I fit hers onto the little nightstand.
Her gaze follows my hand, and the glass. She looks back out the door to the dark living room.
“You don’t have to close the door,” I tell her. “If you don’t want.”
Maggie shrugs. She closes the door.
She wobbles her way across the mattress, sits on the box spring, and watches me sip back the pill with water. Watches me swallow.
“I—” I need to say this. She needs to know this. “I didn’t want, ah—I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
She shakes her head no. Of course not.
“I thought . . .” Eyes down. It’s bright in here. Too much. Too naked.
Maggie the mind reader: She leans and switches off the lamp. “Better?” She whispers it, like a dream. She crawls under the covers on her side.
Listen to the sheets against Maggie.
A tiny inhalation from her, as though she might speak, and then she stops.
Quiet plays against the walls. Say Ben. Say we. Say us. I’m almost home.
Another little breath and she says, “Ben?”
Answer. Say something, Ben. Say what you mean. Say who you are. “Yeah?”
Maggie’s hand slips through the dark and finds my face. Touches my skin. “I never stopped loving you.”
“Thank you.” Whisper it, say it, sing it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I cup her palm to my mouth and inhale, let it melt against my face in the dark. Reach up past her wrist, up her arm to her neck, the soft of her cheek, the warm home of Maggie’s face.
Tears in her throat now, my Maggie slides over, closer, onto this mattress onto Ben, onto me. She lays her arms over me, her hips against mine.
Her breath in my ear fills my head, fills the black hole with light. Her hands slide my shirt up, slide her own up, so that we are skin to skin, dissolving, liquefying.
Breathing Maggie’s breath, breathing Maggie.
She, me, I—and soon I don’t know where she begins and I end.
EIGHTEEN
Maggie
You’re sure? Do you want to go back in and get a snack or something for later?”
“It’s a one-hour drive, Mags. I think I’ll make it.” Francis flicks the ash off his cigarette out the rear window of the car. He gives Ben an exaggerated look of I-Don’t-Envy-You-Pal.
The day is warm and the sky so blue, it’s indigo. A mass of sunlit leaves and chirping sparrows flit through the branches overhead. It’s all so sweet smelling, so sweet looking, it’s as though the afternoon were engineered for optimism. I’m grateful for it.
We’ve decided to take Lucy’s car—more room for a longish drive. I get into the driver’s seat. Ben buckles up on the passenger side. He knows the whole sordid story now. Francis told him over breakfast.
Francis, of course, turned it into a one-man show as he’s wont to do. Ben listened with his leg against mine, his foot against mine. He listened like a man who’s been there, who knows fear when he hears it.
Twenty-four hours ago, I couldn’t see today coming, couldn’t imagine the fear letting up. Looking back, it feels as though I had to turn out the lights to see his face, crawl into silence to hear his voice.
All morning, my head has reverberated with flashes of Ben’s hands in my hair, gentle on my cheek, on my back. Holding each other again. Holding on for dear life. Holding on for forgiveness.
Every time he rests his eyes on me now, there is a rush of love through my chest, in my throat, and I’m not scared anymore. We’ll survive. That’s what we do.
In the backseat, Francis takes a deep drag off his cigarette and prattles on. He’s been smoking and talking nonstop since he woke. “I think he was relieved, frankly. That’s him all over. I remember when he was going in for surgery last year and I said, ‘Oh, is he finally getting that spine transplant? Good for him.’ That poor man, I shouldn’t—”
I look at him in the rearview mirror. “Who are you talking about?”
“Sorry, was I interrupting your nap, dear? It’s illegal for narcoleptics to drive, you know.”
“Really? Well, fratricide’s illegal, too, but I’m a rebel.”
“Oh Lord, deliver me,” Francis says, exactly like our mother used to. With a little saliva on his finger, he taps out his expiring cigarette and drops the butt into his shirt pocket. “I was talking about Father Michael. I called him yesterday. I don’t think he was looking forward to depositing me at the rehab center. My spiritual director, everybody, let’s give him a warm round of applause.”
