The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(116)

When they met in the middle of the hallway, Annabel realized he was assigned the room directly across from hers.

“Hello,” she said, then she waited a heartbeat for him to look at his phone, a sign—a tell—that he was checking the app to see if she was a genetic match, someone worth spending time with, a shallow habit that she’d come to expect.

Instead he smiled and said, “Hi, I guess we’re going to be neighbors. Looks like you’re in the Blue Room. Past residents say it’s haunted, if you believe in that kind of thing. They say the founder actually died in that room.”

Annabel furrowed her brow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so weird. They also say that it’s the lucky room. That good things happen to whoever stays there. I’m kind of jealous, actually.”

“Lucky me.” Annabel smiled ironically.

“I’m Pasha by the way. You look awfully familiar. Have we met? Like maybe at a conference or something, a workshop of some kind? I’m a fiction writer.”

“I’m Annabel. I’m a poet,” she said. “But my friends call me Echo.”

He nodded his head appraisingly. “Wow, I love that name.”

“It’s a little… esoteric, I guess.”

“No, your real name.”

“Annabel?”

“Yeah, it’s like—you know—the old poem.”

He opened his door as Annabel opened hers.

Then he looked back at her and smiled. “We loved with a love…”

They stared at each other for a moment they both let linger, that neither knew how to end or extend, so they said good night and closed the doors to their separate rooms.

Once inside, Annabel collapsed on the bed. She felt the softness of the downy comforter. She wrapped herself in its warmth as she stared up at the ceiling and whispered, “… that was more than love.”





Acknowledgments


I’ve described this book as my big box of crayons.

I’m talking about the sixty-four-count carton with the built-in sharpener. That box was my weapon of choice as a weird, creative child. My wax-based arsenal from which I created alien spaceships, dinosaur-filled zoos, and caped superheroes who flew across the page and occasionally the walls of my bedroom. My wall art would inevitably be followed by a drawing of my angry mother, pulling out her hair. (A drawing that she would still put on the fridge next to my other, more celebrated eight-year-old scribblings.)

Speaking of crayons, the colors have changed since we were children. Sure, there’s still the red, green, orange, and blue that you remember. But there’s also—brace yourself—Macaroni and Cheese, Wisteria, Tickle Me Pink, Pet Shop, Outer Space, Neon Carrot, Koala Tree, Unmellow Yellow, Timberwolf, and Grandma’s Perfume.

Yes, there’s actually a crayon called Grandma’s Perfume. I have no idea what color it is in real life, but the name certainly brightens your imagination, doesn’t it?

That’s what I set out to do with this book. I wanted to use all of my colors to draw a story, with the old and the new, the familiar and the unfamiliar. To create a word-picture with as much wonder and possibility as history and remembrance.

In the process of writing, I broke a lot of crayons. But there were countless people who encouraged me, inspired me, educated me, tolerated me, and otherwise cheered me on, or left me alone as I stared into space, daydreaming.

I owe so much to so many.

There’s Megan Stielstra, whose essays have aptly been described as lifelines. Megan’s work cuts so deep it was unsurprising how she was able to diagnose my writer’s block with surgical precision. She said, “It’s okay to divorce yourself from the expectations of others. Let go of all that and get back to writing what you want to write about.” That’s what she may have said, but all I heard was, “Stop eating your crayons.”

Then there are the artist residency programs that provided shelter from the storm:

Ragdale in Lake Forest, Illinois. I stayed in the room where the founder, poet Alice Judson Hayes, passed away in 2006. People call it the lucky room. It certainly was for me, because that’s where a twelve-page synopsis poured out of my head and my heart and became the book you’re now holding.

Also, for not laughing too much when I accidentally set off a smoke alarm and the fire department showed up, I’m grateful for my delightful cohorts: Robin Ha, Megan Stielstra (there she is again), Katherine Weissman, Christina Askounis, Rita Dragonette, Meredith Leich, Lily Hawkings, and Sophia Lin.

UCROSS in Sheridan County, Wyoming. UCROSS isn’t a town, it’s a bucolic unincorporated community with a burgeoning population of twenty-five. When I arrived, I had a bottle of Scotch, a handful of pages, but no publisher. When I left I had a two-book deal, half a novel, and a new home for my imaginary friends.

For their support and for trekking with me to the Occidental Saloon in Buffalo, I’m missing my dance partners right now: Noah Green, Shannon Stewart, Jamie Harrison, Christina McPhee, Tallmadge Doyle, Lee Running, Theresa Booth Brown, Hannah Novak, Jody Kuehner, and Marlys West.

Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, New York. I lived many lifetimes in the two months that I stayed at this venerated art colony. I occupied the room where the founder, writer Katrina Trask, passed away in 1922. Out of respect, I kept a stack of books she had authored on my desk. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in believing in ghosts, and while I didn’t see any wandering spirits, I did hear the laughter.