Did it make anything better to speak of Eva at all? Did it make anything better to dredge around in the murky waters of the past, to lift Eva like the drowned are sometimes mercifully lifted? In lifting Eva up, was she somehow transformed in the light of day? It seemed to Sissy that a terrible injustice was done, not only that summer but in the summers that followed, in the gradual acceptance and forgetting, in the final failure to acknowledge Eva at all. Could it be, she often found herself wondering, that the final hope in anything lies only in a story, in the speaking of her, in the utterance of words issued against the silence, in breathing, Eva, Eva, into the open space, calling out for her, Come home?
The house remained largely unchanged over time, her parents fixed securely in place, waiting, living in the same city that grew and changed around them. The neighborhood took on new faces and problems, people no longer out in the summer evenings, no longer chattering at the mailboxes or neglecting to lock their doors and shut their windows at night. No one called on Natalia. No one was left to call. Often when Sissy visited, she’d linger on streets that were still familiar, after many years and changes, places that held the imprint of time. Sometimes she’d walk downtown, past Mr. Morris’s toy store that was long ago sold and turned into a coffee shop. She might be thinking of something else entirely—an errand she’d promised to run, a gift to purchase—but then something might overcome her suddenly and she’d feel breathless and overwhelmed. She’d turn, searching for ghosts, expecting to find Eva walking along the cobblestone streets. Sissy’s imaginings weren’t grand anymore but simple, almost achingly realistic: Eva would catch sight of her and then turn and grasp Sissy’s arm, the space closing between them. “I know you!” she’d exclaim, even though they hadn’t seen each other once in more than twenty years. “I know you! I’d know you anywhere, you.”
Even though Sissy had long ago grown up and weathered her own teenage years and days spent alone in her room, and even though she went on to college, where she met her husband and they married, and even though she cut her hair short and her face had aged, Eva would still recognize her. And, in the odd light of memory and time, it was always like this: While Sissy had changed, Eva would have not changed at all. She would still have that look, as if she were perpetually almost eighteen—a catlike, killer walk, a star earring dangling from each lobe, her long hair falling in waves around her smooth face.
“I know you,” Eva would whisper, holding her there in time.
They’d sit, the two of them, outside the coffee shop. Around them glasses would clink and the air would be light and the breezes agreeable—the weather always fine. People would pass, unaware of what a grand occasion it was—such a grand occasion!—to suddenly find someone who had been lost.
“Just in to town,” Eva would explain, marveling, looking around. “Haven’t been back in years.”
“Me, too,” Sissy would say. “How have you been? Catch me up. Catch me up on everything. Did you marry? Have a child? Were you reasonably happy enough?”
“That’s a lot.” Eva would smile then—there would be a balancing of laughter and tears—and it wouldn’t be as though Eva were merely surviving. She’d be vibrant, bright, despite being on her own. She’d be better for it—stronger, more capable. She’d look rested and happy, not a runaway but a girl who had the life she’d hoped for, a life of easy attainment and pleasant days. She would be happy. Sissy would swear by it.
“I’ve never forgotten you,” Sissy would say. “I’ve always wondered what your story might have been if you were given a chance to tell it.”
“What’s there to tell?” Eva would say casually.
“Everything.”
“Whoever does that, Sissy Kiss,” she would say, “whoever tells every single moment?”
Sissy would shift in her chair then and wait. She’d listen to the chatter from nearby tables. She’d notice the diffuse light settling over everything, over her, over her sister.
“How’s the old man?” Eva would ask. “How’s Mom?”
“Still there, in the same place. Still together.”
“A miracle.”