“He’s your spiritual director? That squirmy little worm couldn’t direct traffic.”
Beside me Ben is grinning. The sight of his smile, the light in his face is like a shooting star in my guts.
Francis goes on. “He asked me if I’d like to take some classes when I get out. I said, ‘I’d like to get my canon law degree, but I feel like my brain is fried. I could probably do a PhD in spirituality. I could handle fluff.’ Silence. I could almost hear his little eyes blinking. Oh well, I’ve said worse. Google me.” He pulls out his pack of Camels and lights a new one.
We keep on like that for another forty minutes or so. The closer we get to my brother’s destination, though, the quieter it gets in the backseat. I watch him in the rearview mirror. The bravado is slowly replaced with a lonesome stare as he watches the traffic and trees fly by.
OUR LADY OF Perpetual Help Rehabilitation Center is surrounded by a thick moat of tall, leafy trees. An open-armed statue of Christ greets us as we nose into the circular driveway in front.
“Where’s the parking lot?” I wonder out loud. “I guess we just go—”
“No, no, here is fine,” Francis says, and so I stop. Window open, his face is upturned, looking from the portico to the center’s brick façade, all the way up the bell tower to the tall white cross on top.
My brother’s voice is soft when he says, “I think I’d like to do this on my own.”
“Are you sure?”
Francis gathers his things and opens the back door.
Ben looks into his lap a moment, takes a deep breath, and then gets out too.
The three of us stand beside the car, looking up at the building. Francis glances back at the car. His mouth pulls down as he rummages for cigarettes. He shakes the empty pack and then crumples it.
I hold out my hand and take it from him.
“Okay . . . well,” Francis says. “I guess this is it.” He extends a hand to Ben.
Ben takes hold. “Thank you, Francis. For everything.” He throws his arm around my brother’s back and claps him close. “You’ll get through this, brother.”
“You’re welcome. Always.” Francis’s voice trembles slightly.
He turns from Ben and takes both of my hands in his. “Well, sweetheart. Thank you for taking me in. For taking me here.” He puts his arms around me and we hold each other tight. “You have no idea how much you mean to me,” he murmurs in my ear. “I love you.”
My throat is clenched and it’s hard to make real sound. A whisper is easier. “I love you too.”
Over Francis’s shoulder, I watch a smile smooth across Ben’s face and the sinking sun casts a light that brings out the gentle, liquid blue of his eyes.
My brother and I let each other go. As Francis steps back he says, “Oop, you’ve got a—” He peers at my cheek.
“—eyelash,” Ben says. “Hold still.” Ben touches my face. When he takes his hand back there’s a tiny hair on his thumb. “Make a wish.” He holds it out for me.
“Maybe you should take this one,” I tell my brother.
“Won’t work for me,” he says. “It’s yours.”
I glance from Ben to Francis and, for a flicker of a moment, I wonder at the difference between a wish and a prayer. We plead for help from eyelashes, dandelions, pennies, wishbones, and shooting stars. And then some of us have the nerve to get down on our knees and clasp our hands. What must it be like to be so brave and bereft at once? To
drop all one’s defenses? It’s one thing when a chicken bone is deaf to your deepest desires, but it must be something else when God goes silent.
Taking Ben’s wrist, I hold his thumb, close my eyes, and blow the eyelash toward the sun.
Acknowledgments
So many people helped to bring this fictional world to life but none more than Timothy Kelleher. I cannot imagine having written The Crooked Heart of Mercy without your unending encouragement, astute observations, and your deep bright love. You bring my real world to life.
My family, as always, is my rock and a constant revelation: Irene Livingston, you are an ever-flowing font of inspiration and a force to be reckoned with! Thank you. Lenore Angela, your thoughts and memories of being a seniors’ hand-for-hire helped to make Maggie’s life feel real. Barbara Kelleher, your recollections of a missing mother and a lost childhood contributed more to these characters than you will ever know.
