She says, “I picked out a black T shirt at the mall.”
I laugh. Jaime’s crime isn’t the same as my sinking consciousness over the summer, and I don’t think Deborah will actually make her go sit on that fake leather couch and answer vague questions from the small woman in her fancy chair.
“It’s not funny,” Jaime says.
“But you’re still okay, right?” I say. “And you know you can call me if you need me?”
“I’m fine,” she says, and I don’t ask her again.
That night, after Tammy and I play badminton and watch a movie with bowls of fresh fruit and whipped cream, I get under my green sheets with my blue comforter folded at the foot of my bed. The crickets have kicked their melodies into high gear, and cool breezes waft in through the open windows. I write in my journal for as long as my brain needs to vent like I’ve been doing every night. Sometimes I make future plans in the gold-lined pages: play guitar and sing in a band, write a book, visit the Parthenon. When I turn off the light and my fake stars cast green shadows that mingle with the white glow from the real stars outside, I often pray for Jaime, for Noah and Matt, for Mom and Deborah, and even Dad. I ask the universe to keep them safe, and I don’t think it matters where the ideas go exactly, as long as I send them out into the world.
“Hey,” Tammy says, sitting on the edge of my bed, the lines of her strong bones and lean limbs smudged and backlit by the hall bulb. “I wanted to say good night.”
I smile. “Good night,” I say, rolling onto my side to face her and snuggling into my crisp sheets. I breathe in and let out the air slowly, savoring this moment, this place I never expected to end up but am so thankful for.
“So,” Tammy says. “Can I wake you up early tomorrow for a hike?”
“Totally.” I missed our Sunday morning rituals, sanctuary without church, support without conditions. I’m looking forward to walking mountain trails, watching plant shadows move like living paintings on the uneven dirt as our feet beat in harmony with the birds and bugs. When I close my eyes in the dark now, I visualize nature. Images with echoes I can almost hear of rushing rivers and lakes lapping grainy shores lull me to sleep.
“We should bring our sketchbooks,” I say. “And the watercolors.” Tammy raises an eyebrow at me. “I’ll even wear one of your nerdy fanny packs to help carry everything,” I say. I can’t wait to witness the leaves starting their descents from tall branches, watch the tree-lined hillsides fade from shades of green to yellow and orange. I want to capture the beauty beyond what I can hold in my memory.
Tammy laughs. “For the last time, lots of hikers wear them.” She pushes at my shoulder with her fingertips. “But, sure, let’s make a day of it.” She looks down at me, her blue eyes shadowed, and tilts her head. “You must not have gotten outside much at the Cranleys’.”
“You have no idea.” I missed the fresh air, the elevation, the open sky, the smell and sound of snow runoff rushing over mossy stones, floating through fields of wildflowers and groves of pines, birch, and oak, and diving under logs. The water doesn’t complain about where it ends up or how it gets there; it just continues on its way, absorbing little pieces of everything it touches as it rides the current. I want to learn to cultivate peace like that, to worry less about what’s around the bend. “I missed our hikes,” I say. “And our talks.”
Tammy’s eyes shine and she smiles. “Me, too.” Her hands fuss with the creases in the linens for a minute, and then she rests her right hand on my knee. “It’s great to have you back,” she says, squeezing my leg.
My heart swells. I would choose Tammy to be my family even if she wasn’t my blood relative, and I know she feels the same way about me. I smile a genuine grin, show all my teeth. “It’s good to be here.”
Tammy lies down next to me on her back. “There was an emptiness without you.” I move closer to her warmth and close my eyes. She sighs. “Even when Sam was here.”
In our peaceful silence, I listen to Tammy breathe. It’s not as familiar as the higher-pitched whine of air through Jaime’s small nose, but it’s comforting, a chanting rhythm of air in and out through lungs and nostrils, the reassuring sound that proves I am not alone. Someone I love is close.
Tammy breaks the pulse of her breathing and says, “I think I got so used to your footsteps, your socks and hair clips all over the house, your silly TV shows…” She takes my hand. “I liked being a part of your everyday life.”
“I liked that, too,” I say, and think about my anxiety on that first plane to Utah. I never thought I’d find a home here, but it feels like this was the path I was meant to take. I say, “Do you believe in fate?”
Wind stirs the trees outside and the bushes we planted on the patio below, and the whooshing sound of rustling leaves quiets the crickets. An owl hoots and the crickets begin their chirping at a lower volume, like some of them are now too scared to sing. Tammy shifts on my fold-out bed, and I peek at her. Her eyes are open and she’s staring at my mostly faded green stars.
“I believe in choices,” she says. “What’s great about life is that other people’s choices can surprise you, make you realize things you might not have known otherwise.”
“Like how Mom’s mistakes brought me here?”
She nods. “But if we’re happy, why worry about how we ended up where we are?”
“Are you happy?”
“Are you?”
“Sort of,” I say. “Mostly. Now.”
“Me, too.”
“When I think about the future,” I say. “All the things I can still do.”
She smiles at me. “Me, too,” she says.
An herb-scented breeze fills the room and shuffles the papers on my desk. I shiver. Tammy sits up and pulls my comforter up to my neck. She kisses the top of my head and smooths my hair behind my ear. She says, “I think this is exactly where we’re both supposed to be.” She brushes my chin with her forefinger and thumb.
It feels good to be the one getting tucked in, to let someone else stand guard. She says, “Sweet dreams,” and I think that might finally be possible. Tammy moves away, but I know she’s not going far.
I say, “I love you,” as she closes my door partway and leaves the hall light on without me even asking. Soon, I may not need the glow behind my eyelids to fall asleep. It gets easier each night here. “You’re a great mom,” I mumble and close my eyes.
