corvid, sliding down a roof for the sheer fun of it, a corvid, dropping a stone on a predator’s head, a corvid, waving a stick to get a friend’s attention.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” the professor says again.

  “And you.”

  The top of the Jeep is off, and there’s a small splatter of rain. It’s not the cold, slanted downpour of the Northwest; it’s a warm drizzle, with a soft touchdown. They pass a pastel-colored city and curved beaches. They take a rough road that leads up a lush mountain. Isabelle stares at Sarah’s profile. She can’t stop staring. The professor is so familiar, yet not. His story is Isabelle’s own, yet not.

  It feels like she could tell the story a thousand times, and it wouldn’t be enough. “I was so scared,” Isabelle says.

  The face that turns to look at her is all Sarah’s face. “I know.”

  “I’m having a strange sense of unreality.”

  “You will. You will for a while. Fear does that. Flight, too.”

  “Then what?”

  “You land. You realize you landed safely. You realize your wings are trusty after all.”

  “I have no idea what to do next.”

  Around them are banyans and coconuts and palms whispering in a breeze. Not whispering: the birds. They click and twitter and sing and shout, and it sounds like every bird in the world, including Corvus moneduloides, has gathered there to speak their mind about the state of the world. Isabelle reaches a hand out from the moving Jeep, and it brushes against a vibrant red frond.

 
“This jungle?” the professor says. “It looks pretty much like it did sixty million years ago. Right there? That’s a giant tree fern, a species that’s been on earth so long it’s survived every mass extinction. You have time, Isabelle. To catch your breath. To figure out what you want. You have all the time in the world.”

  “Maybe I’ll stay right here. Look at this place.”

  The professor smiles. “I love it here. I love this life. Now, I wouldn’t go back if I could.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a little house. Maybe I’ll travel…”

  The Jeep strains up, up that road. The professor presses the clutch and shifts, looks over at Isabelle in the passenger seat. “Maybe you’ll never have to hear another fucking line of a fucking Poe poem as long as you live.”

  They laugh. God, they laugh so hard. Isabelle could ride like this forever, with the beauty stretching to infinity, with the rain falling like an elixir. But she can tell their destination is not far off. There is the sense of a clearing, a widening road, a larger expanse above. In another slow and bumpy mile or two, they’ll reach the professor’s compound, with its welcoming wood shutters and blue-tiled pool.

  It smells like paradise out there. Isabelle is still off-balance, both excited and exhausted from the trip, but she feels something else, too. Something indefinable. A small shift. It’s close to rest, but not quite rest. It’s relief, maybe, the kind that may one day grow into a true sense of safety and gratitude. But right now, it’s just a triangle of light; the same kind that comes when it’s night and a door is opened a little.

  Isabelle exhales. And what a fine thing it is, she realizes. An exhale like that is worth fighting for.

  The Jeep jostles forward. The professor is chattering again. Flight says, you can brave the tumult of the upper atmosphere. Flight says, the view from above will transform you. Isabelle tilts her chin. She lets the warm rain fall on her face as overhead, a bird calls to another bird, and the palm trees swish, and the sky pours riches.

  For my family

  Acknowledgments

  A big debt of gratitude and deepest affection goes to Ben Camardi, for this one, our fourteenth book together. Much heartfelt thanks, too, to my editor, Shauna Summers, whose talent, support, and friendship are appreciated beyond words. I am a lucky writer indeed to have you in my corner. Also, gratitude to the team behind the book: Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Jennifer Hershey, Catherine Mikula, the unfailingly kind Maggie Oberrender, Hanna Gibeau, Marietta Anastassatos, Virginia Norey, and Nancy Delia. Counting my blessings, Random House. A shout-out, as well, to my team at S&S, who contribute to a seamless whole.

  Closer to home—much love and thanks to my Seattle7Writers friends and the Seattle literary community. Being a writer is a whole lot less lonely and a whole lot more fun with people around you who understand and who share the passion. Love, too, to my oldest friend, Renata Moran, who I appreciate even more as the years go by. Yurich clan—what a bonus it is to have you in my life. And, well, it could go without saying but should never go without saying—big love and endless gratitude to you, my family: Paul Caletti; Evie Caletti; Jan Caletti; Sue Rath; Mitch Rath; Ty Rath; Hunter Rath; my sweetest sweetheart husband, John Yurich; and my children, Samantha Bannon and Nick Bannon, who have given me nothing but joy since I first laid eyes on them.

  By Deb Caletti

  He’s Gone

  The Secrets She Keeps

  What’s Become of Her

  About the Author

  DEB CALETTI is an award-winning author and National Book Award finalist. Her many books for young adults include The Nature of Jade, Stay, The Last Forever, and Honey, Baby, Sweetheart, winner of the Washington State Book Award, the PNBA Best Book Award, and a finalist for the California Young Reader Medal and the PEN USA Award. Her first book for adults, He’s Gone, was released by Random House in 2013, followed by The Secrets She Keeps. Caletti lives with her family in Seattle.

  debcaletti.com

  Facebook.com/​DebCaletti

  @debcaletti

  A Conversation with Deb Caletti

  Random House Reader’s Circle: Crows play a huge role in the overall imagery and underlying themes of the book. Do crows have any personal meaning to you outside the book? What inspired you to use them here?

