Ink and Bone (35 page)
The needle hummed, and the pain was hot and bright.
“How are you doing, Fin?” Rainer kept asking.
“I’m fine,” she said, even when it wasn’t true. Pain was a reminder that she was alive, that she drew breath into her lungs and was tied to the world of the living. Even when it moved through her like a wave, bringing tears to her eyes, there was a part of her that relished it.
Then it was on to Abigail—the auburn of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the tattered hem of her dress. Abigail, Finley’s enemy and ally, the one who connected her to the worst part of herself, but who had also made sure Rainer was there when Finley needed him. Abigail was there to remind her that most people, no matter how badly they behave, just want to be known. And that even bad girls can sometimes be good, and good girls can sometimes be bad.
“How’re you feeling?” asked Rainer. “Need a break?”
She shook her head, watching him in the mirror, bent over her, her skin a wild rainbow of his work and hers.
Finley’s body was a living canvas of ink and bone. It would grow and change, evolve. It would age and fade, it would grow softer, get bigger, shrink and shrivel, as bodies will. Maybe what she was on the outside could never truly reflect what she was on the inside, but when she looked in the mirror she saw herself in all her true colors.
EPILOGUE
A
bbey loved the ocean. The gray churning waters of the Atlantic, where it lapped against the shores of Rockaway Beach. The hot lazy days they’d spent there with toes buried down to the damp cold layer of sand beneath the hot, and the blue cooler sweating underneath the shade of their wide umbrella, a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors, were among the happiest they’d spent as a family.
“Be careful of the riptide,” Wolf always felt compelled to warn.
“What’s a riptide?” asked Abbey.
“It’s a current that can pull you under and yank you out to sea.”
They both glanced out at the water, then back at him. Jackson looked worried.
“What do I do if that happens?” he asked.
“Don’t panic,” Wolf told them. “Swim sideways along the shoreline. I’ll come for you. I’ll be watching. Every minute.”
“Okay,” Abbey had said, unconcerned. She was using a plastic cup to build a tilting sand castle.
“How many people die in riptides every year?” Jackson wanted to know. “I mean, statistically, is it common?”
“Just be careful,” Wolf had answered. He didn’t know. “It happens often enough.”
The music coming from their portable Bluetooth speaker was tinny. What was it that they’d been listening to that last day? He wanted that detail. Something alternative and slow, something old. Grace Jones. That was it. “I’ve Seen That Face Before.”
They’d played in the shallows, Abbey with her bucket, Jackson
with his net. Jackson, little brainiac that he was, kept walking back to the umbrella for his iPad to try to identify the shells he found. Wolf wanted to tell him not to worry about what they were. Just collecting them was enough. But he didn’t bother nagging. The gulls called, always complaining in their funny way.
“It’s always good here,” Merri said sleepily from her low lounger. She wore a red bikini. She was beautiful; her body toned and caramel, but soft, yielding. There was a wiggle to her ass that was pretty just because it was
her
wiggle. His wife, the mother of his children; no one and nothing could be more special than that. And yet Wolf had been secretly sexting with an editorial assistant at
Outside
magazine all afternoon. Nothing had ever happened in the flesh. But he was flirting with it.
That
day, so beautiful, so perfect. He’d missed it. His memory of it was more vivid than his awareness had been at the time. And he only remembered it now because Abbey was gone. He
hadn’t
been watching her every minute, not then, not ever. And the riptide, the dark current that runs under every life, had carried her off.
Today they gathered on the beach in overcoats, hats and gloves, a mean winter sun painting the world a harsh white. Merri held Jackson, who leaned against her, an arm wrapped around her waist. Wolf’s parents stood back, wearing the same stunned expression they’d worn since they learned that Abbey’s body had been among those found up in The Hollows. Merri’s mother, the same auburn-haired, hazel-eyed beauty as Merri, stood behind her daughter, a steadying hand on her shoulder. She wouldn’t even look at Wolf.
They’d tried to keep the church service small, but it had been packed with friends, colleagues, parents of children from Abbey’s school, some of the kids, too. Their friend Bryce who was a singer-songwriter, sang Abbey’s favorite, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Everyone wept.
The ceremony was short and tasteful, the chapel air rich with the smell of stargazer lilies. They considered themselves lucky that Abbey had been returned to them. Two other families’ parents were still waiting; one girl had been missing since the early nine
ties, another since 2003. At least for Wolf and Merri the waiting was over.
Blake delivered the eulogy.
