Everything I Never Told You(75)

“Nath?” Hannah calls, and then she’s peering over the side of the dock, her face small and pale. Then another head appears—Jack’s—and a hand stretches down toward him. He knows it’s Jack’s, and that when he gets there, he’ll take it anyway.

And after he takes it, what will happen? He’ll struggle home, dripping wet, muddy, knuckles raw from Jack’s teeth. Beside him, Jack will be bruised and swollen, the front of his shirt a Rorschach of dark brown. Hannah will obviously have been crying; it will show in the streaks under her eyes, in the damp thwack of lashes against her cheek. Despite this, they will be strangely aglow, all of them, as if they’ve been scoured. It will take a long time to sort things out. Today they will have to deal with their parents, Jack’s mother, too, all the questions: Why were you fighting? What happened? It will take a long time, because they won’t be able to explain, and parents, they know, need explanations. They will change into dry clothing, Jack wearing one of Nath’s old T-shirts. They will dab mercurochrome on Jack’s cheek, on Nath’s knuckles, making them look bloodier, like their wounds are reopened, even though in reality they are beginning to close.

And tomorrow, next month, next year? It will take a long time. Years from now, they will still be arranging the pieces they know, puzzling over her features, redrawing her outlines in their minds. Sure that they’ve got her right this time, positive in this moment that they understand her completely, at last. They will think of her often: when Marilyn opens the curtains in Lydia’s room, opens the closet, and begins to take the clothing from the shelves. When their father, one day, enters a party and for the first time does not glance, quickly, at all the blond heads in the room. When Hannah begins to stand a little straighter, when she begins to speak a bit clearer, when one day she flicks her hair behind her ear in a familiar gesture and wonders, for a moment, where she got it. And Nath. When at school people ask if he has siblings: two sisters, but one died; when, one day, he looks at the small bump that will always mar the bridge of Jack’s nose and wants to trace it, gently, with his finger. When, a long, long time later, he stares down at the silent blue marble of the earth and thinks of his sister, as he will at every important moment of his life. He doesn’t know this yet, but he senses it deep down in his core. So much will happen, he thinks, that I would want to tell you.

For now, when he opens his eyes at last, he focuses on the dock, on Jack’s hand, on Hannah. From where he floats, her upside-down face is right-side up, and he dog-paddles toward her. He doesn’t want to dive underwater and lose sight of her face.





AUTHOR’S NOTE



I’ve taken a few minor historical liberties: the cover of How to Win Friends and Influence People that I describe in the novel is an amalgamation of several different editions’ covers, though the text is all real. Likewise, the quotes from Betty Crocker’s Cookbook are from my mother’s own 1968 edition, although Marilyn’s mother would have used an earlier edition.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



Enormous thanks to my agent, Julie Barer, who waited patiently for this novel for six years and who always had more faith in it (and me) than I did. I thank my lucky stars for her. William Boggess, Anna Wiener, Gemma Purdy, and Anna Knutson Geller at Barer Literary have been a delight to work with, and I couldn’t have been in better hands.

My editors at The Penguin Press, Andrea Walker and Ginny Smith Younce, helped make this book immeasurably better and guided me every step of the way. Sofia Groopman brightened my day literally every time we emailed. Jane Cavolina, my copyeditor; Lisa Thornbloom, my proofreader; and Barbara Campo and the production team straightened out my myriad inconsistencies and were exceptionally patient about my use of italics. My publicist, Juliana Kiyan, has been a dynamic and tireless advocate, and I’m deeply grateful to Ann Godoff, Scott Moyers, Tracy Locke, Sarah Hutson, Brittany Boughter, and everyone else at The Penguin Press and Penguin Random House for bringing this book into the world with such enthusiasm and love.

People often insist that writing can’t be taught, but I learned a tremendous amount—about both writing and the writing life—from my teachers. Patricia Powell helped me take my work seriously in my first real writing workshop. Wendy Hyman first suggested the idea of an MFA, and I will forever be in her debt for that. Eliezra Schaffzin offered crucial early encouragement and support, and my incredibly generous professors at Michigan—Peter Ho Davies, Nicholas Delbanco, Matthew Klam, Eileen Pollack, and Nancy Reisman—continue to be a source of wisdom and guidance.

I owe a huge debt to my informal teachers—my writer friends—as well. I’m especially grateful to my fellow Michigan MFAers, especially Uwem Akpan, Jasper Caarls, Ariel Djanikian, Jenni Ferrari-Adler, Joe Kilduff, Danielle Lazarin, Taemi Lim, Peter Mayshle, Phoebe Nobles, Marissa Perry, Preeta Samarasan, Brittani Sonnenberg, and Jesmyn Ward. Ayelet Amittay, Christina McCarroll, Anne Stameshkin, and Elizabeth Staudt deserve double—triple, quadruple—thanks for reading early drafts of this novel over the years and cheering me on. Jes Haberli is not only a trusted sounding board but a much-needed voice of sanity.

Writing is a lonely business, and I’m immensely grateful for the communities that have offered me fellowship along the way. The staff of Fiction Writers Review reminded me, always, that fiction matters, and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference introduced me to many friends and literary idols, including the Voltrons. In Boston, Grub Street adopted me into its warm and welcoming writing family—extra helpings of thanks to Christopher Castellani for bringing me into the fold. My writers’ group, the Chunky Monkeys (Chip Cheek, Jennifer De Leon, Calvin Hennick, Sonya Larson, Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich,Whitney Scharer, Adam Stumacher, Grace Talusan, and Becky Tuch) provides boundless encouragement and merciless critiques. And whenever I get stuck, Darwin’s Ltd. in Cambridge magically gets me going again with hot tea, the best sandwiches in town, and (somehow) always exactly the right music on the stereo.