The Moment Before (18 page)
Atta girl, Midge.
Sabine died so suddenly. Nobody saw it coming. And part of why Mom and Dad had to blame Connor, well I understand that now. As Dad told me after the police sorted everything out, and after Nick—who will be tried as an adult for narcotics distribution with intent to harm, as well as kidnapping—was safely locked up, “Worse than having a child die is living with the fact that you couldn’t protect her. Blaming Connor made it easier, somehow.”
When my parents found out the truth about Sabine, her pregnancy, the abuse from Nick and all of her mind games, it was hard on them, like they had this daughter with a secret life. Dr. Stern though, I have to say, he really helped with it all. The “I-statements,” the sharing our anger and sadness. It’s like we’re different now—a small, less scattered family. Dad’s calmer, Mom’s less preoccupied. And me? I have the Volvo back. I got my license the week after school got out, and the first thing I did was take Nona to bingo at Holy Redeemer. “This car, it suits you,
Nipote
,” she said as we crisscrossed North Portland. I slapped one of those EARTH bumper stickers where the ART part of the word is called out in red, I slapped it right over the
Trample the weak. Hurtle the dead
. I want to know that Nick’s tagline is under mine. That, in the end, Nick was the weak one.
Tonight, there’s a party for Connor. A going away bash that his parents are throwing him. Suddenly, the boy’s a hero. But, he’s still going to Bend. As he put it, “A summer away might be just what I need. I haven’t seen my dad in a while, and, you know, he’s all about the 12-step life now. Might do me good.”
“Seems there’s a bit of that going around,” I offered.
Maybe that’s the new rite of passage for middle age. Belief in a power greater than oneself and swearing off booze.
As for me, I’m just happy junior year is over. And, as it turns out, I’ll be spending my eighteenth birthday in Florence, Italy. Mom’s secret? It wasn’t a lover after all. She’d been planning a surprise for me, going behind my back for letters of recommendation from Bowerman, McConnell, and even Lilith Cupworth. Things are not always what they seem. I’ll be attending the Young Artists Summer Abroad Program, working with some of the best art teachers in the world, walking the same streets as the masters did, centuries ago.
And, as it turns out, I might see Martha on those same cobblestone streets. Rose Festival Queens travel, apparently, spreading the gospel of Portland, and all its wonders. Martha is now into yoga instead of Xanax, and she keeps telling me and Connor—and that scoop-seeking reporter, Rory Davis—that she owes us her life.
Heroics aside, I have a sketch to finish up at the Cupworth Studio. There’s an element to the Connor sketch I need to add. An homage, I guess. Sort of like The Last Supper, where da Vinci wrote a story on his canvas. The last moment of grace before the fall. I need to put Sabine back on top. Her gorgeously arched form, the perfect balance, a foot cupped in her partner’s hand. The moment before.
the end
To my writing group: Erin Leonard, Mary Wysong-Haeri, Diana Page Jordan, Monica Drake, Cheryl Strayed, Chuck Palahniuk, Lidia Yuknavitch and Chelsea Cain, thank you for your guidance, support and energy. Your big ideas. The way you’ve all modeled success and tenacity through these many years. Not to mention all those bottles of wine.
BH2014: Shanna Mahin, Averil Dean, Amy Gesenhues and Teri Carter. You guys, my new best friends, I can’t even begin to gush on how fortunate I feel to have stumbled into your worlds. (Thanks, Betsy.)
Erin Reel, true friend and supporter, thank you for your belief in my writing from one millennium to the other.
Tom Spanbauer: the reason I keep writing.
Melissa Sarver, thank you, thank you, thank you for continuing to believe in this book.
Jennifer Bennett, Patty Kinney, Kayla Williams and all the wonderful writers I met at Antioch, Los Angeles – that MFA program changed my life.
Love to the LitReactor peeps, and the students there, too.
Mary Cummings and the gang at Diversion Books, visionaries and pioneers, you guys are really aliens from another planet, right? And I mean that in the best way possible.
Laura McCulloch, Kelly Ambrose, and David Millstone my forever friends and cheerleaders. Thanks for years and years of laughter and support.
Lisa Wish, Marshall Anderson, and Helen. I’ve thought of you often while writing this book.
Ellen Urbani Gass, thank you for your cheerleader insights.
Katie Soulé, thank you for all your continued support and vision. Brendan, Lindsay, Thamires: best extended family ever! Dakota, I can’t wait until you’re old enough to read this. Wait, yes I can, because I’ll be ancient by then.
To my Buffalo family, Frank and Evelyn Vitello. All of the Walker clan. Nothing but love.
A special thought to the people who died too soon. Including Frankie Vitello, Lisa Walker, Candace Mulligan, and Jean Anderson.
To the hills of Portland, upon which I’ve always worked out my half-baked ideas.
Leona Kline, original wordsmith and Scrabble tutor, thanks for filling my childhood with words and ideas, and Gerry Freisinger, thanks for your fantastic sense of humor, encouraging love and inappropriate email jokes.
Kirk, you are my white-boarding, idea-fueling, best, bestest friend. Thanks for hanging in there, and thanks for all the tea and muffins and sustenance delivered to my desk, and especially thanks for putting up with my, you know, moods.
My kids: Sam, Maggie, Carson, I took out the
OOOOOOOO, dude, you’ve been served
per your astute edit. I love you three so much. You inspire me every waking hour.
Cheers.
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