“I really thought I could be,” she whispers. I feel the air shift above my skin and then a kiss on my forehead, and the scent of Tammy’s honey lip balm wafts into my nose. Her voice, “I love you, little girl,” carries me through the night.
After our morning hike, Tammy goes to aerobics and I take a long shower in my private golden bathroom. Clean and dressed, I walk the borders of Tammy’s house slowly, soaking in the stability of the sameness. Tammy’s art still tempers the white of the walls in the living room; the dustless glass curio cabinet still stands proudly as protector of Tammy’s international souvenirs and mementos from her travels. I hope someday I can fill my own house with beautiful reminders of the places I’ve visited, the adventures I’ve experienced.
My bare feet slide across the white carpet to the couch, where the cushions are plumped and clean. The purple chenille throw is folded and draped across a pile of floor pillows in the corner. The TV still hides behind the wood cabinet with sliding doors, the fake logs sit ready for burning in her gas fireplace, the recessed lights above my head cast soft glows across the spotless surfaces of Tammy’s possessions. The kitchen walls are the same sage green Tammy and I painted together, the purple and blue-green teapot painting is as dramatic as the day we hung it. The room still looks lovely, as glossy and fresh as a magazine spread.
I breathe in the smell of this house: the herbal freshness, the clean, rain-washed scent of her laundry detergent. I bask in the quiet. No SEGA video game beeps or hip-hop music, no barking dog, pep talks from Deborah, or bellowing requests from Winston. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the tw
itter of birds outside. I step onto the patio under the bright blue sky and stand in the shadow of the brick building Tammy and I share, surrounded by growing evidence of our garden labors. Somewhere a dog barks, and a lone cricket impatient for dusk strums its legs.
I know life here won’t be perfect. I know that soon winter will arrive and dust the world with ice. The frost will invade my chest again, my fingers will freeze inside my gloves, and my body will want to hibernate beneath a nest of soft wool blankets until I learn to thaw myself out, figure a way to keep my blood pumping against the cold. I know Sam will return and spout speeches about the merits of hat wearing, cook pork chops, and glare at me when Tammy’s not looking. I know his presence will remind me that this arrangement is not quite solid, that nothing here is really mine, including Tammy.
But in this moment, I stand tall and focus on the slack in my shoulder blades, the loose muscles in my arms and back that have been freed from the flexed tension of a persistently active fight or flight response. My neck feels longer, my jaw relaxed, and I haven’t chewed on my nails in days. I focus on little things like the church bells singing in the distance, the jug of hibiscus sun tea brewing on the patio table, the letter from Rachel sitting upstairs on my desk awaiting my reply.
I exhale in one long, even release, smiling at no one and stretching my hands above my head in a yoga sun salutation. The air is thick with heat and smells like dry grass and dusty rock. At the horizon, the sun dazzles the mountaintops with a white-gold sheen, like they’re jewels too big to harvest. Soft breezes stir aromas of creek water and tree sap into my nose and swirl the hair around my head. A hummingbird flits by our climbing vines, close enough that I can hear the thrumming of its beating wings, the sound of constant motion against the wind, and then it flies away, its feathers catching the sunlight and shimmering pink, green, and gold as it disappears.
I breathe the earth-perfumed air, bare feet planted solid on bumpy and still-warm concrete, lift my face to the heavens, and feel grounded.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my agent, Trena Keating, for believing in me and this book wholeheartedly from the start, and for her expertise, patience, and enthusiasm each step of the way. I lucked out when you agreed to represent me. I also want to thank the tremendously talented Denise Roy, for helping to make this book the best it could be and being an absolute joy to work with. I knew after our first call we would be a great team. I could not have asked for a better editor.
I’m indebted to Pam Houston for suggesting I apply to graduate creative writing programs and essentially altering the course of my life, and for shaping me into a better writer by being one of the best teachers I know. Thank you for inspiring me with your writing and your kind words about mine.
Thanks to John Lescroart, whose generosity, support, and praise changed the way I saw my future, and gave me hope that a career as a writer might be possible; and to my writing teachers at UC Davis, particularly Lynn Freed and Fenton Johnson.
I owe so much to my fellow fiction workshoppers at UC Davis, who read the earliest pages of this novel and also became friends: Carola Strassburg Valdez, Ben Kamper, Krista Keyes, Melinda Moustakis, Aimee Whitenack, and especially Liz Chamberlin, Adam Scott, Reema Rajbanshi, and Juli Case, who continue to read my work, nudge me to keep at it, and help me with writing (and life) dilemmas. I would not have made it this far without you guys cheering me on.
A special thank you goes out to Susan Scott, my self-proclaimed number one fan, for her unwavering faith that I would publish this book, and for her encouragement, friendship, and fantastic sense of humor. To all my friends, students, and colleagues who expressed interest in this project before it was finished: thank you for motivating me with your contagious excitement.
Words can’t fully express my gratitude to my family: Bethany, Joshua, Bonnie, Nancy, and my mom, Sue, for listening, putting up with me, making me laugh, and above all else, loving me no matter what.
And, most importantly, Will. Thank you for reading scenes over and over, cooking delicious food, keeping me sane, understanding the writing life (and me), and all the other wonderful things you do. Thank you for your confidence in me, your endless support, and your love. None of this would be possible without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melanie Thorne earned her MA in creative writing from the University of California, Davis, where she received the Alva Englund Fellowship. She was also awarded the Maurice Prize in fiction and a Hedgebrook residency. She lives in Northern California. Visit her online at melaniethorne.com.
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