by Gian Sardar
Water blinks with light and the cottonwood trees shimmer. When she’s finally there, parked alongside the house, she shuts off the car. Through the open window she hears the faint kiss of waves and sees a sailboat, tilted on the water in a turn. She looks to the spot where the bees had gathered, but they’re gone. It’s just a tree, nothing more.
Especially after. The dividing line in Abby’s grandmother’s life, something that changed her forever. Claire, Abby had assumed, yet Eleanor said no—a product of her confusion? A moment of clarity? A mystery, that’s all Abby knows. There’s no one left to tell her grandmother’s story, no one left to tell Claire’s. And it makes Abby sad. People will pass by these beautiful, grand houses and admire them, never knowing who cried in the bedrooms, who danced in the parlor, or who said good-bye, perhaps for the last time, at the door, watching from the threshold as someone left.
But everywhere is like that, she knows. How many fields, houses, street corners are filled with invisible meaning? She thinks of the man killed near her work, how for a while people spoke of him, their eyes upon the spot of his last breath. But time passes. Soon no one will know, though maybe one or two will pause inexplicably, lingering a second longer than usual before turning the corner. And now her mother’s house will be like that. One day a little girl will have trouble sleeping in the bedroom. Her parents will add a night-light, thinking that will help.
People stop telling stories. They forget. They don’t know there was a story to tell.
Her phone chimes with a voicemail. Hannah, thankful Abby’s coming back, even for a bit, says she has a distraction for her. Write these down. Abby does as instructed and grabs a piece of paper and a pen from the glove compartment. You ready? These are the girl names so far. Madeleine—just pretty, right? Natasha—great name, but would people think she’s Russian? And Eva.
Abby’s hand stops, pen frozen.
I’ve always loved that one. Do you like it?
In a flash Abby hears her call the baby Eva. The whoosh of a passing car startles her. She looks up, catching a bit of white in the trees that line the lake, and turns in that direction, searching until she sees it again—the sailboat slicing through the water.
Now she rings the bell and waits. Through the small window by the door she sees the inside of the house, wood walls that shoot up from the wood floor as if the entire room exists in the dark split of a tree, the chandelier above like an opening to the sky. One last time she looks at the photograph, taken on these front steps. There’s something about these three women being here, returned to their watchful perch, that makes her feel glad. Gratified. A small sense of permanence in a world that’s anything but.
Carefully she leans the picture frame against the front door and walks back down the path. She feels them behind her, their faces tilted toward the sun.
At the street she stops and turns back to the stone house, the iron gate before her. The lawn is pale with the caught sun. The lower windows mirror the trees, the water. The upper ones hold the sky. Some of the stones are darkened with time, and streaks that look like soot stretch along the top of the turret.
She lifts her hand to the ironwork gate and wraps her fingers around the bar, the diamond of the ring flashing in the light. The world slows down. Takes a breath. Shapes dart in the windows, the air thick like fog.
But then she blinks and lets go, and life returns.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people to thank.
This story’s journey from my computer to the world began with my agent, Lucy Carson. “Thank you” does not begin to tell the enormity of my gratitude. Your notes, your dedication, your support. You are a writer’s dream. And never would I have met you if it weren’t for Kaitlyn Wylde, who selflessly took the time to reach out on my behalf. Kaitlyn, thank you.
To everyone at Putnam, and especially my editor, Tara Singh Carlson. Your eye, your instinct, your wisdom. These pages would not be here if it weren’t for you. I thank you. This story thanks you. Eva, William, Claire, Robert, Abby . . . they are eternally grateful, as am I.
In addition, I want to thank Detective Sergeant Brian McCabe, to whom I owe much for his patience, kindness, and generosity. You are nothing short of a hero. And former police officer Devin No, thank you. Devin, the fact that your wife, Cindy, read one of my first (awful) stories before I knew I wanted to be a writer, and that now you are one of my first readers for my novel makes me feel there is some beautiful magic in the world. And I’m so grateful to Lieutenant Michael J. Zorena, retired, for his assistance, and on his vacation no less. To Julia Cole, thank you for hearing my plea for help and helping. Jeffrey Berger, MD, MBA, you are a lifesaver, literally and figuratively. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
In no particular order, and always treasured for reading draft after draft and/or providing other invaluable support: Suzanne Unrein, Becarren Schultz, Stephanie “Seshi” Stephens, Bryony Atkinson, Judith Cohen, and Dianne Schwehr.
Forever will I be grateful to my writing professor at Loyola Marymount University, Dr. Chuck Rosenthal. Chuck, you one day said to me, “I hate to tell you this, but I think you could be a writer.” The best bad news ever. Thank you for everything you taught me, most of which I’ve forgotten—but I remember your saying that was okay, because at some point it just comes out your hands (and it does).
To my parents, Addi Sardar and Zuhdi Sardar. Mom, you taught me to work hard. Dad, you taught me to dream. A great combination for a writer. I love you both.
Most important, none of this would be possible without the love and support of my husband, Joe Schwehr. Thank you for who you are—I love you. And last but in no way least, my son, Maximiliaen. You put the drive back into my world. Everything I do, I do for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gian Sardar studied creative writing at Loyola Marymount University and is the coauthor of the book Psychic Junkie. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, son, and insane dog. You Were Here is her debut novel.
giansardar.com
facebook.com/GianSardar
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.