Our Abbey, our angel, gone too soon.
You’ll live in us always.
And more, so many more eloquent words about her light and her joy and her kindness, a beautiful blur of sincere sentiment that Wolf could barely hear, Merri clinging to him, blank and glassy eyed. It was a tragically beautiful affair after which everyone but they went back to intact lives, a program with Abbey’s shining face folded into pockets or stuffed into purses to be later discarded. Not a keepsake.
But on the beach, it was just those of them with the long stretch of grief and rebuilding ahead.
“My darling girl,” Wolf said. “You will always be with us.”
It was a crock wasn’t it? She was gone, so far away. He couldn’t feel her. The sound of every little girl’s voice reminded him of hers. What had her voice sounded like? Sweet and smoky, full of laughter. He could describe it, but not hear it. His girl was gone.
“But today,” said Merri, rock solid. “Today we let you go.”
And they watched as the wind took her away into the waves and the gray sky.
He’d never seen Merri stronger. The knowing had ripped her to pieces, but she’d reassembled herself stronger than she was before. He laid his hand on her belly, which was already starting to swell just a little—or was it his imagination? Their saving grace. A child was conceived in The Hollows the night they realized that Abbey wasn’t coming home to them.
Their sad and desperate lovemaking, the ultimate act of comfort in an abyss of grief and sorrow, had yielded this gift. In his wife’s eyes now he still saw the depth of her pain and the bright glint of the future, and also her forgiveness. The fact that he didn’t deserve her wouldn’t keep him from accepting her love.
Would he ever tell her that he planned to leave her that weekend that they went to The Hollows? About the dark and ill-defined plan
he’d hatched with Kristi, that she’d meet him up there and together they’d break his family apart?
No. Because he was weak, and they’d all lost too much. He’d take this second chance he’d been given. And if there was no such thing as a redemptive narrative, not truly, well, then he’d write one anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
t’s a myth that the life of the writer is a solitary one. Certainly, there are many hours spent alone at the keyboard. But when that work is done, it takes the efforts and talents of a passionate team of professionals to get those words out into the world. I am grateful beyond measure for the long list of people who support and bolster me, without whom I wouldn’t be able to do what I do.
Thanks to my editor Sally Kim who, as usual, brought her wisdom, keen insight, and passion to the manuscript, pushing me to make this book the best it could be, and encouraging me to go someplace I wasn’t sure I could go. Every book we have worked on together is better than it would have been without you.
My agent, Amy Berkower of Writers House, is a superstar. I am so grateful for her insight, support, and direction. I want to be just like her when I grow up.
The folks at Simon & Schuster, Touchstone, and Pocket are an absolutely stellar group. Each and every person brings their own special gifts and talents to the table. My heartfelt thanks to: Carolyn Reidy, Susan Moldow, Michael Selleck, Liz Perl, Louise Burke, Jennifer Long, Liz Psaltis, David Falk, Brian Belfiglio, Jessica Roth, Cherlynne Li, Wendy Sheanin, Paula Amendolara, Teresa Brumm, Colin Shields, Chrissy Festa, Charlotte Gill, Gary Urda, Gregory Hruska, Michelle Fadlalla, Meredith Vilarello, Laura Flavin, Paul O’Halloran, Etinosa Agbonlahor, Irene Lipsky, and Miya Kumangai. And I can never heap enough praise on the top-notch sales team, out there on the front lines in this super-competitive, ever-changing business, getting books in every format into as many hands as possible. It’s everything; thank you.
I have an amazing network of family and friends who cheer me through the good days and carry me through the challenging ones. I am so grateful for my parents, Joseph and Virginia Miscione, and my brother, Joe, who have supported me in every way possible all my life and are unstoppable as a PR team doing everything from facing out books on the shelves, to carting me to and attending book events, and endless bragging. Thanks to Heather Mikesell for being one of my first and most important readers. She also takes pictures of people she sees reading my books—which is always a boost! Shaye Areheart, former editor and forever friend, remains a wellspring of wisdom and good advice and I lean on her more than I should. Thanks to Tara Popick and Marion Chartoff for their unfailing friendship. Even though way too much time passes between visits, they’ve been with me every step of the way.
My husband, Jeffrey, and our daughter, Ocean Rae, are the foundation upon which my entire life is built. I would be a lesser person and a lesser writer without the love, support, friendship, and laughter that fills our days together. I am so blessed in so many ways, but nowhere more so than at home with my two favorite people in the world, and our kooky Labradoodle, Jak Jak.
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