by Jenni Ogden
Praise for Jenni Ogden
THE MOON IS MISSING: A NOVEL
"Jenni Ogden is a beautiful writer. In her newest, a tale of domestic suspense, she tells the story of a neurosurgeon bedeviled by her own sophisticated brain and the memories of a long-ago tragedy that still has the power to destroy her and her family. Pick up The Moon is Missing. You won’t put it down."
— Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 New York Times best-selling author of The Deep End of the Ocean and My Only
"With gripping scenes set during Hurricane Katrina and on a remote New Zealand island, this tightly-woven family drama—fueled by long-buried secrets and a daughter’s desperate need to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ —is ripe for book club discussion."
—Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of A Perfect Son & The Promise Between Us
"Jenni Ogden’s powerful novel, The Moon is Missing, is a mother-daughter coming of age story exploring a woman physician’s passion-driven work, the terrible mistakes and long-held family secrets that haunt her life, and the power of loving connections to heal. The evocative settings on three continents are an added bonus!"
—Barbara Stark-Nemon, author of Even in Darkness & Hard Cider
"…Beautifully written … characters were immensely believable…Ogden did not shy away from the harsh realities of what can happen when someone in a family is experiencing panic attacks and trauma from the past. Katrina was a tragedy… the novel really paid homage to the medical staff who worked tirelessly to make sure people were evacuated….a must-read for anyone who is a fan of women’s fiction, especially harkening back to the old greats such as Fern Michaels."
—Readers’ Favorite, 5 star review
A DROP IN THE OCEAN: A NOVEL
AWARDS
GOLD: Nautilus Book Award for Best Fiction, Large Publisher (2016)
GOLD: Sarton Women’s Book Award for Contemporary Fiction (2015–2016)
GOLD: Independent Publisher Book Award (IPPY) for Best Regional Fiction, Australia and New Zealand (2016)
SILVER: Reader’s Favorite Book Award for Women’s Fiction (2016)
PRAISE
“In A Drop in the Ocean, protagonist Anna Fergusson learns that love is about letting go. Jenni Ogden takes us on a sweeping journey, rich with unique characters and places, moving backward and forward in time, to reach this poignant and heartfelt lesson.”
—Ann Hood, New York Times best-Selling author of The Knitting Circle & The Book That Matters Most
“Reading A Drop in the Ocean was everything a reading experience should be, endearing and enduring, time spent with characters who seem to be people I already knew.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 New York Times best-selling author Of The Deep End Of The Ocean
“Readers will enjoy this novel of second chances, not only at love but at life, reminiscent of Terry McMillan’s How Stella Got Her Groove Back”
—Booklist
“A novel about turtles, the fragility of life, and the complexity of love . . . a story to savor, discuss, and share.”
—Barbara Claypole White, best-selling author of The Perfect Son & The Promise Between Us
“A quietly majestic book, taking on quests for identity, for connection, for love, for self . . . a book to lose oneself in— and then share, enthusiastically, right away.” )
— Robin Black, bestselling author of Life Drawing
“A complicated, deep and passionate love affair that transcends stereotypes. . . . Ogden brought the island to life with her words. . . But the book’s real treasure is how island life changes Anna. . . .”
—Story Circle Book Reviews
“…Life, love, and loss are strong themes that will lure readers back to this beautifully woven journey of second chances…a powerful read that I highly recommend.”
—Readers’ Favorite
“Evocative and thought-provoking, A Drop In The Ocean is a story about belonging―and the ripples that can flow from the family we choose to the family that chooses us.”
—Anita Heiss, Best-selling author of Tiddas & Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms
“Jenni Ogden is a natural storyteller who writes characters to care about.”
—Nicky Pellegrino, author of One Summer In Venice
Also by Jenni Ogden
FICTION
A Drop in the Ocean: A Novel
NONFICTION
Fractured Minds: A Case Study Approach to Clinical Neuropsychology
Trouble In Mind: Stories from a Neuropsychologist’s Casebook
The Moon Is Missing
A Novel
Jenni Ogden
Copyright © 2020 by Jenni Ogden
This is a work of fiction. With the exception of public figures prominent during Hurricane Katrina and public statements related to that event, names, characters and incidents throughout the novel are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Actual locales and events are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.
