The puzzle pieces begin to drop and Tetris-like they stack themselves into place as if commanded by some higher power. Memphis is up in that tree. Perched on a branch, leaning against the trunk as if the tree’s growth was meant to accommodate her perfectly. I stare at the body and nothing about it seems human, or at least not alive. It is merely a decomposing form in a yellow dress. The dress from her stories, the one my father had bought her.
I hear her voice. When he still loved me.
A rope is knotted around her waist and neck and I know what she’s done. I know that she had no more strength to deny those trees and thicket and underbrush, that the woods had begun to claim her some time ago. Memphis had remained tethered to a death wish her entire life and she’d come to deliver on it once her story had been told.
The bark under my hands is crude and warped, yet strong, almost majestic. This live oak holds my mother’s voice but also her reluctant kisses. I press my hands against the trunk and I listen to the whispering leaves above, the wind gently rousing them as if to tell her someone is here, someone has come for you, you will not remain in this thicket of hell.
Epilogue
THERE is so much going on with Bobby and Bordeaux and my mother disappearing that I don’t realize it at first.
One day, in the barn, a scent with a certain bite drifts toward me. As I shift the bales of hay, they turn to dust and dry yellow flowers and pollen flare up into my nostrils, covering my body in a fine layer of something that I have no name for. At first I confuse it with a seizure, but then the dust settles and nothing more happens. I wait patiently for my world to shift or fall completely off its axis, fry my brain, or leave me a vegetable, yet nothing happens.
The seizures have completely ceased, much to Dr. Wagner’s amazement. Miraculously is the word he used. I don’t dwell on it too much, yet I remain vigilant. When I feel some sort of way, when I lose my footing, when the air around the farm seems to hum and there’s a buzzing sound hovering over the property, I wait for a seizure, yet it never comes to pass. The gift, if it ever was one, has ceased, and for whatever it’s worth, it has done its duty: everything that was done in the dark has come into the light.
After Bobby quit his job at the APD, he moved to the farm with me. While he ponders what to do with his future, something decides for him. For us, really.
It was a fall afternoon. Bobby had been working on the barn for weeks, had replaced rotten slats of wood and constructed individual horse stalls. We figured boarding horses wasn’t going to make us rich but would provide a steady income. We already had most of the requirements in place—a fenced paddock and a field, mowing equipment, water troughs, trails, and areas to store feed—and we cleared out and prepared the barn, getting ready for the inspector who would grant a business license.
As I sweep the floor, a strange scent comes at me from outside the barn door. It seems to be a musty and unhealthy odor and as I turn, a shadow passes by. It is low to the ground, dragging one of its hind legs. I lean the broom against the stall door and step outside.
There stands an animal—is it a dog?—who has skin like stone. I stand paralyzed wondering if I’m imagining it all. It’s a female and judging by her size a rather large breed. She looks nothing like a dog, more like a withered barnacle.
The closer I step, the more the stench comes at me. I step back into the barn and she follows me. As Bobby climbs off the ladder, the dog curls up in one of the stalls by bales of hay. I pull Tallulah’s treats from my pocket and we sit beside her, gently attempting to feed her biscuits. She doesn’t run nor does she flinch, but it seems more from exhaustion than trust. Considering her condition, I’m convinced she came here to curl up and die.
Bobby pushes the treats closer to her without making eye contact or talking. At first she hesitates, then she scoots toward us and begins to nibble; eventually she eagerly reaches out for more. I go into the house and by the time I return with a bowl of water, Bobby is rubbing her scaly and scabby skin. She then curls up and goes to sleep, her head in Bobby’s lap.
The vet offers to put her down free of charge. “She’s suffering; it’s the right thing to do,” he says, but I think of Ghost, the dog in Memphis’ story and her stillborn pup. Aella’s trailer materializes and Quinn and her desperate attempt at bargaining for a baby. I decline and Bobby and I spend the next weeks coaxing her to accept medicine, applying medicated lotion to help heal the dog’s hardened skin and her broken heart.
Weeks later she still cowers when she hears a sudden noise, flinches at the slightest movement, yet she is beginning to look more like herself; her skin has smoothed and her golden coat, however reluctantly, begins to grow back. But most of all, she seems to welcome our gentle care. Eventually she becomes unrecognizable; she turns into a sweet-faced golden dog covered in new fuzz, gazing into our eyes and wagging her tail as she plays with Tallulah. Her sorrowful eyes remain heavy with a past we know nothing about, yet she is well on her way to a better life. We name her Buttercup.
Our animal rescue is born, and in addition to the horses we board, we take in dogs, goats, and chickens.
Every time I look out the kitchen window, when I pass through the yard, I see the three graves underneath the cypress, their mounds reminding me of the farm’s legacy. I decide that I will leave the past behind and I will never march into the police station, never so much as utter a word of her story to anyone but Bobby. I had allowed myself to hate her for some time, but then I gave in and let go of the feeling. Before she committed a crime against me, there were crimes committed against her. And though I know one cannot understand someone else’s pain, I want to say that hers was much heavier, reached much further beneath her skin.