“Defied the books,” Sissy would say. She wouldn’t go on more about her parents; during these grand occasions with Eva they would seem as outworn as old playthings. Instead she would tell Eva about the town and how, over the years, most of the trees were cut down, one by one, and house after house was erected. She would tell Eva that two years after Vicki Anderson’s death, Ginny met a man who made her smile again— slowly, at first—and that the two of them moved to New Mexico, for drier air. She would tell Eva that gossipy Milly Morris died of a heart attack Sissy’s sophomore year of high school, and then three weeks later, Mr. Morris went to bed and died in his sleep; she would tell Eva how the Morrises’ house was sold and painted a glaring white, and that whoever bought the house kept the bass hanging on the shed. She would tell Eva that once, during her senior year, Sissy walked to the swimming hole, down the snowy path, and that, nestled against the base of a cypress, she found a sparrow that lay too still, frozen atop fallen leaves, that she thought of Eva then, and she thought of herself, too. She would tell Eva that she was wrong, that the dead did go on living as long as someone remembered them, as long as there was a story left to tell in someone’s body and bones and blood. “There was so much I wanted to tell you,” Sissy would confess. “There were so many things I wanted to say.”
There were, in Sissy’s imaginings, never distances or accusations but only amendments. There were only resolutions and a love that persisted in spite of time.
What else did anyone wish for?
On the train, Sissy settled into her seat and stared out the window at the newly appearing light. It was an early departure, and outside, the rain pelted down, shiny and silver against the city streets. People shuffled past, overburdened with luggage and children and complaints of the early hour. An elderly couple in front of her had already drifted to sleep. Behind her a teenager listened to hip-hop music. In a few minutes the whistles would sound, shrill and sharp, and they would chug slowly forward, past the station, past the platform and chairs strung together like pearls, past the people waving goodbye to loved ones. And then things would suddenly stretch out on either side of her and the cities would give way to blanched, rolling hills, and flashes of color: a child riding a bike, a few old men who, despite the advancements in technology and travel, still drove out to the small town depot to wave as the train passed. How Sissy loved those old men; how she envied them, the persistence of their memories.
She sipped her coffee. A woman came aboard and looked at her ticket before taking a seat next to Sissy. The woman, a stranger, looked to be in her late forties. She pulled off her wool coat, releasing a mass of hair. She took off her glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “I missed my flight,” the woman explained, glancing over, clearly tired. “Only the tenth time in my life that that’s happened, but this is the first time the rest of the flights were booked.”
“I never mind if I miss a flight,” Sissy said. “But mostly I don’t schedule the flight in the first place.”
“Fear of flying? Ah, who isn’t afraid these days? And the security checks …” She pulled a newspaper from her carry-on and left it folded on her lap.
The whistle sounded, and Sissy felt movement under her. The women made small talk over the next hour as the train crossed bridges and cut through rocky tunnels. A fog clung to the ground. She explained to Sissy that she owned a small antiques shop outside of Crystal City, and that she was traveling to visit an old friend. The woman’s husband had died recently, she explained, and her friend informed her—blatantly persistently—that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Truthfully, I’m happy to get out for a bit,” the woman said.
“I understand,” Sissy said, nodding. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “It was the cancer’s fault, not yours.”
“When?” Sissy asked.
“Last month.”
&nb
sp; Sissy nodded and watched as the woman fidgeted with her newspaper; she unfolded it, regarded the crossword, and then folded the paper back again and put it down. Her mouth parted, to say more.
It always began like this, conversations with strangers. How the world itself, and the people in it, provided a sense of belonging, of home. The woman told stories about her husband, lapsing into those years they dated, the silly fights they had, his love of cooking. By the end of the train ride, Sissy would tell her that she was visiting home, and she’d inevitably talk about her sister—how she always thought of Eva when she went back to Pennsylvania, to the old haunts. “Though,” Sissy confessed finally, “there are times when I go days forgetting, sometimes even a week. Then suddenly I remember Eva and there she is again, just where I left her, somewhere right behind me, tapping on my shoulder.”
“What happened to her?”
“Oh,” Sissy said, “I don’t know. She was stolen by Gypsies, I guess, but I may have some facts wrong.”
