Spells for Forgetting(101)

In a way, leaving the island had helped me find my own magic for maybe the first time.

There were letters from Nixie and Dad. Seeds and pressed flowers that found their way to my mailbox from Albertine, and I still made her griddle cakes every weekend. But sometimes entire days went by without me thinking about Saoirse, and that was something I never thought possible.

August appeared in the hallway as I took the griddle cake off, setting it on top of the stack. His T-shirt was hiked up on one side, revealing the olive skin that stretched from his hip to his ribs, like he’d just pulled it on but hadn’t bothered finishing the job. His hair was longer now, more like it was when we were teenagers, and every once in a while, I saw that August in a flash on his face, like a passing shadow.

He picked up an edge of the steaming cake and instantly dropped it, hissing. “Shit. That’s hot.”

“Don’t say shit.” Liv’s straight brown hair fell like a curtain beside her face as she scribbled on the thick white paper she’d fished from my desk.

I stifled a laugh and August kissed me on the shoulder before he picked up the plate, setting it on the table. He scooped Norah up next, propping her on his hip as he cleared another chair for her. She looked tiny in his arms, peering over his shoulder at me with big blue eyes.

I’d imagined him as a father many times, but I hadn’t foreseen the quiet tenderness he would have. The way he read beneath the surface of things with a gentle touch or a sideways smile. I’d underestimated him in a way. I’d underestimated us.

We’d had no beginning, I realized. We just always were. When I thought about it like that, it was comforting. Like there was no waiting for an end, either.

He’d kept his job at the college and he continued teaching when I enrolled in classes. It took me three and a half years to finish my degree in psychology, of all things, and I walked across the stage at graduation with Norah kicking in my belly.

Now, life had grown into something new. August taught classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He had papers to read and grade on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I took classes for my doctorate. The weekends were spent like this—lazy mornings in golden light and a haze in the air from the cast iron. After a lifetime of hungering for things to change, I’d settled into a life that I hoped never would.

The apartment was chaotic, no more than a few cramped rooms littered with the evidence of our simple but very full lives—books, paintbrushes, a slew of colorful scarves the girls used for dressing up. And I loved it so much that every time I thought about it, it felt like my heart was going to burst inside my chest.

“What is that, baby?” August leaned over Liv, moving the paper she was coloring into the light coming from the window.

I set down two juice glasses, coming around them with a damp towel to wipe Norah’s blueberry-stained fingers.

“It’s Saoirse.” Liv’s little voice made a jolt go through me.

When I looked up, August’s eyes were lifted to meet mine.

“What did you say, honey?” I said, dropping Norah’s hand with a constriction in my throat.

August slid the paper toward me slowly and my heart kicked up when I saw it. Trees. A thicket of crude, green and blue pines was drawn in Liv’s four-year-old hand, the green branches tangling into one another.

August sank down, crouching beside her chair as he stared at it. “Saoirse?” he asked, studying our daughter’s face.

“Mmhmm,” she chirped, reaching for the syrup.

I picked up the drawing with trembling fingers and August followed me back into the kitchen. We’d never told them about Saoirse. We’d never uttered the name aloud, afraid that even here, the shadow of the island would find us.

We stood there staring at each other, each of us not wanting to say it, before our gazes drifted back to the girls, sunlit and glowing in the window with the stack of griddle cakes between them. After a moment, August took the drawing from my fingers and lifted the lid of the trash can, dropping it inside without a word. When it closed, I let out the breath I was holding.

There were many stories told about the island. We’d grown up with them, and we’d been careful not to pass them to our children. But there in the kitchen, almost three hundred miles away, I could hear my grandmother’s time-worn voice recounting the oldest of Saoirse’s legends: That if you left the island, it would always call you back.





For Laura, Brandon, and Adam

   How lucky I am to be stuck with you





Acknowledgments


When the first glimmer of this story found me, there was just a man on a ferry, headed home to bury his mother’s ashes. I had no idea where he was going to take me.

Working on this book has been an incredibly growth-filled experience as a writer and I have many people to thank for their support along the way. The lion’s share of my gratitude, as always, goes to my family—Joel, Ethan, Josiah, Finley, and River. You are the best home and I love you.

My agent, Barbara Poelle, played a significant role in the development of this book when I sent her an early version and she sent it back to me with a challenge—to dig deeper and lean into the story’s darkness. Without her, Spells for Forgetting would not be the book it is today. I’m very lucky to have you in my corner, Barbara.

This book brought me into the orbit of an exceptionally talented editor, Shauna Summers, who was able to see its magic before a first draft was even finished. I’m so happy that it landed in such good hands. Thank you for helping me weave this story into something I am incredibly proud of. Thank you also to Mae Martinez, for your valuable role in the editorial process.