Halfway to You(34)

When I saw the state of my book, I grinned—no, I beamed.

Not only did Keith remember me, he had edited my book! This meant that he believed in the book—believed in me.

Included with the manuscript was a note: Ann,

It’s a delight to hear from you! Your novel is a work of art, and I believe it could go far. Do not be discouraged by the number of edits suggested here—I am thorough because I care.

—Your Friend and Editor, Keith

While the novel had grown from a deeply personal place, I was not precious with it. It was a blackberry bush: scraggly, thorny, misshapen. I thought carefully about Keith’s suggestions and where I wanted the story to go, seeking each sweet berry—an astute description, a strong sentence, a stellar word—and nurturing them to ripeness.

I worked tirelessly for three weeks—much to Carmella’s chagrin, as she had then broken up with her barista boyfriend and wanted to go out almost every night after work. But I was almost there, I told her. It was almost perfect.

When I finished the edits, I wrote Keith a note to accompany the fresh draft: Keith,

You flatter me. Thank you for the tough love. I think you’ll like this new version.

—Your Grateful Friend and Author, Ann P.S. How is Todd?

This time, the waiting was gratifying, like waiting for Carmella to make tiramisu. I spent my spare time working on a new short story.

Then:

Ann,

You are stellar. Here’s your next round of edits.

—Your Biggest Fan, Keith

I’ll admit, when I received that second box from Keith, I did go out with Carmella. It just goes to show how little I knew about novel writing, Maggie. I had thought I was done.

Keith,

Send a bottle of wine next time, would you?

—Your Exhausted Author, Ann

By then, it was late November 1985. The river outside my window smelled sweet with rotting leaves. Carmella cooked eggplant dishes that tasted homey. I hadn’t stayed in one place this long since I left Colorado; I realized I wanted to live permanently in Trastevere, Rome.

Ann,

I’ve taped some wine-money to the last page. Don’t skip ahead.

—Sympathetic Keith

In addition to letters, Keith and I also spoke on the phone, discussing the more contentious suggestions and editorial quagmires. Still, we liked the quaintness of attaching letters to the manuscript box—so we kept that up too.

Ann,

After our most recent call, I think we’ve hit a breakthrough. Can’t wait for your next mailing.

Also, some news: I left my job at the publishing company to start my own agency. I know I could’ve voiced this on the phone, but written proof makes it feel real. Everyone—including my wife (yes, wife!) Barbara—thinks I’m crazy. Be my first client?

—Your (Hopefully) New Agent, Keith

P.S. Todd asked about you. I told him you’re a genius. He didn’t seem surprised.

Nineteen eighty-six. I made my elderly landlord a cash offer on my apartment, and Carmella helped me with the visa paperwork that would allow me to stay in Rome longer term. I had found a home.

Keith,

I’m happy you and Barbara found your way back to each other. A new life, a new business: what a great way to start a new year. Send a contract—let’s be official!

—Your New Client, Ann

P.S. Tell Todd I miss I hope Todd is well.

Ann,

We are official! Congratulations. I won’t let you down.

Also, I think we’re almost done editing this beast.

More good news: I’m going to be a father.

—Daddy Keith

Keith,

Please don’t call yourself “Daddy Keith.”

But congratulations.

—Happy-for-You Ann

Ann,

Received the latest version—the book is perfect. Let’s cast the line and see who bites.

—Big Daddy Keith





MAGGIE


San Juan Island, Washington State, USA

Monday, January 8, 2024

Months of correspondence are spread across Ann’s kitchen counter; she kept every note, every draft. Ann’s letters appear rushed, feverish, as if the words burst out of her. Keith’s words are carefully constructed, as if they were meant to be saved in this way, captured on his own letterhead.

Maggie thumbs through the letters, hung up on the delicate swirl of her uncle’s handwriting. She touches the imprint of Keith’s signature. Her chest sags, heavy, as if filled with waterlogged soil. And yet a smile blooms across her face, warmed by the memory of him.

The Whitaker family has always been close. Keith was the eldest sibling, then Natalie and Tracey, twins. The family never spoke of the youngest sister, who died long before Maggie was born. She only ever heard whisperings on the anniversary of her death, a day that still sends her mom into a stupor.

The Whitakers considered family a priority: this value was a symptom of their loss, further fortified by their collective grief. There were Whitaker camping trips and ski trips, with neighborly visits in between. Maggie grew up surrounded by older cousins. Spouses like Barbara and Bob always seemed to be sucked into the Whitaker orbit; Maggie rarely heard about other relatives, let alone attended a function. Easters, Christmases, milestone birthdays—the Whitakers were their own solar system, and Keith was the sun.

When they lost him, everyone’s usual orbits seemed to shrink, wobble, and collapse. Now that Maggie’s grandparents and Keith are gone, and all the cousins are grown, it seems the family is floating out in space. And as the chasm widens, so does the question in her heart. How did Maggie—a meteor in the Whitaker galaxy—come crashing into this family?