The People We Keep

by Allison Larkin

  Carly readjusts Max in the crook of her arm. It’s gorgeous, the way he’s soft and pink against the green inked vine twisting up her forearm. By her wrist the vine branches out into a white flower with a yellow center and rainbow colors all around it. It’s the tattoo Bodie drew for me. The one I didn’t get.

  I touch it with my index finger.

  “I missed you,” she says.

  “I missed you too.”

  “It’s a mayflower,” she tells me. “It’s the good stuff that comes after too many storms.”

  — Chapter 72 —

  “Where’s my favorite baby?” Margo asks when she comes back with an armload of grease-spotted takeout bags and a tray of milkshakes.

  “He’s in the nursery,” Carly tells her. “They had to weigh and measure him.”

  It actually hurt when the nurse took Max. When I started to cry, Carly didn’t act like it was silly. She let me rest my head on her shoulder and promised over and over that he’d be back soon. He’s only been gone for five minutes but being away from him is painful in every inch of my body. It’s a good hurt. I’m not afraid of myself anymore. I know that I will never ever leave him. I couldn’t. He’s mine and I’m his and it’s just that simple.

  “I miss him already,” Margo says.

  “Me too,” Carly says. “Those tiny, tiny feet! I wish I could be here when he gets back.” She gets up and my arm feels cold where her body was warming it.

  “You can’t stay to eat?” Margo asks, giving Carly the same worried look she’s given me so many times.

  “My shift starts soon.” Carly pulls her jacket on and steps into her boots.

  “You need to eat,” Margo says, handing Carly a takeout bag and one of the milkshakes. She gives Carly a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for finding our girl.”

  I expect Carly to bristle at the affection, but she hugs back and says, “Of course.”

  They’ve been through something together now. They already matter to each other.

  Carly slips the bag of food in her backpack. She picks up my guitar case with her free hand.

  “Wait,” I say. “What—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Margo says.

  “It has a little crack,” Carly tells me. “From when you fell. Nothing to worry about.”

  There were splinters in the dirt. Was that now, or was it then? I try to remember, but my thoughts feel like wadded up fishing line. “It’s broken?”

  “Oh, sweets. It’ll be alright,” Margo says, trying to coax me from panic. “We called the guitar store. They fix these things all the time.”

  Carly nods. “I’m taking it over now.”

  I look around the room for my bag. “My wallet—I can give you—”

  “Shush.” Margo shakes her head. “It’s taken care of.”

  “We got you, Pilgrim. I promise.” Carly looks me in the eyes to show me she means it. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, trying not to cry.

  Carly is careful to keep from banging my guitar case on the doorframe as she leaves. We hear her boots clomping down the hallway, then she shouts, “Hey, half-caff, double espresso!”

  Another voice says, “Hey, tattooed coffee girl!” And then he walks into my room wearing a striped knit hat with earflaps and fingerless gloves like the ones I used to have. He looks ridiculous. He looks good. He looks really, really good.

  “Angel,” he says. “Oh my god!”

  I don’t know how I thought I’d make it through the rest of my life without hearing him call me Angel again. His voice is a vital need; like blood or air or water when there hasn’t been enough.

  Carly pokes her head back in the room, wrinkling her forehead. “Wait! How do you guys know each other?”

  “Ethan,” I say, through tears. “It’s Ethan.”

  And she’s read my letters. She understands.

  “I’m Carly.”

  Ethan claps his hand to his mouth. “Oh my god! You are, aren’t you? All this time, all that coffee… I had no idea. It’s so good to know you.”

  “This is wild! How did you end up here?” Carly asks.

  “April convinced me I belonged in Ithaca,” Ethan says. “I’m teaching at the college.”

  “No way! I love this! I’m so glad you’re you!” Carly says. “I’m late for work, but I’m bringing dinner tonight. You’ll stay?”

  “Not going anywhere,” he tells her, and I like the sound of that so much.

  “Later!” Carly yells as she leaves again.

  Ethan sits on the bed and hugs me so hard I think my stitches will burst.

  “How are you here?” I ask. I never even let myself believe I’d see him again.

