“Pass me the flashlight,” I said to him. He didn’t trust the ladder and was holding it steady with one hand while he bent down to pick up the light with the other. He handed it to me and I switched it on.
A long ray of white light dashed across the wooden beams on the slanted roof while I climbed the rest of the way up and rose to my feet.
I looked at all the boxes of books, the suitcases full of her clothes.
Suddenly, she was all around me. I could feel her presence, her affection and love. Somehow I knew she was pleased that I was here.
Dad popped his head up. “Wow. There’s a lot of stuff up here. I’d forgotten…”
“You aren’t kidding. You did save everything.”
He continued to glance over the trunks and boxes. “I just couldn’t bring myself to throw anything away.”
I smiled down at him. “I’m glad.”
For the next hour, we dug through Mom’s belongings. I found much of my own things mixed in – my elementary school projects and report cards, and four years of costumes from tap and ballet classes.
I came to a bankers’ box full of old photo albums and journeyed back in time to the family camping trips I had all but forgotten about. The Christmas mornings. The Easter egg hunts in the backyard.
We’d had a good life together – Mom, Dad, Jen and me. It was a shame we had never talked about it, never celebrated it.
The last album I came to, at the bottom of the box, looked different from the others.
It was not from my childhood.
It was from my mother’s.
Slowly I opened to the first page and glided my fingers over a black-and-white photograph of Mom as a baby on a bright summer day, taking a bath outside in a round steel tub. Behind her, there were sheets hanging on a clothesline, blowing in the wind. Beyond was the sea.
On the pages that followed, there were photos of Mom as a child with her family. At last I came upon a picture of her with my two fathers – Peter and Matt. They were, all three of them, sitting on their bikes, smiling into the camera.
I felt a rush of contentment in the knowledge that I knew the truth about my mother’s life. That I understood where I came from.
Then I found something that made the tiny hairs on my neck stand on end.
It was a photograph of Mom and Matt together in a playground, side by side on two swings. They couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. My grandmother stood behind Mom, pushing her.
Behind Matt, an attractive, dark-haired young woman was laughing and holding onto her hat. It was a wide-brimmed straw hat that I had seen before.
“Dad, who is this?” I handed him the album. “The woman in the hat.”
He squinted through his bifocals. “That’s Matt’s mother.” He glanced across at me. “She died when he was young. Just seven or eight. She fell down a flight of stairs.”
I took hold of the album again and stared in awe at the picture. “That would make her my grandmother.”
He removed his glasses. “Yes, it would.”
Catherine.
“She was a gardener, wasn’t she?” A warm glow sparked within me.
“That’s right. When she was alive, they had the best yard on the street. How do you know this?”
I slowly turned the page. “It’s part of what happened to me. I didn’t mention it before. There were too many other things to tell you about. But she was there when I visited Mom. She was her neighbor and she was planting a garden. She wore that same hat.”
Dad simply nodded, and we went back to our searching.
At last I found what I was looking for. My father’s manuscript, buried in a mountain of term papers and projects that my mother had completed at Wellesley.
It was held together by a string – hundreds of sheets of lined loose leaf, filled with words handwritten in pencil by my father.
“I found it.”
Plunking myself down on top of a trunk, I removed the string and flipped to the first page.
“Wait a second… Please stop.” Dad rose to his feet. I looked up at him with curious eyes, wondering if he meant to warn me about something.
“You shouldn’t start reading that here,” he said. “You’ll ruin your eyes. Bring it downstairs. You can use my desk, and I’ll make you a pot of coffee.”
For a few startled seconds I blinked up at him, then I smiled. “You’re right, Dad. I’ll need more light.”
I gathered the treasure in my arms, and followed him to the ladder.
Chapter Fifty-eight
I stayed up all night reading my father’s manuscript, which he had managed to complete a mere week before his death.
As I composed myself and wiped the last few tears from my cheeks, I sat back in the chair and wondered what I was going to do with it. There could be no denying that it was a literary masterpiece, but it was about two hundred pages too long and written by an author who wasn’t alive to edit it or submit it to agents or publishers.
It seemed an overwhelming task, and what if I was wrong? What if it wasn’t as good as I thought? Or what if I ruined it by making changes?
Those were just my own insecurities talking, however. Deep down, I knew exactly what I had to do to make it better, and in that moment – as I felt the rush of my father’s blood coursing through my veins – I was absolutely certain that I could accomplish it.
Suddenly he was there in the room with me, telling me to go to bed and rest my eyes. Sleep on it.
I could hear his voice: Think about the story, Sophie. It needs a lot of work. I wish I’d had time to fix it, but it just wasn’t possible. Take it home with you and talk it over with your husband, then get to work. You’ll know what to do.
Chapter Fifty-nine
Two months later, I sent the full, revised manuscript – now typed and double-spaced in Courier font – to five top New York agents, who all requested it based on my query letter and synopsis.
