Give, a Novel
© 2019 Erica C. Witsell. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published in the United States by BQB Publishing
(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing, Inc.)
www.bqbpublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-945448-34-8 (p)
ISBN 978-1-945448-35-5 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936660
Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com
Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com
First editor: Michelle Booth
Second editor: Caleb Guard
Praise for Erica Witsell and Give
“Give is a striking, often unflinching, depiction of a doomed marriage and its enduring consequences. Erica Witsell is a very talented writer and her debut should garner a wide and appreciative audience.”
– Ron Rash, author of the 2009 PEN/Faulkner Finalist and New York Times bestselling novel Serena, in addition to four other prizewinning novels
“This is a gripping narrative about family, identity, and loyalty. The themes are both uniquely modern and timeless. I fell in love with the characters as they struggled to understand themselves and reconcile with one another. Beautifully written!”
– Kate Rademacher, author of Following the Red Bird
“This is an engrossing novel about family and forgiveness. Tracing the lives of five characters over the span of thirty years, Erica C. Witsell shows us that family is about choice as much as it is about blood and that sacrifice and selfishness both play a role in how we parent and love.”
– Sarah Viren, author of Mine
“What will you give for your family—love, forgiveness, second chances? Everything you are? What if they don’t give back? Give shines a light across the best and worst of us all, asking what will you give? At times subtle and at times cutting to the quick, Give digs deep into the heart and soul of a family as connected as it is torn apart. Give pulls no punches, delivering an honest look into the lengths we will go for family. What we will give and what we won’t.”
– Amy Willoughby-Burle, author of The Lemonade Year
“[Give’s] imagery is spot-on, excellent dialogue, . . . and [a] sly sense of humor. Very poignant! [This] novel won’t let go of me.”
– Jenny Anna Linde-Rhine, columnist at Zinnig
“A family drama with depth and complexity; it was hard to put this book down.”
– Jennifer Arellano
“[Give] is well-written, the characters are compelling, and . . . the author . . . [has] a lot of sympathy for the many strange ways we love and break and forgive and go on.”
– Lauren Harr
“Give grabs your attention on the first page and holds it throughout as it weaves the complicated web of one family.”
– Kristen Schlaefer
“Put it down and you’ll be thinking about it until you pick it back up again. Which will be as soon as possible.”
– Lindsey Grossman, blogger at www.lindseyliving.com
For my children,
Clayton, Dee Dee, and Sylvia
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned
W.B. Yeats
CONTENTS
PART ONE: 1974-1979
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
PART TWO: 1982-1988
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
PART THREE: 1998-2003
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
Laurel
The two couples huddled together on the beach, their shoulders hunched against the wind as colorless waves chased each other onto the sand. They had just arrived; inside the small motel a block away, their weekend bags lay unopened on their beds.
Ten minutes ago, Laurel had rapped at her friend’s door.
“Alice, you guys in there? Want to walk down to the beach with us?”
In fact, Alice hardly counted as a friend. Laurel knew her only from the biology lab on campus, where both worked as assistants, cleaning test tubes and preparing slides. But Laurel had needed her for this weekend. She had told her husband, Len, that this weekend getaway was Alice’s idea, had convinced him to come along only by arguing how rude it would be of them to refuse.
Len had thought only of the practicalities: the expense, the babysitter, the weekend he would miss with his beloved daughter. He didn’t understand how much Laurel needed this: two precious days to feel like herself again, without her two-year-old daughter clinging to her legs or nattering on at her from the moment she awoke.
And now they were here, at last, the sky above them another sea of gray, the afternoon sun a hazy brightness behind the clouds. Laurel peeked at Alice’s husband; she had never met Michael before today. He was tall and small-waisted, with sand-colored hair and gray eyes the color of the sea. He caught her looking and gave her a good-natured smile.
“Brrr,” he said, putting his arm around Alice and pulling her against his side. “Whose idea was this, anyway?”
Laurel’s eyes shot to Alice’s face, worried she would give her away. But it didn’t matter now. They were here, the off-season rate for their room paid for in advance on the one credit card they kept for emergencies. That morning, while Len had read books with Jessie on the couch, Laurel had thrown her graying, milk-stained bra into the hamper and excavated a black and lacy thing from the bottom of her underwear drawer. Now she could feel the underwire pushing uncomfortably against her breasts, and she resisted the urge to reach back and unfasten the clasp. Instead, she gave Michael a small, open-mouthed smile.
“Oh, come on. It’s not that cold.” Sucking in her breath, she broke away from Len’s side and bent down to pull off her shoes.