There were details needed for this story that often required a particular expertise and I have many experts to thank. Enormous gratitude goes to Dr. Helen Schwantje from BC Wildlife Management for your generosity and willingness to ponder a pharmaceutical that would suit my purposes—it had to be common, yet unusual, sleep-inducing yet hallucinogenic, and it had to be available in U.S. veterinary clinics. You made it work! My thanks as well to Dr. David A. Johnson at GlaxoSmithKline—the thought you put into your letters and your opinions on the logistics of designer drugs proved invaluable.
Writing about a Catholic priest takes a very specific kind of inside familiarity. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to spend time with several seminarians and priests, but I must extend a special thank you to Joseph Kury who allowed me to quiz him, pester, and poke him about his experiences, both personal and vocational. You are a rare bird, Joey.
Theological devotion has long held a fascination for me and I am a church-hopper from way back, but the Church of Spiritualism was one I had not encountered in person before now. I’m indebted to the people of the First United Church of Spiritualism and the International Spiritualist Alliance—thank you for your welcoming souls and comfortable pews.
A big shout of thanks must also go to the BC Arts Council for its generous financial support. You made it easier to breathe.
And finally, I must thank the team who brought this book into the world. To my Canadian editor, Anne Collins: You are brilliant, fierce, and magnificent and I have been impossibly lucky to have you on my side all these years. My outstanding U.S. editor Emily Krump: In this, our inaugural collaboration, your keen insights brought leaven to a difficult topic; your embrace of this book will remain precious to me always. Grainne Fox, what can I say—I had no idea that such a creature as you existed: a literary agent with a superb mind, a steel spine, and a heart as big as all get-out. I am thankful, too, that you brought Rachel Crawford into the fold. Rachel, you were always on the case with great smarts, huge diligence and a sense of humor just when I needed it. What a clan to have around me; I’m so very glad to have found you all.
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *
About the author
* * *
Meet Billie Livingston
About the book
* * *
The Story Behind The Crooked Heart of Mercy
Reading Group Guide
About the author
Meet Billie Livingston
BILLIE LIVINGSTON is the award-winning author of three novels, a collection of short stories, and a poetry collection. Her most recent novel, One Good Hustle, a Globe and Mail Best Book selection, was nominated for the 2012 Giller Prize and for the Canadian Library Association’s Young Adult book of the year. Her short story “Sitting on the Edge of Marlene” has been adapted into a feature film and debuted at the Vancouver International Film Festival, and a second feature based on Livingston’s short fiction is currently in preproduction. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.
www.billielivingston.com
@BillieLiving
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
About the book
The Story Behind The Crooked Heart of Mercy
WHEN PEOPLE FIND OUT that I’m a writer, the question they ask again and again is, “Where do you get your stories?” Since writing The Crooked Heart of Mercy, I’m tempted to tell them, “There’s an app for that!” Sort of. Let me explain. . . .
For three years I was haunted by three strangers skulking in the shadows of my mind: Francis, an alcoholic priest with little interest in celibacy; Ben, a man with a hole in his head; and Maggie, a woman who’s lost her child. I had no idea what one had to do with the others.
Francis, the priest, showed up early on and in the most obvious way: exposure. Ten years ago, my husband was in a seminary in Washington, D.C. When we were first dating, I used to visit him there. Many a night was spent on the rooftop patio drinking cocktails and bantering with young men who felt that they had a vocation, but were unsure if they could put their appetites aside. Much of their fear, grace, and smart-assed playfulness crystallized in Francis.
Ben started nosing around after I had read about a seventeen-year-old boy in Florida who ate too many psychedelic mushrooms, fell asleep, and very nearly killed himself in his desperation to wake up. But Ben was a different animal: a thirty-something limo driver with a sharp mind and an acid tongue. The hole in his head was the darkest, angriest part of him. The hole would come from a nightmare and the nightmare would become the hole.
