“She’s cunning. Do you think she was trying to protect you, or putting it aside to dangle it over you at the right time if she needed to?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her anymore.”
* * *
They agree, in the way of men who have carried guilt for much of their lives, that no one will benefit from hearing the whole story except for those directly affected—in other words, Mindy.
They agree to call a truce between them, to focus their energies on helping Mindy heal, and to helping Mindy move on.
They agree, standing on the windswept hillside, to share the girl between them. To always stand by her, to be there for her, to make up for the losses of both of her mothers.
They shake on it, then drive back to the hospital to visit their daughter.
Later that night, in the cool air of the Wrights’ guest room, Kat cuddled next to him on the bed, Zack reads the letters between the two women, and the letter to him from his dead wife.
Thirty minutes later, in shock, he whispers, “Oh, my love.” His heart is breaking for what could have been, for what he was too stupid to see. “Oh, V.”
He reads the letter again, the tears welling. Revels in the words from his dead wife, hearing her voice, smiling and laughing and crying. Is angry at himself all over again.
He could have saved her if she’d just told him the truth.
95
July 2000
Zachary, my darling,
I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts. The baby is kicking up a storm, I really can’t wait for you to meet her.
I have some bad news. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I am going to write it down, and then... I can’t tell you over the phone. This is news that should be shared in person, but I’m not strong enough.
First, let me say you have been the greatest gift of my life. I love you very much.
True confession time: I have a long and storied history with severe depression, and with suicide. And now, it’s time for me to end things properly.
I know this means I will not live to see our baby grow up. That makes me sad, it does. But every time I go down, it’s worse than the last. I just can’t take the blackness anymore.
I’ve asked a friend to help, to make sure there are no mistakes. I’m going to give her this letter and make sure it gets to you after I’m gone. Liesel will tell you about how we met, and the shape I was in then. I’m worse now. And I know it will never get better. The years I’ve spent sliding up and down—this kind of life, it’s not fair to you, or Violet.
I hope you’ll forgive me someday. I hope you’ll understand just how weak I am. I want to be strong, for once. I want to die a soldier’s death, clean and sudden, instead of lingering in pain and black.
I will always love you and watch over you. Raise our girl right. Don’t let her do anything reckless.
I’ve taken care of everything from my end. Now it’s your turn. Find someone to love, who will love our girl like she’s her own. Be happy. Be wonderful.
With all my heart,
V
96
THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE
SIX WEEKS LATER
Mindy wakes from a delicious dream. Her mother—Vivian, walking through a green park, a book in her hand, toward a light. The air is scented with roses, and Vivian looks so happy, so carefree. She looks back over her shoulder and smiles at Mindy, waves, blows a kiss, and then she is gone.
This dream should make her sad, but instead, she feels good. Right. Strong.
The transplant worked. She can feel Zack’s energy flowing through her. The cancer was stopped in its tracks. Dr. Oliver and Dr. Berger fixed her. Zack saved her.
She slides out of the bed. The cast came off yesterday, and today she is allowed to begin light training again. She stretches her long arms to the ceiling, feels the pleasant pops and cracks that allow her spine to lengthen.
Jasper has left the breakfast makings on the counter for her. Breakfast of champions, cornflakes with strawberries and coconut milk. As she settles in, there is a knock on the door, then it opens and her aunt Juliet walks through.
“Are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“Nervous?”
Mindy smiles. “Maybe a little. I don’t want them to stare at me, you know?”
“They won’t. No one blames you for any of this. Finish your cereal. The Jeep is warm.”
Mindy puts her bowl in the sink, walking slowly on her hurt leg, using a cane for balance. It will be weeks before she can get back on her skis, but for now, a strengthening program is in place.
She’s managed to stay out of the muck of Lauren’s sentencing and incarceration. The psychologist tells her she doesn’t have to forgive her mother for being a murderer. From before Mindy’s birth, Lauren was a killer. It freaks her out to think about the lengths Lauren went to in order to protect her. Freaks her out that Lauren killed three and tried to kill a fourth. Freaks her out that her mother has gone from a beloved influence to a stranger who will be in jail for the rest of her life.
Stop thinking about her. You have your whole life to come to terms with her.
Today you train.
Mindy knows she has to stay focused. Extreme, myopic focus is the only way she will overcome this setback. She is going to get back into shape, back in her boots, and conquer the shit out of the mountain.
Juliet holds the door for her. She too moves a little slower than before. The two of them are a pair. The sun greets her as she gets in the shiny black Jeep. Her dads gave it to her as a you beat the cancer gift, though she’s not allowed to drive it yet. As they head down the mountain, Mindy watches her aunt from under her lashes. Finally, she screws up her courage.
“Aunt J? How’s your therapy going? Are you getting better?”
Juliet’s grip on the wheel tightens. “It’s going,” she says quietly. When Mindy doesn’t reply, Juliet continues. “Honestly, the physical therapy isn’t a big deal. It’s the damn psychologist that sucks. I don’t like trying to resurrect the past.”
