As promised, here's the (very short) Preface and Chapter One of
Wander Home.
PREFACE
This book is set in an afterlife:
what sort of afterlife, the reader may decide.
Chapter One
Cassidy stood tall and watched the
wave approaching. Fifteen was a good age for confronting the ocean. That
morning she had been five years old, playing happily in her sandbox; from sand to beach, from beach to ocean
waves, seemed a natural progression.
The wave loomed above her, glowing
turquoise and green. She dove under the crest, through the surging water, and
popped up behind the swell, bobbing in the follower waves. The water held her
and rocked her; over the hiss and roar of
the waves, she could hear the distant squawk of seagulls. All around was the
smell of seaweed and salt and sunshine.
Once, her mother had held her,
carried her, rocked her, surrounded her with love and safety. She had no idea
how long it had been, but she remembered. Remembering, she let herself slip
younger as she floated on the swells. But larger waves were coming, so she grew
again, six, ten, sixteen; then caught a wave and rode it into shore.
Her grandparents and her
great-grandmother were waiting for her. Great-Grandma was young today, slim and
blonde and straight, standing like a dancer just before the music starts.
Grandma Sarah and Grandpa Jack had chosen to be older, gray-haired, with the
comfortable look of a couple who for years have weathered each other’s moods
and followed each other’s thoughts.
Cassidy ran up the beach toward
them. She slipped to eight years old as she reached them, so Grandpa Jack could
pick her up and toss her in the air. The sun flashed in her eyes as she flew
up, and again as she fell back toward his hands. He set her down again and
flopped onto the sand, patting the space next to him. She sat, folding her legs
tailor fashion; Great-Grandma flowed gracefully down to sit on her other side.
Only Grandma Sarah remained standing, younger now, her hair in a long red
braid.
Grandpa Jack and Great-Grandma
both put their arms around her. Cassidy looked at Grandpa Jack. He was blinking
as if he had something in both his eyes. She swiveled around toward
Great-Grandma; Great-Grandma nodded toward Grandma Sarah.
Cassidy threw her head back,
looking up at Grandma Sarah and squinting in the sun. Grandma Sarah squatted
down in front of her. "Cassie, love, we have some news for you. Good,
important news."
The seabirds were calling as if
they wanted to be first with the message, whatever it was. Grandma Sarah leaned
forward to kneel in the sand, reached out and took Cassidy's hands.
"It's your mother,
sweetheart. She's coming. She'll be here soon. We'll all be seeing her
again."
Cassidy felt herself getting
smaller, small. She was two years old. She scrambled to her feet.
"Mommy!" Her own shrill voice
frightened her, and she called even louder, twisting from side to side,
searching the beach and the water. "Mommy!
MOMMY!"
Great-Grandma had slipped old,
white hair shining in the sunlight, her cheeks pink, soft wrinkles in her face,
smelling of flour. She pulled Cassidy close, crooning, "Hush, hush. It's
all right, baby. Shhhh." Cassidy
burrowed against her and breathed the comforting scent. She thought she might
feel better if she got big again, but nothing happened.
She heard Grandpa Jack speak.
"Mama, Sarah, let's go somewhere cozier." Then the sun, the waves, the seabirds were
all gone, and they were in Great-Grandma's living room. She was snuggled up next to Great-Grandma on the big shabby couch.
There were shortbread cookies on the coffee table. Grandma Sarah sat on Grandpa
Jack's lap in the big armchair, Grandpa Jack playing with Grandma Sarah's hair.
"Cassidy, honey, it's time to
be a big girl. We have more to talk about." Great-Grandma stroked her cheek, then kissed
it.
Cassidy squeezed her eyes tight.
"I'm trying. It's hard. Why is it hard?"
Grandpa Jack spoke. "Well,
baby, you were just this age when your mama left. You're remembering it so
hard, right now, that you're maybe a little stuck. Relax, honey, and know that
everything's all right. It'll come."
Cassidy took a deep breath, and
another, and another. Great-Grandma skootched away to give her room. Cassidy
opened her eyes. She was thirteen years old. She reached for a cookie.
"There, that's better, isn't
it?" Great-Grandma picked out a
cookie for herself and took a hearty bite.
"When will she be here? When can I see her?"
Grandma Sarah brought Cassidy a
glass of milk, then sat back down on Grandpa Jack's lap. "Honey, those are
two different questions. She'll be here very soon, and you can see her just a
little while after that. It's going to be —"
"Why can't I see her right away?" She didn't want to yell at Grandma Sarah, but
she felt like yelling. It was always harder to be patient at thirteen. She
slipped to twenty, but it felt wrong, too big, too grown up for a little girl
missing her mother. She slid back to ten.