Fall comes to an end and the days grow gloomy, yet the occasional light streaking through the windows remains both brilliant and filled with shadows.
With time the peculiar happenings on the farm cease; there are no more raps on the door, no more knocking deep within the walls, no longer do faint footsteps sound upstairs. No more glimpses of Tain roaming the property, no more does the ghost of Nolan limp toward the shed. The shivers that used to run through me like an electric current have ended and it seems as if the entire cast of characters have found their resting places among us without disturbing the living.
One day, the farm is changed. It isn’t a sudden change—at least we don’t experience it that way—but one day we realize the farm no longer feels depressing and the thickness and heaviness has been replaced with the scent of horses and the echoes of barking dogs.
The winter days bring early-morning fog. It sweeps in and wraps itself around the buildings, snakes down the dirt road leading to the main road. It blankets the meadow and infuses the tree line leading into the woods.
And everyone and everything is at peace.
You gave me peace in a lifetime of war.
—ACHILLES
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Some of Dahlia’s childhood memories are crystal clear. Others are obscured by uncertainty. What is your earliest memory? Are most of your childhood memories vivid ones?
As a teenager, Dahlia felt held back by Memphis, unable to advance and make the most of her life. Do you think she was right to leave home when she did? How different do you think her life would have been had she stayed? How might Memphis’ life have changed if Dahlia had stayed in Aurora?
Quinn’s life changes dramatically after she meets Aella, a woman with mysterious powers. Do you believe in people with otherworldly abilities like Aella? Have you ever been to a psychic or wished a spell could be cast to aid you in an endeavor?
Early on in their marriage, Quinn misleads her husband, Nolan, in an effort to strengthen their relationship. Do you think this was wrong of her, even though she had good intentions, or were her actions justified? Have you ever done or said something that was meant to help a situation but you ended up regretting it?
Dahlia has a powerful bond with Tallulah, the dog she rescues. How do you think this bond helps her to navigate the challenges she faces throughout the novel?
Do you think Memphis did what she had to do as she raised Dahlia? Or were her motivations more selfish in nature? How have tough choices changed your life and affected your relationships?
Dahlia isn’t always sure if she can trust her own perceptions and feelings. Do you think that her difficulties stem from a physical cause or does the weight of the secrets she’s trying to unravel affect her? Or is it both?
The forest is a powerful catalyst for Quinn, Memphis, and Dahlia. How does it shape their lives? Is there a place that has changed the course of your life or contributed greatly to who you are?
Tain and Quinn’s relationship takes a turn as the story progresses. What do you think of Tain? How do her motivations change over time? Do you view her as a victim or is she in control of her choices?
Quinn transforms multiple times over the course of her life. What do you think is her most significant personal evolution? Have you ever had to change how you handle certain situations or people in your life?
Dahlia feels a strong connection to the missing woman she found in the woods and has trouble letting go of her story. Have you ever been captivated by a stranger’s plight or has a news story significantly impacted your life?
Dahlia and Memphis have a very complicated relationship. How does the power of forgiveness come into play for each of them?
Keep reading for an excerpt of Alexandra Burt’s first novel . . .
REMEMBER MIA
Available in paperback from Berkley!
MISSING: SEVEN-MONTH-OLD INFANT DISAPPEARS FROM CRIB
Brooklyn, NY—The New York City Police Department is asking for the public’s help in locating 7-month-old Mia Connor.
The parents and the NYPD are pleading with the public for any assistance in the investigation and are asking Brooklyn residents in the North Dandry neighborhood to come forward if they witnessed any suspicious behavior on the night and early morning of the 30th.
Mia Connor was last seen by her mother, Estelle Paradise, 27, around midnight when she laid her down to sleep. The mother discovered the child was missing when she woke up the next morning. The father was out of town when the infant disappeared.
“It’s very frustrating,” said Eric Rodriguez, spokesperson for the NYPD, when he appeared briefly at a news conference on Friday. “We’re hoping somebody will come forward and give us the information allowing us to locate the child.”
Immediately call the TIPS hotline if you have any information about the infant’s whereabouts. All calls are strictly confidential.
Mia Connor has brown eyes and blond hair, is 25 inches tall, and weighs 14 pounds. The day of her disappearance she wore white one-piece pajamas with a cupcake print. She has two bottom teeth.
One
MRS. Paradise?”
A voice sounds out of nowhere. My thoughts are sluggish, as if I’m running underwater. I try and try but I’m not getting anywhere.
“Not stable. Eighty over sixty. And falling.”
Oh God, I’m still alive.
I move my legs, they respond, barely, but they respond. Light prowls its way into my eyes. I hear dogs barking, high-pitched. They pant, their tags clatter.
“You’ve been in a car accident.”
My face is hot, my thoughts vague, like dusty boxes in obscure and dark attic spaces. I know immediately something is amiss.
“Oh my God, look at her head.”
A siren sounds, it stutters for a second, then turns into a steady torment.
I want to tell them . . . I open my mouth, my lips begin to form the words, but the burning sensation in my head becomes unbearable. My chest is on fire, and ringing in my left ear numbs the entire side of my face. Let me die, I want to tell them. But the only sound I hear is of crude hands tearing fragile fabric.
