“Yes, sir.” Nathan gulped as Mr. Parish disappeared back into the gallery. He turned to me, eyes wide. “What did you . . .”
“Bringing some sunshine to The District,” I told him with a grin, and he gripped my hand tight.
A car pulled up on the street in front of us, and my mother opened the passenger door. “We’re here! Sorry we’re late.”
My dad ran around from the driver’s side to help her. She’d been a lot more fragile since the truth about Tyler’s death had come out. She leaned heavily on Dad’s arm as she got out of the car, and he gave her a long look to make sure she was okay before letting go. She hugged me in a cloud of perfume.
“Did we miss it?” Dad asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
My mother took both of my hands in hers, and her face turned serious. My stomach did a nervous flip.
“Your father and I . . . ,” she began. “Well, we’ve arranged something for you. As a surprise.”
I cocked my head to one side. “A good surprise or a bad surprise?”
Mom let out a short laugh. “Good, I hope. . . .” She paused.
“Mom, spill it!”
She walked over and opened the back door of the car. Elena stepped out.
Instant tears clogged my throat, and I felt frozen in place. Two years since we’d been together in person. We stared at each other for a long moment.
Mom rested a hand on the shoulder of Elena’s neon-pink shirt. “Surprise!”
She stepped back to avoid my windmilling arms as I ran at Elena. I grabbed her in a massive hug, and we tumbled into a clumsy pile on the sidewalk.
Elena screamed with laughter. “Let me go, wild woman!” She rubbed my short hair. “It’s even better in person.”
Eric raised his hand. “Can we please go see the collage now?”
While Dad drove off to find parking, the rest of us made our way into the gallery. In the entryway, tall silver letters spelled out the name of the exhibit: Speaking with New Voices: Emerging Mid-Atlantic Artists. The artwork hung on raw brick walls; above us, exposed pipes and electrical conduits gave the space an industrial feel. Before we entered the alcove where my piece was being shown, I stopped and addressed my little group.
“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, gathered together today, are you ready?”
“God, yes, get on with it,” Eric said. Elena laughed and took his arm.
I ushered them all into the space.
The finished artwork was about three feet high and five feet wide. On a ground of pages torn from Dr. Brightman’s book and washed with watercolor, I had used a blend of wood chips and brown paper to create a box with a lid, standing open. From within the box, a swirling chorus of colors and shapes erupted: bits of photographs and ticket stubs, beads and fabric, plastic and guitar string. The memories surged like music; they spun like light. Across the top of the piece, I had painted the words the mystic chords of memory.
No one spoke. My mother wiped away tears.
As we stood examining the artwork, a solitary figure entered the room behind us, lingering on the outskirts of the space.
It was Dr. Brightman—but a Dr. Brightman transformed. Gone were the dark sunglasses, the black gloves. His face and hands were exposed, making him look strangely young and vulnerable, and his piercing black eyes met mine.
I touched Nathan on the arm. “I’ll be right back.”
Nathan’s gaze followed mine, and he scowled when he saw who I was looking at.
“It’s fine,” I told him, my eyes never leaving Dr. Brightman’s, and I crossed the room to greet him.
“You came,” I said.
Dr. Brightman broke eye contact with me and looked over at my collage. “You know, that first day you showed up in my office and I really understood what you could do, I thought . . . why her?” He smiled slightly and shook his head. “I thought, I’m a historian. I’m trained to evaluate artifacts, to use them to unlock the past. The others I’ve met like us? All historical experts in their own way. But you? You were just some teenager.” He gestured to my artwork. “But now I understand,” he said. “Same skills. Different medium.”
“How are you doing?”
He held up his bare hands. “As long as this lasts, I’ll be fine.”
“But the senator? He hasn’t come after you?”
“There are regular messages from his lawyer. The phrase ‘We will bury you’ has been thrown around. But they have Emma’s confession. And as long as the prosecuting attorney finds me valuable, I expect I will be fine.”
“You seem very . . . peaceful,” I said. “It’s kind of freaking me out.”
He laughed, the first time I’d ever heard that particular sound.
“See, like that.” I pointed at him. “Very freaky.”
“I should let you get back to your family,” he said. “But before I do, there are two things I wanted to say to you. In person.”
“Okay,” I said. “And what are those?”
He held up one finger. “I’m sorry.” He held up another. “Thank you.”
My eyes flooded, but I blinked the tears away. I stood for a moment, nodding at him. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
As I rejoined Nathan, I noticed two girls staring at me. They whispered to each other behind their hands, and when they saw me watching, they exchanged wide-eyed glances and quickly left the room.
“Does that bother you?” Nathan asked, taking my hand.
“What? That they’re only here to see my art because I’m the girl who took down Senator Gary Herndon?”
“That they point and stare.”
“I can’t stop them. At least now what they’re staring at is what I want them to see.”
Nathan held me at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “You are definitely sassier than you used to be.”
“Oh, yeah?” I traced a finger over the cosmic bowling pins on his shirt. “You think I’m sassy?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Gutsy. Brassy, even.”
I stepped closer. “Are you speaking Sinatra to me right now?”
“That depends,” he said, running a hand up my sleeve and curling it around the back of my neck. “Do you like it?”
I kissed him in answer.
