Oblivion (36 page)

When funeral gongs tolled for millions young and grand …

“Still writing?” Elijah asks.

“Yeah, but it’s different now.”

Now that I don’t need the words to remember, writing is a choice. Later, I just might read my work on stage, and delight in hearing the snapping praise of the patrons of this waterside gem of a café.

The strum of an acoustic guitar catches my attention.

We all turn to see John’s father take the stage and sit on the bench centered on the platform, a spotlight filtering down over him. Silently, he begins to play.

At first, I don’t recognize the song. But then the space fills with a beautiful soprano in perfect pitch:

“Let my love open the door.”

It’s my mother. She’s singing.

I sink into the melody, allow it to consume me.

John embraces me with careful arms and joins my mother for the next line.

I breathe in the scent of the idyllic shoreline in the distance.

Measure by measure, the Vagabond rises in song.

My soon-to-be adopted parents take to the dance floor.

I meet John with the bridge, then belt out the chorus.

And Lindsey’s stomping in time atop the table.

I silently bid adieu to the road behind me, and hand in hand, John and I meander toward my new family, to cross the next bridge, whenever we may find it.

C
alliope Knowles has been haunting me for well over a decade. I put her on many a canvas before she found a home on the pages of
Oblivion
. None of this would have happened without the support of many.

First, appreciation is due to author Jessica Warman, who introduced me to agent extraordinaire Andrea Somberg. In turn, immeasurable thanks go to Andrea, who is amazing and ambitious, tactful and straight. Without her faith in this concept, this novel would have remained forever on the hard drive of a pink laptop. Unbelievable gratitude to Greg Ferguson of Egmont USA, who latched on to Calliope’s plight from the very first word he read.
Oblivion
wouldn’t be the same without his input. The entire staff at Egmont
receives kudos for a flawless production—especially copy editor Veronica Ambrose and The Black Rabbit cover design team. Thanks to writer friends Miles Watson and Patrick Picciarelli for so much more than their advisement regarding law enforcement procedures, for celebration and consolation, for making writing a not-so-solitary occupation. Warm hugs to Kelli Klinger, who shed much light on dark areas in psychoanalysis. Much appreciation, of course, to Joshua, whose general support both astounds and delights. And finally, I extend gratitude to my daughters, Samantha and Madelaine, who know when deadline is approaching because Cheez-Its suddenly become honorary sources of protein … and clocks are held in general disregard, making my tiny dancers nearly late to the studio. I am blessed to work with, around, and for all of you. XOXOX!