“Step back. Clear.”
My body explodes, jerks upward.
This isn’t part of the plan.
—
My vision is blurred and hazy. I make out a woman in baby blue scrubs, a nurse, slipping a plastic tube over my head, and immediately two prongs hiss cold air into my nostrils. She pumps a lever and the bed jerks upward, then another lever triggers a motor raising the headboard until my upper body is resting almost vertically.
My world becomes clearer. The nurse’s hair is in a ponytail and the pockets of her cardigan sag. I watch her dispose of tubing and wrappers, and the closing of the trash can’s metal lid sounds final, evoking a feeling I can’t quite place, a vague sense of loss, like a pickpocket making off with my loose change, disappearing into the crowd that is my strange memory.
A male voice sounds out of nowhere.
“I need to place a PICC line.”
The overly gentle voice belongs to a man in a white coat. He talks to me as if I’m a child in need of comfort.
“Just relax, you won’t feel a thing.”
Relax and I won’t feel a thing? What a concept. I lift my arms and pain shoots from my shoulder into my neck. I tell myself not to do that again anytime soon.
The white coat rubs the back of my hand. The alcohol wipe leaves an icy trail and jerks me further from my lulled state. I watch the doctor insert a long needle into my vein. A forgotten cotton wipe rests in the folds of the waffle-weave blanket, in its center a bright red bloody mark, like a scarlet letter.
There’s a spark of memory, it ignites but then fizzles, like a wet match. I refuse to be pulled away, I follow the crimson, attach myself to the memory that started out like a creak on the stairs, but then the monsters appear.
First I remember the darkness.
Then I remember the blood.
My baby. Oh God, Mia.
—
The memory of the blood lingers. There’re flashes of red exploding like lightning in the sky; one moment they’re illuminating everything around me; the next they are gone, bathing my world in darkness. Then the bloody images fade and vanish, leaving a black jittering line on the screen.
Squeaking rubber soles on linoleum circle me and I feel a pat on my shoulder.
This isn’t real. A random vision, just a vision. It doesn’t mean anything.
A nurse gently squeezes my shoulder and I open my eyes.
“Mrs. Paradise.” The nurse’s voice is soft, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I have orders to wake you every couple of hours.”
“Blood,” I say, and squint my eyes, attempting to force the image to return to me. “I don’t understand where all this blood’s coming from.” Was that my voice? It can’t be mine, it sounds nothing like me.
“Blood? What blood?” The nurse looks at my immaculately taped PICC line. “Are you bleeding?”
I turn toward the window. It’s dark outside. The entire room appears in the window’s reflection, like an imprint, a not-quite-true copy of reality.
“Oh God,” I say, and my high-pitched voice sounds like a screeching microphone. “Where’s my daughter?”
She just cocks her head and then busies herself straightening the blanket. “Let me get the doctor for you,” she says and leaves the room.
Two
VOICES enter my consciousness like a slow drift of clouds, merging with the scent of pancakes, syrup, toast, and coffee, making my stomach churn.
A gentle hand touches my arm, then a voice. “Mrs. Paradise? I’m Dr. Baker.”
I judge only his age—he is young—as if my brain does not allow me to appraise him further. Have I met him before? I don’t know. Everything about me, my body and my senses, is faulty. When did I become so forgetful, so scatterbrained?
He wears a white coat with his name stitched on the pocket: Dr. Jeremy Baker. He retrieves a pen from his coat and shines a light into my
eyes. There’s an explosion so painful I clench my eyelids shut. I turn my head away from him, reach up, and feel the left side of my head. Now I understand why the world around me is muffled; my entire head is bandaged.
“You’re at County Medical. An ambulance brought you to the emergency room about . . .” He pauses and looks at his wristwatch. I wonder why the time matters. Is he counting the hours, does he want to be exact? “. . . three days ago, on the fifth.”
Three days. And I don’t remember a single minute. Ask him, go ahead, ask him. “Where’s my daughter?”
“You were in a car accident. You have a head injury and you’ve been in a medically induced coma.”
He didn’t answer my question. He talks to me as if I’m a child, incapable of comprehending more elaborate sentences. Accident? I don’t remember any accident.
“They found you in your car in a ravine. You have a concussion, fractured ribs, and multiple contusions around your lower extremities. You also had a critical head injury when they brought you in. Your brain was swollen, which was the reason for the induced coma.”
I don’t remember any accident. What about Jack? Yes, Mia’s with Jack. She must be.
One more time.
“Was my daughter in the car with me?”
“You were alone,” he says.
“She’s with Jack? Mia’s with my husband?”
“Everything’s going to be okay.”
The blood was just a vision, it wasn’t real. She’s with Jack, she’s safe. Thank God.
Everything is going to be okay, he said.
“We’re not sure of any brain damage at this point, but now that you’ve regained consciousness we’ll be able to perform all the necessary tests to figure out what’s going on.” He motions to the nurse who has been standing next to him. “You lost a lot of blood and we had to administer fluids to stabilize you. The swelling will go down in a few days, but in the meantime we need to make sure you keep your lungs clear of fluids.”
The Good Daughter Page 38
