Emma got up and made tea, then took it to her desk. She pulled a piece of paper from the printer tray and sat staring at it, a pen poised in her hand.
Why not? Emma thought.
She was safe now. She didn’t have to protect herself anymore. Maybe it wouldn’t matter anyway. Maybe Laurel had given up on her long ago. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that had come to her yesterday while she had talked with Katherine. Laurel had messed up; there was no denying that. But didn’t everyone? Emma’s whole life had been a pinball game of mistakes; she had ricocheted off one or another since before she was even born. Her father’s, for conceiving children with Laurel in the first place. And Laurel’s, mistake after mistake peeling off her like layers of skin she had outgrown.
And then there were Emma’s own. In an instant, she could go back into that therapist’s office so many years ago, with Laurel in tears before her. She could feel her own cold heart, could see her stone-set face.
What would forgiveness have cost her then? It was impossible to know. She had been hardly more than a child then; she had done the best she could.
But maybe . . . Maybe that was true for everyone. Katherine had said last night that she didn’t have a choice, and maybe that was the truth of it for her. Maybe Katherine had simply done the best she could. And maybe . . . Well, couldn’t the same be said of Laurel? That she had done the best she could?
Emma sighed deeply. Laurel’s best—it had been far, far from enough. But Laurel’s failures—if that’s what they were—felt very distant from Emma now. And that distance—Emma herself had created it. She had wanted it. She thought of her mother’s words. To Laurel, no one is ever as important as Laurel. There were so many things for which her mother would never forgive Laurel, Emma knew. And she, without thinking, was poised to follow that same path. No one would blame her for it if she did. By any account, Laurel had forsaken her. Emma owed her nothing. And yet, was nothing the best that Emma could do?
There was so much momentum now. It would be so easy to stay the course she had set so many years ago. Emma thought of the strange elation she had felt when she had spoken those words to Katherine last night: It’s okay. I’ll be okay. It was a strange paradox, that in speaking the words they had been made true, as if it were forgiveness that made healing possible, instead of the other way around.
And Emma was okay. Laurel, even with all her failures as a mother—she hadn’t damaged her. Everything Emma had endured . . . No, everything they had all endured—she and Jessie, Mom and Dad, even Laurel—they had survived it. They were okay. They were fine. She was fine. What would forgiveness cost her?
She put the pen to the paper.
“Dear Laurel,” she began.
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
Sarah
Heath was at work. Len had gone to the grocery store. Jessie was napping in the bedroom. Sarah sat beside the bassinet in Jessie’s small living room, tracing her index finger along the soft edges of a letter folded in her lap. When she had first seen Jessie’s familiar handwriting on the envelope a month ago, her heart had leapt to her throat. She had opened the letter right away, had read it standing at the mailbox outside their home in Bakersfield.
She had slipped the letter into her suitcase when she’d packed for this trip, without really knowing why. Now she was glad she had; it felt right to have it with her, somehow. She unfolded it gently and began to read.
June 12, 2003
Dear Mom,
I have this memory of you saying once that you wondered if I would see things differently when I had a child of my own. I think it was during the custody case, when I felt I had to defend Laurel with all my might, since nobody else was going to. At the time I thought you meant that when I had my own child I would see things differently because I wouldn’t be able to understand how any mother could give up her children like Laurel did. And I do feel that. There is absolutely no way I could leave Mason. Not now, not ever.
But there’s something else that I understand even more.
You always loved that book Horton Hatches the Egg, do you remember? And I always understood why, even when I was little. Because of course you were Horton and Laurel was the Mayzie bird, and in the story everything was so right and clear.
Even when it didn’t feel clear for me, even when I pushed you away—and I know I did—I never doubted that I was your daughter. To me, you were always Horton, faithful one hundred percent. It was an awful double standard, I know—that I could reject you as my mother but still expect to be your daughter. But I did. I took your love for granted.
I took it for granted but I never even thought to marvel at it. I never thought how miraculous it was—until now.
Now I have Mason. The love I feel for him is unspeakable, and yet it makes perfect sense to me. He is the flesh of my flesh. When he nurses, with his sweet little body pressed against my skin, he is mine in a visceral, bodily way that I never expected. Of course I love him. I have no choice.
I’m realizing that you never had that “of course” with Emma and me. And yet you loved us anyway. You chose to love us. I don’t think I ever really understood what that meant until now.
Now I think I am beginning to understand. And I needed to tell you that, to thank you for it. So, thank you. Thank you for loving us as your own. Thank you for choosing to be our mother when we needed one the most.
Love,
Jessie
P.S. I hope that you and Dad will come soon to meet Mason.
Please.
Sarah refolded the letter and slid it between the pages of the book on the table beside her. She sneaked a look inside the bassinet where Mason lay sleeping, swaddled so that only his tiny face showed.
“You should nap now, too,” Sarah had told Jessie forty minutes ago. “You have to sleep while your baby sleeps.”
“Did you do that?” Jessie had asked, looking over at her with tired eyes.