First Edition: August, 2020
ISBN 978-0-473-53197-3 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-0-473-53199-7 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-0-473-53201-7 (Audiobook)
Published by Sea Dragon Press
www.jenniogden.com
Cover by Julie Metz Design
Created with Vellum
For my children and grandchildren, and always for my mother who did not live long enough to meet any of them. But I often glimpse pieces of her in them—her warmth, her sense of humor, her twinkling eyes, her creativity, her generosity, her understanding of equality and social justice—but most precious of all, the unconditional love she gave her daughters, who gave it right back. Genes become diluted quickly, but being there for our children so they can in turn be there for theirs is a gift we can all strive to pass on down the line.
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part II
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part III
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
READING GROUP QUESTIONS & TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
Newsletter Sign-Up
A Drop in the Ocean
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Part I
GEORGIA
London, March 2005
Chapter 1
“Who am I? Who bloody am I?”
The bubble of Sunday-gardening bliss floating in my chest deflated as I took a step back from my furious daughter. This is just a teenage thing. Treat it with gentle humor. I reached out and put my fingers under Lara’s chin, turning her head first to the left and then the right. “You look like my daughter, Lara Aroha Grayson. Have I got that wrong?”
Lara pushed my hand away, her mass of dark red curls sparking like the ends of cut wires around her flushed and frowning face. “Stop patronizing me. I’m not one of your awestruck interns.” Her eyes, greener than usual, pinned me to the wall, her face even more arresting than when she was in her usual happy mode. “I want to know who I am, where I come from, what bloody genes lurk inside me, make up every tiny cell in my body, make me horrible at math, give me my passion for music.”
My pulse took off, ricocheting between my heart and throat. I focused on keeping my expression mildly concerned and forced my damn body to at least act relaxed. Not exactly easy, as my carefully controlled world teetered on the edge of implosion. “Where has all this come from?” I asked, my voice hopefully sounding calmer than I felt.
Lara glared at me, the creases marring her smooth forehead as clear as a red flag to a bull. An image of her in full tantrum, aged about three, flashed in my head, and for a second the corners of my mouth twitched dangerously near a smile. I swallowed it and pulled myself reluctantly back to what was happening right now; the showdown I’d always known must happen one day.
“Have you not noticed? Have you not caught on to the small fact that I have a Social Studies assignment due in one week, and it’s worth thirty percent of the entire year’s internal assessment mark? What did you think I was doing stuck in my room all bloody weekend while you and Dad and Finbar were frolicking in the garden, basking in the first hint of sun we’ve had this year, picking fucking daffodils?”
“Mind the language, Lara. And calm down; you look as if you’re about to burst into flames.”
“Well, at least I’ve got your attention at last. I cannot, cannot find an entire half of who I am. And it is your fault. You refuse to tell me anything about my father, let alone who his parents and grandparents and great grandparents and brothers and sisters were. Are, I suppose, unless they’re all tragically dead too.”
“What has this to do with an assignment on—what is the topic exactly?”
“Who am I. Who—am—I? Get it? It’s about genealogy. Who do you think you are. All that shit. How my ancestors’ characteristics and lifestyle and social circumstances and mad choices and where they came from gave me the blueprint for who I am and how I am different and why that might be and blah blah.” Lara’s voice rose even higher. “So get this. I don’t want to be a neurosurgeon or any sort of doctor or scientist, so that gene of yours didn’t make it into me. You can barely sing in tune so I’m making a wild guess that I got my singing voice from my father, like my hair. But what else did I get from him? You’ve never even shown me a photo of him. How is that even remotely fair?”
“Lara, please lower your voice. You’ll disturb the entire neighborhood. This is not a conversation to have when you’re upset. We’ll sit quietly after dinner and talk about it. I’m not sure what I can tell you that will help though. I haven’t any photos of Danny, and I know almost nothing about his family. So apart from his hair and his musical genius… Mind you, my father also has a beautiful voice, so you could have inherited that from him.”
“I know Granddad can sing, but what about my other granddad? My father’s father? My father’s mother for that matter. Could they sing? Were they shit at math? Were they from America, from New Zealand, from England, from Russia, from Timbuktu? Are they even alive? Why don’t they want to know me? Why don’t they want to know who I am?”
“We’ll talk about it later. In the meantime, think about how nurture as well as nature makes you who you are. More so in my opinion. You’ve incorporated into your being many more qualities and values from Adam than from a man who by a twist of fate was your biological father and died months before you were born.” Shit, I sound like a patronizing prune. But I couldn’t seem to stop. “Adam’s your real dad and he got many of his personality traits and values from his parents and grandparents, and you know all about them and about my background. You can complete your assignment without even mentioning your biological father if you want to; the teacher doesn’t even need to know.”