  “How could I not be?” he says, taking off his gloves. He grabs Margo’s hand and gives it a squeeze. She must have tracked him down.

  “I’m going to check on the baby,” Margo says. I know she’s giving us time to talk.

  “I lied,” I say to Ethan. “And I left you.”

  “And I love you anyway,” Ethan says.

  “You shouldn’t.” I cry and it shakes my scar and makes me cry harder.

  “You don’t get to decide that,” he says.

  “I don’t deserve you.”

  “When…” Ethan sobs. It takes him a minute to get his voice back. “When are you going to get it through your thick little head that there is nothing you could do to make me stop loving you?” He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Stop trying already, okay? I know you.” He hugs me and talks into my shoulder, muffled and warm. “Everything else is noise and words. I know your heart. Always, okay?”

  “Always,” I say. The collar of my hospital gown is soaked. I want to ask him about Robert. I want to know what happened after I left. If he’s mad. If he hates me. If maybe he’ll still want to meet Max someday. “I didn’t know how to make it right. I couldn’t—”

  “I know,” Ethan says. “Robert knows. Once you escape this hospital we can give him a call. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I am so sorry,” I say.

  “I am so happy to see you again.” He pulls the hat from his head and the static electricity turns his hair into a halo.

  I laugh.

  “I’m not used to all this bundling up,” he says, smiling back.

  “I can’t believe you live here now.”

  “You were right. Ithaca is freezing! But it is where I belong. I bought a big old house near Fall Creek.”

  “You did?” I smooth his hair, wipe a tear from his cheek. He has stubble on his face. He never used to let it grow.

  “With plenty of room for you and Max,” he says.

  I hold Ethan’s face with both hands. He’s real and he’s here and he knows everything about me. “You want us to live with you?”

  “It’s empty without you,” Ethan says. “I need you there. We’ll paint wild things on the walls in Max’s room.”

  Margo comes back with a nurse and Max, and Ethan gets to hold him. “I’ve been waiting so long to meet you, kiddo,” he says, and Max opens his eyes and gurgles and I think that maybe he remembers Ethan. All that time Ethan spent talking to my belly counted for something. Ethan being here, holding him now, counts for everything.

  * * *

  Carly returns with eggplant pizza from The Nines and her girlfriend, Erin, who has a mass of crazy yellow curls and round wind-burned cheeks. Carly blushes when she introduces her. And Erin gives me a hug that makes me feel like we’re already good old friends.

  We all camp out on my hospital bed and everyone takes turns holding Max so someone else can eat. I’m sleepy, but I can’t let my eyes close. I can’t stop watching. They already love him. It’s the most beautiful thing I can think of. Even if I had all the things I could ever need, I would still love these people. I would have chosen them anyway.

  Carly dances around the room with Max, singing Cat Skin songs to him, using fudge and shush and mothertruckers instead of the real words. Erin
sits next to me and tells me about how it took her five espressos to get up the nerve to ask Carly out. The way she looks at Carly when she says it is the way Carly deserves to be adored.

  Margo tells Ethan how I started working for her at the diner when I was a kid.

  “Oh, she was so cute,” Margo says. “Marching up to people and writing orders in her school notebook. ‘Hi, I’m April, may I take your delicious order today?’ I don’t know where she got that from.” Margo smiles at me. “You’re something else, you.”

  Ethan laughs and gives my foot a squeeze.

  “She was just so serious about it,” Margo says, laughing too. “In the beginning, she wrote all of her orders out in full sentences! ‘Ida Winton would like french fries with melted cheese and some gravy, not too much, but enough, on a plate, please.’ ” She wipes her eyes. “April just figured it all out on her own. I’ve never seen a kid with her kind of determination.”

  “Sounds about right,” Ethan says.

  “That first apron went all the way to the tops of her sneakers.”

  “Do you have pictures?” Ethan asks with his mouth full of pizza.

  “Sure do,” Margo tells him. “I’ll bring them with me next weekend.”

  She hugs me. “Girlie, get ready to see a lot of this face. Now that I know where you are, you and Max are gonna get sick of me!”

  “Never,” I say, fighting tears.

