“Daddy!” A little girl with wispy brown curls and wide hazel eyes runs down the hallway toward him, face alight, and arms outstretched. “Daddy home!”
“Hey there, pumpkin,” he says, laughing and swooping her up into his arms. “Did you miss me?” He kisses her and she laughs, then squirms upright and sits in the crook of his arm, looking at me.
“Hewwo,” she says, reaching out a damp, curious finger and touching the delicate white embroidery on the lapel of my ruby velvet blazer. “Pwetty fwowwus.”
“They’re Queen Anne’s lace,” I say faintly, because I know she isn’t Ellie but she could be, if Ellie had lived to be two, she could be, and I stand there reeling, mute because I don’t know what to do with this thought now that I have it.
“This is Sayre,” Beale says, and he’s speaking to his daughter but holding my gaze. “Sayre, this is my daughter, Livy. Olivia. Would you like to hold her?”
I step back, heart pounding, wondering if he has any idea at all of what he’s asking me to do. I haven’t held a baby since Ellie, can’t even think about getting close to one, of ever loving someone again as much as I loved her without the ice wall inside me descending, protecting me because I never want to go through that kind of pain again, so no, no, I don’t want to hold her, don’t want to kiss her soft little cheek or have her nestle against me so trusting. I can’t do it and I won’t, I won’t risk it, ever, because wide-open love hurts, it leaves you vulnerable, and terrified and . . .
Oh my God.
I sway, dizzy, and put a hand against the wall to steady myself.
“Sayre?” Beale says, closing the gap between us. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t say it, can’t tell him that I closed myself off just like my mother did, that history is repeating itself and the realization just hit me, that I’m scared of the way he holds that baby so close to his heart, so tight in his arms, like he has no ice wall inside him, like he’s somehow managed to heal and love that hard again even though he knows, like I do, that pain that strong can numb you, cripple you, shut you down inside forever, but he’s done it anyway, opened his heart and risked everything and now he’s offering me that chance, too, even if he doesn’t know it, and I’m afraid to take it, I am, but if I don’t . . .
“Sayre?” he says, touching my arm and looking at me with concern.
“Yeah, sorry, I just . . . I haven’t held a baby since Ellie,” I say, and with great effort I hold out my hands, gasping, laughing and crying as Livy comes into them, slings a sturdy arm around my neck and gently pats my tearstained cheek. “Paw Saya. Saya is cwying. Don’t be sad, Saya. Be happy.”
Be happy.
“Sounds like a plan,” Beale says gruffly and then he gathers us close, holds us tight, and when he says, Shh, it’s okay, Sayre. Everything’s gonna be all right, it feels like a promise, forgiveness, a future.
Chapter 29
WAKING UP EARLY ON SATURDAY MORNING with the May sun streaming in my bedroom window is not the best part of my life right now, which, since my bedroom is in the familiar, cozy little house that I’ve been renting from my next-door neighbors Terrie, Beale, and Livy for the last five months, really ought to say something.
I stretch, feeling luxurious under the new blue cotton sheet, and down at the bottom of the bed Misty crouches, wiggles her back end, and pounces on my foot. “Ow! Come here, you, and be careful of your scar,” I say, patting the sheet and smiling as she comes to me, eyes bright and tail high, then collapses, purring and nuzzling me under the chin. She’s been spayed for cost, thanks to Terrie’s connection down at the SPCA and her incision is healing nicely, but still, I worry sometimes. I just don’t want her to get hurt.
What’s better is that I liked Terrie the moment I met her back on New Year’s Eve, when she came in from the kitchen with mugs of cocoa, a heaping plate of leftover Christmas cookies, and three tumbling, frolicking Sheltie puppies at her heels. They’d been rescued from a puppy mill outside Lancaster, she said, setting the tray on the coffee table in front of me, and she was fostering them until they found their forever homes. She stood there a moment, watching as they romped around her feet, seized the flared bottoms of her jeans in their sharp puppy teeth and, growling, commenced a lively tug-of-war, then looked over at me, her dark eyes bright with amusement and yes, assessment, too.
“Hi,” she said, and smiled. “I’m Terrie.”
“Hi,” I said and couldn’t help but smile back because the waitress had been right, she did have a good face. “I’m Sayre.”
She invited me to stay the night and I slept in Aunt Loretta’s room, listening to the soft, garbled hum of her and Beale murmuring in their room down the hall, gazing at the framed needlepoint pictures on the walls, the rocking chair in the corner and finally closing my eyes and snuggling down under the quilt Aunt Loretta had hand-stitched way back for her own wedding.
In the morning I woke up with a startling idea, and so at breakfast, when the three of us sat down at the kitchen table, and Livy sat on the floor and shared her oatmeal with the puppies, I summoned my nerve and asked them about Miss Mo’s house, who owned it now, why it was empty, what they thought it would rent for, and how I could go about renting it. They looked at each other, surprised, and then Beale cleared his throat and said that he and Terrie had talked last night, and I was welcome to stay there in the farmhouse with them.