I felt confident. I had worked in the publishing industry in the past, so I knew the lay of the land. I had selected agents who represented similar projects and had sold them for respectable advances.
My father’s book was brilliant. How could it not succeed?
My only concern was the fact that he was not alive to represent himself, and these days, publishers were looking for a promotable author, someone who could appear before the reading public through websites, social media, and talk-show interviews.
What I was attempting to do was a bit unusual. I was hoping to generate excitement over a debut author who had been dead for forty years.
Of course I would have been happy to represent him myself, and with my recent notoriety due to the accident and my infamous other-worldly experience, I thought I might be able to offer some unique opportunities for publicity. At this point, all I could do was cross my fingers.
And wait for a nibble from an agent.
Three weeks after I sent out the proposals for my father’s book, I received my first reply. The envelope arrived in our mailbox by snail mail, which was unexpected, since most correspondence with publishers occurred through email these days. I took it as a good omen.
Kirk handed the envelope to me when I exited the shower after a late-afternoon run.
The return address indicated that it had come from the agent at the top of my list – a real heavy-hitter when it came to book and movie deals.
I stood in the kitchen in my white terrycloth robe, my wet hair twisted over my head and wrapped in a blue towel.
“What if they hated it?” I asked, glancing across the table at Kirk, who was dipping an herbal teabag into a mug of steaming water he had just poured from the kettle.
“Then you’ll try again, and next time, pick someone with better taste.
Kirk had read the manuscript and helped me decide how to edit a few things. He, too, recognized its brilliance.
Nevertheless, I had a knot in my stomach the size of the state of Idaho.
“You open it.” I circled ar
ound the table and held out the letter.
He raised his hands as if I were pointing a gun. “Oh no, not me. I’m here to congratulate you, or be a shoulder to cry on. I don’t want to be the messenger.”
“Please?” I tried to make him take it – I practically shoved it into his hands – and bless his heart, he couldn’t say no to me.
“Are you sure you don’t want to be the first one to read it?”
I considered it for a moment, then slowly plucked it out of his hands. “I think maybe I do.”
Turning away, I walked to the window and slid my finger under the flap, then carefully tore the paper.
My heart pounded as I unfolded the reply, which was printed on expensive agency letterhead.
Dear Ms. Duncan,
Thank you for your recent submission. Though there was much to admire in the story and writing, I’m afraid we cannot offer representation at this time. Good luck placing your work elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Jo Sanderson
Sanderson Literary Agency
I turned and faced my husband, and slowly shook my head. “He said no.”
Before I knew it, Kirk was taking me into his arms and rubbing his hands up and down my back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just disappointed, that’s all.”
“This is only the first one. This guy’s not the only agent in New York. The book is good, Sophie. Someone will want it.”
“I hope so.”
“Well, I know so.”
I pulled the towel off my head and used it to squeeze out the dampness in my hair.
“Can I do anything for you?” Kirk asked. “Make you a cup of tea?”
I looked into the deep green of his eyes and felt my disappointment taking a back seat to the love I felt for him.
“A glass of wine would be nice, if you’ll have one with me.”
He looked me up and down. “Are you naked under that robe?”
I nodded. “Naked, and still a little bit wet.”
Kirk chuckled. “Then I think I’ll definitely pop the cork on something.”
A short while later, he joined me in our king-size bed and all thoughts of rejection vanished from my mind as he untied my robe and slid his hands across my stomach.
Chapter Sixty
Three days later, I walked into the supermarket and stopped dead in my tracks when I smelled something strange and disgusting. Something I didn’t recognize.
I couldn’t quite describe it, but it was a nauseating combination of aromas: a teenager’s stinky socks, and warm, rotting meat.
Fighting the urge to gag, I covered my nose and mouth with a hand, turned around and hurried out.
For a long while I stood on the sidewalk, watching the world go by, then marched two doors down to the pharmacy, where I hunted up and down the aisles.
Five minutes later, I walked out of there with a pregnancy test and a very powerful urge to pee.
Chapter Sixty-one
“Congratulations,” the doctor said, folding his hands on his desk. “You’re going to have a baby.”
Kirk covered my hand with his and gently squeezed it, while I waded through the confusing tidal wave of my emotions.
My first thought, of course, was for Megan. A part of me didn’t want to have another child – a child who would fill up the empty space in my heart that still belonged only to her.
Another part of me was terrified. I was forty years old. What if something went wrong? What if this baby got sick, or had some sort of accident? I wasn’t sure I could survive the loss of another child.
Those thoughts and feelings, however, were fleeting. Kirk’s hand was warm upon mine, and the love I felt for him – and the love I felt from him in return – eclipsed all the old fears that had been lingering quietly on the outer fringes of my world.
A child…
A child with Kirk, who would be there for us both. Forever. In good times, and in bad.
I thought of my mother and all that she had suffered when she lost the man she loved – yet she’d gone on to live a happy life, to raise Jen and me, to love and respect the man who was at her side so devotedly. The old photo albums were proof of it, as was my rekindled relationship with my father, who I now cherished more than ever before.
