ADVANCE PRAISE
“The Things We Wish Were True is a brilliant glimpse into the realities of suburban life. Startling. Compelling. Redemptive. It’s the kind of story that makes us wonder how well we really know ourselves—much less our neighbors. Marybeth Whalen has a gift for turning over the pretty surfaces of life, finding the hidden things beneath, and then exposing them to the light. I found myself drawn in, unable to look away from these characters and their dark, tender, familiar lives. I utterly loved this novel.”
—Ariel Lawhon, author of The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress and Flight of Dreams
“Marybeth Whalen has a gift for illuminating the dark corners of suburban life. The neighbor you think you know . . . but do you really? The couple with the seemingly perfect marriage . . . until the blinds are drawn. The Things We Wish Were True is a novel that explores the nuances of community and belonging, showing us the hope, pain, disappointments, and joy that exist behind the facades of a typical American subdivision. The characters are relatable and engaging, and you’ll find yourself pulling for them all, from the overwhelmed single dad to the hyperresponsible young girl to the lonely empty nester or the divorcee forced to return home and face the past she’d vowed to outrun. Perceptive, astute, and oh-so-relatable, The Things We Wish Were True is a winner!”
—Kim Wright, author of The Unexpected Waltz and The Canterbury Sisters
“With skill and compassion, Marybeth Whalen digs beneath the surface of a quiet suburban neighborhood to reveal its darker secret side. Full of unexpected twists and sympathetic, relatable characters, The Things We Wish Were True is both surprising and heartwarming, and it’s sure to have you examining your own peaceful neighborhood with new eyes.”
—Diane Chamberlain, USA Today bestselling author of Pretending to Dance
“The characters in The Things We Wish Were True may live in a small town, but their hearts are as big as all outdoors. Marybeth Whalen has created an ensemble cast whose lives intertwine and touch one another in moving and surprising ways. A generous, compassionate novel that will leave a warm glow long after the last page has been turned.”
—Yona Zeldis McDonough, author of The House on Primrose Pond
“The Things We Wish Were True masterfully blends dark, twisted secrets with a redemptive story about the power of community. As the families of Sycamore Glen, North Carolina, kick off summer at their neighborhood pool, Marybeth Mayhew Whalen peels back the layers of their past and present lives to reveal the underbelly of suburbia. A fabulous page-turner with the ending you want.”
—Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of The Perfect Son
“The Things We Wish Were True is a story of startling truth revealed through the intricate lives of those we think we know. Profound. Perceptive. Marybeth Whalen knows how to braid together the seen and the unseen in a profound story that startles and enlightens. Readers will eagerly turn every page.”
—Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times bestselling author
“In The Things We Wish Were True, Marybeth Whalen has pulled off an impressive feat, an ever-shifting narrative through a neighborhood full of secrets. Each of these characters is compelling and fully realized, and the final twists and reveals left me breathless and, ultimately, at peace. An impressive achievement that you’ll want to put at the top of your to-read list.”
—Catherine McKenzie, bestselling author of Hidden and Fractured
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 by Marybeth Mayhew Whalen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503936072
ISBN-10: 1503936074
Cover design by Janet Perr
For the Caileys of the world. May you find a place to belong.
CONTENTS
MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, 2014
CAILEY
ZELL
BRYTE
JENCEY
JUNE 2014
ZELL
JENCEY
BRYTE
CAILEY
JENCEY
LANCE
BRYTE
ZELL
JENCEY
LANCE
CAILEY
EVERETT
BRYTE
CAILEY
ZELL
BRYTE
JULY 2014
JENCEY
CAILEY
LANCE
CAILEY
ZELL
EVERETT
JENCEY
BRYTE
ZELL
CAILEY
LANCE
JENCEY
BRYTE
EVERETT
ZELL
CAILEY
BRYTE
JENCEY
CAILEY
ZELL
LANCE
CAILEY
AUGUST 2014
BRYTE
JENCEY
LANCE
CAILEY
ZELL
BRYTE
EVERETT
BRYTE
EVERETT
BRYTE
CAILEY
JENCEY
ZELL
JENCEY
BRYTE
ZELL
CAILEY
JENCEY
ZELL
CAILEY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, 2014
Sycamore Glen
Neighborhood Pool
Matthews, North Carolina
CAILEY
Cutter and I were there when they opened the Sycamore Glen pool for the summer. So I actually saw, with my own eyes, the spider web that was woven across the gate, keeping all the people from just walking right on in like they’d done every year. Our new neighbors shuffled their feet and sighed real loud as they waited for the lifeguards to figure out what to do. They held their towels and coolers and floats and bags and stared at the web, as if they could burn it down with their eyes like superheroes.