“Laurel, please,” Len said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be silly. It’s freezing.”
Laurel caught Michae
l’s eye. “You want to come?”
“Are you nuts?”
“Laurel,” Len said. “Don’t. It’s way too cold.”
He held out his arm then, for her to come back to him, and for a moment she was tempted. It would be so easy to slip back into the warmth of his side, to let herself be quieted. But it was not quiet that she wanted. She raised her eyes to the gray slate of the ocean and undid the button on her jeans. Beneath her clothes, the monotony of her life clung to her like a film on her skin.
“That baby’s going to strip your youth right off you,” her mother, Pearl, had said dryly, two and a half years ago, when Laurel had first told her she was pregnant. “You mark my words.”
But her mother had been wrong. Having a baby hadn’t stripped youth from her. It had simply buried it in a viscous layer that Laurel could not scrape away, no matter what she did. No, she hadn’t come here to stand mutely in the wind, safely tucked away beneath her husband’s arm. She had come to scour herself clean, to peel away the gauzy membrane that the last two years of motherhood had swathed her in. That was why she had cajoled and pleaded for this weekend at the beach without her daughter. She didn’t plan to waste a minute.
She pulled her arms from her jacket and dropped it in the sand.
“Laurel,” Len said sharply. “We’re in public.”
She wouldn’t look at her husband; he couldn’t stop her. She looked at Michael instead and saw that he was watching her, his mouth pulled up on one side in amusement, showing a row of even teeth.
Laurel gestured widely at the empty beach. “Len, there’s no one here.”
Len nodded curtly at Alice and Michael. “They’re here.”
“That’s right,” Michael said, running his fingers through his dirty blonde hair. “What about us? Are we nobody?”
Laurel grinned; a flush of warmth went through her. She wriggled out of her jeans, the wind raising goosebumps on her bare skin. Miraculously, she had managed to shave her legs just this morning, hunched over in the shower while Jessie stood at the edge of the tub, pulling back the curtain and reaching for the pink plastic razor in Laurel’s hand.
“Dessie do!”
“No,” Laurel had said sharply. “You’ll cut yourself.”
But in the end, it had been Laurel who had cut herself, moving the razor too quickly over her knee, leaning awkwardly to keep away from Jessie’s grasping hands.
“Damn it, Jessie,” she had muttered. “See what you made me do.”
Her daughter had watched as the blood rose on her mother’s skin.
“Uh-oh, Momma. Boo boo. Boo boo wight dare.” She pointed in alarm at Laurel’s knee.
Laurel had rolled her eyes. “Yeah, boo boo right there. Well, what do you expect? I can’t even shave my freaking legs in peace.”
Now, the newly shaved skin almost hurt, the way the follicles raised up, trying futilely to warm her. But Laurel could still feel Michael’s eyes on her—felt, too, the little flare that had gone on inside of her. For a moment, she forgot the cold. Her skin tingled, alive. She glanced at her husband. Len stood with his broad shoulders turned away from her, long arms loose at his sides. The wind whipped a curl of black hair into his eyes, and he pushed it away impatiently. Why won’t you look at me? she wanted to shout at him. But her husband’s mouth was set in a grim little line and he would not meet her eye.
Laurel let out a wild little laugh. “Here I go!”
She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it in the sand beside her discarded jeans, then ran quickly toward the water. With each step, she felt her bottom jiggle. She had not lost all the extra pounds of her pregnancy, and it was with an effort that she fought the impulse to reach back and prod the flesh there, testing its firmness.
When at last Laurel reached the water, she was relieved. The water would cover her. But Laurel had not reckoned on how low the tide was. The water barely reached her knees, the skin on her legs stinging with the salt and cold. She ran a few more steps, but it was awkward running in the shallow water, the way she had to splay her legs out to the side with every step. She didn’t look back, but still she felt them watching her.
A few steps more and finally the water reached above her knees. This morning’s razor cut stung sharply and she looked down. Her legs were hidden now beneath the churning water, but she imagined that the cut was bleeding again, imagined the blood seeping out of her into the vast ocean. She tried to summon the thrill she had felt while she’d stripped on the beach, the heat of Michael’s eyes, but both were gone. She hugged her upper body and scanned the ocean for another swimmer. Surely there must be at least a surfer in a wetsuit, some other human form to make her feel less alone. But there was no one.
Laurel took a deep breath and threw herself forward into the water. A wave crested over her, the water so cold it made her temples ache. She thrashed wildly for a second, forgetting how shallow it was. But then her hands grazed the bottom, and she pushed herself back to standing, gasping with the cold.