But who was Maggie? Early on, her voice was like a bad phone connection where I could only hear every third word. Ben was swiftly becoming the loudest of the three. I was convinced that if I could crack open Ben’s mind and find his nightmare, I could crack the story and find my way to Maggie and Francis.
I decided to try writing a short story in Ben’s voice.
A little stuck, I went for a long walk to let my mind drift. Eventually, it all rushed in—Ben’s dark dream, existential and creepy. Panicked, I opened my cell phone to dictate a few words to Siri, the voice-to-text app. “Ben is sucked back through his own eye sockets,” I said. “The eyes of the planet, the eyes of God! Falling through the air in a rush of embryonic sludge, he lands with a squelch. . . .”
I tapped DONE, stared at the phone, and waited for it to transcribe my words. The little blue wheel turned and turned as the app worked. It seemed to take forever. (Was the din of traffic too loud?) Finally, Siri finished. I looked at the phone, expecting to read my thoughts on the screen. Only one word was there: Family.
I snorted. Some transcription. More like a translation!
Siri, channeling the sarcasm of the gods, had unlocked the whole thing. Ben, Maggie, Francis: family. What else? Ben is married to Maggie. The lost child was theirs together. Francis, the priest with the lousy grip on celibacy, is Maggie’s brother. And Maggie is just as lippy and lively, playful and broken as Francis. Like all families, they know just how to push each other’s buttons. Of course they do, they installed them.
I often write about family, the ones we’re born into, the ones we choose, and the ways one so often affects the other.
My real-life family frequently laces through my fictional families. Threads of dialogue, bits of history. That little boy, Ben and Maggie’s lost child—he’s from an old family memory, a story that is and isn’t my own. Years before I came along, my father and his first wife had a little boy. The boy fell out of a window and died at the age of two. For years I have been haunted by a child I never met, a boy who would have been my brother. I’ve wondered how his mother recovered from the shattering loss of one distracted moment. Now that boy is Frankie, the child of Ben, a man with a hole in his head, and Maggie, a woman with a hole in her heart. He is also the namesake of his uncle Francis, a priest so flawed and yet gifted with a kind of grace that helps people forward with the weight of their own secret burdens.
Family drives my fiction. Who else do we love so deeply, so keenly, and at the same time in such a r
oughshod way? In the belly of family is where we learn how to fear and hope. We cling to family and run from them. Even when they feel like strangers, they are imprinted on our hearts as well as in our DNA. I write about family because they are universal; they are us.
Reading Group Guide
1.“How do you fill a hole? If you take from the whole to fill a hole, is anything made whole?” How do Ben’s words reflect the themes of trauma and recovery in the novel?
2.Both Ben and Maggie feel extremely guilty over Frankie’s death. How do they deal with this guilt in their everyday lives?
3.Given that Maggie shows disdain for religion many times during the novel, why do you think she turns to the church in her times of need? (For instance, when it concerns her son.)
4.Why did the author choose to have the narrative jump back and forth between different time lines and events? How does this serve the novel and how would it be different if it read chronologically?
5.Why does Lucy find such solace in the United Church of Spiritualism? Why does this bother Maggie?
6.According to psychologists, dissociation from reality is a coping mechanism for dealing with extreme stress or grief and can manifest in different ways. In what ways do Ben and Maggie each dissociate?
7.Do you think that Ben’s dissociation existed before his self-injury and hospital stay? When and why do you think it started?
8.Does Francis feel guilt regarding his sexual orientation or is he comfortable with who he is? Where do you think his tendency toward substance abuse originated?
9.In what ways does the author use the narrative voice to connect the reader to Ben’s experience? Do you think that Ben is a more or a less reliable narrator when he is outside of his own body?
10.How are the themes of religion and spirituality explored in the novel? Discuss the differences between the characters who are more religious and those who are more spiritual.
The Crooked Heart of Mercy Page 19