We all took in the large spider, round and yellow with black stripes, sitting smack-dab in the middle of that web. It seemed to be waiting for us, as if it had a message to deliver before the summer could begin, like that spider in Charlotte’s Web. But no one wanted to hear that spider’s message. All they could think of was how to get it out of the way so they could get on with their fun.
Some of the boys grabbed sticks and tried to poke at the spider, the desire to destroy wound up in their DNA like we’d learned about in science class. They brandished the sticks like swords, content to fence with them when their mothers wouldn’t let them kill the spider.
I could feel Cutter beside me, wanting to join in with them yet knowing he couldn’t. His body was tense, his inner self trying to get over to those boys even as his arms and legs stayed still. I didn’t say a word to him or make a move. I didn’t have to. Cutter knew how it was without my ever having to tell him. Much as he wanted to be, Cutter wasn’t like those boys.
Meanwhile, the girls huddled in fear, clutching at each other with more drama than necessary, shrieki
ng so loudly that one of the lifeguards covered his ears, and the parents rolled their eyes and told the girls to be quiet. I didn’t shriek, of course. I wasn’t like those girls any more than Cutter was like those boys. So I just watched that spider, feeling bad that all its hard work was being knocked down. I hoped that no one would hurt it, that someone would stop those boys from killing the poor thing when the mothers weren’t watching anymore. Cutter and I stood, the two of us, off to the side, apart from the crowd.
One of the lifeguards got a stick and used it to gently move the spider from its web, then let it down into the grass without causing it harm. A couple of the boys pretended to find it and stomp on it after he’d let it go. Then the other lifeguard used another stick to knock down the web, allowing the crowd that had gathered to get into the pool area. The web was quickly forgotten, and they ambled in as if nothing had happened. They slathered on sunscreen, cracked open beers, and pretty much ignored their kids while they caught up on all that had happened in the past nine months. That pool brought this neighborhood together, but only in the summer.
It rained that afternoon, and everyone had to run for their cars in the downpour, grumbling about a day cut short, calling out to each other that this was a bad beginning to the summer season. They ran out the same gate through which they’d entered, forgetting that spider ever existed. Later I would think about that spider, wondering what its message to us might have been and how it might have made a difference if we had all paid attention.
ZELL
Zell Boyette made her way gingerly down the stairs, gripping the handrail, grateful for it. She used to just fly down those steps, her feet barely lighting on them as she rushed from one activity to the next—book club, church, neighborhood board meetings, lunch dates with friends. John used to scold her, “You’re gonna hurt yourself!” She had hurt herself, but that was not how she’d done it.
She did her best to walk normally as she entered the kitchen, where John was having his coffee at the table and peering at his computer screen, looking confused. He glanced up and saw her there. “Mornin’,” he said.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined him at the table, laying her hand on his. “You hungry?” she asked. They’d had some form of this exact conversation for the last thirty years.
He shrugged. “I’ll eat something if you make it.” This was his standard answer.
She hobbled over to the pantry. She could feel his eyes watching her and knew what he wasn’t saying just as surely as if he’d said it out loud. John was worried about her knee, always bugging her to see a doctor. When he’d asked her what she’d done to it after it first happened, she’d told him she’d hurt it running. That was close enough to the truth for it not to be a lie.
She set about making them some granola and yogurt parfaits with blueberries, but a knock on the door interrupted her. The knock was light and hesitant and one she’d become accustomed to hearing at least once a day. She opened the back door to reveal little Alec from the house next door. He looked up at her from under bangs that needed trimming. She should offer her grooming services to his father, tell him how she used to trim her own boys’ hair when they were Alec’s age.
Lance would say no, wave his hands as if he were putting the final flourish on a magic trick that would make it all go away. He would assure her that everything was fine, that he’d been meaning to take Alec and Lilah for haircuts. Then he’d get that anxious look that made her worry for him. The man was going to have a heart attack before age forty.
“Hi, Mrs. Boyette,” Alec said. He attempted in vain to push his bangs from his eyes. “My dad said ta ask you if you had any milk.” The boy shook his head and looked at the ground as if his father’s ineptness was too much to bear. “He forgot to get some at the store again.” Alec had been on her doorstep just yesterday asking for the exact same thing. She’d handed over her remaining milk, which wasn’t much, then limped to the grocery store to fetch more. Part of her wanted to say that she couldn’t keep supplying them with milk and other items. But the other part—the bigger part—knew that of course she would.
“Of course I do, Alec,” she said, giving the boy a smile to put him at ease. She retrieved the milk from the fridge and handed him the full gallon. Alec accepted the milk with a little oof sound, then cradled the gallon like a small child he had to protect with his life, the condensation from the carton wetting the front of his T-shirt, which already had a chocolate syrup stain down the center.
