Friends and Strangers
Page 45
Once, when her mother was visiting, they went to dinner at a bustling place in Tribeca. The tables were close together. A midwestern businessman sat alone beside them. Sam’s mother made small talk with the guy when Sam excused herself to go wash her hands. From then on, he kept interrupting their conversation.
Sam responded to his questions in short, clipped sentences, wanting her mother to herself. In her entire life, she had almost never had that. When their brussels sprouts arrived, the man said he had wanted to order them, but the portion was too large for one person.
“Have some of ours!” her mother offered.
Sam shot her a look.
After dinner, walking up West Broadway, her mother said, “New York has hardened you.”
Sam knew people who might wear this hardness as a badge of honor, but she didn’t want to be one of them.
The things she could tell her mother, the things she had seen. The Saturday night when she sold her first painting and walked down into the subway full of pride, content, only to see a drunk kid punch an old homeless man in the face, knocking him out cold.
One’s mood in New York was dependent on everybody else’s—a hard look in response to a smile was enough to make her want to cry at first. At some point, she stopped making eye contact with people in the street and was genuinely surprised when anyone said Hello or Good morning or Have a nice day. When she finally left, she didn’t know what had taken so long. But because she had put in the time, she could now go anywhere.
“I wondered if you might have moved back to Brooklyn,” Sam now said to Elisabeth. “I remember how much you missed it back then.”
“Counting down the days until these two move out, and then we’ll see,” Elisabeth said. “This is a good place to raise kids, though. It’s easy here. Andrew’s working at the college now.”
“Please say hi to him for me. And George. How is he doing?”
“He’s good,” Elisabeth said.
Sam wished she would say more. Elisabeth’s smile didn’t seem real.
“I loved The Hollow Tree,” Sam said.
“Thanks. That means a lot.”
She wondered if Elisabeth remembered that she had been there when the idea first came up, that Sam had encouraged her to do it.
There was something Sam had imagined telling her, but now that they were face-to-face, it felt like too much. She wanted to say that Elisabeth’s pushiness, her flawed advice, her meddling, had been wrong and problematic, and yet all of it had propelled Sam into her future. For that, she was grateful.
The car behind gave a short honk. The light was green again.
Sam thought Elisabeth might pull over, talk awhile.
But she said, “We’re holding up traffic. We should go. If you’re ever in the area again, look us up, come for dinner.”
“I’d like that,” Sam said, though she knew it would never happen.
Elisabeth looked like she wanted to say more. But she only said, “See you, Sam,” and then was gone.
Acknowledgments
TWO YEARS BACK, I published an essay in Real Simple magazine that ended with the line: Every child began as a story one woman told to herself.
Perhaps the same can be said of every novel. This one began as a story I told my friend Jami Attenberg over drinks one night, seven years ago. She said, “That should be your next book.” I wrote another book instead, but her words kept rattling around in my head. And when I finished that other book, I was ready.
I started off writing from Sam’s point of view. I was pregnant with my first child at the time, and had no idea what Elisabeth’s thoughts on new motherhood would be. I left those sections blank, aware that soon enough, I’d know how to fill them in.
In June 2017, my son, Leo, was born. I took notes here and there for six months, and wondered if I’d ever write actual chapters again. Then I met Radha Khan, without whom there would be no book in your hands.
That winter, my friends Bryan Walsh and Siobhan O’Connor offered the use of their apartment, two blocks from ours, while they were away on an extended trip. I only had to water the plants, and Siobhan said she didn’t mind if I killed them all, which set the bar appropriately low for my plant-care abilities. In that lovely, sun-filled space, I wrote again. It was glorious. I cranked out page after page. I wrote faster than I ever had before. Toward the end, I began taking long daily naps on the sofa. I was exhausted, it turned out, not only because I had a seven-month-old at home, but because I was pregnant again.
I gave the first hundred pages to my agent, Brettne Bloom, and my editor, Jenny Jackson. They provided their usual brilliant feedback, and the three of us had a brainstorming session. Two days later, Jenny’s second child was born. She went on maternity leave. I joined the Brooklyn Writers Space, where many nights I stayed late, working until midnight while my wonderful husband, Kevin Johannesen, handled the home front, so that I could get a draft done before the baby came.
I sent Jenny and Brettne the first full draft when I was nine months pregnant and Jenny was just back from leave, a sort of baby-and-book relay race. In November of 2018, my daughter, Stella, was born.
When Stella was three months old, I started working on the second draft.
Ann Napolitano, Liz Egan, Rachel Fershleiser, Jami Attenberg, Courtney Sheinmel, Meg Wolitzer, Hilma Wolitzer, Hallie Schaeffer, and Maris Dyer read subsequent drafts, each making the book stronger and smarter than it was before. Alexandra Torrealba came in at the eleventh hour with valuable wisdom. Karin Kringen read with generosity and the keen eye of a woman who can guess the ending of any Lifetime movie within the first five minutes. Her friendship also provided inspiration.
I’m grateful to my cousin, Pauline Hickey, and her friends, for answering my questions about their age group. To Jess Bacal, Shayla Bezjak, Riana Olson, Margaret Barthel, and all the Smithies who took the time to discuss post-graduation job prospects with me. To Brooke Hauser and Dusty Christensen at the Daily Hampshire Gazette. To my sister, Caroline Sullivan, for Trinket; to Kirsty Calvert Ansari for British assistance; to Julie Schwietert Collazo and Micaela Coellar-Coiro; to Melissa Johnson for letting me describe the whole plot after dinner one night, and making it clear where the holes were, without saying a word; to my father, Eugene Sullivan; to Laura Smith; Aliya Pitts; Lauren Semino; Olessa Pindak; Hilary Howard; Rebecca Ruiz; Lucie Prinz; the Garden Street Girls; and the fierce women of Immigrant Families Together.
I’m extremely lucky to be publishing my fifth novel in a row with Knopf and Vintage. Thanks to everyone there for everything these past ten years, especially Sara Eagle, Paul Bogaards, Christine Gillespie, Emily Reardon, Jason Gobble, Maria Massey, Kristen Bearse, Nicholas Latimer, Kate Runde Sullivan, and the late Russell Perrault and Sonny Mehta.
Thank you, Grace Han, for the gorgeous cover art. Thank you to the Book Group. To Jenny Meyer and Heidi Gall at the Jenny Meyer Literary Agency. To Jason Richman at UTA. And to Christie Hinrichs at Authors Unbound.
The members of Bococa Moms and Smithie Parents have been a source of comfort and wisdom. What happens in a closed Facebook group stays in a closed Facebook group, and all posts and replies herein are entirely fictional. Except for Jamey Borell’s comment about the dangers of doing multivariate regression analysis on the impact of eating an Oreo, because there is nothing I could come up with that would improve upon that.
Finally, thank you to my mother, M. Joyce Gallagher. She told me about the Hollow Tree, and just like George, I’ve seen it everywhere ever since.
A Note About the Author
J. COURTNEY SULLIVAN is the New York Times best-selling author of the novels Saints for All Occasions, The Engagements, Maine, and Commencement. Maine was named a 2011 Time magazine Best Book of the Year and a Washington Post Notable Book. The Engagements was one of People magazine’s Top Ten Books of 2013 and an Irish Times Best Book of the Year and has been t
ranslated into seventeen languages. Saints for All Occasions was named one of the ten best books of the year by The Washington Post, a New York Times Critics’ Pick, and a New England Book Award nominee. Sullivan has contributed to The New York Times Book Review, the Chicago Tribune, New York magazine, Elle, Glamour, Allure, Real Simple, and O: The Oprah Magazine, among many other publications. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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