Many thanks, also, to the following:
My agent, Emma Sweeney, whose brilliant insights helped turn my crazy idea into the beginnings of a novel.
My editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, whose patience, encouragement, and skill are unrivaled in the entire world of publishing.
Also unrivaled—the amazingly enthusiastic and talented team at Gallery Books, especially Jen Bergstrom, Carolyn Reidy, Louise Burke, Meagan Harris, Wendy Sheanin, Liz Psaltis, Abby Zidle, Melanie Mitzman, Diana Velasquez, Becky Prager, and Molly Gregory. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner.
My foreign publishers all over the world, with special thanks to the incredible team at Allen & Unwin, including Annette Barlow and Sam Redman.
Kira Watson for, somehow, keeping up with all the contracts, emails, and questions, and making everything run smoothly.
The experts that lent their time and expertise on everything from allergies to accounting to social work: Dr. Leo Sage, Dr. Mark Livezey, Mike and Jessica Chamlee, Maribeth Nolan, Johnna Stein (and Katie Garrison for your introductions). Any factual inaccuracies or creative embellishments are mine alone.
Amy Carlan and all the librarians at the Jefferson Public Library, thank you for sharing your time, your library, and your hilarious stories with me.
My sister, Megan Oakley, for reading this book at least one thousand times and then reading it again. Thank you also for being one of my go-to experts in the field of allergies, although I wish with all my heart you didn’t have to be.
My parents, Bill and Kathy Oakley (especially you, Mom, for instilling in me the love of words and books and libraries), my grandmother Marion, and the rest of my crazy clan of people (Tulls, Wymans, and Oakleys) for your love and support.
My fellow debs: Karma Brown, Amy Reichert, Sona Charaipotra, and Shelly King. What happens on Flowdock stays on Flowdock.
My friends and beta readers: Karma Brown (yes, I have to thank you twice), Kimberly Belle, Shannon Jones, Caley Bowman, Kelly Marages, Brooke Hight, and Kirsten Palladino. Thank you.
The remarkable bloggers, reviewers, librarians, and booksellers who have not only championed my novels but work endlessly promoting the books and authors they love. You are good people and the world is better with you in it.
My children: Henry, Sorella, Olivia, and Everett, whose stories are far more creative and entertaining than mine. Like the laundry basket in our house, my love for you is constantly overflowing.
And finally, my husband, Fred— without you, it is all meaningless.
If you enjoyed Close Enough to Touch, check out an excerpt from
before i go
Colleen Oakley
Now available wherever books are sold!
Turn the page for a sneak peek . . .
one
THE KALE IS gone. I’m standing in front of the open refrigerator, allowing the cool air to escape around my bare thighs. I’ve pushed aside the stacks of Tupperware containing leftovers of dinners that we’ll never eat. I’ve searched the crisper, even digging beneath the wilted celery (does anybody ever use an entire bag of celery before it goes rubbery?). There was some type of slime that had accrued on the bottom of the drawer. I added cleaning it out to my mental list of duties. I even pulled all the organic milk and juice cartons from the top shelf and looked behind them. No dice.
The kale is definitely gone.
Then I hear it. The high-pitched squeal of Queen Gertrude, our Abyssinian guinea pig, coming from the living room. And I know what’s happened to my greens.
I feel anger bubble up inside of me like a bottle of Dr Pepper that’s been rolling around the floorboard of a car—just waiting for the top to be taken off so it can burst free from its confined plastic.
It’s just kale.
It’s just kale.
It’s just cancer.
My anger is supposedly grief wearing a disguise. That’s what the therapist said in the one session I agreed to attend four years ago when I had breast cancer.
Yes, had.
But now I think my anger is just anger at the possibility that I might have breast cancer again.
Yes, again.
Who gets cancer twice before they turn thirty? Isn’t that like getting struck by lightning twice? Or buying two Mega Millions winning tickets in one lifetime? It’s like winning the cancer lottery.
“Morning.” Jack lumbers into the kitchen, yawning, in a rumpled T-shirt that says STAND BACK, I’M GOING TO TRY SCIENCE and his green scrub pants. He pulls a travel coffee mug from the cabinet above the sink and places it under the spout of our one-cup coffeemaker. He pops the plastic cylinder of breakfast blend into the machine and presses start. I inhale deeply. Even though I don’t drink coffee anymore, I love smelling it.
“Jack,” I say, having moved from my recon mission at the fridge over to the counter where the blender is set up. I pour a cup of frozen raspberries into the glass pitcher.
“Yeah, babe.” He walks up behind me and plants a kiss firmly between where my ear and jawline meet. The swack reverberates in my eardrum.
“Benny!” he says, also directly in my ear, as our three-legged terrier mutt skitters into the room. Jack kneels on the ground beside me to greet him. “There’sagoodboy. How’dyousleep? Ibetyou’rehungry. YouhungryBennyboy?” Benny’s tail whacks the mauve tile on our kitchen floor repeatedly as he accepts Jack’s morning nuzzles and ear scratches.
Jack stands and heads to the pantry to scoop a portion of kibble for Benny’s food dish.
“Did you feed Gertie the kale that was in the fridge?”
“Oh yeah,” he shrugs. “We were out of cucumbers.”
I stand there, staring at him as he grabs a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and peels it. Benny is munching his breakfast contentedly.
Jack takes a bite of his banana, and finally noticing the weight of my gaze, looks at me. Then he looks at the blender. He lightly taps his forehead with his banana-free hand. “Aw, damn. I’m sorry, babe,” he says. “I’ll pick up some more on my way home from the clinic tonight.”
I sigh and jab the blender’s crush ice setting, making my morning smoothie, sans kale.
Deep breath.
It’s just kale.
And there are children starving in Darfur. Or being murdered in their sleep. Is Darfur the genocide thing? I can’t remember. Either way, bad things are happening to kids overseas, and here I am worried about a leafy vegetable.
And the possible come-back cancer.
But Jack doesn’t know about the cancer because I haven’t told him yet. I know, you’re not supposed to keep secrets from your spouse, blah, blah, blah.
But there are plenty of things I don’t tell Jack.