It was a good feeling, knowing that, and I said so, but I also knew this wasn’t my home anymore, it was theirs, and that was the way it should be. So I asked again about Miss Mo’s, and I know they understood because Beale didn’t argue or try to change my mind. Only nodded and said that Terrie still owned the house, and the former tenants had left back in the fall, claiming the mountain was too bleak and lonely, and they wanted to be closer to town.
But the mountain wasn’t lonely for me. No, it was the one place in the world where I’d never felt lonely, and so we talked about rent, rules and responsibility, school and work, graduation and boyfriends, and I got more and more excited because it would be hard, really hard, but I could do it, I knew I could. I’d done far more for less, and in far worse circumstances. So we agreed, struck a bargain, and although my mailing address for school records and all had to be Beale’s because technically I was still a minor, I moved into Miss Mo’s house that weekend, after standing alongside Candy at my mother’s short, quiet funeral.
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, careful not to step on Sunny, who is sprawled out on the floor. My bare feet brush against her soft, thick fur and she lifts her beautiful, pointy face and yawns at me, thumps her long, feathered tail in acknowledgment, and heaves a giant, doggy sigh the way only a Sheltie can do.
What’s better is that I don’t have to go to work today because the Candlelight always gives its waitresses—yes, I got a promotion—their birthdays off, and so I’m hosting my first party, not because Terrie didn’t offer to but because I’m eighteen now, and I wanted to. It’s not going to be big, friends and family only, and there will be plenty of food but there won’t be any alcohol. Beale didn’t care when I told him, and Evan, who gets way more enthused about saving his river than drowning his brain cells, only limped over to kiss me sweet and long, and whisper, “It’s not the beer I come here for, Bellavia, just in case you don’t know that yet.”
I’d been so busy making plans with Terrie and Beale that I never got back to the hospital to see him before his operation, but I’d called and we spent a good hour on the phone, and then I went in the day after and sat with him all afternoon because he’d opened his eyes, groped for my hand and asked me to stay. He’s had three operations on his knee so far, and should be done now, except for rehab. He’s missed a lot of school and I feel bad about that but he doesn’t, claiming school will still be there when he goes back but right now he wants to make sure that I will be, too.
What’s better is that he thinks I’m a ke
eper, and the feeling is mutual.
I make a pot of coffee and while it’s brewing, run in, take a shower, and get dressed. I don’t have a lot to choose from, don’t have much stuff and hardly any furniture, but it’s coming on garage sale season and since I make better tips now down at the restaurant, I plan on getting out there and finding some spectacular bargains.
What I do have, though, are photos, and it doesn’t matter that their frames were a quarter apiece down in one of the Salvation Army store bins because it’s what’s in those frames that counts, all the pictures from the album Beale had made and left for me on Ellie’s grave, pictures of him and me and my sister, my mother and Aunt Loretta, Miss Mo and Mareene, starting with my first time here as a foster kid, and then skipping to our year up here on the mountain. I have pictures of Terrie and Livy, too, and even one of Grandma Lucy, standing out in front of the church and holding my hand, both of us getting ready to board the bus to go to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas show. Red Ganzler found it for me in one of the old church event newsletters, and had it enlarged. It’s grainy, but I can still see her fine.
What’s better is that Red was right, pain isn’t as heavy when it’s shared, and airing it gives it a chance to heal, rather than stay festering deep inside, and so I stop in at the church office to see him twice a week after school. We talk and sometimes I cry for the way my mother and I might have been, but in the end I understand that life holds no guarantees, and, in a surprising bit of comfort, that if even one moment of my past life had been different, a different choice or reaction, then I might not be where I am today.
That thought usually leaves me feeling two distinct emotions at the same exact time, regret and relief, and it isn’t confusing at all.
What’s better is that I’ve laid flowers on my mother’s grave, a mixed bouquet left on the flat, bronze marker Candy had made to mark her spot next to my grandfather, Big Joyner Huff. It has my mother’s name on it, her birth and death dates, and down at the bottom in small print it says A FOREVER FRIEND.
And that’s fine.
I spot Stormy at the edge of the field, stalking something in the weeds and put Sunny out on her lead so she can roll in the grass and bark at squirrels for a while, then go back in, have a cup of coffee, and straighten up for the party. There isn’t much to do except put away all the toys I have here from babysitting Livy, make my bed, and get my part of the food ready. It doesn’t take long because Marisol is bringing appetizers from the Candlelight—they have the best spinach-artichoke dip ever—and Terrie the birthday cake. Beale donated his old hibachi and some charcoal to the cause and has promised to play grill master for the hamburgers and hot dogs. Red is bringing buffalo wings made with an old family recipe, and Evan’s in charge of the Snapple and soda.
I am making the salads: potato, pasta, and ambrosia.
What’s even better than all of that is the sound of car doors slamming outside in the driveway, and voices raised in cheerful greeting, Evan’s broad smile and the birthday kiss that leaves my knees weak, Livy barreling into the kitchen, squealing an excited Happy bufday, Saya! and throwing herself at my legs.
