by Lisa Unger
On her way out of the courtroom, Carol offered Emily a sad smile. All Emily could do was weep at the table; the tide of shame and gratitude within her was so great that she thought it might take her away.
She’d enrolled in an inmate program where she would help train Seeing Eye dogs for the blind. It was part of the rehabilitation plan that would reduce her sentence. Honestly, the thought of it, that she could do something that might help people, was the only thing that pulled her from bed in the morning. It was a penance. When she came through, she might be cleansed.
She had another week before she had to turn herself in to custody. She kept thinking: My life will begin again on that day. She tried not to think of all the horror stories she’d already heard about even a minimum-security prison. You will be used and abused, if you allow it, her lawyer had told her. The people in there will try to take what they can from you. They will try to hurt you. But if you stay strong, don’t look for friends, keep your head down, and go to work, you might survive.
Her mother had not judged her or lambasted her, as Emily thought she would. She had stood by Emily, helped her get a lawyer, had come every day to court. Joe’s money, the sum that had been intended for her education, made it possible for her to hire a woman who specialized in cases like Emily’s, someone who could help her get a reduced sentence as part of a special occupational therapy program. Joe hadn’t reached out to her personally. At first she’d been hurt. Then it dawned on her fully that the man she thought of as Joe Burke was a fairy tale. He was not her father. The money he’d given for her education—she didn’t even understand why he’d done that. He owed her nothing. She was nothing to him, only a little girl he was kind to once when he had loved her mother. The circumstances of his life had dictated his behavior, just as the circumstances of her life had dictated hers. Maybe it was his way of saying that he would have loved her if he could have. He might have been her father in all the ways that mattered, even if nothing linked them biologically. That was what she chose to believe, even if she had no reason to think it was true.
“Money is easy to give, if you have it,” Martha had said. “The offering of it can masquerade as a good deed, even if you’re just using it to keep people away from you, building a wall against reproach. You can use it to control people, to buy their distance.”
Emily thought maybe it was simpler than that: Some people gave money instead of love because it was all they had to give. A full bank account and a life of good deeds achieved with money didn’t mean a full heart or a giving soul—often just the opposite.
She showered and dressed and went downstairs, where her mother was making her breakfast. They hadn’t spoken much since the sentencing. What was there to say? It was the end of a long journey and the beginning of another. She was shoring up her internal resources, and speech seemed like a waste of energy.
She sat at the table, and her mother brought her a cup of coffee, sat across from her. The kitchen was rundown, the appliances old, the linoleum floors so ancient that they’d never look clean no matter how much you scrubbed.
“I know this is my fault, Emily,” said her mother. Emily looked up from her coffee and saw that her mother had her eyes cast toward the table. Emily could see the gray in her roots, the ragged condition of her cuticles, a stain on her blouse. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve failed you.”
“Mom.” Her instinct was to protest, to say that everything was okay, she would be okay. But wasn’t that a big part of the problem with Emily, that she was always trying to make things okay for other people at her own expense, leaving her with a permanent emotional and spiritual deficit? That she was always looking for someone else to fill the emptiness in her, and that was why she was so vulnerable to people like Dean.
“I’ve made mistakes, terrible mistakes—for myself, for you,” her mother said. “And I’m going to help you get through this.”
Her mother, too, had made bad choices in the quest for love. Emily couldn’t judge her, even though righteous anger would be so much easier. It was so much simpler to see other people’s wrongs and make them pay. It was so much harder to have compassion, to see yourself in others and find forgiveness.
“I’ve made mistakes, too, Mom. And I’m going to do better.”
In saying this, Emily felt something shift inside her chest. Something in her that had been closed since the night she helped Dean and Brad rob the Blue Hen. For the first time in a long time, she felt hope.
chapter forty-one
Birdie stood on the rocks at Heart Island and watched the first light of dawn crack the horizon. She wasn’t going to swim today; her sciatica was dominating her life at the moment. Even though swimming was a suitable therapy for all kinds of pain, this morning she stayed on land.
She surveyed the skeletal structure of the new house she was having built. They had used the old foundation, but the house being erected was of her own design. She wanted to be sure she could see the dawn breaking from the master bedroom. Because while so many people seemed to cherish the sunset (including Joe), it was the dawn of a new day that Birdie prized. It was God’s little reminder that no matter how dark the night, the sun always rises.
The workers would arrive by barge in a few hours, and then the whole island would be alive with the sounds of their hammers and saws, their loud music, their booming voices. They chased away the silence and the birds, but she didn’t mind. It would be worth it to see this new house, the one that was exactly as she wanted it. For a little while longer, at least, there would be quiet.
She was alone with Heart Island. Kate and her family were taking a trip this year to someplace insane—was it Asia or Africa? Even though she and Kate were closer in some ways since the incidents of last summer and since the publication of Kate’s book, there was more distance, too. Kate said no more often, visited less, and said that she’d be taking a year or maybe two off from Heart Island. If Birdie thought about it too much, she felt things that were uncomfortable for her—sadness, regret, loneliness. So she simply didn’t think about it. Theo made his weekly phone call but announced that he wouldn’t be returning to Heart Island—ever. Though he said the reasons should be clear, she had no idea what he was talking about. It was something else she chose not to contemplate.
