The Forgotten Hours(94)
Katie likes his eyes on her. He can’t keep her safe, he can’t help her jump, but he can watch her, and being seen in this way gives her the push she needs to launch her body forward and fall through space.
We have known each other almost a third of my life! she thinks as she kicks her feet and bursts through the surface, emerging into the air. Time seems immense; it is seconds and minutes and hours; it accumulates, heals, and hurts. Six months earlier, she turned thirty-two. She and Zev are celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary. Sasha is seven years old. It has only been a year since ovarian cancer killed her mother and two months since David had his second child. He lives near them in Brooklyn with his husband Markus, little Ella with the ginger curls, and a newborn named Cassius who rarely opens his pale hazel eyes. Her brother and his family come over often, the adults drinking red wine from oversize tumblers while their children make memories. Since Charlie died, Michel has already driven down from Montreal three times; these children are his only family—his chosen family. Their friends visit often: Tanisha and Radha and Frankie and many of Zev’s old students. Soon Katie will stop traveling so much (she’s gone two weeks out of four); she’s selling her consulting business, which has taken off in recent years, and going back to school. Maybe she’ll study to become a nurse. It took eight months for her leg to fully recover, and she came to love the people whose job it was to help her become whole again.
Up above Katie on the cliff, Sasha has joined her father. The Jamaican sun paints her long limbs with honey. They stand with their arms arched over their heads. Sasha’s are impossibly delicate, covered in fine golden hairs. She rises on tiptoes and without waiting launches effortlessly into the air, head tucked under, white-blonde curls streaming behind her. When her fingertips break the ocean’s surface, there is barely a ripple. Zev dives after her.
Katie’s body rides along with the thrust of the water as he plunges in, and—bobbing up and down, watching their two sleek heads approach her, grinning—she thinks to herself: Stop measuring everything. Just be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am so grateful for my agent, Erin Harris, whose enthusiasm, professionalism, and keen sense of story make great things happen (and she’s a mensch, too!). I’m truly thankful for Jodi Warshaw’s belief in this difficult story and her openness to my input, as well as the superb team at Lake Union.
A supportive, kind, and invested community makes all the difference to lonely writers. The staff, instructors, and students at GrubStreet in Boston have been crucial to my health and happiness for over a decade now. I could always count on Eve Bridburg’s unwavering belief in me as a writer to keep me going. Eve and Chris Castellani helped with advice right when I needed it most—thank you both. Also, Chris took a chance on me when I was a teaching newbie and thus unwittingly helped me achieve one of my life goals. Huge thanks to Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich, who went the extra mile for me.
I benefited immensely from many generous readers. Thank you, Kathleen Buckstaff, for your passionate advocacy and hours of conversation; it’s largely because of you that this story was able to blossom. Kristi Perry listened and contributed enthusiastically as I regaled her with writing and publishing stories over many years—thank you for lovingly supporting me (even when you knew I was wrong) and for so much spot-on advice. Lynne Griffin and Lisa Borders, many thanks for your tough love and for sharing your astute understanding of narrative structure. I so appreciate Judy Sternlight’s, Laura Chasen’s, and Tiffany Yates Martin’s sharp eyes and invaluable insights, which vastly improved this book. Thank you to Greta O’Marah for being my first real reader and for your relentlessly positive perspective; to Jennifer de Poyen for putting your poetic sensibilities to work; to Susan Howard for your infectious enthusiasm; to Francesca Nelson-Smith for your encouragement; and to Lil Weiner, Candice Reed, Dawn Tice, Kathy Sherbrooke, Polly Zetterberg, and Willow Humphrey for your thoughtful, invaluable commentary. Also, I’m grateful to Dr. Tracey Milligan, Natalie Wright, Ellen Rosenthal, and Max Wiley for helping me with research.
I’m astonished by the generosity of the many authors who carved out time to read this debut and offer their endorsements (many of whom I cold-called because I so admire their work): a huge thank-you to Carol Anshaw, Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, Robin Black, Jenna Blum, Tim Johnston, William Landay, Marybeth Mayhew Whalen, and Barbara Claypole White. What a literary community! I’m excited about paying it forward. Endless gratitude to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Vermont Studio Center, the Norman Mailer Writers Colony, and the Hemingway House for offering me beauty and quiet in which to work. I’d also like to thank the many agents and editors who took the time to read the book and respond so very kindly—it’s because of dedicated book lovers like you that we are able to share our stories with the world.
I spend summers in an incredible community that shares some resemblance to Eagle Lake. I’d like to give a warm hug to everyone there for helping create such a unique, magical place in which I’ve always felt at home.
Kevin, I can’t thank you enough; truly, words fail me.
A warm thank-you to my parents, Peter and Occu Schumann, who taught me about hard work and resilience—and also sometimes let me faff around reading and writing instead of dragging me along on hikes when I was a surly teenager. It matters to me that you are proud of what I do. Sheila O’Marah’s unflagging interest in my work helped me shift my mind-set when it really mattered. Jay O’Callahan has been a model of how I’d like to live as a storyteller—with generosity, empathy, and deep listening skills. Thanks also to Peter and Svenja O’Marah, who suffered through my frequent tardiness and distraction with such good cheer.