What she says just shows how different we are: when I saw Jimmy die, I realized I could never change Anne Elise’s name.
“I’ll make it worth your while to let me hold her for a few minutes.” Tricia starts to cry. She turns away from me, embarrassed by her tears. She covers her eyes with her hand and sniffles. “Please?”
Watching her fall apart like this devastates me. So many times over the last many months I’ve cried just as hard over Jimmy’s death. Just watching her, I tremble.
“Tricia. Don’t you think you ought to head home now?” my mother says. I hadn’t realized she’d come outside. When I turn around, I see she’s right behind me, holding Anne Elise.
Tricia starts heading toward her car. She looks sad, pathetic, and I can’t imagine the thoughts that will pour through her mind during her long drive home. Everyone needs a little mercy in life, but from the doomed look that shadows over her face, I’m guessing she’s condemned never to find mercy again.
“Wait,” I say. Scooping Anne Elise out of my mother’s hands, I run after Tricia. “Hey. You can hold her. But only for a minute, okay?”
Tricia’s jaw drops open. In her awestruck expression, I realize she never thought I had it in me to be this generous. I place Anne Elise in her arms. My mother comes up from behind me. She lays her hand on my shoulder. Something smells around us, fragrant and vaguely floral, that owes nothing to the sea. Tricia’s wearing Shalimar, a perfume so expensive I’ve rarely smelled it. Tricia wraps both arms around Anne Elise and hugs her. She hasn’t stopped crying, and Anne Elise is unsure what to make of this crying woman holding her. Two minutes pass, enough time that I start to question if it was wise to let Tricia hold Anne Elise.
“Hey? Are you okay?” I ask.
Tricia raises her head. The expression in her face is that of someone who’s just been woken from a dream. She opens her mouth, sighs, and hands Anne Elise back to me. “I woke up this morning and knew I had to hold her one last time. Just one last time. Thank you.”
One last time? The finality in her tone scares me. During her hospitalization, she became so depressed doctors placed her on suicide watch. I’ve heard that once suicidal ideation enters a person’s thoughts, it can never be totally pushed aside, and suddenly I wonder if she might still be at risk. “Tricia. Are you all right? You aren’t intending anything drastic, are you?”
Tricia opens the door to the Volvo and slides into the driver’s seat. She puts the key in the ignition, starts the car up. “Laurel, do you remember what I said when we first met? About how a woman with a vendetta and lots of money in her purse will inflict great harm?”
I suck in a breath. Vaguely, I remember something like that, but I was heavily medicated and shaking with anger because Jimmy had brought Tricia into my maternity suite. I was feeling stressed out enough about Anne Elise and questioning if I could be a good mother. I didn’t need Tricia to come barging into my life, causing friction between me and Jimmy.
“Laurel, you’ve got a beautiful daughter, but let me tell you, you’re lucky you let me see her today. Thank you. It spared me the trouble of killing you. If you hadn’t let me see her, I was going to shoot you.”
And then I see it. A handgun rests on her dashboard. Tricia’s got a wry smile on her face and steel in her eyes. I’ve gotten into some fights over the years, especially while in juvie. One girl tried to poke my eyes out with a pencil when she thought I ratted her out to the guards for an illicit candy bar she’d stolen from another inmate. Another time, a girl elbowed me from behind, knocking me down while we were outside. I forget what made her do it, but I sprang up from the ground and smacked her down something bad. So bad that the guards tossed me into solitary confinement for a week. But in all those fights, I never felt as if my life was in jeopardy. Now, though, I tremble.
“I will never leave you,” Tricia says, buttoning back on her sable coat. A chill zips through me. She’s looking straight at me, but I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Anne Elise, but then Tricia winks at me. We’ll always be sisters of a kind, sinister sisters, drawn together by tragedy and a baby who’s changed our lives forever.
Tricia puts the car into gear. I can tell she likes scaring me, but when she looks again at Anne Elise, sadness returns to her face. She waves goodbye, blows Anne Elise a kiss. Though I don’t doubt for a minute Tricia will reappear again and again throughout my life, dogging me, right now, listening to the oystershells crunching beneath her tires as she leaves, I mainly feel relief.
I stand shoulder to shoulder with Belinda watching Tricia drive back down the same way she came. Reaching the end of the trailer park’s driveway, she takes a right at the main road. In the distance, I hear the shriek of seagulls, the ocean’s slow roar. I give Anne Elise another squeeze. She’s always so warm in my hands. When the Volvo totally disappears from our view, we remain standing, listening to the thunderous waves of the ocean behind us.
“Wow. The rich are very different from you and me, aren’t they?” Belinda asks, turning toward me.
It sounds like something Jimmy would have said, some quote he’d pluck from one of his favorite writers. Or maybe it’s a song lyric, something from that Great American Songbook of his. But it’s not true. I think about the handgun on Tricia’s dashboard and how I trembled at the sight of it. The rich are no different from you and me, but had the shoe been on the other foot, I would have shot her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel could not have been written without the love, support, and encouragement of my wife, Alison, and our children—Stephen, Sebastian, and Ellie. Thank you for putting up with my stress-frazzled mind and all my insecurities throughout this whole process. Thank you, also, to my mother, Mary; my brother, Mike; and my mother-in-law, Elaine—I can’t even begin to express my gratitude for all that you’ve done for me.
I’m extremely grateful to Rick Pascocello of Glass Literary Management, who took on my novel when it was still in its infancy. My first drafts were cartoonishly bad. His comments and suggestions helped each successive draft become better, more realistic, and tighter. Looking back, I can’t believe the time he devoted to my novel, the patience and encouragement he offered during the novel’s gestation. Thank you also to Alex Glass for his many insights and early critiques. And thank you to the many earlier readers whom Rick reached out to for comments—I don’t know your names, but you’ve helped me tremendously.
I’ll forever be in Megha Parekh’s debt. Not only did she acquire my novel for Thomas & Mercer, but she also proposed a killer title for it—I Will Never Leave You—which I love for its urgency, its insistence. Beyond that, she suggested bringing Charlotte Herscher on board as developmental editor. Working with Charlotte has been a dream—she identified literally hundreds of problems within my manuscript and had the patience to read through three completely different drafts within a relatively few weeks. I’ve relied on her expertise, sensibilities, and problem-solving skills throughout my revision process—thank you! I’m also deeply in debt to Stephanie Chou, my wonderful copyeditor who single-handedly rid my manuscript of hundreds of spelling, grammar, and continuity errors. Thank you!
Many other people at Thomas & Mercer have also provided invaluable assistance, including Sarah Shaw, Laura Barrett, Oisin O’Malley, Jessica Tribble, Laura Sarasqueta, and Laura Costantino.