“That, mother dear, is not the point, but thank you for the lecture. The point is for me to think about who I am, and I am half blank. I don’t want to be half blank. I know lots of good stuff comes from Dad and I’ve already written about that, but it isn’t complete. I’m not complete.” Lara sniffed and swiped her arm across her nose, her face now blotched with tears.
“Oh sweetheart, come here.” My eyes were threatening to well up as they always did when almost anyone cried, but especially my own two usually uncrying kids. I opened my arms and felt my tears escape as Lara allowed me to fold her in a close hug, her curls wiry and precious against my damp cheek.
Dinner was tense, Finbar the only one who seemed oblivious to Lara’s mood and Adam and my stilted attempts to behave as if the perfectly roasted New Zealand-born Sunday lamb, bought as a special treat to celebrate this glorious and rare London promise-of-spring weekend, was as delicious as I’d planned. It was the first weekend in a month that I hadn’t been on call. Since Peter—the Director of the Neurosurgery Department—had been laid low by old age and cardiac problems, my workload had escalated. This weekend was Jim Mason’s turn on call. Over the past month, he and I, as the next two most senior neurosurgeons in the hallowed hierarchy of our large London hospital neurosurgery department, had taken turns practicing for the Directorship role. Near the end of the year, when Peter was officially to retire, we’d both be up for the job, along with who knows how many outside candidates. Just another ever-present stress to add to my mess of anxieties, a state-of-mind I was well attuned to and mostly successful at keeping to myself. Or at least keeping firmly at home, away from Jim bloody Mason’s sleazy little eyes.
Adam’s hand grazed mine as he reached for some more potatoes. He’d been looking tired lately. Hardly surprising given that he was the one who bore the brunt of my anxiety attacks. For years I’d been suffering only one or two restless nights a fortnight, but lately sleep refused to come, or stay when it did come, night after night. I smiled at Adam, hoping I was beaming my thank you for his valiant efforts to support my crazy work schedule. On top of that, now he’d have to pretend that Lara’s sudden desire to find out more about Danny and his genes did not spear him through his heart. He who’d been her father in every way since she was three years old.
I’d managed to catch him alone before dinner to warn him about Lara’s mood and the talk I’d promised her once dinner was over. Adam obviously took it for granted he’d be part of any discussion; we’d always believed that sticking together was the best policy. None of this allowing the kids to pit one parent against the other in an unsubtle tactic designed to get the best deal. Not that it always worked.
I snuck a glance at Lara, stabbing at her tender lamb slices as if they were made of leather. Shit, how the hell was I going to convince Adam that Lara wasn’t rejecting him; that this was merely another hormonally charged fifteen-year-old’s over-reaction? Cross fingers that within a day of handing in her assignment Danny and his mysterious genes would be overshadowed by the next crisis in Lara’s full-on life.
Finbar, bless his sunny socks, was babbling on about the book he was currently engrossed in. At least he was indubitably Adam’s son with his thick tawny hair and dark chocolate eyes. Should have been a girly, as his sister was apt to remark of her brother. Perhaps she was right. Our youngest was endowed with a generous nature that was as conciliatory and non-confrontational as his sister’s was boisterous and loud. And poised at that lovely age of eleven. Old enough to be funny and interesting and young enough to still want to cuddle his parents.
Lara was sitting so near the edge of her chair I thought she might slide off any second and land unceremoniously on the floor. That wouldn’t add anything positive to the aura of calm Adam and I were trying to project into the tense space between us and our daughter.
“Stop going on about a tragic accident,” Lara said, clearly through gritted teeth. “Of course it was
tragic. All accidents that kill people are tragic. That tells me nothing. I want details. People don’t just casually fall off cliffs. Was he drunk or stoned? Is that what the big secret is?” She bunched the ball of damp tissues clasped in her hands even more tightly.
“No, he wasn’t drunk or stoned. That I do know. But I can’t tell you much more because I don’t know myself. All I can remember is that we were at our holiday house on Great Barrier Island and there was a massive storm. Danny had been away visiting his parents in the South Island and had just come back and we had an argument about something; probably I was mad about him being away so long and not contacting me. It’s fuzzy. The next memory I have is …” My voice stopped working and I stared down at my hands gripped knuckle-white in my lap— “The police found him at the bottom of the cliff. It’s a sheer drop from the top of the Pa, sixty meters probably, straight onto the rocks and the sea.” I shuddered. “Danny was caught on a ledge of rock. Just above…” — I closed my eyes as the sea thundered in my head— “…just above the surf. It was massive that night; pounding, crashing on the boulders.”