Joe would be staying in the city this summer, at her request. They were far beyond the point where divorce was seemly or financially advisable, but they would move in separate orbits for a good portion of the year. They would make the appropriate appearances, have dinner with friends. They could manage that much. This was best, wasn’t it?
She climbed off the foundation, her sciatic nerve screeching in protest as she descended the steps. She walked stiffly around the house and up the path to Lookout Rock. It was here that she’d had a small gazebo erected, a place where she could sit and gaze out over the lake and the other islands, or back at the mainland.
From up here, she could see every point on the island not obscured by trees. She thought how much Caroline would have liked it, a place to sit and write. It was with her sister in mind that she’d had it built. It was an apology, in a way. It was too little and, of course, far too late. There was no making amends for a lifetime of catfights and angry words, misunderstandings, and grudges held for decades. Even now Birdie couldn’t remember why they’d always fought. It was jealousy, she supposed, over who had what and who didn’t—beauty, love, children, happiness, their mother’s love and confidence, Heart Island. It seemed silly now, though it certainly hadn’t then.
Sitting in the gazebo, Birdie remembered what it was like to be a child on Heart Island, before all the anger and bitterness between her and her siblings had erupted and then cooled and hardened. She remembered what it was like to play pretend or read, to nap in the hammock or gaze at the stars, to just be in this place that asked nothing but your presence. In a way, she’d spent her whole life trying to find her way back to her memory of it. But she wondered if that memory was, as Kate
said, a fiction she had created, an idyllic dream of a place that never was. Maybe Heart Island was exactly what it was right now, and could never be what you wished it was or believed it had been once.
At the line of trees, she saw him. He was her companion in this place, always in the periphery, never coming into focus. If she marched toward him, as she often did, he’d disappear. She was not afraid of him anymore. He was not a destroyer, as she had once assumed of him. He was just a watcher here, as was she. He was someone who remembered—with passion, with regret, with love—something he would never have again.
Acknowledgments
SO MUCH happens internally before words finally find their way onto the page that sitting down to write a novel often feels as if it’s the last 5 percent of the process. Then, once the book is written, there are miles to go before it arrives on the shelves. Writing is a journey the author makes alone. But publishing is a team effort. Without the support of the following people, you wouldn’t be holding this book in your hands.
My husband, Jeffrey, and daughter, Ocean Rae, are the rock-solid foundation of my life. Without them, I wouldn’t be the person or the writer that I am. Every day, they fuel me with love, laughter, and light. In the chaos of our zany days, there is a special kind of peace, a place where I dwell and am at my happiest. Thanks, guys. You’re everything, always.
The best editors understand that authors are a little nervous, a slightly crazy bunch, and do much better inside their own heads than without. These editors know how to get the best work out of their authors, usher them through the publishing process, and wait on the other side to cheer them on when the book hits the shelves. I have been so lucky in this respect. Shaye Areheart is a gifted and loving editor who has helped to shape my work, and she has become a dear and important friend. I can say the same about John Glusman, my in-house editor. I am indebted to them both—for their tremendous talent, their support, and their stellar friendship.
My agent, the brilliant and fabulous Elaine Markson, is my unflagging supporter, tireless champion, and wonderful friend. Her assistant, the incomparable Gary Johnson, keeps me sane, organized, and, most important, laughing. I really can’t begin to list everything they do for me, day after day, or to express my endless gratitude. I hope they know how much I appreciate them.
I also offer my humble thanks to the excellent team at Crown, including but not limited to Maya Mavjee, Molly Stern, Zachary Wagman, Jill Flaxman, Jay Sones, David Drake, Annsley Rosner, Sarah Breivogel, Linda Kaplan, Karin Schulze, Marysarah Quinn, Nupoor Gordon, Cindy Berman, Domenica Alioto, Christine Kopprasch, Jacqui Lebow, Christine Edwards, Andy Augusto, and Kristen Fleming. And I can never heap enough praise on the amazing, top-notch sales force. The reps are on the front lines of an ultra-competitive, ever-changing business. I know that my books find their way into the hands of readers largely through their tireless efforts on my behalf.
My family and friends continue to cheer me through the good days and drag me through the challenging ones. Thanks to my parents, Joe and Virginia Miscione, and to my brother and his wife, Joe and Tara, for their love, support, and for endlessly spreading the word. I haven’t published a thing that the dear, funny, and talented Heather Mikesell hasn’t read first. Marion Chartoff and Tara Popick, my two oldest friends, have been with me on this journey every step of the way.
About the Author
LISA UNGER is an award-winning New York Times and international best-selling author. Her novels have sold over one million copies in the United States and have been translated into twenty-six different languages.
She was born in New Haven, Connecticut, but grew up in the Netherlands, England, New Jersey, and New York, where she graduated from the New School for Social Research. Lisa now divides her time, along with her husband and daughter, between Florida and New York City.