What’s better is lifting her high in my arms and kissing her chubby, pink cheek, stroking her curls and laughing when, impatient with all that loving, she squirms to get down.
What’s better is the love on Beale’s face when he walks in, carrying the scents of sun and earth and newly mown grass, hugs me, and says, “Happy birthday, Miss Sayre Bellavia. I’m so proud of you,” and then he hands me something, a sheet of three-inch high, black, stick-on, alphabet letters and grinning, says, “Come on.” He leads me outside, down the sidewalk to the mailbox and when I look at him, puzzled, his grin widens and he says, “Well, go ahead, honey. You’re eighteen and this is your legal address now. You’re going to be getting your own mail delivered to your own house from now on, so . . .”
What’s best of all is standing there in the sunshine surrounded by the people I love, peeling those letters off the sheet one at a time, the ones that spell BELLAVIA and sticking them to the side of that big old farmhouse mailbox, smoothing them down tight so that they never come off, putting it right out there for all of Dug County to see that I made it through, that I live here, responsible, happy, and on my own in this beloved little house up on Sunrise Road, and while that might not seem like anything special to the ones who have always had warmth and food and shelter, deep roots, a promising future, and a family who cares, while to them this might seem like nothing more than basic or normal or ordinary, to me . . .
It’s beautiful.
INTRODUCTION
Seven years ago, Sayre Bellavia had everything she could ever want. But when her mother’s relapse meets with unexpected tragedy, Sayre’s life is consumed by her mother’s addiction and neglect.
When fate lands Sayre in the truck of a wounded stranger with an out-of-service phone, she finds herself reliving some of the best and worst memories of her upbringing, including the year that changed everything. And time is running out—not just for Sayre’s mother, but for Sayre’s chance to finally speak her piece.
TOPICS AND QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. One of the overarching themes in Ordinary Beauty is identity. How would Sayre describe herself? What does she think of her last name, Bellavia? How do other characters in the book struggle with identity?
2. Why is Sayre so intent on feeding the kitten in the beginning of the story, especially when she barely has enough food for herself ? What kind of symbolism do animals represent throughout Ordinary Beauty?
3. When Evan swerves into a ditch to avoid hitting Sayre, she stays with him until help arrives—even when Candy tries to take her to the hospital to see her mother. Why does Sayre consider her promise to stay with Evan so unbreakable? How do the themes of trust and loyalty develop throughout the story?
4. Discuss the relationship between Dianne and Candy. Does their friendship resemble any relationship anything in your own life? In what ways is it healthy and unhealthy?
5. How would you characterize Sayre’s self-deprecation? How does her mother influence it? Which other characters have a powerful effect on Sayre’s self-esteem?
6. Red tells Sayre “There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.” (p. 107) Why is Sayre so hesitant to talk about her pain? Can you pinpoint any events with her mother that may have influenced this reluctance?
7. After her brief time on Sunrise Road, Sayre clings to the blissful memories of life with Beale, Aunt Loretta, and Ellie. Do you have a happy memory of your own that you feel you can never reclaim? How does living in the past affect Sayre’s emotional health? Is it helpful or hurtful?
8. In what moment does it become clear to Sayre that her mother is really dying? Why is this realization significant?
9. Sayre refers to Queen Anne’s lace as “clean and pure and safe.” (p. 156) How does this description fit into the larger themes of Ordinary Beauty?
10. When Sayre brings home an A+ on a homework assignment, Beale calls her a “genius,” but Sayre’s mother is not impressed. Why does Sayre’s success bother Dianne so much? Can you think of any other reasons why Dianne would resent her own daughter?
11. Can you name any redeeming qualities about Sayre’s mother, Dianne? Why is it so difficult to see beyond anything but the addict—even during the time she was clean, sober, and happy? Can you think of other identities that cloud our judgment of someone’s true character?
12. How did you react to the narrative structure in Ordinary Beauty? How do you think it relates to the story itself ?
13. Why did Sayre decide on her last words to be Love you, ’bye to her mother?
14. After reading Ordinary Beauty, has your understanding of addiction and its influence on those involved changed in any way? Why or why not? Have you ever known anyone who has battled this disease or do you yourself have any personal experience
with addiction? If so, where there any parts of Sayre’s story that especially resonated?
15. Discuss the title, Ordinary Beauty. What were your assumptions about the book when you began reading? How would you characterize the title now?
ENHANCE YOUR BOOK CLUB
1. Volunteer for a day at your local animal shelter. Like Sayre, who loved animals of all kinds, spend time with and care for strays and other unwanted cats and dogs. You might even find your own Stormy.
2. Bring your book club on a wilderness adventure and find a spot with Queen Anne’s lace. Discuss Ordinary Beauty in the company of its most prominent symbol.
3. Read one of Laura Wiess’s other books, Such a Pretty Girl, Leftovers, or How It Ends. Discuss any parallels it has with Ordinary Beauty. Which one did you like better?
4. Visit Laura Wiess’s website, www.laurawiess.com. Learn about her past works, favorite activities, and upcoming appearances.
Laura Wiess, Ordinary Beauty
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