“All set.”
We managed to beat the buses and pull onto the main road ahead of the traffic. Howie asked if I wanted to go by the old house or maybe go visit Dereck at the garage, which was something we sometimes did. But I told him that maybe we could skip those things for today. Instead, we turned up the radio and just drove for a while, as I leaned back and felt the sun on my face. Sometimes, when we were together, I glanced over and glimpsed my father in his resemblance. Whenever that happened, my mind flashed on the morning I went down to the basement to find Abigail gone and my father cleaning up the chaos with a strained look on his face. Why had she decided to go against our plan and leave during the night, stopping at Father Coffey’s house on the way? And when my father discovered her gone, did he decide right then and there to make it look as though she had left on account of those things in our basement, arranging the scene just so in order to support that story? And did that wrench wrapped in a towel in his nightstand have something to do with those horses and the way they were broken? Some answers, I still did not know and supposed I never would. Mostly, I found myself wondering if he really did send Rose away because of his beliefs or if it was simply convenient once she caught on to what he was doing.
When all that becomes too much to think about, I turn to my journal still. There was only a handful of empty pages left when I arrived at Kev and Bev’s, and I’ve since filled them with those things I wonder about, hoping the answers might be made clear. Just last night, in fact, I realized I had come to the final page. Instead of putting down any more questions, I decided to write about something else instead. This is what I wrote:
Sometimes at night, when it is dark inside my room, I get down on my knees to pray. First, I pray for my sister. And then I pray for my parents’ souls. Whenever I do that, I feel something change in the air around me. It is more than their memory returning; it feels like their spirits. Despite all the things that haunted my mother and father during their time in this world, despite the mistakes they made too, the feeling of having them close brings me comfort somehow.
When I am finished praying and get into bed and close my eyes, I picture my father. Only not the person I knew. Instead, I conjure him as a young boy standing in the dark of that theater, watching shadows dance around him, having no idea about the truth of what they were and how they would change the course of his life.
And then I think of my mother beside me, hair fanned all around on the pillow the way it had been that night in our motel room so long ago. If I keep my eyes closed, I feel her there again. I hear her breath, hear her voice telling me, “Each of us is born into this life with a light inside of us . . . What’s most important is to never let that light go out, because when you do, it means you’ve lost yourself to the darkness. It means you’ve lost your hope. And hope is what makes this world a beautiful place. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”
I think about those words a lot, and I think about their spirits too.
If you believe in those sorts of things.
I do and I don’t believe.
But mostly—mostly, mostly—I do.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank three amazing women in my life who make everything happen: My talented, insightful, and patient editor, Kate Nintzel, read endless drafts and helped to shape this story and keep it moving. My incredible literary agent, Joanna Pulcini, offered inspiration and devoted countless hours discussing these characters and figuring out their world. And Sharyn Rosenblum, my friend and book publicist, brings boundless energy and so much fun to our work together.
Also at HarperCollins, I am enormously grateful to Liate Stehlik, Michael Morrison, Lynn Grady, Virginia Stanley, Kayleigh George, Annie Mazes, Tavia Kowalchuk, Carla Parker, Beth Silfin, Andrea Molitor, Laurie McGee, Kim Chocolaad, Caitlin McCaskey, Erin Simpson, Jennifer Civiletto, and Margaux Weisman.
I am indebted to the Corporation of Yaddo, where I began writing this story in earnest while living in an old Tudor in the woods not unlike Sylvie’s old Tudor in the woods. In particular, Elaina Richardson, Candace Wait, and Jonathan Santlofer helped immensely with my two generous residencies there.
Also tremendously helpful were homicide detective Dennis Harris of the Boston Police Department and Cory Flashner, the assistant district attorney of Suffolk County, Massachusetts, who sat with me in an interview room at the station and answered my endless “what if?” questions. Plus, Ed McCarthy answered all my questions about how certain things might happen in an old theater.