Fig (40 page)

Half-asleep, I stumble up to my room, and Blue follows close behind.

*  *  *  *

While I'm sleeping, Gran transforms the dining room, and coming downstairs is like walking into someone else's house. She instructed Uncle Billy to stretch the table out as long as it will go; after the four of us sit down, there will still be room for eight more people. The table trespasses into the living room area.

Gran draped the table with hundreds of crocheted stars, and Daddy tells me she made the tablecloth herself. “It was for her hope chest,” Daddy says. I touch the hem, surprised. I didn't know my grandmother was capable of such beauty. Looking like crowns and scepters both, my arrangements of dried poppies stand at either end of the table; each contained in its own narrow vase, they will flank our meal.

Gran insists that we sit while she brings in the food; she wants to serve us. Every time Gran either comes in or returns to the kitchen, I peek through the door to check on Esther, who is sound asleep next to Blue, the two of them wrapped in old wool blankets.

“She's all tuckered out,” Uncle Billy says. “She did nothing but eat and play while you two were sleeping.” He winks at me. “She won't be waking up anytime soon,” he says.

Daddy sits at the head of the table, and Gran will sit opposite. Uncle Billy and I sit across from each other. It is strange to have so much table spreading out on either side of me—as if there are still people coming or there's company I can't see.

We might be a million miles away from one another, but there is magic in the presentation: The way the candles warm the otherwise dark room—their light makes everything else fall away, and we are left with only our faces, the crocheted stars, the green poppy pods, and the food.

Usually the old candelabras sit on the mantel over in the living room collecting dust as Christina crawls back home in the painting above, but tonight they are centered on the table and Christina has disappeared, either swallowed by shadows or somehow safe inside her house at last. The warm candlelight wavers and turns the silverware into gold, and this is alchemy. As Gran sits down, it's not just the rest of the room that floats away, but the entire world.

Gran puts her napkin in her lap and looks around, and she is smiling a smile I've never seen her smile before, except in the photographs taken back when she was still young. She is the statue of Mother Mary. She watches over a garden of roses, ashes, thyme, and memories.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?
This is the smile of a mother, but it soon disappears.

“I almost asked your father to lead us in a prayer,” she explains, looking down at her plate. I'm worried she might cry, which I have never seen her do.

Daddy pretends he misunderstood. “I'd be happy to,” he says, even though we all know who she really meant when she said “your father.” Gran looks up, and her eyes sparkle despite her cataracts, and the mother smile resurfaces. Uncle Billy winks at me as Daddy begins.

My father says the prayer like it's something he says every day:
“Dear Lord.”
Only he doesn't say “Lord” again. I close my eyes like Gran and Billy do, but I steal glances at my father as he continues. I can't tell if his eyes are open or closed; he might just be looking down. It is strange to hear him talk this much after such a long silence.

“Spring has always been my favorite season,” he says, “when everything is so full of potential, and bursting with new life.”

I think about Betty and the last time I saw her. With her face covered by a gunnysack, she was nothing more than a large hole. She died before my uncle even had a chance to stitch her shut. I feel sad. Like Mama, I will never see her again.

When the prayer closes, we all open our eyes. Billy joins Gran in “Amen” while Daddy and I refrain. I look at the platters of food spread before us. Steamed asparagus with butter, lemon juice, and ground pepper. Scalloped potatoes. Creamed pearl onions. A tossed salad: baby greens, chopped walnuts, currants, and poppy-seed dressing. And in the center—right in front of me, I see the roasted lamb, and the meat takes my breath away. Like everything else tonight, the wide-open hole has been transformed by my grandmother's touch. It is no longer something wounded. It glistens in the candlelight. Seasoned with sprigs of fresh rosemary from the garden where my mother sleeps, the lamb is brown and tender, and it gives itself to the carving knife.

As Daddy cuts, I become aware of him watching me. I am in his peripheral vision. He imagines me saying no, and this is what everyone expects. They all hold their breath and cross their fingers.

“Fig ?” Daddy says, turning me into a question. He has finished slicing the lamb and hasn't served anyone. He stands there, holding the serving fork midair. The same fork that helped the knife cut the lamb now holds a piece of meat, ready to be consumed.