“Enjoy your cereal,” she told him. She knew those children were eating terribly. She didn’t approve of Lance giving them sugary cereals, but he hadn’t asked her opinion, and she suspected that, while he appreciated her help, he couldn’t care less what she thought. But that didn’t stop her from wondering what Debra would think if she could see her children with their unkempt hair and dirty fingernails, their sallow complexions and the little rolls of fat accumulating around their bellies. She fingered the belt on her robe. Not unlike her own stomach. They’d all changed since last fall.
She waved goodbye, but Alec couldn’t return the gesture with his hands full of milk. “Thanks, Mrs. Boyette,” he said instead, then turned to head home.
And then, because she cared about the family next door—perhaps a little too much, if truth be told—and because of something in the way Alec’s little shoulders slumped forward, as if the weight of the world were contained in that gallon of milk, she called after him, halting his steps.
“Will you guys be heading to the pool today for the opening?” She pictured Debra that first year after Alec was born, floating him around in the pool in one of those little baby boats. He’d worn a sun hat with a brim that kept flopping in his eyes, and he’d laughed a delicious baby laugh. Debra had tipped her head back and laughed with him.
Alec shook his head slowly, sadly. “My dad says he has ta work.”
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “Well, you tell him I can take you two. You tell him to come over here just as soon as he gets a chance, and we’ll get it worked out.”
He gave her an “are you serious?” look, and she nodded in affirmation. “Go on! Go tell him!” She prompted him toward his house with her hands.
She turned back to find John watching her, his face telling her all she needed to know. “What did Oliver Twist want now?” he asked. John pretended to be gruff, but he was an old softie.
“Be nice,” she chided. She set his parfait down in front of him.
He raised his eyebrows. “Did you just offer to tote those kids to the pool today?”
She shrugged. “They wouldn’t have gotten to go otherwise. Lord knows Lance doesn’t have the time to take them.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, gave her an impervious look. “You better watch out, or they’re going to suck you right in.”
She waved his words away. “Oh, they are not. Eat your parfait.”
“I like my parfaits to involve pudding,” he groused, but he began to eat.
After a few minutes of silence, John took a drink of his coffee and said, “So I was talking to Clay Robinson. Seems they’re in the same boat as us. Kids gone, nothing planned for the summer . . .” She looked over at him, feeling where the conversation was going but not liking it. He ignored her panicked look and continued. “We talked about maybe going on a little couples’ getaway.”
Zell didn’t want to go on a couples’ getaway. She wanted to go on a family vacation like they used to—rent a house on the beach or a cabin in the mountains by a stream, or stay in a hotel near an amusement park. She wanted to pick up wet towels and soothe sunburned skin and sweep up sand. She wanted to go fishing and camping and ride roller coasters and make s’mores and play board games. She wanted the summers of the past. She wanted to do it all again.
But she could not say that to John, who still loved her, still wanted her, still held her hand when they drove somewhere in the car. This was, she knew, something. She lowered her hands to his fo
rearms. He had such strong forearms; even now she admired the way the muscles rippled underneath his skin. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“I was thinking Lake Lure?” he asked. “Somewhere quiet and peaceful like that? Maybe a little cabin by the lake.” He grinned, proud of himself for thinking up this plan. “With a screened-in porch.” She was a sucker for a screened-in porch, and he knew it. They’d been talking about adding one to the house for years, but with three kids to get through college, the cost had been prohibitive. Maybe now they could do it.
“Clay and I could golf. You and Althea could poke around in the shops.” Clay and John had been work buddies for a long time. She tolerated Althea, but she would never elect to vacation with her. The woman had the most alarming breasts. They looked like when her son stuck water balloons down his shirt to be funny; they hung absurdly low and moved independently from the rest of her. Althea also thought her only son looked exactly like Tom Cruise and used every opportunity to whip out her photos of him. This also disturbed Zell; she’d stood by once too often as Althea accosted some poor soul with photos while they nodded and agreed politely.
“That sounds nice. I’ll give Althea a call about it as soon as I get a chance,” she said agreeably. She’d think of a way out of it later.
Satisfied, John put down his coffee. “You know, I don’t have to get to work right away,” he said.
She laughed. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”
“It’s not your teeth I’m interested in.” He flashed his most charming smile, rose from his chair, and carried his dishes to the sink. He turned back and raised his eyebrows in invitation. She giggled and waved him away. He shrugged, then shuffled off to shower and get ready for his day.
She went to the sink and busied herself with washing the coffee mugs and dishes from breakfast, half thinking of going upstairs to join John in the shower. Wasn’t this the kind of freedom they once dreamed of having? Outside the window over the sink, something caught her eye, distracting her from her thoughts. A blue Mylar balloon shaped like a heart floated on the breeze, carried down their street as if an invisible child’s hand were tugging it along. She stopped washing dishes and watched as it floated away.
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