Notes on an Execution(87)

She is lying on her grandfather’s sailboat, stretched long on a purple towel. The Tampa day is cartoon sunny. Her sister, Selena, is slathered in tanning spray, coconut-scented oil pooled in the dent of her belly button. Izzy’s fingers are sticky, her nails yellow from the tangerine she just peeled—she throws the skin off the side of the boat, watches it float behind in the wake. A manatee! her little brother shouts. Her mother holds him by the ribs to keep him from falling overboard—ten cuidado, peque?o. Izzy’s hipbones protrude like jutting jaws from her bikini bottom, and her fingers smell like orange and sunscreen.

No one remembers Izzy like this. Her sister, Selena, does, but only when she makes herself think past the horror. Usually Izzy—the real Izzy—is invisible beneath the shadow of what happened to her. The tragedy is that she is dead, but the tragedy is also that she belongs to him. The bad man, who did the bad thing. There are millions of other moments Izzy has lived, but he has eaten them up one by one, until she exists in most memories as a summation of that awful second, distilled constantly in her fear, her pain, the brutal fact.

From wherever Izzy is now, she wishes she could say: Before all this, my shoulders burned scarlet. I peeled off the flakes, flicked them into the sink. There were things I felt, before the fear.

I ate an orange in the sun. Let me tell you how it tasted.

*

Angela Meyer would have traveled to twenty-seven countries. Her favorite would have been Italy—not nearly as exotic as Malaysia or Botswana or Uruguay, but she would have loved the ancient heart of that country, entrenched proudly in tradition. She would have walked the cobblestones of Florence, Siena, Sorrento, licking plastic spoons of gelato, head buzzing from the wine. Angela would have taken her mother on vacation to the Amalfi Coast. They would have ordered vongole pasta on the balcony of their seaside hotel, the air tinged lavish with lemon trees and salt.

At the end of the trip, Angela would have tipped the housekeepers twenty percent. Those women, local teenagers, would have used the bills on shots of tequila at the nightclub across the street, not thinking of Angela, only thinking of the heat, their young sweating bodies, the pulse of the lights and the sound of the music, beating everything into oblivion.

*

Lila’s third child would have been a girl after all.

They would have named her Grace.

She does not exist, but if she did, Grace would have become the executive director of the Columbus Zoo. She would have managed eight hundred employees, ten thousand animals, and a five-hundred-acre property.

Grace’s favorite charge would have been the snow leopard: a lean, dignified animal with a lush coat of spotted white. After closing one night, a sweltering June, Grace would have found herself alone in the feline wing, the cleaning staff already gone home. She would have walked down to the leopard’s terrarium, intent on admiring before she said goodnight. She’d have stood at the entrance to the leopard’s high cage, stunned by the elegance of the animal—giant yellow eyes would have met hers. An invitation. She’d have unlocked the feeding door, her heart warning a patter as she inched forward, two steps. Forward, two more. The leopard would have watched as Grace slid to the floor against the interior wall, a smile snarling at its jaw. The leopard would have stalked slowly up to her, sniffed Grace’s outstretched hand in a whoosh of meaty breath. The animal would have unfurled its limbs, curled its long body into the nook where Grace’s armpit met her ribs. Together, they’d have slept.

At dawn, Grace would have woken to a mouthful of fur, the leopard’s head resting gigantic on her knee. She would have thought: How gentle, this world. How tender, this mercy.

*

There would have been 6,552 babies. Over a span of eighteen years, 6,552 hearts would have beat unconscious, cocooned in the blank swim of their mothers’ wombs. 204 of those babies would have been born blue, then slapped awake. 81 would have died. But 6,471 infants would have taken their first gasps of oxygen as they slid from echoing caves—they’d have stretched their thrashing limbs into Jenny’s waiting hands.

Jenny would have been a blur. Their eyes, still so new, would not have been able to track her face. But 6,471 newborns would have felt the soothing capability of Jenny’s gloved palms, the humility of her fingertips as she checked their vitals, wiped them clean. They’d have heard Jenny’s voice, rumbling the same words every time she passed them into their mothers’ sticky arms.

Welcome, little one, Jenny would have whispered into each precious seashell ear.

You’ll see. It’s good here.





Acknowledgments




This book is dedicated to my literary agent, Dana Murphy, because I owe its existence to her profoundly generous mind. Dana held faith in my work through moments of existential fear and self-doubt—she provided wise counsel, a level voice, necessary honesty, and a tender understanding of the novel’s aim. I am lucky to call her my artistic soul mate and a dear, invaluable friend.

In my editor, Jessica Williams, I’ve found a warm creative home. Jessica saw straight down to the heart of this book, pulled out its best parts, and held them up to the light. I’m grateful to Jessica, and to Julia Elliott, for making this publishing experience feel dynamic, delightful, and extraordinarily rewarding.

Thank you to Liate Stehlik for her support, to Brittani Hilles and the William Morrow publicity team for their dedication, and to the HarperCollins sales force for their stunning show of enthusiasm. Thank you to production editor Jessica Rozler, copyeditor Andrea Monagle, and sensitivity reader Neha Patel. For his incisive help with detailed research, many thanks to Dylan Simburger. I’m grateful to the lovely ladies of the Book Group, and to Jenny Meyer for her belief in this novel’s life abroad; thank you to Darian Lanzetta, Austin Denesuk, Dana Spector, and the rest of the team at CAA. Thank you to Francesca Main and Phoenix Books for providing this novel a loving home in the UK.