“This isn’t real,” I whisper.
“Says who? Who says what’s real? What your mama did was unreal. She doesn’t have the last word on real. Maybe I do.”
My shoulders shake. I make sounds a person could never make on purpose.
“Families aren’t like what your mama did to you. Or what she had you do.”
I hide my face in my arms and sob.
“I can’t erase those years, Carey, and God knows I’d give my life to make yours and Jenessa’s whole again. I can’t give you back all the time she stole from us. That’s the hardest thing to reconcile.”
Tears slide down his cheeks, their path determined by the lines and wrinkles in his face. My tears continue to fall, but for all of us—him, Ness, myself, and even Gran.
“All I can hope is that the lean years made you stronger, and that you’ll get through this like you got through that. But no matter what happens, you and Jenessa always have a home with me.”
I break down completely, and when he reaches for me, I let him. He holds me to him and we cry together, holding on for dear life. I breathe in the smoky smell of his sheepskin coat, rough against my cheek. The h word measuring my humeris fans its wings into a D.
Dad.
I close my eyes, trying to remember him from before. It’s so hard.
“I can’t remember much from before the woods,” I say, hiccup-ing through my tears. “Not you, not living indoors, not tap water or light switches or bubble baths. Not even Christmas.”
He holds me tighter, his stubbly chin resting on my head.
“Give it time. It’ll come back when you’re ready.”
He rocks me back and forth, back and forth, as long as I need it.
Then: “So, anymore secrets?”
“Ryan Shipley.” My words are muffled by his coat. “He’s my best friend.”
“I reckon he is. You were like two peas in a pod once upon a time.” He chuckles. “You’d better bring him by the house, then. Been a few years since I’ve seen that boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s true: Ryan’s my best friend. But what I don’t say is that I love him. From the tips of my chunky hair to the wiggle in my clean toes, I love him. My stomach squirms like worms (in a good way) just thinking about him. And I reckon when love’s in short supply, you know it all the more when it finds you.
“See,” my dad says, grinning.
“What?”
“You remember some things.”
“Some things I don’t want to remember.”
“That’d be normal, I guess. But some things you need to remember. Or how else will you know who you are?”
I turn to him. I have to say it out loud. For the girl in the woods.
“My name is Carey Violet Benskin. My mama kidnapped me when I was five years old.”
“You have no idea how many people were looking for you, sweetheart.”
“And I was just over yonder, in the woods,” I say wistfully.
“Might as well have been a whole ’nother world,” he replies.
This is our world, now, our own special bubble. He drives with one hand on the wheel, his other arm around me. I snuggle against him, flesh, blood, and bone, our combined breath fogging the side windows.
I think of the writing on the camper wall, just above the baseboard, scrawled by my six-year-old self. I saw it when I retrieved Gran’s watch; up until then, I’d forgotten all about it. If you find me, take me home, I’d written. Like I knew, somehow, this day was coming.
I don’t remember Melissa greeting us in the driveway, nor my dad carrying me up the stairs to my room, taking off my coat and shoes, hat and mittens before slipping me under the covers and leaving me to a dreamless sleep.
I just know when I wake to the roosters crowing and the sun warming my cheeks, everything has changed.
I told.
And it’s only the beginning.
Acknowledgments
A book is a living, breathing thing. It spends the first chapters of its life curled up in the mind, symbiotic with its creator as it grows fat and round. And then the book is born. If you’re lucky like me, by the time you turn the pages for the first time, your book will have been cradled by many sets of careful, talented, and capable hands.
To my amazing agent, Mandy Hubbard, thank you for too many things to list, and most of all, for believing in this book. I’m so glad our stars aligned, and I feel lucky for it every day. Bob Diforio, you’ve been a kind and guiding light through the entire process. Words don’t suffice.
For my editor, Jennifer Weis, and assistant editor, Mollie Traver, much appreciation for steering me through this process with precision and enthusiasm, and for honoring me with a true collaboration. My copy editor, Carol Edwards, made the novel sing with her deft touch. My deepest gratitude to everyone at St. Martin’s who had a hand in this book from start to finish. It truly takes a village.