On Sunday, the girls were upstairs with my neighbor so I could study. I’d started to take classes at an online program. I was attracted to journalism because of how rare it was to find true facts. Like mining, a coal and quartz could both be called a stone, which was both correct and misleading. I took a break from an essay and went upstairs to talk to my neighbor. On the coffee table was a box filled with papers. He was reading and highlighting the documents.
“Is that Kem’s birth certificate?” I whispered in case the girls were listening.
“And QQ’s, a picture of you, Jon, and Lilah together. I’m putting everything in this box for when they’re ready,” he said.
I looked at the picture—Jon had taken it of the three of us while we were all in the kitchen at the beach house. He was closest to the camera, most of his face cut off so you couldn’t see what expression he was making. I believed his eyes were smiling. Lilah and I were further away, behind the kitchen counter. We faced each other, our profiles draped by our long, dark hair. I put the picture back in the box. I went downstairs, took the tapes Mother had put in my backpack when I was leaving the camp, and gave them to my neighbor.
“What’s this?” he said.
“The girls’ story,” I said. “Where are they?”
“In the garden.”
I went to my neighbor’s bedroom. The girls were asleep, shirtless on the ground, their foreheads dotted with sweat, their limbs tangled into each other. Their ankles were inked with colored markers. Dirt caked under their fingernails and in the creases of their necks.
They had devastated the garden. Uprooted plants, bruised flower petals, halved butterflies were strewn all around. They didn’t look like my daughters. Their faces glowed with satisfaction. Like day and night, they had given birth to each other. I picked up a fallen butterfly, the edges of its wings yellow like daffodils, spotted with cyan. Apart from its stillness, the butterfly looked alive. I held it in my palm.
The largest light used to grow indoor plants had given out, its milky glass bulb a charred black, yet somehow the bedroom garden was still softly lit, a pale, orange dusk. I looked toward the window—someone had ripped off the curtains. On the torn fabric—small handprints. Probably a mutual effort. My gaze followed shafts of twilight back to the girls’ faces—hushed still—eyelids fluttering as though at the same speed, as though sharing the same dreams.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was born out of the aching pleasure of rearranging memories, reinventing the past—a personal need to solve my childhood’s mysteries, figure out how I’ve arrived here, and to give myself emotional conclusions that real life doesn’t afford. I am thankful to my mother Dang Thi Hoang Yen, an extraordinary and complicated woman, for your gift to me, the greatest gift that could be bestowed on an artist—a strong start. I’m grateful to Ngo Vu Minh Chau, my first friend, for being a steadfast companion during the loneliest years. Thank you to my sisters Ashleigh Mayfair and Katie Dang who inspire me every day with your arts, your talents, and your huge hearts. To Tristan Shands, thank you for your infinite patience, your wisdom and consolation, for the hundreds of meals you cooked for us while I wrote, for showing me beauty more astonishing than I knew possible. Your love allows me to imagine this book’s ending.
I’m indebted to my agent Stacy Testa, thank you for your tireless pursuit in finding my work the perfect home, for your unwavering belief in me and in this book. Thank you to Kent Carroll for making my dreams a reality. And thank you to the team at Europa Editions, especially Jessie Shohfi for your passionate work. This book would not be possible without James Cañón; thank you for giving me the encouragement I needed to see the project through to the end; your insights helped me give form to a shapeless mass of words; your compassionate guidance brought forth the best in me. Thank you to Melanie Shaw, Mark Chu, and Kayla Maiuri for reading the early drafts. Thank you to William Boggess for your precise and surgical edits. Thank you to Tracy Ly for reminding me that I was a writer above all else in times of doubt. Thank you to Yang Liu for soothing my tears on multiple occasions and allowing me to be unapologetically myself; your friendship is magical. I’m grateful to Craig Wright for being among the first to see worth in my writing, thank you for your sensitive and soulful teaching. To Southern Oregon University, thank you for being the oasis you were while I was still discovering my voice. Thank you to Columbia University, to my classmates and teachers, for being the toughest critics I’ve encountered and for making me a better writer.
Thank you to the one who inspired the little girl character in this novel. You showed me the solace of the imagination, the joy in isolation, and the power of things unnamed. This book is for you, too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Abbigail N. Rosewood was born in Vietnam, where she lived until the age of twelve.
She holds an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University. An excerpt from her first novel won first place in the Writers Workshop of Asheville Literary Fiction Contest. She lives in New York. If I Had Two Lives is her first novel.
If I Had Two Lives Page 24