Chapter 23
“So it was that storm that drove us into our house,” Zooey said. “And we never left it again. It’s been ours ever since.”
“Wow,” Hannah said. “I can’t believe my mom never told me that story! It’s such a great one. And you know how much my mom loves a great story.”
Zooey sighed on the other end of the line. “Yeah, she does. Well, so do I.”
Hannah bit her lip. “Um, I was wondering, what you were saying about mom’s punishment? What happened?”
“Damn!”
“Aunt Zo?”
“Ahhh, well, your mom, she had a tough childhood. She hasn’t told you any of this, has she?”
Her mother never talked about her childhood or her past in any way. It was forbidden territory. Ask, but don’t expect to be told anything. Hannah said, “No, never.”
“Well, I better not say anything. That’s your mom’s story to tell.”
“Please, please tell me. She won’t! Was she abused?” By whom? Hannah wondered. Her grandfather? No, he had doted on Keeley. Before he’d died when Hannah was little, he frequently dropped in for visits at their little house in Fairfield, always with gifts for both of them. She remembered him taking them out to the restaurant at his country club where everything was shiny and pretty and waiters in tuxedos bowed to them. It had to be Grandma.
“Was it her mother?” Hannah asked.
Zooey sighed and said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but after reading the first part of your book, I think I should. I know that your mom wasn’t perfect, no one’s mother is, But she also wasn’t that nightmare of a woman that’s in your book. So, something else is going on. You’re mad at her, maybe disappointed; you think you’re entitled to some ideal fantasy of a childhood. But let me tell you something, Hannah. Your mother is a saint. She sacrificed everything for you, twisted herself into a pretzel trying to make you happy. And… and I love you, so you need to hear this: grow up. Get over the fact that your mother’s not perfect and appreciate all that’s amazing about her. If she’s mad at you, she has every right to be. You should have made that reviewer retract what she said.”
Hannah sat very still, feeling a stinging shame zipping up and down through her. Aunt Zo had never spoken so harshly to her, had never even been angry with her before. It hurt.
Aunt Zo’s voice was softer now when she said, “I hope you heard the ‘I love you’ in that.”
Hot tears spilled out of Hannah’s eyes. Her voice was wobbly when she said, “Yes, Aunt Zo. I heard. I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Well, enough. I’ve got to go to the bathroom or I’m going to burst. You woke me up before I had a chance. I’ll talk to you soon. Have fun on Captain’s! I’m so jealous. I might come out to visit and get a dose myself. That island’s medicinal, you know. All right. Kisses! Moi! Moi!”
And then Aunt Zo hung up.
Hannah sat at the kitchen table staring off into space as the sun rose and peeked through the windows on the east side of the room, shining through the lace of the handkerchief café-curtains and making white rectangles on the wood floor. The book had felt so good to write, like a good cry, and the whole time she had reminded herself again and again that it was fiction. A little girl of six is abandoned by her mother and has to take care of herself. She has adventures in her neighborhood while she searches for help and finds out about the wider world. A kind elderly woman, a neighbor, comes to her rescue and when the little girl’s mother finally returns, the neighbor has the mother declared unfit in a court and then adopts the little girl. The legal battle had been especially satisfying to write, like scratching a long-resisted itch.
She stood up, her legs stiff from sitting for so long and went into the living room to search for her book. She had forgotten where it was and had to look through several bags before she found it and carried it back to the kitchen. Sitting again, she paged through it, still loving the heft of it, the smooth pages. But looking at it now, the printed words on the pages seemed especially bold and black. She thumbed to the scene where the character of the mother is introduced and reread it.
God…, it was harsh. It was ugly.
She looked away, out the window at the tall grasses that stood at the edge of Pam’s little sandy yard. Had she been fair? Keeley had abandoned her many times; she knew that even though Aunt Zooey didn’t. But, unlike the cold uncaring mother in the book, Keeley had always returned with love, grabbing Hannah up and hugging her hard, telling her how much she had missed her, and asking was she okay? And Hannah had lied. Yes, of course, she was okay. Everything was okay. Why hadn’t Hannah simply confronted her mother two years ago, when the urge to scratch had overwhelmed her? Now this book was out there, and looking at it now and seeing it for what it was, she wanted to take it back. Take it back, suck out the poison, go back in time and have a do-over.
She slammed the book closed and put it on the table. Then she punched the top of it. “Stupid!” she said. She punched it three more times, each time repeating, “Stupid!”
Wait.
Maybe the book was a flop. Please let it be a flop. It’s horrible. It’s a piece of sentimental simple-minded trash. Let it get swept away, forgotten. It happened to novels all the time. It would happen to hers. But she had to know, be sure. Then she could relax.
Hannah picked up her cell again and found the number. Was it too early? No, eight wasn’t early for Felicia. She dialed.
It rang three times. Hannah slumped in her chair, waiting for voicemail.
Then she picked up. “Felicia Resnick here.”
“Felicia! It’s Hannah O’Brien.”
“Hannah! Oh, my God. I’ve was going to call you today. Exciting news!”
A zinging went up her spine. “What?”
She could hear the smile in her editor’s voice. “Wait Another Day made the lists! It’s way down there, but still! We’re going to have to do another printing!”