  * * *

  Later, when the nurse brings paperwork for Max’s birth certificate, I write Ethan’s name on the line for who his father is.

  Someday I’ll look for Justin again and give him another chance to be a good person to Max. But Max already has a family—the kind that counts the most. Me and Ethan and Carly and Margo. We have people we get to keep, who won’t ever let us go. And that’s the most important part.

  That’s what’s true.

  Acknowledgments

  After turning in the final draft of this book, I went digging through my files for the first glimpse of April and found my original short story about April and Ethan. It was dated September 22, 2006. By the time this book is published, my relationship with April will be about a year shy of April’s age in part one. Thinking her thoughts and loving her people has been my favorite pastime for so long that the characters in this book exist in my mind like old friends who are just a phone call away—like if only I could find the right phone number scribbled on a napkin buried in the pile of papers on my desk, we’d have a good long chat. So although there’s a part of me that knows this is a bit silly, my first thank you is to April Sawicki, who popped into my head while I was writing something else and gave me a parallel universe where I could paint new stories with every feeling I’ve ever had. And then, of course, I have to thank Ethan, and Carly, and Margo, because getting to keep them in my heart for this long has made my whole life better.

  There is a vast list of real people who have offered solace and advice, read drafts, and talked through timelines, titles, and all things mid-nineties. I know there’s no way to write these acknowledgments without leaving someone out. I want you to know I am keenly aware that this book would not have been possible without everything I’ve learned and felt through the twists and turns my life has taken. I am grateful to everyone I’ve had the privilege of knowing along the way. If I’ve forgotten a mention, please understand it’s a failure of my cluttered mind, not my heart.

  Hannah Braaten, oh, how I adore you. You are exactly the editor this book needed, and I am endlessly thankful for the ways you nudged this story into shape and loved it into being. It’s a great privilege to work with you. Thank you for giving this book a home at Gallery.

  Thank you also to Jen Bergstrom and Aimée Bell for seeing the heart of this story. And everyone at Gallery who has worked to usher this book into the world in such a gorgeous package—including Jen Long, Caroline Pallotta, Sally Marvin, Lauren Truskowski, Bianca Salvant, Allison Green, Iris Chen, John Paul Jones, Laura Cherkas, Jaime Putorti, Daniel Taverner, John Vairo, and Lisa Litwack. And, of course, Andrew Nguyễn, who has kindly, patiently guided me through all the little details.

  Deborah Schneider, I spent so long hoping to find an agent like you, and getting to work with you is even better than I’d hoped. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for understanding April, and always honoring how much this work means to me. Cathy Gleason, I appreciate your kindness and all of the guidance and wisdom you’ve shared with me. Thank you also to Penelope Burns and everyone at Gelfman/Schneider ICM. I’d also like to thank Joe Veltre, Katy McCaffrey, Davina Hefflin, Tori Eskue, and Kaitlyn Berry at The Gersh Agency. Thank you to Eric S. Brown at Franklin, Weinrib, Rudell & Vassallo for being so careful and so lovely.

  Thank you, Ingrid Serban for bringing your music to my words, and your sweet brilliant spirit to my life. Now I know that love at first sight works for friendship too.

  Caroline Angell, you relit the pilot light on my creative spirit so many times in my journey with this book. Thank you for believing in me and my work. I don’t know what I’d do without you and your fierce, gorgeous heart.

  Cassandra Dunn, one of the best parts of my life is knowing that whenever I’m stuck in my writing or anything else, I get to hike it all out with you. I am always astounded by the depth and breadth of your perspective and compassion. Thank you for putting in all those miles with me.

  Thank you, Ann Mah, for the many, many ways you’ve helped me get here and for the joy of being your friend.

  Regina Marler and Renee Swindle, I am dreaming of the long breakfast we will have in the future, and so thankful for all of the kindness, understanding, and confidence you’ve given me over our breakfasts in days past.

  Bruce Holsinger, your belief in this book changed me on a cellular level, and I am so grateful.

  Michele Larkin, thank you for all the times you’ve picked me up, bolstered my courage, and understood where I’m coming from. It’s such wonderful luck to be in your family.

