The Golden State: A Novel

by Lydia Kiesling

  I will pick Mark up at the airport in Medford this afternoon at 4:00, and then I will take him to the coroner and then I guess and hope he’ll take over from there. I take a photo of Alice’s note in case they’ve decided to sue me or arrest me which I guess is not outside the realm of possibility. I hate the lizard part of my brain that made me avoid saying anything like “I feel responsible” to Mark, but I somehow also feel that Alice knew a sucker when she saw one and that sucker was me and when I think back there’s not really one particular thing I would have done differently and whether I should have done something differently has not yet revealed itself.

  I watch a commentator on CNN interviewing a man in camo and there is a graphic of a map of the State of Jefferson, and there within it, unmarked, is Paiute County, Altavista, Deakins Park. I open the laptop and I look at my Institute in-box and think about all the things I have to do and I open my Tasks spreadsheet and start to make a list and then I look at Honey who is tearing pages out of that Bible like a heathen and I think about Engin and the culture of my family and the brevity of life and how you could spend fifty years missing someone who is gone and never coming back and I close the spreadsheet and open Skype and it rings and rings and rings and there is no Engin and I will have to trust that he is not dead not with another woman and I don’t want to lose this feeling while I wait for him to call so I open WhatsApp on my phone and write “Aşkım sana geliyoruz” which is “My love we are coming to you” which is pop-song corny but just what comes to mind and like that it’s decided, at least assuming they let me out of here. And then I close the computer and get off the bed and look down at Honey and she looks at me with her father’s eyes and my eyebrows and her very own look of self-reliance and determination and I say “Well, Miss Honey. Shall we go have a look at this Wildlife Safari?” and she scrambles to her feet and reaches up her arms to her mama.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Endless thanks to Claudia Ballard for giving me the courage to try this, and to Emily Bell, Maya Binyam, Jackson Howard, Sarita Varma, and everyone at MCD/FSG for making it a book. Special thanks to Oya Topçuoğlu, who read portions of the text and provided valuable insight, and to Alex and Petter, who provided inspiration.

  C. Max Magee and The Millions gave me the space to become a writer and I’ll never forget it. I’m thankful also for the many writers who have provided encouragement and community over the years, in person or in the ether, especially Adam Boretz, Kirstin Butler, Nicole Chung, Ingrid Rojas Contreras, Katie Coyle, Vinson Cunningham, Michelle Dean, Jen Gann, Emily Gould, Rahawa Haile, Garth Risk Hallberg, Jane Hu, Vanessa Hua, Brian Hurley, Crystal Hana Kim, Reese Kwon, Edan Lepucki, Kara Levy, Lillian Li, Lili Loofbourow, Yael Goldstein Love, Michael David Lukas, Manjula Martin, Laura Miller, Kate Milliken, Caille Millner, Nick Moran, Ismail Muhammad, Mark O’Connell, Meaghan O’Connell, Katie Raissian, Lisa Srisuro, Lucy Tan, and Laura Turner.

  I am eternally grateful to the people who helped me learn Turkish over the years—professors, fellow students, and friends—among them: Gökay Abeş, Begüm Adalet, Toygun Altıntaş, Helga Anetshofer, Hakan Karateke, Kağan Arık, Özge Atamtürk, Fatih Ateş, Rezeda Azangulova, Osman Balkan, Özgür Baykal, Valantin and Murat Bilir, Andrea Brown, Christopher Markiewicz, Yaşar Tolga Cora, İpek Hüner-Cora, Öcal Çetin, Coşkun Çokbilir, Madeleine Elfenbein, Molly Laas, Murat Gökdemir, Emma Harper, Glyn Harris, Özgür Hekimoğlu, Bengi Hürriyetoğlu, Ekin Enacar-Kömürlü, Fatih Kurşun, Zuhal Kurtcebe, Stephanie Ruggles, Merve Sarı, Ahmet Tunç Şen, Sümeyye Yar, Zübeyde and Mitul Sheth, Oya Topçuoğlu, and the Izmir CLS Yaşlılar. There is no way to sufficiently thank Linda and Gary Caldwell, my second parents, or Müge Bal, Gaye Gülenay, Esra Girgin Gümüştekin, Sema Gökmen Ölmez, and Dilara Nergis Şabciyan, with whom I passed so many afternoons in the teachers’ room. I’ll never forget your kindness.

  Thanks to the Hodgsoniyya, particularly Terry Burke, Prairie Sundance and Lindsey Kroll, Nelda and Reuben Smith, Gretchen and Tom Spicer, Fanou and Bryan Walton, and John Woods. This project also benefited indirectly from the Title VI program of the Department of Education and the Critical Language Scholarship of the Department of State. Many thanks to Hossam Kaddoura for providing a place to work, and to Xiao Yan Li for providing wonderful childcare.

  Thanks and love to all the friends who always told me I should do this, especially the Rats and the Boehners, Hope McGrath, Emily Behl, and Erin Hall. I started being a writer while working for John Crichton at the Brick Row Book Shop. David Beckman, Georgia Prosalentis, and Fatima Makhzoumy all took care of me in different ways.

  I would be nowhere without the love and support of my mother, Phyllis, and my father, Brady, who gave me a wonderful childhood. Thanks also to my extended family: the Grahams, Kieslings, Mohrs, Quayles. I wrote this thinking of my beloved grandparents June and Doug, who are now where the grass grows green and lush and stirrup-high.

  And finally, to Tim: without you, none of this. Thank you for our girls, this life.

  A Note About the Author

  Lydia Kiesling is the editor of The Millions. Her essays and criticism have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, The Guardian, Slate, and The New Yorker online, and have been recognized in The Best American Essays 2016. She lives in San Francisco with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.

  MCD

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  175 Varick Street, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Lydia Kiesling

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  First edition, 2018

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-374-71806-0

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Begin Reading

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  Copyright