The Stories We Tell (32 page)

Cooper's scarred face and severed scalp have undergone two surgeries. I tried to visit him after the second, but his mother, Louise, turned me away at the door, announcing—as she must have practiced in her living room for hours—“You are dead to us.” She stood tall and upright, smiling with her proclamation.

Sometimes I feel dead to myself, I'd wanted to tell her all those months ago when I was as numb as if my body had been injected with novocaine.

I am still standing at the window as Gwen's car turns, leaving my sight. I hear a shuffling outside the door: the neighbor's dog. The tiny, yappy poodle named Tinkerbell often makes a yellow puddle outside my doorway before her owner, Shawn, gets to the elevator. I glance down at my phone, impatient for the repairman to call me back. I hear a knock on the door and I walk toward it, ready to face Shawn while he apologizes for his dog's mess. I prepare to smile and hand over some paper towels.

And it is Shawn standing there, but he's holding a silver envelope, one I recognize from our Ten Good Ideas card line. He smiles and hands it to me without saying a word, then walks away. TinkerBell glances over her shoulder as if to say, “I'll get you next time.”

The metal door clicks shut and I sit on the oversize white couch, which Gwen and I chose from a catalog. My finger slips beneath the envelope fold and I pull out the card I know so well, the one Gwen designed with the ragged heart:
Forgive,
number nine. I think how nice Shawn is to apologize with my own card line. I didn't realize that he knew what I did at all. I smile at the unexpected generosity. A lot different from the last cards sent to me from my own business.

I open it slowly, but inside is a note from Mary Jo, not Shawn.

“Please forgive me,” it says.

This is all that's written inside, except for her slanted signature. I place it on the table. I will write her back and maybe I will tell her that there is nothing to forgive, neither the car accident nor the cards, that the truth would have come out with or without her. Cooper misrepresented himself to her as he did to me. Endings. They come over and over, and with each one there is also a new beginning. Cooper was right: Everything was lost. But what Cooper didn't know, could never know, is that it is here in the loss that I finally believe in kindness, in truth, and, mostly, in love.

*   *   *

The autumn sun is warm, but cold air is pushing in behind and will be arriving soon. Savannah feels, on days like this, to hold me in the palm of its hand. The river pulses toward its destination as if somewhere that I can't see a heart is pumping these waters. Palmetto tree branches shudder against one another with the faux sound of rain. Light is cradled in the leaves, as if the sun needs rest also.

I walk slowly to the garage studio this late afternoon, soaking in what feels holy and good. Tonight, Francie and Willa are singing together at a songwriter's showcase downtown. Max will be there, and this knowledge walks next to me like a companion. I've seen him a couple of times since the night he said good-bye—at Cameron's shop, at the farmers' market, and at Larry Ford's restaurant one night.

Willa, Gwen, and Francie are waiting for me as I walk in. Today, we're wrapping boxes of the Ten Good Ideas card line for shipping. It will take all week.

“Hey, Mom.” Gwen doesn't look up as she tapes Kraft paper around a box. She's come here straight from school.

“You excited about tonight?” I ask Willa and Francie.

Their guitars are propped in the far corner, waiting, and Willa points to them. “Nervous. Mostly nervous.”

“We're singing our new song, the one we wrote together.” Francie drops a pile of envelopes into a box and then looks up at me. “The one inspired by you, actually.”

“You mean the one you won't let me hear yet?” They've told me about how they wrote this song it after I moved out, after they saw the quiet change in me.

“Yep, that one,” Francie says. “We hope you won't hate it.”

“I won't,” I say, sure as I can be that I won't hate anything they've written.

“Mom…” Gwen says my name with a long groan built into it. “You didn't bring my college app folder?”

“No, because you don't need to work on it here. Go home. Work on it. You do not need to be doing this.” I spread my hands out across the cluttered table, the same project table we took from the old barn. “College is more important. Go, Pea.”