“All right, all right, get a room,” Eric said.
“Are you kidding?” I moved away from Nathan so that I could spread my arms wide and take in the whole gallery. “This is my room.”
Laughter sounded from the gallery entrance, and Nathan’s head popped up.
“Awesome,” he said.
“What?”
“I invited Cedric and some of his friends. I have a feeling that might be them. I can’t wait to tell them what Mr. Parish said.” Nathan planted a kiss on my cheek before rushing from the room, passing my dad as he went.
Dad joined me in front of my collage, putting both hands on his hips as he stared at it. “It’s amazing. I can’t quite get over it. Is that what it’s called? The Mystic Chords of Memory?”
“I guess so,” I said. “It’s a quote from Abraham Lincoln.”
“Megan!” He turned to me with his mouth slightly open. “I’m impressed! How did you . . .”
“Google, Dad,” I said. “Duh.”
My mother came over and linked her arm with mine. “So all the original pieces came from things that belonged to Tyler?”
I nodded. She stood frozen, staring at the collage. Tears ran down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away, but they came faster and faster, until she heaved a giant sob. My father put an arm around her shoulders.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said. “What can I do?”
She clung even more tightly to my arm. “Nothing,” she choked out. “It’s good. It’s beautiful.” She sobbed again. “It will always make me remember him.”
I pulled my hand free of my sleeve and touched the collage, tracing the length of a guitar string with one finger. Looking behind my mother, I caught a g
limpse of Tyler’s red hair, a copper-colored glow in the light. He laughed at me. “When it starts to sound like actual music, you’ll know you’re getting somewhere.”
I took my finger off the string and used it to rub the sharp pain that lingered behind my eye. “It’ll make me remember him too,” I said. “Always.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I MUST ACKNOWLEDGE FIRST AND FOREMOST MY extraordinary editor, Viana Siniscalchi. She saw straight to the heart of this story and found the keys to unlock it. I couldn’t have imagined a better collaborator or guide. Thank you. My deepest gratitude to the entire editorial team at Balzer + Bray, especially the incomparable Alessandra Balzer and Donna Bray. I’m thrilled and honored to be one of your authors. And to cover designer Sarah Creech, copyeditor Renée Cafiero, publicist Stephanie Hoover, and the marketing team of Bess Braswell and Sabrina Abballe, “I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.”
My agent, Lana Popovic, is a superhero in false eyelashes. I’ve benefited more than I can say from her brilliance, insight, and superkeen advice, and I’m so lucky to have her in my corner.
I’m supremely grateful for the generous and masterly input of Kate Karyus Quinn, who was mentor, dramaturg, and good friend to this novel—and to me. Thank you to Brenda Drake and her Pitch Wars contest for connecting us. Thanks also to my PW teammate, Tracie Martin, and to the entire PW2014 Table of Trust. You guys make a writing life livable.
Many friends gave their time and support to this process. Thanks to my CP, Mara K. Heil, for never letting me get away with any of my excuses not to write this book. Thanks to my beta readers—Jeff Hirsch, Karen Ann Daniels, Lena Jones, Jamal Douglas, and Solomon Hailie Selassie—for your invaluable thoughts and input. Thanks to Patrick Pearson for touring me around backstage at Ford’s Theatre and answering all my nosy questions. And thanks to my biggest personal supporters: Eric Louie, Bernadette Hanson, Shana Wride, Marcus Flathman, Lara Gable, Shelley Orr, and my incredible in-laws, for believing in me and in this book.
My family is my heart. Without Dom and Arleen Amato, I never would have had the courage to think of myself as a writer. Without Joe and Brian Amato, I never would have known what a good friend a brother can be. Without the love of my gorgeous girls and the tireless support of my husband, Phil, I never would have had the fortitude—or the time. My dearest Phil, I carry your heart in my heart, now and always.
When I was writing the first draft of The Hidden Memory of Objects, a former student of mine passed away suddenly in his early twenties. As the community came together to memorialize him, I realized that a character I’d written resembled him in many ways. My humble thanks to his family, especially to his mother, LouEllen, for giving me their blessing to name that character in his honor. My Eric Bowling isn’t based on the real person—none of the details of his life or family are the same—but I hope a little of Eric’s kindness, tenacity, and indomitable spirit live on in this book, as they surely will in the hearts of those who knew him.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Eric Louie
DANIELLE MAGES AMATO is a professional theater geek who spends her days reading and writing about plays for a theater company in San Diego, California. When she’s not starring in living-room musicals staged by her two daughters or researching obscure historical facts, she writes young adult novels about the places where the past and the present collide. You can visit her online at www.daniellemagesamato.com.
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BOOKS BY DANIELLE MAGES AMATO
The Hidden Memory of Objects
CREDITS
Cover photography © 2017 Christine Blackburne
Cover collage art and lettering by Sarah Creech
COPYRIGHT
“You Are My Sunshine” by Jimmie Davis
Copyright © 1940 by Peer International Corporation
Copyright Renewed.
Used by Permission.
All Rights Reserved.
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE HIDDEN MEMORY OF OBJECTS. Copyright © 2017 by Danielle Mages Amato. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN978-0-06-244588-9 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © March 2017 ISBN 9780062445902
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