My Sunshine Away (26 page)

It was from a time when Hannah was around eleven years old and, I’ve gathered, on a school field trip, a thing we all had to do in our youth. This seemed to be one of those wilderness camps they sent us to, where the rustic setting is meant to remind you of how fortunate you are in life and how beautiful nature can be. And so Hannah had been sent out to sit by herself in the woods and construct a list of things she was thankful for. Her handwriting was cursive and big and, near the top of her list, beside a collection of butterfly doodles, she had thanked God for her “new baby brother,” which she described as a miracle.

It hit me so hard when I saw this.

Don’t you understand?

My sister had written my name before I ever knew her. She had believed in my goodness in the same way that I now believe in my daughter’s innate goodness and in your innate goodness, and when I read that it was like I could hear Hannah again. It was like I could see
her. And it was like I was whole again. I felt no guilt. I had no regrets. It was as if I’d been forgiven.

After I read those words, my own future suddenly seemed as sunlit to me as it had to Hannah all those years ago, and I guess I would like, very much, to share this feeling. Because no one can change what has happened to Lindy or to Hannah or to anybody. Our histories are just that. But what’s most amazing about the connection I felt with my sister is that it was made possible only by the love she showed to me before I could ever possibly return it.

And so,
you
.

The doctors tell us you will be a boy.

And they say that you are healthy.

Your mother and sister are ecstatic about this, as am I, but with my excitement comes the fear that I will not be able to raise you from this boy to the man that I know you can be: a better man than I have been, surely, but one like I am trying to become. And so I have spoken honestly to you about my youth and my mistakes, and also of the incredible fortune that has come my way through the kindness of our family, for one simple reason. I want us to get off on the right foot. I want the two of us, together in this world, to be good men.

And when I tell you that I love you I want, so badly, for you to understand what I
mean.

The first person I’d like to thank is you—anyone who took time to read this—for your generosity and spirit. Thank you for reading every single book you’ve ever read by any author from anywhere. It’s important. My family would also like to express their enormous thanks to Renee Zuckerbrot and Amy Einhorn, who floated into our lives like young fairy godmothers. I could not dream up a better team. Thanks also to Ivan Held and Elizabeth Stein and everyone else at G. P. Putnam’s Sons and the Penguin Group. You are all incredible.

I am also in the debt of my friends who, for some reason, agreed to read the early pages of this book and yet still let me carry on with it for another seven years. These good people are Matt Brock, Sean Ennis, and Alex Taylor. Special thanks also go to the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, especially Steve Yarbrough and Diane Johnson, who gave me the exact push I needed when I needed it, as well as the Faulkner Society, in particular Rosemary James and Jeff Kleinman, who also gave me a huge boost. Thanks also to my students and colleagues in the Creative Writing Workshop at the UNO, at the Yokshop in Oxford, and to my former teachers at the University of
Mississippi and the University of Tennessee, for what seems like a never-ending parade of goodwill. And finally a big thanks to the Chimes Tap Room in Baton Rouge and the Parkview Tavern in New Orleans, where much of this book was figured out.

The deepest thanks, of course, go to my mother and father and my sisters. Where would I be without you? That is a question that actually has an answer. Also, to the extended Walsh, Prater, Anselmo, Jones, Berdon, Madere, Patterson, and Taylor families. Thank you for taking me in.

Lastly but never leastly, to my good luck charms: Sarah and Magnolia and Sherwood. Thank you for laughing at how I type instead of what I type. You’ve no idea how happy you make me.

Milton O’Neal Walsh, Jr., is a writer from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His stories and essays have appeared in the
New York Times
,
Oxford American
,
American Short Fiction,
Epoch
, and
Best New American Voices,
among others. His first book, the story collection
The Prospect of Magic
, was the winner of the Tartt’s Fiction Prize and a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award for fiction. He is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Mississippi and is currently the director of the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans, where he lives and works, happily, with his wife and
family.