  Thank you to everyone who read drafts and shared your hearts with me, including Therese Walsh, Brenda Kirkwood, Julia Whelan, Brantley Aufill, Rainbow Rowell, Michelle Rubinstein, Cullen Douglas, Dash Hegeman, Melanie Krebs, Sarah Playtis, Neil Gordon, Ben Jackson, Julie Smith, Erica Curtis, Liz Valentine, Evan Dawson, Keith Pedzich, Jennifer Deville Catalano, Julia Claiborne Johnson, and Brunonia Barry. And, of course, Joan Pedzich, who understood the power of kind words to an orphaned soul and talked with me about April as if she were a dear girl we both knew.

  Special thanks to Therese Fowler, Jan O’Hara, Sarah Callendar, Jeanne Kisacky, Barbara O’Neal, and Greer McAllister for those beautiful Ithaca moments. Thank you to Jack Hrkach and all the teachers and friends who made Ithaca the place where I started.

  Katherine Frances Billingsley, my darling Evergreen! What a joy it was to grow up being weirdly creative with you and to still be yes anding our friendship after all these years.

  Thank you to Julie Buxbaum, Amy Franklin-Willis, Ann Marie Nieves, Matthew Andreoli, Savannah Butler, Emmett Tucker, Elizabeth Roberts, and Nikki DeLoach. Whether you know it or not, you’ve come along with the right words of encouragement exactly when I needed them. I appreciate your kindness and perspective so much. Thank you, Ania Szado, for saving me with research! Thank you to Angela Terry, Carrie Medders, and Patrice Hall for helping me feel like I belong by this bay.

  Thank you again and always to Linda and Roger Bryant, and the wonderful folks of the Titles Over Tea book group, who have taught me so much about what it means to be a reader. Thank you to the members of The Fiction Writers Coop, WOMBA, and my friends at Untitled, for sharing all the textures of what it means to be a writer.

  Thank you to John Cuk, Marty Heresniak, Jan Callner, Joseph Ilardo, Jonathan Klein, Brian Maillard, and Daniel Holabaugh for bringing music into my life. And a huge thank you to Ken Wilcox for being the best darn guitar teacher.

  To my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram friends, and all the readers who have reached out to me, it is one of the greate
st honors of my life to be understood by you and to know we have such kindred spirits. Thank you for chiming in with answers to my weirdo research questions and letting me know you were hoping for another book.

  In 1997, I saw Peter Mulvey play at Ithaca College, and since then, most of the music I listen to is in some way related to his beautiful slice of the folk world. Steadily and with great empathy, he carries on the tradition of being a folksinger, and by following his work and the way he navigates the world, I’ve learned a great deal about the kind of creative person I want to be. I have also been greatly inspired by Chris Pureka, who writes the most wise and beautiful songs I’ve ever heard, and whose lyrics helped me navigate my intentions for this work.

  The soundtrack to this book and this phase of my life has been full of Mark Erelli, Kris Delmhorst, Jeffrey Foucault, David Goodrich, Tracy Chapman, Dar Williams, The Waterboys, R.E.M., Counting Crows, Indigo Girls, Steve Earle, Glen Phillips, Meg Hutchinson, Gordon Lightfoot, Arlo Guthrie, Carole King, James Taylor, Yusef Islam, and (of course) Bob Dylan. I am so grateful for their brilliant work.

  It is very hard to write this part because I don’t know that my dear old friend Stella will still be here when this book comes out, but she has been with me while I wrote it, snoring at my feet for twelve years of this journey. Everyone should have such a steadfast friend. I have loved every moment of her.

  Jeremy Larkin, I freaking love you. You’ve lived with this book as long as I have and believed in me in times when I forgot to. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for dancing. What a great adventure we’ve been on this far. I’m so glad to be home with you.

  About the Author

  ALLISON LARKIN is the internationally bestselling author of the novels Stay, Why Can’t I Be You, and Swimming for Sunlight. Her short fiction has appeared in the Summerset Review and Slice, and her nonfiction in the anthologies I’m Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship and Author in Progress. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, Jeremy, and their fearful, faithful German Shepherd, Stella.