He laughs. “Have you met them yet?”
I sit on the porch beside him. “No. I’m not too worried about it.” And I’m not. If they are drug dealers, I’ll call the cops on them. If they let their kids beat each other up, I’ll say, Yeah, we don’t do that shit.
Dr. Nasir told me to speak my mind. She said, “People who keep their thoughts and worries bottled up under pressure, under agitation, eventually explode. Mentally healthy people let their thoughts dribble here and there.” She also lowered my Adderall dose, added Wellbutrin for anxiety, and wants to see me every three months instead of six.
“The doctor I spoke with last week said you were hallucinating,” Nate says, his voice kind and calm. “You thought you saw Ava Boone in the neighbor’s house.”
Let’s be clear. I told a doctor, several doctors, I was hallucinating, but I didn’t tell them everything. I didn’t tell them I broke into Leland’s house. I didn’t tell them I was having vivid dreams of murdering Leland in a highly orchestrated, well-thought-out, fairly logical manner. You have to be careful with doctors. What they write down they can use against you.
I don’t know I’ll ever tell Nate all the details. Speak your mind is different from reveal every nook and cranny of your crazy, but I might be able to gradually reveal myself. I feel like Nate and I are even. I used to cling to my innocence and stick Nate in the naughty corner. Now, we’ve both slept around, we’ve both done bad things, but we’re also people who want to get better, do better.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says softly, meeting my eyes.
OK. Now speak your mind.
“I didn’t want you to take the kids from me.”
“Grace, I would never do that.” His voice is gentle, his eyes watery. “Who could worry about them more than you? Keep them wearing coats and eating their vegetables? Give them a conscience? You’re their Jiminy Cricket. You can tell me anything. I’m not going to use it against you.”
“It’s not something you want to broadcast, that you’re fucked in the head.”
“Yeah, I know, but, Grace, so am I.”
“You’re saying you’ve been hallucinating?”
“I’m a different kind of fucked. Why else would I have cheated? All my issues from childhood. My parents were cold. There’s so much shit I remember. Walking home in fourth grade, and Theo’s not there to greet me like he always was. ‘Where’s Theo, Mom?’ ‘We put him down.’ No fucking warning. That dog was barely sick. He could have lived three more years, maybe five. He was getting old and crapping on the floor, and they didn’t like the inconvenience.”
I’ve heard that story before and others like it. I never thought of it in terms of messing him up. Nate always seemed invulnerable to his parents’ callousness.
“And medical school,” he says. “It was merciless and cruel. I am detached. I don’t want to be, but I am.” He turns to me. He has the sad, loyal liquid eyes of a retriever. “But I want to be a good dad. I want to be on your team.”
Sane people speak up.
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but you telling me these things, it doesn’t solve everything.”
“I know,” he says.
I still feel it just under my skin, my rage, like an electric hum. I would have done it, you know. If I were pulled and stretched for seven more nights or maybe three, I would have.
I place my hand on Nate’s. His hand pivots and squeezes mine. It’s brief, then we both let go. I’m not sure what will become of our relationship, but the connection feels good. The connection drowns out the hum.
For now, a dog has pawed my mind—the snow globe—under the couch, and the insane shitfaced toddler who wouldn’t stop fucking with me can’t find me and has moved on to breaking other toys.
The garage door rumbles open, and Wyatt’s whistling echoes within the garage. He rolls his bicycle onto the driveway while holding the bicycle pump under his arm. He’s young, he has a little boy’s body, but he’s also strong and capable. I sense his impending independence, his imminent bigness. The feeling blows through me like a ghost.
Still whistling, he drops the kickstand and gets to work unscrewing the valve cap on his back tire. My heart bloats, light and airy, and my shoulders relax. A breezy smile touches Nate’s lips and crinkles his eyes. Nate and I, we both know: Wyatt only whistles when he’s happy. Peaceful.
Hulk nudges my hand with her nose. I pet her, and she lowers her hind legs, sitting her ass right on my shoe. Glad I’m not barefoot.
Chloe picks dandelions, singing “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley. The bubble machine, abandoned, drips into the grass.
“What’s that you’re singing, Chlo?” Nate says.
“Wyatt taught me. He’s practicing for a coral concert.” “Chorus concert,” Nate says, gently correcting her. “Come here and sing it for me. I want to show Grandma. I’ll record.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket.
