They looked at each other, and William said, “We have time.” He wanted her to know that he wasn’t going to run away. He’d accepted his daughter while sitting on the playground bench, though really this meant that he’d finally accepted himself. Alice was the person he’d most wanted to save from himself. She had been a child, and he was hurt as a child, and that anguish seemed to have tentacles that were out of his control. William would have done anything to protect his daughter: When she was a newborn he’d spent his nights leaning over her bassinet, listening to make sure she was breathing; he’d signed away his parental rights; he’d walked into a lake. It was because Alice was so precious that he’d believed he needed to stay away. Now, as they stood facing each other, all that remained was that she was precious.
He may have said, “Let’s go sit on the bench,” or he might not have said it out loud. He was feeling unsteady on his feet. He led the way, and they lowered themselves to the stone seat, with their long backs to the house. William’s whole life drummed inside him, and he knew Sylvie would say it was all related to love — it had been withheld, he’d believed he didn’t deserve it, then he had allowed it in. He realized, startled, that he loved the young woman sitting next to him. He’d loved her since the day she was born. William felt a warmth travel through him.
“Don’t look now,” he said, “but how many people do you think are spying on us?”
Alice laughed, and the sound rang out into the night air. She didn’t laugh like him, or Julia, or anyone else. She had a lovely laugh. “Definitely my mother,” she said. “She probably has her face pushed up against a window.”
“Emeline and Cecelia are looking at us. And Izzy. Kent, for sure.” William pictured them, portraits of the people who loved them, framed by windows across the back of the house. He could feel their care and concern. He could feel their hope too. Life had surprised them all — as if the sea had risen dramatically, lifting their boats precipitously high — in the midst of a moment of sadness. If this could happen, if William and Alice could sit side by side and talk under the evening sky, then truly anything could happen. Julia could share her life with her sisters again; Rose could lay down her grudges and walk forward with lightness; Kent could find a new love.
“When I got to college,” Alice said, “it took me a long time to feel like I wasn’t living with strangers.”
She paused, and William waited. He found that he was just fine waiting, sitting on the cold stone bench, with the stars beginning to shine above, with what Whitman called the beautiful uncut hair of graves curling beneath their feet. He could feel his wife’s pleasure, from whatever window Sylvie was peering through, and Charlie’s too. I’ll make you proud, he thought. I promise.
Alice shook her head, and her fair hair waved around her face. “When I arrived yesterday, everyone acted like they knew me.” She looked at him. “I know I don’t know you, but I feel like I do. It’s weird, though…because I also feel like I don’t really know who I am.”
Sounds of laughter swept out of Emeline’s house. People inside were getting drunk now, making toasts, telling one another how wonderful Sylvie had been. One Padavano sister after another would peel herself away from the windows to share a story from their childhood; they wouldn’t be able to help themselves. They would tell everyone that Sylvie had nearly flunked several high school subjects because she’d read in the park instead of attending classes that were boring to her. Guests would laugh when they heard that the head librarian at the Lozano Library used to make out with random boys in the stacks when she was a teenager. One of the sisters would describe how, as a child, Sylvie walked around their house muttering to herself — casting spells, her sisters had claimed — while she memorized pages of poetry in order to delight their father.
William looked forward to hearing these stories repeated in the days ahead. He knew his wife would not be forgotten or set aside. The Padavanos talked about Charlie as if he were still part of their lives, still part of themselves, and because of that: He was. There was a mural of Sylvie on the side of a building not far from the library and framed paintings of her all over the twins’ houses. From a distance, because of her height and posture, Cecelia looked like Sylvie; Emeline shared her older sister’s thoughtful eyes; and Julia somehow contained Sylvie — like vines of roses, the two eldest Padavano girls had woven around and into each other when they were young.
William said, “For a long time, Sylvie knew me better than I knew myself. I think sometimes”—now it was his turn to pause—“we need another pair of eyes. We need the people around us.”
Alice turned her face upward, as if to study the night sky, as if she required a different vantage point to sort through what was inside her. William had written a series of questions in the footnotes of his manuscript, a long time ago. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Who am I? He could sense those questions deep inside his daughter now. She was not broken, like he had been. Julia had seen to that. But Alice was taking tentative steps onto a new terrain, wondering if the ice could bear her weight.
“I know you can do this on your own,” he said. “But, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to help.”
Acknowledgments
Helen Ellis, Hannah Tinti, and I happened to sit next to each other in Dani Shapiro’s New York University workshop in 1995. Despite our striking differences, we recognized something in one another, and when the class ended, Helen suggested we continue to meet. These two women are still my first readers, and I hear their voices in my head when I write. I am the writer I am, and this book is the book it is, because of them.
I am both proud and delighted to be represented by Julie Barer and The Book Group and to be published by Whitney Frick and The Dial Press. Susan Kamil was in the room for Dear Edward, and I feel like she remains in the room with us now. Many thanks to Rose Fox, Clio Seraphim, and Nicole Cunningham for reading early drafts of this novel and offering insightful notes. Loren Noveck and Kathy Lord were incisive, thoughtful copy editors, and they have my gratitude. Thank you to the team at The Dial Press / Random House, especially Andy Ward, Avideh Bashirrad, Maria Braeckel, Carrie Neill, Debbie Aroff, Madison Dettlinger, and Donna Cheng. I’m very fortunate to have Caspian Dennis, Jenny Meyer, and Michelle Weiner as advocates for my work, and I’m grateful to be published in the UK by Isabel Wall and Viking Penguin.
Growing up, I slept at my friend Leah’s house as often as I slept at my own, and her parents, Louis and Cecilia, were like second parents to me. There were many reasons I loved being there, but one of them was the constant parade of Ceil’s many sisters (Toni, Celeste, Rosemary, Caroline, and Christine), who walked in and out of the house as if it were their own. The sisters were all short, most of them had curly hair, and their faces resembled one another’s to the extent that they looked like different versions of a whole. They inspired my Padavano sisters, and I thank them for always being nice to the shy girl who was usually by Leah’s side.
My uncle Ed mailed postcards to me from his home in Chicago when I was a kid, and the greeting was always the same: “Hello Beautiful.” I knew that my uncle didn’t really know what I looked like — I saw him very rarely — but that’s why I loved the greeting. It felt like he believed I was beautiful on the inside, and since (as an introverted, bookish child) my insides were the most significant part of me, I appreciated this. The title of this novel, and the fact that it’s set in the neighborhood of Pilsen in Chicago, are because of my uncle. In childhood, magical lands rise up inside us, and my uncle’s mural-covered neighborhood was one of mine.