I asked your grandma to check if GO ASK ALICE is in the library, and she said she would. I found some books to read at the school library, and Beryl is keeping them in her house for me, and I snuck one into my room to read at night, THE TROUBLEMAKER. Have you read it? It’s so good, about this guy who is kind of an outcast and plays guitar.
I miss you so much! School is awful. I wish I had something to wear that didn’t make me look so stupid, but my dad says girls have to be modest. I’m sick of doing all the things his way. I don’t think Jesus would care if I wore modern clothes!
I’m taking home ec and maybe I can learn to sew good enough to make me something else. We looked at patterns today that the teacher has, and she told us to go to the fabric store and see what we like. I might walk over there after school tomorrow. My dad can’t get mad if it’s for school.
When do you get to come back?
Love,
Suze
October 1, 19—
Dear Phoebe,
I FORGOT—don’t ever say you’re boring. I like how you think about things, like REALLY think about them, and you don’t talk about shallow ordinary things, but always important stuff like books and ideas and art. I never read too much before I met you. Now, in less than one year, I’ve read 52 books! That’s huge! I feel so much smarter.
I wish I didn’t have to leave them at Grandma’s house. (She told me to call her Grandma, because Beryl doesn’t sound right coming from me.) At least I can have them there, though, and sometimes I sneak one home in the back of my underwear. You can’t see it under my hair.
School here isn’t great either. I’m friends with one person, Joel, who is weird, too. He’s Coos Indian on his dad’s side, but he lives with his mom here. She works as a receptionist at the Sleepy Cove motel, and I can tell she doesn’t like me, and not even because my dad’s a Pentecostal preacher, but because I’m me. Joel just moved here, too. He seems sad. We walk all over, talking and not talking. I think you would like him. He likes art, too.
I love the new books you sent. THANK YOU! I’m reading MISTRESS OF MELLYN.
Love,
Suze
October 2, 19—
Dear Phoebe,
I’m dedicated to writing here every single day if I can at all. I didn’t know that writing would make me feel so calm, but it does, so thanks for that. It feels orderly to write down what I’m thinking.
Today I had to help cook for a church board meeting, and I burned the potatoes because I was daydreaming and my dad was so mad. He waited until everybody was gone, but then I had to cut a switch and he used it on me. My thighs hurt so bad I can’t even sit down. I didn’t cry, though. He can’t make me cry even if he uses it a hundred times, but that would be hard. It was only twenty and I thought I would die by the end. Twenty stripes on my legs.
I used to love my dad.
Love,
Suze
October 3, 19—
I had to smear Vaseline all over the back of my legs to stop the stinging, and then my dress stuck to my legs and Nancy Gorton made fun of me at lunch. She really hates me for some reason. I was so embarrassed that I ran out of the lunchroom without eating, and Joel brought me some of his lunch, an apple and a milk and some cookies. I didn’t tell him about my dad whipping me. It’s too humiliating. Don’t tell anyone and don’t feel sorry for me. I’m going to grow up and get out of here and do SOMETHING IMPORTANT.
October 4, 19—
GO ASK ALICE is so sad! I cried so much my hair was wet. I wish I could save her, like I wanted to save Anne Frank.
I just realized both of those girls died. Let’s not die! That would be terrible, for our diary to end like that.
Joel brought me some salve from his mom. He didn’t say anything, just gave it to me. When I put it on the stripes, it really helped.
October 5, 19—
Dear Phoebe,
My dad took me to the mall in Seaside to buy some new shoes and then we went to Jo-Anns and I bought some pretty fabric, white with little blue dots on it, kinda airy and nice. The pattern is pretty boring, but I don’t care. If I learn to sew, I can make my own stuff and my dad won’t even know about it.
My dad has his men’s prayer meeting tonight, so I’m taking the diary to Grandma to mail back to you. I can’t wait to see you at Thanksgiving!
Love,
Suze
CURRENT DAY
Chapter Four
Suze
I walk the beach for an hour, turning around only when the rains return and start to pepper my raincoat. I’m still feeling shaky and tired, weirdly unable to find my footing after—
Oh, after everything.
When I was a kid, I always wondered what it meant to have a nervous breakdown—like, did you shake nervously? We have different words for it now, like “panic attacks.” “PTSD.” “Anxiety.” “Depressive syndrome.” So many diagnoses. My body was the part of me that was wounded, but my mind felt equally battered. Surprising after so many things could have wrecked me, but the attack in my own front yard was the trauma that broke the camel’s back.
Breathing the beach air helps. I walk slowly, admiring the crash of waves into the rocks, the spray that spits high into the air. The water is turquoise in the shallows, dark gray out toward the horizon. Even noticing this tiny detail eases the muscles along the back of my neck. I think of Mary Oliver, exhorting us to go outside when we’re in despair. Under my breath, I recite “Wild Geese,” a poem I memorized to give myself comfort.
My energy is flagging and I head back up the bluff. The stairs are wood, seven flights broken by small landings. At each stop, I turn and look back over the ocean. In the distance, a trail of dolphins makes its leaping way along a cresting wave, and a peregrine falcon sails over the top of the stacks, seeking lunch among the murres, who fly away in terror at a gull’s warning. It’s cold and damp, but the air feels good in my lungs. Healing.
The stairs end between two houses, one a recent sleek glass design, the other a ’70s build with the rafters and rectangular windows so prevalent in that period—a fact I would not know if Phoebe hadn’t talked about architecture at least 40 percent of the time when we hiked up here to visit “our” house.
I let myself in and toss the keys on the table in the foyer.
Now what?
The silence that greets me is total. At my house in the Hollywood Hills, a small crew of people is often around—a housekeeper who comes five days a week and a chef who leaves prepared meals in my fridge, an assistant who handles everything from media requests to massage appointments, gardeners who tend the drought-friendly landscaping. There are others, specific to the season and task.
Here, the silence is deafening, the only sound the roar of the ocean. Cleaners do come twice a week, and I’m sure I’ll find a meal service, but it will probably be delivery. In the absence of noise and bustle, I’m left with only myself and my thoughts, which seem chaotic and restless, bouncing from one thing to the next like a pinball.
My giant, long-haired Himalayan Ragdoll cat, Yul Brynner, wanders out and meows at me.
“I know. I’ve got you, babe.” I stroke his silky head. “Let’s get a snack.”
I wander into the kitchen, think about a cup of tea, decide against it. Wander into the living room with its shelves and shelves of books and run my fingers over their spines. They’re actual books I’ve actually read, not pretend titles lined up by color. Phoebe has always been a bookworm, and she got me started on the habit back in the day with stacks of Scholastic Book Club paperbacks she stored for me at Beryl’s house.
Her house now, I guess. From my kitchen window, I peer out, but the studio looks empty.