It was indeed possible to start again, to find joy, even after it seemed lost forever.
Happy tears filled my eyes and spilled onto my cheeks as I turned toward Kirk. “A baby,” I said, laughing. “We’re going to have a baby.”
His face split into a wide grin, which completely dazzled me. I felt as if I were floating.
The doctor smiled at us as we embraced, and I knew that everything was going to be okay. More than okay, because we had each other.
“Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?” Kirk asked me that night as he lay beside me in bed.
“It’s definitely going to be a boy,” I replied.
“You’re that sure? Do you have a crystal ball or something?”
“Sort of.” I rolled to face him. “Remember when I told you about seeing Megan at the bottom of the lake, and that she spoke to me?”
“Yes. She told you there was something you needed to do.”
“That’s right, but she said something else. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid I might jinx it, or maybe I just wasn’t sure I understood her correctly.”
“What did she say?”
I leaned up on an elbow. “She told me that I couldn’t follow her to heaven yet because I needed to take care of her brother.”
Kirk sat up as well and regarded me with fascination. “No kidding.”
“I told her, of course, that she didn’t have a brother, but she explained to me that he was waiting for his turn. So… I think we’re going to have a son.”
Kirk stared at me in disbelief. Then he inched closer on the bed and kissed me on the mouth.
Chapter Sixty-two
If happiness comes in waves, my life was bobbing about in a thrilling and terrifying windstorm at sea.
The day after the doctor confirmed that I was pregnant, the telephone rang. Kirk was at work, and I was home alone.
According to the call display, it was a 212 area code, which meant it was coming from New York.
Every nerve ending in my body tensed suddenly. What if it was one of the agents who had read Matt’s book? What if this person was calling to offer representation? They didn’t usually call to reject you.
After the third ring, I braced myself for anything, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Sophie Duncan?” It was a man’s voice.
“Yes, may I help you?”
There was a brief pause, then a click, which told me I had just been taken off speaker phone.
“Well, hello there,” the caller said cheerfully. “This is Dennis Velcoff from Phoenix Literary. You submitted your father’s book to us.”
I sat down. “Yes, that’s right. It’s nice to hear from you, Mr. Velcoff. What can I do for you?”
He paused again. “I think the more important question is what I can do for you, Ms. Duncan, because I really loved the book. It’s the best thing to come across my desk in a dog’s age. I’d like to talk to you about representation. Do you have a minute?”
I began to quietly tap my feet on the floor, while I fought to keep my voice calm. “Of course.”
He launched into a detailed speech about all the things he loved in the book – the tragic elements of the story, the strength of the characters, the lyrical quality of the prose. He felt that it was not only a literary masterpiece, but that it had commercial value as well, which was a rare combination, and he was certain the plot would do well in the hands of a good screenwriter. It was just the sort of thing Brad Pitt was looking for. (He told me they’d had lunch the previous week.)
Mr. Velcoff wanted my permission to send it over to Mr. Pitt.
In the meantime, while “Brad” was looking at it, Mr. Velcoff wanted to shop it around to the rig
ht people in New York, and get me a book deal. He was absolutely certain he could get at least six figures for it – possible seven if the stars aligned just right.
Was I interested? he asked. I had to pick myself up off the floor in order to say yes.
Three weeks later, after a fierce bidding war between three large publishing houses, the deal closed at half-a-million dollars for the North American print rights, while Mr. Velcoff held onto the foreign rights. He intended to start selling those as soon as the offer for the film rights was nailed down.
Brad Pitt did, indeed, want to adapt it to film, and at that point, he and Mr. Velcoff were still negotiating the deal.
The following day, I was offered a million dollars for the film option, and I happily took the check – which I donated, in equal amounts, to the oncology department at the children’s hospital where Megan was treated, and neurological cancer research.
With great pleasure, I placed the donations in Megan’s and my father’s names.
Chapter Sixty-three
If you’re reading this book, you’ve probably already guessed that Mr. Velcoff represented me on this project as well, which also went for a significant advance. You can hunt around for the exact dollar amount on the Internet if you’re curious.
But let me remind you that it really doesn’t matter. I would have written this book for nothing, for it was a story I simply had to tell.
Epilogue
I am pleased to report that I gave birth to a healthy son and we named him Peter Matthew Duncan.
A year and a half later, Kirk and I had a second child – a daughter we named Cora.
These days, we live a happy, quiet life at our home in the New Hampshire countryside. Kirk still teaches music and occasionally plays a gig at a jazz club in the city.
I’m a full-time mother and part-time writer, who has learned to appreciate the small, special moments which never fail to take my breath away.
I still miss Megan. Sometimes I ache to hold her in my arms, watch her sleep, smell the sweet scent of her skin. I wish I could watch her grow into a beautiful young woman and seek out her destiny. She would be in middle school now if she had not departed from this world, but that is not how things are, and I know I must accept it.