The woman nodded, and, for a while, they sat in silence. A voice came over the loudspeaker and announced the dining car was open for breakfast. People idled down the aisle and Sissy looked out the window to the bare trees tossed by the wind, to the parked cars littering the roads, the shapes of houses and buildings.
“You know it happens,” the woman said after a time. “Forgetting. I’ve done it. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get myself up and going each day, to not think about it, to put things in their place.”
“I know,” Sissy said. “But I never want to forget anything.”
How fragile things became at a distance, when they were all but gone. How important was the love that lingered in everyone, the memories of those never completely forgotten. How important were the stories issued around those lives. The stories were a song leveled against the darkness; the stories were a threading of hands around the table. The stories resurrected the dead and prompted the remembering. A story about this woman who told jokes when anyone was down; and this one who loved to dance even though he had a wooden leg; and this one who died in a horrible accident; and this one who rode off on a bike one day and disappeared forever. And there were stories of this one, who tended to orchids and was a delicate man; and this one, who loved to feel his hands in soil; and this one, who worried all the time. And there was this one with the marvelous singing voice and the collection of old records; and this one who held parties that everyone came to; and this one who sewed her sister’s clothes before a dance, her veined hands pulling the thread. And there was this one who worked and died for his family; and this one who never forgot a name; and all of them are missed, and all of them are loved, and all of them are held for an eternity, alive and well and present. The stories came with hope and fell easily from people; the stories blew from great distances, like wishes. And the stories said We are never alone, that there was always a way home again, where everyone precious lingered there at the table, waiting.
I am indebted to the following people, without whom this book could not exist:
My fabulous agent, Denise Shannon, has my utmost gratitude and heartfelt thanks. I also thank Laura Ford and Jennifer Hershey at Random House for their guidance, editorial support, and encouraging words. Thanks, too, to Dennis Ambrose, for his kindness and patience during the copyediting process, and to Jennifer Huwer and Sally Marvin, for their exceptional smarts and skill. Erin McGraw and Bea Open-gart got me started and were wonderful teachers—insightful, full of wit. I am also lucky to have had tremendous mentors in David Jauss, who is as compassionate as he is wise; Douglas Glover, who instilled in me a sense of structure; and Victoria Redel, who, in one workshop, inspired me to love every word. I thank Fred Leebron at Queens University, who took me in when I needed it, and Mike Kobre for doing the same. Isabel Fonseca’s book Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies and Their Journey was influential in shaping Natalia’s character; Fonseca’s accounts of the Romani culture helped shape the fictional world of Precious. Dr. Jozsef Palfy helped me with my Hungarian words, translations, and diacritical marks. I could not have made it through the writing process without the encouragement and cheer of Jean Free and Stephanie Bast—two old friends who are dear to me. I am thankful and grateful for my family— Mom, Dad, Tom, Chris, Jim, and Carole—all of whom I love more than words can express. I thank my husband’s family for their continued support. I am blessed by the many people I’ve met in travel, those who shared their stories and in doing so taught me humanity and grace. And I owe all the thanks in the world to my husband, Phil: You are my best of everything.
Precious
SANDRA NOVACK
A Reader’s Guide
playing hide-and-seek with the truth
I’m often asked about the nature of truth in Precious, my debut novel. Perhaps it’s because readers are familiar with the adage that first novels are often thinly veiled autobiographies, or perhaps it’s because readers inherently understand that writers do not create entire worlds from thin air—there has to be some fodder, grounded in the real world. But for whatever reason, at book club discussions and at readings or over coffee, people want to know what events in the novel are real events. I always respond quickly. When I was young, I say, my seventeen-year-old sister Carole ran away from home, and I’ve never seen her again. After thirty years, it could be that the statement has become rote, or it could be that, through repetition, the feelings inherent in that statement—the sadness or shame or anger—are equally muted and dry. Because what happens next is generally this: The questioner pauses, hesitates. He or she might lean forward, as if expecting and sensing there is more to tell. It’s always then that my own old, dumbfounded silence creeps in, for it always seems to me that truth is difficult for a variety of reasons. First, I didn’t write a memoir or an autobiography. I wrote a fiction. And as fiction the work has to stand on its own; what I do or don’t say about my personal life bears little to no real importance except as an aside or an endnote. Second, there is my family and their privacy to consider. My family is alive and well and there is the question of loyalty, which is something that always pulls me in various directions all at once: loyalty to my sister and to her memory, loyalty to my parents, and loyalty to myself. And there is also my loyalty to readers who, after all, only ask such questions after they have taken the time to become invested in the world of the book. “But is your sister okay?” they ask, genuinely concerned. “What happened?”
