In Her Skin(59)

“A friend once reminded me that I didn’t want to die. And I know you didn’t either. We have that in common.

“We’re going to be friends now, you and me. And I’m going to teach you something that my momma taught me. The only thing we have to fear in this whole wide world is not remembering. I didn’t remember who I was for a while, and it got me in trouble. I am Jolene Chastain, and you are Vivienne Weir.

“I am Jolene Chastain. I am Jolene Chastain. I am Jolene.

“And we’re going on a trip, Vivi. Wolf won’t last, but you and I will. We will be together forever.”

After that I gave her a good long look at the ocean before I zipped her back up, which felt cruel.

*

You never came to get me. According to the police report, when you and your parents and the police saw the hole in the wall, you were the one smart enough to yell, “Someone stole the safe!” Quick thinking, you. So many pieces had been put into place, it was easy to pin my disappearance on my bolting disorder, the culmination of a day of excessive stimulation. The damage to the parlor wall was an everyday Back Bay B and E. I have to think Detective Curley is spending his retirement working on both cases in his spare time, combing over the facts at his dining room table under an old cuckoo clock. The clock will chime, and he will still have no answers, day in, day out. He will die frustrated.

Montreal is the New York City of Canada. It’s where people go to lose themselves and become new people. The problem with cities like Montreal and New York is that you’re always running into new transplants with ambitions, and as I’ve learned, those are dangerous. Better to accept who you are in this life and get on with it. That’s what I figure Gerry did; covered up his betrayal, and stayed working for the Lovecrafts. Gerry knows true evil, whether it’s in the bush or Back Bay, and he can make a home inside it and survive.

When you accept who you are, you can tap the brakes when you feel yourself veering toward your worst tendencies. For example, every time I want to pretend that I know French, I bite my tongue. I am proud of my new self-control. I have a job waitressing at a place called Frites Alors where they serve grilled cheeses with apples and honey and french fries with mayonnaise and when I go home, Vivi is there, waiting. She lives in a Lucite box now—the duffel bag encased in a Lucite box, that is—because I couldn’t imagine what would happen if I couldn’t get all her parts out during the transfer. She is my insurance, my most valuable thing, and you keep valuable things protected. We talk every night, and she is a good listener.

I kept the Tiffany charm bracelet. I kept it to remind me I am someone’s daughter. That person was Patrice Chastain. I had a mother once, and she loved me.

I try not to keep up with you. But in weak moments, I do. The Google Alert I have on your name pings a lot. You graduated, then took a gap year, but that doesn’t mean you’re not doing stuff. You’ve started a charity in my—Vivi’s—name, dedicated to “raising awareness of bolting/eloping behaviors.” It’s a nice touch. I read Fish Construction made a grant of a million dollars to endow it. I still don’t know if you ever would have killed me, and sometimes it’s okay not to know things.

I have a new dream. You chase me down the Black Falcon pier and the gangway pulls up just as you reach it. I am the only passenger. You stand on the dock, your father’s coat wrapped around your black dress twice, hair whipping around your face. You cup your hands around your mouth and yell, “Vivi!” and your voice is carried off by the wind. Leaning over the churning sea, you mouth something else, three words, but I can’t make them out. If you can’t hear something, three times doesn’t make it so. I turn to walk below deck.

Again, you call, “Vivi!”

And I keep on walking, because I remember that my name is Jo.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In In Her Skin, Jolene Chastain believes her destiny in life is to have “that family.” I have that family at FSG/Macmillan, and they must be thanked.

Janine O’Malley planted the seed for Jolene’s story. All authors should be so lucky to have an editor with a perfect sense of the stories they want—and need—to tell. I’m grateful for the gifts a stellar editor gives, but especially for the space Janine gave me, at the end, that I needed in order to get In Her Skin right.

My publicist, Morgan Dubin, and the team at Fierce Reads continue to shout about my work (in the most lovely ways) when this introvert shies from doing so. My gratitude cannot be overstated.

Speaking of family, writing partners become sisters, and I have two. Thanks to Larisa Dodge, for reminding me to make time to shuffle around in my father’s old sweater. It was the best advice a grieving daughter could get. And to Candace Gatti, who believed mightily in Beautiful Broken Girls, and hand-sold it, everywhere. Her generosity on my behalf is breathtaking.

Thanks, too, to the collective wisdom of Binders Full of Young Adult Writers, who shared how they write through grief with candor and wisdom.

My dear friend Mary Larkin Quinn lent her considerable expertise on bolting, and another dearest, Kelley Byron St. Coeur, introduced me to the remarkable students of Boston Latin Academy, a group of sophisticated thinkers who sparkle in real ways. The Parkman School is not Latin Academy, but I was inspired by the brilliance of its students.

My agent, Sara Crowe, has a gift for identifying superfluous characters and story lines. In Her Skin is infinitely better for her earliest guidance. Thanks, too, to the team at Pippin, the most welcoming and supportive literary agency a writer could want.