  Deb Caletti: Recently, we moved from the heart of the city of Seattle to a quieter spot near Lake Washington. We live in a house that is nearly all glass in the front (sound familiar?), which faces out to the wide lake and the big sky. It is an ever-changing show out there, from storm clouds and lightning to eagles and blue-blue-blue and boats of every kind. More relevant to the book—and just like in its opening scene—every morning at sunrise and every evening at sunset, the wave of crows passes by. Sometimes they are down low near the lake, and sometimes right overhead, and sometimes they make a racket, and sometimes there is only the quiet puff of wings. And, just like in the book, too, they coincide with the arrivals and departures of the seaplanes, which are also here in my regular view (I am watching one land as I write). So, my very own setting inspired me. I wanted to know more about those crows. I wanted to research and learn about their lives, and to think more about flight in general. I wanted to share the mystery and awe of their mass commute. Like Isabelle, I have seen those crows hundreds of times now—through white fog and windstorms and against the sherbet colors of sunset—and I never fail to feel the wonder.

  RHRC: In many ways, What’s Become of Her is a story about returning to the past, and eventually moving beyond it. For Isabelle, it’s coming home to take over the family business; for Henry, trying, and failing, to outrun his dark past. While writing, did you find yourself returning to your past as well?

  DC: What’s Become of Her is definitely a story about understanding and moving beyond the past. Isn’t that what we all must do? No matter our situation, we grapple with where we came from and what that means and how it still continues to affect us. Isabelle does not just return to the family business, but to all of the family business in the largest sense—her relationships with her mother and father, and how those dynamics have affected her self-esteem, her partner choices, her sense of personal power, and her relationship to anger.

  Most definitely I returned to my own past while writing the book. For me, if you don’t make a personal and deep connection to what you’re writing, the book won’t be very honest or meaningful, to either write or to read. Every time I begin a book, I ask myself what is on my mind, what is bothering me, what I might want to think more about or understand better. With this book, it was my own relationship to anger, which is, of course, rooted in my own past. I’d been thinking a lot about that, how I often felt cut off from my anger, how I didn’t really understand it at all, and how it seemed a useful and beautiful thing out of my reach. Like Isabelle, I’d had adults in my childhood whose anger had been large, and like Isabelle, I had grown into someone who stepped carefully around others’ aggression and my own. But how could I, or Isabelle, make sense of anger and wield it? How does one embrace it as a part of the self-protective arsenal given all humans and animals? As a writer, returning to your past is where the good stuff is, for both the book and for you as an evolving human being. You roll back the rock from the cave door, and skeletons are in there, but there is also treasure. And writing about anger and fury and wrath and rage, especially when you haven’t allowed yourself to get very near those things—well, it felt pretty great. Glorious, actually.

  RHRC: Though Isabelle’s mother died before the story begins, she is still the driving force behind many of Isabelle’s actions. Can you discuss the challenges in creating and developing a character who lives only in memory but reaches so far beyond the grave?

  DC: When someone dies or even just exits your life, they can still be very, very much alive in your own mind, and the more complicated the relationship, I think, the more likely this is true. I knew, then, that Maggie could naturally become a fully developed character just from her appearance in Isabelle’s thoughts, especially
if we also heard Maggie “speak” in those thoughts. Maggie would be less clear and wouldn’t work as well as an off-screen character, if we didn’t have a way of actually hearing her voice. Dialogue is so critical to a character coming alive for a reader.

  Still, Isabelle’s relationship and views of Maggie are only Isabelle’s own, and readers would likely know that one daughter’s take on her difficult mother will be both biased and limited. Rounding Maggie out, letting the reader see that Isabelle’s experience with her mom was trustworthy, this required supporting evidence from others. With this in mind, I was careful to include Jane’s own complex relationship to Maggie, as well as brief insights from the people in the Parrish community, from Remy and Jan, owner of the Red Pearl, to Joe, and even Officer Ricky Beaker.

  RHRC: Weary is a very mysterious character throughout much of the book, and it’s often unclear whether or not he is trustworthy. What inspired you to create him this way?

  DC: The most obvious answer is that not knowing Weary’s motivations—whether he is out to harm or hurt Isabelle—builds suspense. But I also love the idea that we are all unreliable narrators of our own story; I love that every person brings their own history and temperament and a million other things to their view of their life experiences. I am intrigued by the way people can present themselves one way, but how, after learning the events of their past, you gain a deeper understanding of that individual. Weary is a complex character, with a traumatic backstory. He is full of rage and fury, but also full of love and regret. He is sometimes cocky, sometimes insecure; he is sometimes fearless and sometimes very afraid. He confuses and unsettles us, until the pieces come together and we finally see who he truly is and what has happened to him—and then, hopefully, every mystifying emotion and behavior makes perfect sense.