"Cassie, you were so young when you got
here, only six years old. You weren't set in your ways yet — you expected to
learn new things every day, to have adventures and surprises. Coming here was
just another and bigger adventure. But it's different for older people. It's
more of a shock. We think it'd be best if Great-Grandma welcomes her first, and
explains things."
"How long will that
take?" Cassidy swallowed tears and
washed them away with a gulp of milk.
Great-Grandma moved back over and
hugged her. "Not as long as it will
feel to you. I'll bring her to see you as soon as I can."
Eleanor felt very strange. Where
was she? The pain that had seized and crushed her heart had vanished. She had
been in an ambulance; but wherever she was now, the space was not in motion,
and everything was quiet. And she could breathe again, freely and easily — no
longer gasping for air, but breathing in and out as she had done for
twenty-nine years.
And the room around her kept
changing. One moment it looked like a Red Cross donor center, one of the many
at which she had given blood from time to time. Then the cot became a bed in a
motel room: a room with orange and brown plaid curtains, a tan shag carpet, a
small television, a double bed and one hard chair. She had been in that room
just once, years ago, and had never wanted to see it again. And now appeared a
room from long ago, with pale blue walls and a white window shade, white wooden
furniture, a small and overflowing bookshelf; and Eleanor found herself sitting
up in a single bed with a wooden bedstead, feather pillows, and a lavender
quilt.
Grandma's house! Whenever she spent the night at Grandma's, it
had been in this room. A room in a house that someone had bought and torn down,
years ago, to put up a big modern showpiece, a blue and copper box with patios
instead of grass.
Something lay lightly on her
shoulder. It was her hair, long again, its chestnut color restored. And her
shoulder and arm were curved, cushioned — no longer gaunt from months of neglecting
her needs.
Eleanor felt a sudden urgency to
get out of bed, to get up and go downstairs while this was still Grandma's
house, before she found herself back in the horrible motel room. She pushed
back the quilt and stood up, looking around wildly; then ran to the door, threw
it open and stood, breathing hard, in the hall near the worn wooden stairs. She
waited to stop trembling before walking slowly to the stairs and down to the
lower floor. She could hear someone moving around downstairs, in the kitchen,
opening and closing cupboards or drawers.
At the foot of the stairs, she
stopped, clutching the banister. For four years she had stayed away, in hotel
after friend's couch after cheap apartment, assuming that home and family would
always be there waiting for her. And then, after the car crash, when it was too
late and they were gone, she had longed so desperately and hopelessly to see
them all again — Cassidy most of all, of course, but also Mom and Dad and
Grandma. She had wanted so much to tell them how she loved them, to apologize,
to try to explain. Now, in this impossible place, she might have that forfeited
chance — and she had no more idea than ever what to say.
The stairs ended in the front
hallway. The kitchen was toward the back, past the living room. Eleanor walked
with small hesitant steps into the living room, stopping to touch the armchair,
the couch, the coffee table. There was the framed poster from Grandma's ballet
company, advertising one of their galas. Under the poster, on the mantelpiece,
stood the row of photographs.
Dad and his brother, camping in
their back yard, lying in the blue tent with their heads sticking out of the
flap and grins on their grimy faces. Mom and Dad on their wedding day, with Mom
in her gown and Dad in his tuxedo, both in climbing harnesses, hanging from a
cliff wall somewhere in Argentina. Grandma and Grandpa on their fiftieth
wedding anniversary. Then a much older photo of a much younger couple: Amanda
and Stan, no one's grandparents yet, in black and white, standing near an
old-fashioned car.
And then the picture that made her
turn away, turn back, and walk closer, reaching out: Eleanor, on the living room couch, holding
tiny baby Cassidy, just two weeks old.
"Is that you, dear?"
Eleanor froze in place. She forced
herself to speak. "G-Grandma?"
"In the kitchen, Nory. Come
on. It's all right."
Eleanor headed on into the
kitchen. There sat her grandmother, looking just the same — soft white hair,
soft wrinkled face, flowered apron, thin rounded shoulders. Eleanor stumbled
forward as Grandma got up from her chair. They stood for a moment, face to
face, Eleanor speechless, Grandma seeming to feel no need for speech.
Eleanor found her voice.
"Grandma. I'm so sorry. Oh, God, I'm sorry." She started to cry.
Grandma opened her arms. "Oh,
Nory. We'll talk about that later. Come here and hug me just as hard as you
can! and then sit down. I've made some good strong coffee. Pour yourself a cup.
I've got things to tell you."