“I'm almost done. I thought I could just do the last bit here. With you and Willa.”

I love this about her, this willingness and need to be near us, when only months before she'd cringed at being in the same room with me. My fear, my greatest one during the divorce, had been that I was doing harm to Gwen, but now I see that we both understand that although things aren't exactly the way we want them, at least they're honest and real.

“You can run home and get it,” I say. “Bring it back here.”

Willa looks up from her work, and even now, although I see her every day, I am immersed in her beautiful healing. The tiny scar has almost disappeared and her mind is now mostly clear. The empty spaces and damaged synapses are finding new ways to function—neuroplasticity, they call it. I haven't told her that I actually love the way she mixes up her words and finds new pathways in her lyrics—it might not be the traditional way, but now it's her way.

“You aren't wearing that tonight, are you?” Willa points at my jeans and white T-shirt. “There will be lots of … people there.”

There's this, too—her newfound honesty. She blurts out whatever she thinks whenever she thinks it. I open my eyes wide and lift my forehead: our silent sign language of amusement. I know that by “people there,” she means Max. She knows how I feel about him; we've talked about it since the divorce. I've admitted that I always felt a deep connection with him, that I always fought off the desire, and that I wish things were different now. But they aren't different, and I want him to be the happiest he's ever been. He deserves great, wide, beautiful happiness.

Willa acknowledges my sign and we work for a couple hours, the garage doors wide open, breezes ruffling our piles and making Gwen scramble for the envelopes she hasn't yet packed. One by one, Willa, Francie, and Gwen leave. I stay and work silently without music or distraction. I file through our Ten Good Ideas cards, and with each one I remember working with Max as we found the right image, the correlating font, our hands touching, our talk overlapping and tangential even as we found our way back to the center of our conversation. His stories—myths he knew and ones he made up on the spot. His blue-rimmed eyes when he listened to me. His shoulder, the way I rested on it, leaned into the solidness of him.

The memories don't stop. They come one after the other and I can't do anything but watch them pass by. I want to let go, but the desire just won't let go of me.

*   *   *

Francie and Willa are on the makeshift stage, blushing at the standing ovation. Their song—how could they have ever believed that I'd hate a song titled “Stories We Tell”? It's a melody about lies and heartbreak, a song with the lyrics “The beginning inside the end”—a turn of phrase for the way I'd described the last day I lived in the Morrison home.

I'm standing, clapping also, and looking for Max. He isn't here—believe me, I've checked a hundred times, scanning the room for him. I sit again and take a long swallow of Malbec. The next pair of songwriters walks on the stage while Francie and Willa pack up their guitars. Gwen sits up in the front row and turns to wave at me. I wave in return and then blow her a kiss.

“Stories we tell,” a voice behind me says, Max's voice.

Before I turn to see him, look in his eyes, I take in a long breath. I stand to face him, holding my wineglass. I don't know whether to hug him or shake his hand, whether to stand there or leave gracefully. “Wasn't that a great song?”

“Yes,” he says. “It was really beautiful. Who knew getting hit in the head could lead to such great lyrics?” He has a sly grin that falls quickly. “That wasn't funny, was it? I was trying and failed.”

“It was sort of funny,” I say. “A good try.”

But we don't laugh, and he takes my wineglass out of my hand and places it on the table so he can hug me. He holds me longer than a hug. The room is so quiet between song sets, the clattering of glasses, the soft murmur of conversation, and then the screech of the microphone being readjusted. I hear it all, but my eyes are closed as I rest against his chest.

Max releases me and I take half a step back. “How are you?” I ask. “How's teaching and…” I trail off, not asking all the things I need to know about him: How's your heart? Do you miss me? Are you happy?

“I'm good, really good. The job is great, and so are the students.”

The emcee for the night announces a fifteen-minute break, and Max nods at my small café table. “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course…”

We sit so close that I have to twist my head to face him. He doesn't look at me as he speaks, but toward the stage. “Have I ever told you the myth about the skeleton woman?”

