The Familiar Dark(64)
“Help himself to the money, more like,” my mama had muttered when we’d devised this part of the plan. But we couldn’t see a good way around it. The money was the way to keep Land quiet. A little windfall and no talk-of-the-town embarrassment about how his deputy had been putting one over on him all this time. Of course, I had no doubt Mama had lightened the stash while I was gone. But I didn’t want any part of it. Every dollar stained with Junie’s blood.
Even knowing my mama, I expected her to say something. To ask about Cal’s last moments or express some kind of pain. But she didn’t. She finished her beer and then led me inside for a shower. When I was cleaned up, dressed in a pair of her jeans and one of her faded T-shirts, I took the bag of money and paused at the screen door. The air was warmer than it had been only a week ago, summer barreling toward us fast as a runaway train. Sweat and stagnant air and legs pockmarked with mosquito bites just over the horizon. In a blink, autumn, leaves turning gold and amber, scent of wood smoke in the air. And then winter, ice on the roads and bitter chill sneaking under my door at night. The seasons would keep on passing, the days and weeks and months rolling on, taking me further and further from my daughter. Until one day, sooner than I could comprehend, I would have lived with her absence longer than her presence. Her life a brief, shining light fading into shadow.
My mama stopped me at the door, laid a cold hand on my cheek. Her eyes were clear, glowing. She was proud of me, I realized with a start. Maybe for the first and only time in my life. For doing a hard thing well. For doing an awful thing easily.
“You my daughter again?” she asked, voice raspy.
“Yeah, Mama,” I said, because it was the truth. And because sometimes you had to pick your poison. Weigh all the available options and choose the one that killed you least. Take a long, honest look at yourself and own the darkness that lived inside. “I’m your daughter. Always.”
I opened the door and stepped out into the night.
THE BEGINNING
Somehow, she hadn’t thought her daughter would be this small. She’d seen baby girls all her life, boys, too. Women birthed them like puppies around here. First one barely walking before the next one came along. But when they belonged to other people, they seemed sturdier, less fragile. This one in her arms, her daughter, looked delicate as glass.
The baby snuffled a little, burrowing against her chest, seeking. She had a sudden urge to pinch her daughter, show her, right from the start, that the world was full of ugly things. That way her daughter wouldn’t be surprised later, wouldn’t be weak, expecting the world to do her any favors. Trying, in the best way she knew how, to teach her daughter something worth learning.
“Sorry, little girl,” she whispered against the baby’s downy cheek. She’d forgotten how sweet newborn babies smelled. “You’re stuck with me.” She’d seen the mothers who coddled, who passed out hugs and kisses like confetti. And that was never going to be her. Didn’t see what good it did, fawning over kids that way, making them think they were special, that life wouldn’t kick their asses the same as everyone else. She didn’t know how to coddle, but she knew how to forge. How to make her daughter strong. She couldn’t give her much, but she could give her that. Because, pinch or no pinch, the world was ugly, especially for girls. There was no escaping it. You either fought back or you surrendered. And no daughter of hers was going to surrender. No daughter of hers was going to lie down and take it. Not if she had anything to say about it.
The midwife from up the road, who’d taken payment in booze and a crumpled twenty, wandered in, hands still streaked with blood. “You settled on a name yet?”
She looked down at her daughter. “Eve,” she said. “Her name is Eve.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, a huge thank-you to my family: Brian, Graham, and Quinn. This book could not have been written without your love, support, and encouragement. The three of you make my life better every single day. Thank you also to my mom, Mary Anne; my in-laws, Fran and Larry; and all my extended family. My father didn’t live long enough to see this book in print, but he asked me how the writing was coming every time we talked. I still feel him cheering me on whenever I sit down at my computer. Thank you to Holly, my best friend and most trusted confidante. You somehow manage endless patience with me whenever I’m in the throes of writing a new book. I am so thankful for you and our friendship. And to my SPs, Meshelle, Michelle, and Trish, thank you for always listening, making fun of me when I need a laugh, and bottomless margaritas when I need a break. Thanks also to Laura McHugh, who understands the writing life and the frustrations and joys that come along with it. Your e-mails helped me more than you know.
Jodi, thank you for your wisdom, wit, and willingness to tell me to stop overthinking and start writing. I feel very lucky to have an agent I also consider a dear friend. To my editor, Maya Ziv, this is our first book together, but I sincerely hope it’s only the first of many. You have been a delight to work with. Smart, funny, and passionate about what you do. Thank you for making this process such fun. And heartfelt thanks to Christine Ball, John Parsley, Leigh Butler, Sabila Kahn, Hannah Feeney, Emily Canders, Elina Vaysbeyn, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Random House. I am forever grateful for your enthusiasm, professionalism, and your support of me and my books.