“I don’t, either. I hate having to talk to the woman at the hospital. She’s all over the fact that I didn’t make the Olympics this year.” She adopts a deep voice with a slight Germanic accent. “And how does that make you feel, Mindy?”
Juliet laughs at her imitation. “It’s weird trying to dissect your life for a stranger. You know you can always talk to me, Mindy. Anything you ever want to know, you can ask. I know how hard this has been on you. You’re being a total stud.”
Mindy smiles. “Yeah. I’m a total stud. Speaking of studs...when do you leave for Nashville?”
Juliet glances over at her niece, fluffs her hair. “Tomorrow.”
“Excited?”
A grin blossoms on her aunt’s face. “Maybe.”
“I think you two are really cute together. Are you going to get married?”
Juliet laughs. “It’s a little soon for marriage, kiddo. He’s a nice guy, and I like him an awful lot.”
“He likes you, too. Why else would he be moving to Colorado?”
“Uh, I don’t know, maybe because his kid lives here?”
“I don’t think that’s the only reason,” Mindy says, grinning now. “Seriously, I’m glad you found each other. Glad there’s something positive out of all this mess.”
“You’re better, kiddo. That’s the only positive we all need.” But Juliet is grinning too, a soft blush on her cheeks.
The drive is only ten minutes. Juliet parks. “I’ll be back for you at noon. Don’t get too crazy.”
Mindy nods. She is feeling uncharacteristically nervous.
The smell of the gym is so familiar, so much a part of her, she stops and breathes it in, eyes closed. When she opens them, she realizes everyone inside has stopped what they’re doing and
are watching her.
She gives them a little bow, and the whole place breaks into applause.
Her smile lights up the room. The sunny girl is home.
EPILOGUE
DENVER WOMEN’S
CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
FOUR YEARS LATER
Lauren has barely slept and wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of her door being unlocked. The excitement of this occasion turns her stomach to jelly.
She is already dressed; she didn’t want to waste any time when they came for her.
She has been granted a television pass because of her good behavior. Because of all the work she’s done to help other prisoners. She’s started an art program and has found some peace in the daily routines. She is a popular prisoner, among the inmates and the guards. After the first few months, through the hearings and the sentencing, she was kept in solitary, and she enjoyed the silence. But today, she wants to shake off the last twenty-one years. She’s been hiding inside the memories for so long she’s almost forgotten what it’s like to live out loud, to be present. To have something to live for.
They walk her to the television room. No one else is there—it’s the middle of the night in Denver, but morning halfway across the world in Beijing. The downhill race starts in fifteen minutes.
She is allowed a glass of water and has the television privileges for an hour.
One race.
One time.
Winner takes all.
The papers have had a field day with Mindy’s triumphant return to Team USA. The story of her birth, her cancer, the risky transplant, her mothers and fathers, has been fodder for weeks leading up to the 2022 Olympic games. A young reporter named Bode Greer even won a Pulitzer a few years ago for his coverage of the story. Granted, he was the only reporter who seemed to get the full, inside scoop, but he wrote with great passion and style, and the world loved it.
The trumpets blare, and the coverage starts. Lauren watches and listens intently, leaning forward in her chair. This is the moment she’s waited for. That they’ve all been waiting for.
The announcers go immediately to the story everyone is excited to hear. The package runs—tiny Mindy on short skis, hands in the air, whipping past the camera; the crash; Lauren in a prison jumpsuit; the photo of square-jawed Zack Armstrong; a grainy photo of Vivian; Vail Health Hospital. Quotes on Mindy’s perseverance and courage from Dr. Oliver, from the coaches, from her teammates. No one has ever seen such determination. No one has ever seen someone who loves to ski more. Her incredible successes over the past couple of years on the World Cup circuit. It is all there. The whole story unfolded in a three-minute clip.
The third racer flies down the hill to the clanging cowbells. Her split is excellent; the course is fast. Mindy has pulled the fifth slot. Which is great. The field of thirty, the deteriorating conditions; she’s caught a huge break drawing an early lot.
Lauren is breathless by the time Mindy is called to the gate. Lauren imagines she can feel the icy snow under her own skis, can feel the hard plastic grips of the poles.
The buzzer rings three times, and Mindy is off with a thwack!
It is a good start. She poles into her tuck almost immediately, sailing over the first jump without losing her balance. Lauren is amazed at the strength in Mindy’s thighs as she makes minute adjustments to her legs and knees, allowing her to take the cleanest line.
There is no windmilling, no showboating. She is silver, she is gold. She is fast. So fast.
The microseconds tick off, and she’s suddenly done, spraying a huge rooster tail of snow into the hay at the bottom.
Lauren stares in disbelief at the screen, at the bright green banner next to her daughter’s time.
She is nearly three seconds faster than the previous skiers. It will take a miracle for someone to beat her.
The world holds its collective breath as skier after skier follows. No one even comes close.
Mindy Wright has won the gold.