For this I have no good answer.
Then I think that I am the one who is hiding, because truths are painful for writers—truths are painful for us all—and truths, as I see them, are precarious things anyway, particularly when, as memories, they are hindered by the long years, fragmented by time. I was five, I remind myself, when my sister ran away, and even that is a statement that I have had to amend.
Hide-and-seek. The day Carole left was, to my still five-year-old and slightly criminal mind, a day of games. My sister was at work, but I had already decided (in the way I frequently made decisions for my older brothers and sisters) that when she got home we would play a game of hide-and-seek. Under the kitchen table I went. The kitchen was dim, the floor cold and smooth. I don’t know how long I waited; for children, minutes can feel like hours, hours like days. I’m sure I felt anticipation at the thought of my sister’s arrival. I’m sure I felt that peculiar sort of giddy dread of wanting to be found yet also wanting to stay hidden.
When my sister finally did come through the door there was no friendly greeting to my mother (whom I seem to recall was also there in the kitchen), but rather an explosion of yelling and tears. “That’s it!” my sister screamed. “I’m leaving.”
Next, where there should be more action—a succession of movements or some dialogue, or the escalation of an argument between what I eventually learned was my sister and my father, the details of which I still don’t know to this day—there is, in my memory, only white space, blankness.
I once heard a writer talk about the notion of truth in
fiction. He was relating an event from his life, one that later inspired a short story. He and his girlfriend of two years had had an argument, over all things, about how he stacked dishes in the dishwasher. The argument swelled in the way they often do. It was early and he hadn’t yet showered and dressed. The fight made him late for work. In his anger and haste, he dressed quickly, and in the process of rummaging for clothes, pulled out one blue sock and one black sock from the drawer. Later that morning he looked down and discovered the mismatched pair. At the same moment, a song was playing over the sound system at the store where he worked. I have always imagined it must have been a sad song, because he said that for some reason the music, together with the mismatched socks, led him to a further realization, a very plain truth: The relationship would fail.
Years later, he wrote a story about the end of a relationship. Most details of the breakup were different from those of his own. The couple in the story was much older and long married. There was no argument over dishes or incompatibility. The reason for the breakup was not the same, though the feeling of loss was similar, I’m sure. However, there were two lines about, of all things, a pair of mismatched socks. The other lines—all of them, really—were crafted to bolster and sustain those two lines of truth taken from his personal life, that little detail that, for whatever reason, was long held in his memory and seemed to contain something worthy of a story. What the narrative afforded was a new context and meaning, a place to put a fragmented image, a way to breathe life into a single, lost moment again.
This is the truth: I don’t remember how long I stayed under the table the day my sister left home forever. I don’t recall if I scrambled out and ran after her, perhaps wanting to soothe her or perhaps even wanting a bit of gossip—to find out what exactly had happened to make her issue such a proclamation as That’s it! I’m leaving. Or perhaps I simply kept waiting, magically willing away the chaos of the house, the tears, and the screaming. What I remember next is another fragmented image of that same day: I stood outside. It was a terribly hot day, very sunny. My sister rode off down the drive on her bicycle. That is the last image of her I hold in my mind, the last time I ever saw her. In reality my mother might have been outside, too, or my father, or my brothers, but in memory this scene is made very intimate—there is only my sister and me, her pedaling off, my watching her leave.
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