I become more and more aware. I, too, am holding my breath, but I haven't crossed my fingers, and I don't feel the need to reach for my rosary. Instead, I let the air out, and I feel like I am melting. I look at Daddy and I smile a smile I have never smiled before. I feel the unfamiliar stretch of muscles in my face, and the way these muscles lift my shoulders, and how my lifted shoulders work to straighten my spine, and I grow taller.

Smiling, I look at my father and I nod. I nod, and then I speak. “Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

*  *  *  *

First of all, I'd like to thank my parents, Tom and Enid Schantz. Thank you for raising me in a bookstore, for teaching me to read, and for always supporting my dream to write. While my father helped me with the novel, my mother (who was not a schizophrenic), edited the original short story, “The Sound of Crying Sheep,” from which the book was born; while she didn't live to see me finish the book or to see it published, she did see the story win first place for a contest hosted by
Third Coast
magazine. This contest brings me to Brad Watson, the writer who judged the competition, and everyone at
Third Coast,
who I'd also like to thank: they not only hosted the award, they published me, and went on to nominate the story for
The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses
and for
New Stories from the Midwest
. I'd like to thank the editor of the latter, Jason Lee Brown, who accepted my story for inclusion in his anthology. When Jason invited me to be a panelist at the First Annual Midwest Small Press Festival, I finally got to
feel
like a real writer. Everyone I've listed so far helped give me the courage to turn “The Sound of Crying Sheep” into my first novel.

I'd like to extend my gratitude to the following writing teachers I've had over the years. Molly LeClair and Suzanne Hudson, thank you for believing in me back when I was fresh off the streets and college still seemed utterly impossible; because of you two, I continued to write, and I now have a MFA despite having never graduated from high school or gotten my GED. Meg Gallagher, thank you for teaching me the art of public speaking; I think of you every time I give a reading. Bobbie Louise Hawkins, you taught me almost everything I know about good writing, but most of all, thank you for believing in Fig's story from the beginning (before she even had a name). Joanna Ruocco, thank you for reading my manuscript, providing extensive feedback, introducing me to Gaston Bachelard's
The Poetics of Space
, and for truly going above and beyond the call of duty. Selah Saterstrom, you gave me the permission I needed to write a young girl from the point-of-view of first person in the present tense. Bhanu Kapil, you helped create the space for writing and for the writing to come. Keith Abbott, thank you for always checking in with me. Junior Burke, thank you for saying, “Sarah, I think it's time for you to write a book.” Thank you to Indira Ganesan for magical realism, to Elizabeth Robinson for Leonora Carrington and Joseph Cornell, and finally, to Sara Veglahn, who reminded me to look outside the frame to find the real story. As a collection of teachers and mentors, you all compose the antithesis of my sixth-grade teacher who accused me of plagiarism and actually sent me to the principal's office. So once more, thank you!

Other writers have also served as my teachers: They demonstrated all the ways to craft a story or form a sentence, and they provided imaginary worlds and the sanctuaries I was seeking. While many different texts influenced the writing of this book, I'd like to reserve this branch of acknowledgment for one writer and one writer alone: Zilpha Keatley Snyder. You were my absolute favorite author as a child, and like Fig, I read
The Headless Cupid
and got the idea to create my own Calendar of Ordeals. While I wasn't trying to cure mental illness, my magical thinking still had everything to do with trying to survive my own painful adolescence, and in a way, it worked.

I'd like to thank all the writer-friends who helped midwife the birth of this book; I am forever in your debt. Thank you Elisabeth Sowecke, Sherri Pauli, Catlyn Keenan, Ellen Orleans, and April Joseph; your close readings, line edits, long discussions, and love for Fig truly inspired me to keep going. I am just as grateful to all those who ever workshopped an excerpt of this book, whether at JKS or elsewhere, thank you. And thank you, Julie Kazimer, for providing priceless advice about the world of agents and publication and for supporting me when I most needed it; please know I appreciated every
single
word.