The camera pans to the family. Jasper is screaming, howling to the sky with joy. Zack is jumping up and down, an arm around Juliet, who is flinging her hands up over her head in glee. Mindy, skis in hand, gives the crowd the tiniest curtsey, and then they are on her, mobbing her, the teammates and the family.
Mindy is screaming now, too. The cameras have gone up close to her teary face. She smacks her chest three times and looks to the sky, pointing two fingers in the air. And then, Mindy looks directly into the camera and mouths the words, “Thank you.”
Lauren bursts into tears. A hand to her heart, she says to the television, in the empty room, “I am so proud of you, baby, I am so proud.”
The salty lines flowing unchecked down her face, Lauren too looks heavenward.
“Oh, Vivian. She’s done it. I think we did okay, considering.”
And the television flickers off.
* * * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book was many years and several iterations in the making. I couldn’t shake the idea of a young mother sacrificing herself so her family could have the best chance at a happy life, of a young father trying to raise their dynamic, driven, elite athlete daughter alone. In early drafts, Violet was an ice-skater—but she only existed in her father’s dreams, as he’d never met her. I knew Vivian had taken her own life, but why would a young mother in a happy marriage do such a thing? The very thought tore at my soul, but wouldn’t leave me alone.
As stories tend to do, this one morphed into what you’ve just read. It’s taken me years to be brave enough to tackle a main character’s suicide. It is a sad, disturbing topic, one that has deeply affected my family. I wanted to do it justice, to show the proper respect and compassion for what is a heartbreaking decision for all involved.
I also want to use this book to raise awareness for Project Semicolon. When I learned of its existence, I was very touched by the movement, by the message of inclusion and strength, and the idea that most suicides can be prevented. Many followers tattoo themselves with a semicolon to signify their support of a friend, family member or themselves. While each bit of flesh marked with a semicolon breaks my heart, it also makes me shout for joy that light is being shed on the issue of self-harm.
Sadly, when I began this note, I learned Amy Bleuel, the founder of Project Semicolon, had herself succumbed to suicide. Her loss is tragic and a harsh reminder how very brutal depression can be. Oddly, moments after I saw the news, a Twitter friend began a series of posts honoring the death anniversary of a luminary writer, Sylvia Plath. In this note from Letters Home: Correspondence 1950–1963, Plath’s mother, Aurelia, talking about her daughter’s demise was especially poignant:
Her physical energies had been depleted by illness, anxiety and overwork, and although she had for so long managed to be gallant and equal to the life-experience, some darker day than usual had temporarily made it seem impossible to pursue.
Some darker day than usual. It is this I want you to remember, should you ever find yourself in the darkness. This feeling is temporary, no matter how cruel and pervasive it feels. It will get better. There is hope.
I hope this book will allow us to have more open dialogues about mental illness. There is no shame in a diagnosis of depression, or bipolar disorder, or severe anxiety, or any other mental illness. On the contrary, a diagnosis should be celebrated, because you, or your friend, or your family member has been brave enough to seek help. A wonderful doctor once told us there is no difference in these diagnoses than discovering you have diabetes—your body simply doesn’t process the same way another’s does. It’s something to remember, and with that mentality, perhaps we can erase the stigma altogether.
But if the darkness becomes too great, if you need to talk, or think someone close to you might be in trouble, please, please reach out. Silence and solitude are not helpful when you’re feeling low. Tell
your friends and family how you’re feeling. Call the suicide hotline. Reach out to a mental health professional. Email me.
Remember, you are glorious. And you are not alone.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Call 1-800-273-8255
www.projectsemicolon.com
J.T. Ellison
March 2018
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A book that’s been in the making for so many years will obviously have a lot of people to thank, so here we go.
First, I need to send major props to skiing phenom Lindsey Vonn, who inspired me to create Mindy Wright. So much courage, grace, dedication and sheer, raw talent in a single being should be outlawed; I’m so glad it’s not. Thanks, Lindsey. You rule.
Three wonderful individuals bid on character names for various charity fund-raisers. Sandra McMahon won a name and asked me to surprise her niece, Brianna Starr, better known as Breezy. Andrea Austin, unfailing supporter and friend, finally got her due, and Cameron Longer from the UK lent his name to the mix. It was a joy to think of their selfless contributions every time I typed their names.
When I was having my “all is lost” moment, friend and fellow author Victoria Schwab swooped in and suggested I change the tense. It fixed the book, and I am most grateful for both the advice and her excellent taste in tea and bacon.
The divine Laura Benedict, first reader, best friend and unflagging cheerleader, promised me the opening worked. I would also be lost without her guidance and great friendship.
Ariel Lawhon and Paige Crutcher, without whom I would be lost, provided regular comfort, suppers, wine, enthusiasm and relentless faith to this effort, which is most appreciated.
Helen Ellis, who never ceases to amuse and amuse, and is the most gracious hostess I know.
Catherine Coulter, my cowriter extraordinaire, keeps me in stitches on email daily. Thank you for teaching me so much.
Jeff Abbott was always there when I needed to vent, to be challenged or simply wanted a good movie recommendation.
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