She ran back to the beach immediately, the useless bra struggling to contain her bouncing breasts, heavy strands of hair flopping against her face. She was not thinking, now, of how she looked to the others, whom she could see standing together on the beach. Michael and Alice stood pressed together; Laurel noticed how perfectly Michael’s slender hip fit into the curve of Alice’s waist.
By the time she reached them, she had begun to shiver uncontrollably.
Michael grinned at her. “You call that a swim?”
She did not answer. Her teeth began to chatter. Len scooped her shirt from the sand and held it out for her.
She shook her head. “I’m soaked.”
“Put it on,” he said, reaching for her jeans.
The jeans wouldn’t go on easily; her numb fingers fumbled with the waistband. Michael and Alice looked away, then took a few steps down the beach.
“Where are they going?” Laurel said, her teeth clattering over every word.
“Just get dressed,” Len said.
That evening, the four of them had dinner at a small Italian restaurant near the motel. Condensation streamed down the windows, blurring its neon sign.
“Cozy little place,” Michael said, looking around. Each table had a classic red and white checkered tablecloth, a burgundy candle wedged into an empty wine bottle. He smiled at Laurel pleasantly.
Michael ordered a bottle of red wine, and Laurel’s mood lifted as she drank. She was warm at last; she felt her skin glow. She finished her glass during the appetizer and smiled gratefully when the waiter refilled it, glad that Len would not see her reach for the bottle.
Her food arrived, the pasta still steaming beneath its dollop of dark red sauce. Laurel could not help closing her eyes and leaning over it, just to feel the moist warmth against her face. Once she would have taken this for granted—this simple, overpriced meal. Now she knew better. Now she knew what it was worth, this meal that she had not prepared with a toddler hanging on her leg, this meal that she would eat without once having to get up for more this or more that, to mop up a spill, or retrieve a sippy cup thrown purposefully to the floor.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that Michael was watching her. She smiled at him and drew in her breath deeply so that her chest pushed out against her shirt.
“Bon appétit,” she said. “Or rather . . . Buon appetito!” She raised her wine glass to her lips. Inside her, something fluttered and awoke.
When the meal was over and Alice rose to excuse herself to the ladies’ room, Laurel pushed back her chair.
“I’ll go, too.”
Neither of the women spoke while they were in their stalls, but afterwards Laurel sought out Alice’s eyes in the mirror above the sink.
“You having fun?”
“Sure.”
“I like Michael. He seems . . . nice.”
Alice nodded but said nothing; she was touching up her face. She pressed her lips to a paper towel, leaving a perfect red kiss on the fold. Then she ball
ed up the towel deliberately and held it in her fist. She nodded at the wastebasket on Laurel’s other side.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Instinctively Laurel stepped aside, but something in Alice’s tone had jarred her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Alice threw away the crumpled paper towel and turned to meet her eye.
“You told him this weekend was our idea, didn’t you?”
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
Laurel shrugged noncommittally, and Alice stared at her with wide, mascaraed eyes.
“Laurel, that’s not true,” she said fiercely, the color rising in her pale face.
“Oh, come on, Alice. What difference does it make? He would never have come otherwise. And we’re having fun, right?”
Alice shook her head. “I don’t get it.”
“Look, Len’s like that. He would never have agreed to this weekend if it had been just the two of us. And I can’t tell you how much I needed—”
“So you used us?”
“Of course not. I wanted you to come.”
Alice frowned.
“Look, I’m sorry if—”
Alice shook her head.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” She bared her teeth in the mirror, checking for lipstick.
“Come on,” Laurel said, reaching for the door. “You look great. And the boys will think we’ve fallen in.”
She forced a smile, but Alice brushed past her without meeting her eye. Laurel made a little face at Alice’s back as she followed her down the tiny hallway to the dining room. She knew from work that Alice could be meticulous about details, but she had never seen her like this, so stone-faced and grim. Alice was younger than Laurel by a few years; she had taken the job at the lab while an undergraduate at Humboldt State and had stayed on after both her graduation and her wedding, grateful to have a job at the same university where her husband had begun his master’s.
Laurel, in comparison, was a newcomer. She had been seven months pregnant with Jessie when she had followed Len to Arcata, a small college town on the coast of northern California. Len had just earned his PhD in theoretical mathematics at Berkeley, and Humboldt State had offered him a teaching position. With only seven weeks until her due date, it was a ludicrous time for Laurel to look for work of her own. But by her daughter’s four-month birthday, Laurel had been desperate for a job—any job—just so she would get to leave the damn house alone for a few hours.
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