“No, but I would have if I could. I had you two girls, remember?” Now Sarah breathed in the quiet of the house. She settled back in the worn armchair, then picked up her book from the side table, a poetry collection that Emma had sent her for her birthday. She glanced at the baby again, gauging his sleep. Maybe she could send Emma a quick email now, just to tell her how much she was enjoying the poems. But she didn’t rise. Her eyes stayed on the baby, taking in the tender, almost translucent skin of his eyelids, the perfect bow of his lips. She would see Emma soon enough, she thought. She would wait to tell her then.
Next week, when she and Len left Jessie’s, they would drive west to Portland, where they would spend the night with Sarah’s old friend, Kim. From there, it was only a day’s drive down the coast to Arcata.
Arcata. Their lives there felt like a lifetime ago; she and Len had never gone back. Yet Sarah could remember certain things so clearly: Jessie’s small, warm hand in hers as they walked home from the park in the fog; the first time she had seen Emma, lying in a bassinet just like this one; Len reaching for her hand on that beautiful day at the zoo.
They would have to go back to the zoo, she thought, smiling. The zoo, and the apple orchard. Just for old times’ sake.
After Arcata, they would drive down Route 1 to the Bay Area, where they would visit Emma in Oakland. Sarah was relieved not to be so worried about Emma now. On the phone these last few months, her daughter’s voice had sounded more like her old, cheerful self. She had even hinted that she’d met someone new. A friend, she had insisted, but Sarah could hear the excitement in her daughter’s voice, the hope.
Sarah closed the book of poems gently in her lap. She couldn’t concentrate on it now. She had promised Jessie she would listen for Mason in case he woke, but she hadn’t had to listen. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Mason would turn out just like Jessie, Sarah guessed. She smiled to herself at the thought. Here was another little alien child whom she would struggle to understand. But it didn’t matter, did it? She would love him anyway, just as
she had loved Jessie and Emma all those years ago. When he opened his startled eyes and cried out, she would go to him.
Jessie had said to wake her; she didn’t want him to be a burden. But Sarah wouldn’t, she knew that. Jessie had looked so tired. No, when Mason woke, she would pick him up and comfort him. She would hold him as long as he would let her. She would let her daughter sleep.
Acknowledgments
Without the love, help, and support of many people, this book would not have come to be.
Thank you, first, to Terri Leidich and BQB Publishing for taking a chance on Give, and for making the entire publishing journey such a personal and pleasant one.
A huge thank you to my editor, Michelle Booth, whose keen eye and insightful questions made this book a much better version of itself.
To Valerie White, thank you for Vermont and all its stories. Without you, I never would have had the courage to bring Give to the light.
To my high school English teacher, Brenda Tipps, thank you for taking my writing seriously all those years ago, for teaching me that not every noun needs an adjective, and for your patience while I learned it.
To all the early readers of this book, Lindsey Grossman, Wolf Hoelscher, Jenny Anna Linde-Rhine, Nancy Kool, Jean Smith, Margie Byington, Jennifer Myers, and Kristin Schlaefer, thank you for the thoughtful edits and wise advice, and, most of all, for helping me to believe that Give might grow up to be a real book one day.
I am deeply indebted to the many friends who believed in me, listened to me, and supported me during all the years that I was writing Give. Special thanks to Beth Coil, Renee Burwell, Holly Demuth, Stephanie Hellert, Courtney Hoelscher, Kristen Kelley, Sarah Smith, Kenna Sommer, and Ana Villanueva. You are my Asheville family.
To Kate Rademacher, thank you for planting the seed for this book so many years ago. The ways in which you helped Give to grow and thrive are too numerous to mention, but my gratitude for each one of them is boundless.
I am forever grateful to Jennifer Arellano, whose endless encouragement, compassionate ear, and steadfast friendship have supported me along each leg of this journey. I would never have made it to the finish line without you, Jen.
To my brother, Stefan Carpenter, thank you for your priceless sense of humor and lasting friendship, and for showing me that, with enough determination, even the most ambitious dreams can be achieved.
To my sister, Claire Carpenter, thank you for championing this book from its very first draft as if it were your own. I am endlessly grateful for all your insight, advice, encouragement, and support; it would be a lonely world without you.
To my father, William Carpenter, thank you for always believing that I would write the Great American Novel one day. Your support and enthusiasm for Give have meant more to me than words can say.
To my mother, Joyce Carpenter, who answered the question of what it means to be a mother before I even thought to pose it, thank you for your fierce love and unconditional support, not to mention all the years of Yorkshire puddings and countless cups of tea.
To my children, who tried so hard to leave me alone while I was writing, thank you for believing in me and in my book, and for being my inspiration each and every day. I would give the world for you.
To my husband, Donald Witsell, thank you for holding down the fort during all those hours I spent writing in the basement. You are my aid station when I falter, my drafting partner when I am weary, and the Tour de Candler I return to again and again, because no matter how far I go, you always feel like home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Erica Witsell has a bachelor’s degree from Wesleyan University and a master’s from UC Berkeley. Her writing has appeared in The Sun Magazine and Brain, Child’s online publication. Give is her debut novel.
Erica lives in western North Carolina with her family, where she teaches English as a new language and writes a blog about motherhood. She loves mountains, languages, bicycling, and dance.
Visit her online at www.ericawitsell.com
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