“I don’t mind Lorna,” I say.
“I’m not sure it fits anymore,” Mom says. In her sentence is hope for a future, one where I am not lonely, not forsaken, not Affected or Cursed. A future where I am Something Else. “Give it some thought. You can be anyone. I don’t mind.”
Elizabeth, I think. Samantha. Isabelle. Madison. Caroline. Lily.
We drink white wine on the porch like we are friends instead of mother and daughter. I’ve never cared about the taste of the wine, but the label of this one promised “bright notes of tart citrus.” I stare at the ocean and hold the wine in my mouth, waiting for the familiar taste.
It doesn’t come.
I am a little in awe of the ocean and the way things can be one way forever, then wholly different so quickly your head spins. Nothing is the same. Time is different here. Water is different here. And stars. And love.
“I love you,” Mom says, something she never said much in Brooklyn. She sounds sure of it, like the word finally, after all this time, makes sense to her.
Her certainty makes me think the way she dragged me from the street was an act of love. That love isn’t always something made by building things up, but also by stripping things down. That love is what’s there when you’ve left everything else behind.
It was love that took Mom from Roger’s bedside.
It was love that put me on a plane.
It is love in the California air that rushes through the windows, neat and dry and smelling of absolutely nothing but salt.
• • •
Early the next morning we shop for beds and sheets and sandals and dishes. Mom wants white everything and clear everything. White cotton sheets. White wooden beds. White strappy sandals. Clear dishes. Clear bowls. Clear teacups.
She buys them without thinking about anything else but the way they are pure and simple and unburdened with history.
They will gleam in the too-bright sun.
We will try not to stain them.
It’s Tuesday, and I’d forgotten it was Tuesday. If Mom could have dropped Tuesdays in the trash can, too, she would have. The only thing I have held on to is my hair, which I’m leaving long.
Today it’s in a high ponytail, a way I’ve never worn it, and I like the way it swings as I step. Mom’s is under a big straw hat.
She seems to think love is an act of forgetting, and she wants me to think the same thing.
An hour in, our rented car is so full of new objects to put in our new home that I don’t think we have room for anything else. But we linger over a set of delicate wineglasses, long stems, breakable tops. I lift one up, to see if it fits our brand-new life.
The store stills. Heads drop. Cars pull over.
It is 10:11. The Minute of Silence hits.
The world pauses.
We go on.
acknowledgments
The first thank you goes to my agent, Victoria Marini, whose support, belief, creativity, friendship, wisdom, resilience, clarity, and enthusiasm made this book a reality. I am a lucky writer to get to go on this journey with you. Thank you for being there for me when I need it the most.
A huge thank you to my editor, Andrew Karre. Your guidance, curiosity, sharp mind, and collaborative spirit made an idea into a story, a series of scenes into a whole world. I’m incredibly grateful for the care you took with this book and the places you helped me discover. I could not have written this book without you.
Thank you, Brandy Colbert, for your invaluable insight and for doing this whole being a writer thing with me. I’m lucky to have you. Thank you, Amy Ewing, for pushing me on early drafts, and Alyson Gerber, Caela Carter, and Jess Verdi for support, love, celebration, and commiseration. And wine and cheese.
This book idea started years ago, and along the way so many people have talked me through ideas, read scenes, encouraged me to grow, and given valuable feedback. Thank you to Anica Rissi, Alex Arnold, Katherine Tegen, Andrea Hannah, and Bethany Jones.
Thank you to the amazing team at Dutton. I am so thrilled this book found its home with you. I am especially grateful to Julie Strauss-Gabel, Natalie Vielkind, Melissa Faulner, Rosanne Lauer, and Theresa Evangelista. Thank you also to Anne Heausler for your thoughtful copyedits and Antonio Rodrigues Jr. for the magnificent cover art.
Thank you, Mom, Dad, Andy, Jenn, Ellen, Amy, Mrs. Scallon, Nivia, Ian, Shane, Brennan, and the rest of my family for all the love and encouragement a person needs to write a book, which is a lot. I am grateful to have you in my life.
Thank you, Julia and Honora, who did those first few weeks of New York City with me just over over fifteen years ago. The great ones, and the impossibly terrible ones. This book is for you, and for those first weeks, too.
And thank you to Frank, who sees every bit of joy and fear and discouragement and excitement that goes into writing a book, and keeps me smiling through all of it.
Corey Ann Haydu is the author of several acclaimed novels for young readers, including OCD Love Story, which The Horn Book called “heartwarming, frequently funny, and wholly honest,” in its starred review. She lives in New York.
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The Careful Undressing of Love Page 24