“No.”

“Want to hear it?” He takes a sip from my wineglass and then hands it to me.

I want to hear a lot of things, but I tell him that, yes, now, I'd love to hear his story. I always love to hear his stories.

“There was a fisherman and he went out into the sea. He was wishing for the best catch of his life, when there was a large pull on his line—something big; maybe everything he wanted.” He pauses and his hands stretch along the two chair backs on either side. “But when he pulls up the catch, it's a skeleton he's caught by the ribs.” Max leans forward and contorts his face in faux horror. “Agghhh!” He lunges forward.

I startle and then burst into laughter, a sweet release that is too loud, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “Gross,” I say. “Greek myth?”

“No, this is Inuit.…”

I settle back, smiling. “Why was she at the bottom of the ocean anyway? I presume it was a ‘she.'”

“Yes indeed. Well, her father—as is the way of these things—her father disapproved of something she'd done and cast her into the sea.”

“Okay…” I feel that roll, that motion sickness of a father's casting out, and then I look directly into Max's eyes and I'm centered, buoyant in the current of the tale.

“Now the fisherman runs and runs, but he's already caught her and she bumps along behind him on the fishing line. He finally jumps into his tent, exhaling, breathing deeply, and trying to ignore the skeleton he's brought home. But as he sleeps, as he tries to escape the tangled bones in his tent, she becomes real.”

“How?” I ask, quiet and curious, over the sound of someone tuning their guitar.

“His tear. She steals his tear while he's sleeping and quenches her thirst to become real. And she also steals his heart—she takes it right out of his chest. When he wakes, they're tangled together for good. For love.”

“Ah!” I exhale. “Finally one of your tales has a happy ending.”

“There's more to it. But I'm giving you the parts that matter.”

“That matter?”

“To us.”

He takes my hands in his, each one folded into a palm. “Even if I've never read it anywhere, I bet that skeleton woman had brown eyes that turned green while she stole his heart.”

“Us?” I ask quietly.

“It's always been you, Eve. I love you. I can't run far enough or ignore you long enough, because when I wake up every day, you're always right there, waiting for me.”

“I'm right here.”

The music begins again at the front of the room and Max leans forward to kiss me. I don't close my eyes. I want to see and know it all, everything there is to know about him, about love.

“This,” he says. “This is a happy story.”

 

TEN GOOD IDEAS CARD LINE

1.
Be Kind
—live oak

2.
Tell Good Stories
—stacked books

3.
Always Say Good-bye
—profiles facing each other

4.
Search for the True
—world in the sky

5.
Help Others
—hands holding

6.
Create
—crayon box

7.
Be Patient
—river over boulders

8.
Find Adventure
—forest and river with two figures peeking around trees

9.
Forgive
—scraggled heart

10.
Love
—wings

 

Acknowledgments

Inspiration doesn't always lead to a story, but when it does, it's great fun to write. This novel was initially inspired by my curiosity and admiration for letterpress—a handmade product in a manufactured world. This book would be a different novel altogether without the people in my life that either supported me or contributed to the words. We don't get to choose when life gets tangled and even comes undone, but we do get to choose how we move forward. And I couldn't have finished this book or moved forward without the love, kindness, and deliciously surprising support of the following people:

To my editor, Brenda Copeland, for her patience, keen eye, wit, and desperate love for story and editing. You push me when I need it and make me laugh when I think I can't. To the publishing team at St. Martin's Press: Sally Richardson and Jennifer Enderlin, I am grateful beyond measure for your support. You are treasures. To Laura Chasen, Nick Small, Marie Estrada, Kerry McMahon, Jean-Marie Hudson, Paul Hochman, and all the sales staff and support staff that make St. Martin's Press the excellent place that it is.

To Carol Fitzgerald of
Bookreporter.com
, What would I do without your energy, imagination, and keen eye?