Chloe walks over, dandelion stems strangled in her hand, flowers wilting. “Will you put it on YouTube, Daddy?”
He laughs, lifts his phone, and touches the record button. “Maybe. Go ahead and sing your song.”
It’s precious. It’s heartwarming. It’s fucking chilling.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There is a profound gratitude an unknown writer holds for the people who champion her and her first novel. I’m talking about agents, editors, and everyone with the power to greenlight a book.
My agent, Barbara Poelle, has hung in there with me, believed in me and supported me for a long dang time. Thanks for that, sister. BP is my bottle of champagne: she’s explosively energetic, always a good time, and frankly, so whip-smart, she leaves me feeling buzzed.
To the entire team at Irene Goodman Literary Agency (especially Maggie Kane and Heather Baror), thank you for your energy and support.
I had ambitious expectations going into my first relationship with an editor. Sophie Robinson surpassed them. Sophie is all warm enthusiasm, sharp insights, and thrilling ideas. Her notes always left me dazed and nodding. Thank you, Sophie, for making my book shinier.
The whole team at Titan has been wonderful. Julia Lloyd, the book cover you created was haunting and perfect. Natasha Qureshi, your provocative insights made the book stronger. Hayley Shepherd, your copyedits were brilliant. Katharine Carroll in Publicity, Sarah Mather in Press, and all of the people working behind the scenes, thank you.
I am grateful to the people that surround me every day: my family, my friends. Most of them have no idea how supportive they’ve been. Truth is, the pursuit of art, all those hours spent alone, working on something that brings you joy and gives you life, can feel self-indulgent. If anyone of my family or friends would have suggested that my time spent writing was wasteful, it would have been a sore in my already, occasionally self-doubting mind. They never once did that in all these years. We’ve laughed, celebrated, and discussed everything but the books. OK, occasionally the books. You people mean the world to me.
My neighbors! Good God, it must be said. My neighbors are nothing like Grace’s. My neighbors are the kind who provide onions and potatoes in a pinch and drop off desserts. Although they could complain about the various projects on my driveway (fish tanks, Go-kart engines, the constant PVC pipes), they don’t. My neighbors are the best kind.
Love to my generous and creative mother, Linda Doering, who always wants to help, always wants to read, and has been catching my mistakes for years. Shoutout into the universe to my dad for his constant love, humor, and support. If he were still with us, he would be thrilled for me.
Chicago Criminal Defense Attorney Tara Pease fielded my questions. Much appreciated, Tara. Any legal inaccuracies in this book are mine.
Gratitude to Patricia Rosemoor, the first writer who supported me and connected me with other Chicago writers.
Shoutout to all the writers I’ve shared words with in-person and online, so many of you I now consider dear friends. This writing community is keenly talented, but more importa
ntly, is full of humble, generous, uplifting people. I think the world of all of you. I reached out to some of you, asked you to read my book, and it blew my mind when you reached back and said, Glad to! To those who have said kind things about me or my book, I am deeply grateful. Seriously, like, don’t ask me to do anything illegal because I. Well. I just. Please, don’t ask.
This year I dipped my toes into social media. Book bloggers and bookstagrammers, you made that experience warm and delightful.
Now, to the lovely creatures with whom I share a roof.
Indy, good dog, oldest lady in the house, thank you for taking care of the children.
Sam, Ed, and Jon, my children, my heroes! You make every day more playful, more interesting, and bursting with love. You are better thinkers and better humans than I ever was as a kid. Love to you, always.
Marc, my brilliant husband, my muse, my personal comedy show. Thank you for two decades of love and laughter.
Lastly, deep gratitude to the readers. If you got to this part, you probably read my book, which is pretty cool. Thanks for that. In the end, it will always be for the booklovers—readers, librarians, bookstore owners. If you’re up for it, I’d appreciate an honest review. Online or word-of-mouth, your opinions are powerful magic.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sharon Doering lives in the Chicago area with her husband, Marc, their three kids, and a peculiarly civilized dog, Indy. In her other life, she was a science professor, a biotech stock analyst, and a xenotransplantation researcher. She has also been a good waitress, a mediocre bartender, and a terrible maid. Sharon is working on her next novel.
sharondoering.com
@DoeringSharon
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