Several excerpts from the book (as well as the original short story) either won awards or were shortlisted by the following competitions, and I'd like to tip my hat to each one: Winner of the Jaimy Gordon Prize in Fiction hosted by
Third Coast
(2011), Finalist for the Alexander Cappon Prize for Fiction hosted by
New Letters
(2011), Finalist for the Howard Frank Mosher Short Fiction Prize hosted by
Hunger Mountain
(2011 and 2012), Finalist for the Fiction Contest hosted by
Cream City Review
(2011 and 2012), Honorable Mention for the
Zoetrope: All-Story
Short Fiction Contest (2011 and 2012), Honorable Mention for the New Millennium Prize for Fiction (2012), Semifinalist for the Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction hosted by
Nimrod
(2012), Honorable Mention in the
WOW!
Summer 2012 Flash Fiction Contest, Honorable Mention for
Glimmer Train
's Very Short Fiction Award (2012), Honorable Mention for the Reynolds Price Fiction Award hosted by Salem College (2012), Winner of the Fourth Annual Flash Fiction Contest hosted by Monkey Puzzle Press (2012), Honorable Mention for the Katherine Paterson Prize for Young Adult and Children's Writing hosted by
Hunger Mountain
(2012), Finalist for the National Writing Contest in Fiction hosted by
Alligator Juniper
(2012 and 2013), Finalist for the H. E. Francis Short Story Competition (2013), and Winner of the Saturday's Child Press Fiction Contest (2013). I'd also like to thank Jeff Pfaller and Robert James Russell at
Midwestern Gothic
for publishing three excerpts, interviewing me, and for generally making me feel like a rock star.

When
Hunger Mountain
published “The Breaking Wheel” in 2012, editor Miciah Bay Gault, who'd been following the progress of this novel, wrote to say she hoped to get me the attention of a literary agent. I thought Miciah was sweet, but I didn't actually think anything would come of it. I definitely never expected the amazing Heather Schroder to call me up and ask to represent my first book. Miciah, I will never be able to thank you enough; you truly are the fairy godmother of my particular fairy tale.

Obviously, I am eternally grateful to Heather Schroder and her extraordinary assistant, Julia Johnson; you both worked hard, and because you did, I got to beat my personal best. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I'd also like to thank my editor, RÅ«ta Rimas, and the McElderry team at Simon & Schuster. Without RÅ«ta's Excel spreadsheets and everyone's keen eye,
Fig
would not be the book it is today. I will never be able to thank you all enough.

Last, but not least, I'd like to thank my friends and family: Rozie Vajda, I honestly don't know where I'd be without you—you are a best friend, a sister, and a soul mate. Thank you, Lesley Evans; you always read my work, and you always have my back. Thank you, Raven Tekwe, for truly believing in me and my work, and for the two celebratory sushi dinners you bought for me. And thanks to Leona Sweat and all the letters we've exchanged; you were there for me during some of my darkest hours of self-doubt, and like Raven, you always had faith the book would make it into the world. Now, I'd like to thank my cousins, Claire and Karin; you either promoted me or came to my readings or gave me financial advice. I'd also like to thank my aunt Sallie for being there. And most of all, I'd like to thank my husband, Fish, and our two daughters, Kaya and Story: You three are my everything. I know it's not easy to share your wife-stepmother-mother with all the characters in my head, but please know this: Without your love, devotion and support, this book would not exist. It's not just my blood, sweat, and tears on these precious pages, but yours as well.

For me, being a writer is like being a medium. I channel the stories as they come to me. A character forms for me when she or he begins to whisper in my ear. I write what these characters tell me to write. I write their stories.

Fig showed up after I moved into an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado. As long as I don't look toward the west, I can't see the mountains, and I might as well be living in Kansas. This house summoned her story. I knew Fig was lonely, intelligent, and devoted to her mother, and I also knew her mother was mentally ill, but I wasn't sure about the specifics. I began to do some research, and through my findings, I realized Mama was schizophrenic. However, Mama is far more than her disease (just as anyone is with this diagnosis); Mama is an artist, a feminist, an activist, a mother, a wife, an orphan, and a good person.