I stand and go to him, but I don’t dare touch him; I can’t bear it.
“May I visit you?” he asks. “Only sometimes. It won’t be often.”
“You know you can’t. George…”
“Please. I’m scared. I’m really scared.”
We stand side by side like that for a long time, gazing back into our ruined fortress. For once, real courage is demanded of both of us.
I will give him up, and all the moments we have wasted together will be nothing, because they will be gone. Even the memory will be hidden away: a symptom. The story of us will die as I force myself not to think of him. And I will be half a person. And George will be gone.
That thought echoes in my head. George will be gone.
My eyes rest on his attaché case. All the pictures of all our adventures are scattered inside. I long for those moments. I reach for them, just to touch them one last time. But I stop as something gold on the floor catches my eye. A lovely unbroken gilt frame is peeking out, shoved under the bed. I pick it up. It’s a picture that doesn’t belong here in the Star Palace. My favorite from Mrs. Vaughn’s wall of heroes: Henry, Lucie, and me watching a movie, lit up like ghosts by the glow of the television. It makes me smile. It fills me with warmth when I touch it. I set it on the nightstand. I close George’s case, shutting temptation out of sight.
He is shaking. He knows this is the end, because I know. We are standing against the wall, staring into the firing squad, final cigarettes hanging from our lips.
“And will you be happy, Sadie?” His hand can barely hold the cigarette: a firefly of ash flickers and dies. I follow his gaze into the worlds we have built and the infinity of those we will never get to build: all of the worlds I will lose. Their evening lights dance all the way to the horizon, out beyond the seas.
“Oh, George, don’t let’s ask for the moon,” I manage to whisper. “We’ve had the stars.”
He is so still, but smoke escapes his lips, like a dream he’s been holding in. I ease myself back into my wheelchair, and the dream dissolves around me, reality closing in. Finally it is just George, and me, and our little pocket out of time. When he turns back to me, he is smiling.
“Goodbye,” I say. We keep our eyes fixed on each other. Those eyes like mine: two infinite oceans of possibility.
I close my eyes and force myself to see only the blackness behind my eyelids, nothing more.
I put the plastic cup to my lips.
I make my choice.
And then he is gone.
This book would not have been possible without many incredible people. I would like to thank:
My superlative agent, Lucy Carson; the wonderful Alix Kaye; and friends at the Friedrich Agency.
Wendy Lamb, the best editor I could have dreamed up; my amazing assistant editor, Dana Carey; and friends at Wendy Lamb Books, including designer Angela Carlino, interior designer Jaclyn Whalen, copy editor Colleen Fellingham, managing editor Tamar Schwartz, publicist Kathy Dunn, and the rest of the team at RHCB.
My family, for supporting me.
My friends at American University Library, for their indulgence.
Lindsey and Megan, who read drafts and shared thoughts. Dewey for the wake-up calls. Alex for listening. Ruth for reading the worst version of this book and burying my frustration in Netrunner.
Finally, my number one reader, Ethan: Your refusal to entertain my endless neuroses made this book possible. Thank you for putting up with all the skulls. Emoji heart.
The spark for Sadie’s story came on a long snowy walk when I was completely lost in thought. I was so deep inside my own head that I didn’t even perceive the world around me, and all of a sudden Sadie and George were there. I didn’t notice until I got home that my feet had begun to bleed in my boots.
That’s not so unusual for writers: I’ve heard of writers who laugh and cry as they write scenes, who pace relentlessly, who lose hours of time. It’s a good thing, usually, to become so absorbed in a story that the real world fades away.
But like anything, it’s possible to have too much of a good thing.
Sadie is, in many ways, a writer too. A lot of people who love reading and losing themselves in other worlds will understand exactly what she feels, both good and bad. There’s even a growing movement for a name that captures the feeling of becoming too lost in imagination: maladaptive daydreaming.
Daydreams are invisible, and so difficult to explain even to those closest to us, but their seductive draw is universal. I wanted to write a story that takes that need to withdraw into other worlds (and the problems that need can cause) seriously. The allure of the counterfactual tempts everyone, and it’s easy to get lost there. If while reading this book you saw yourself in Sadie, I hope you’ve also come to see: just like Sadie, you are not alone.
Tara Wilson Redd, a graduate of Reed College, grew up all over the United States, including in St. Louis, Seattle, and Central Oregon. An impenitent dilettante, she is interested in everything, but especially in language, travel, and animals. When she is home from her adventures, she lives in Washington, DC, where she works in libraries. The Museum of Us is her first novel. Visit her online at tarawilsonredd.com.
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