Marah said quietly, “Here goes,” and started to read aloud.
Panic always comes to me in the same way. First, I get a knot in the pit of my stomach that turns to nausea, then a fluttery breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing can cure. But what causes my fear is different every day; I never know what will set me off. It could be a kiss from my husband, or the lingering look of sadness in his eyes when he draws back. Sometimes I know he’s already grieving for me, missing me even while I’m still here. Worse yet is Marah’s quiet acceptance of everything I say. I would give anything for another of our old knock-down, drag-out fights. That’s one of the first things I’d say to you now, Marah: Those fights were real life. You were struggling to break free of being my daughter but unsure of how to be yourself, while I was afraid to let you go. It’s the circle of love. I only wish I’d recognized it then. Your grandmother told me I’d know you were sorry for those years before you did, and she was right. I know you regret some of the things you said to me, as I regret my own words. None of that matters, though. I want you to know that. I love you and I know you love me.
But these are just more words, aren’t they? I want to go deeper than that. So, if you’ll bear with me (I haven’t really written anything in years), I have a story to tell you. It’s my story, and yours, too. It starts in 1960 in a small farming town up north, in a clapboard house on a hill above a horse pasture. When it gets good, though, is 1974, when the coolest girl in the world moved into the house across the street …
Marah lost herself in the story of a lonely fourteen-year-old girl who got made fun of on the bus and lived through her favorite fictional characters. They called me Kootie and laughed at my clothes and asked me where the flood was and I never said a word, just hugged my brown-paper-wrapped schoolbooks closer to my chest. Frodo was my best friend that year, and Gandalf and Sam and Aragon. I imagined myself on some mythical quest. Marah could picture it perfectly: an unpopular girl who sat out one night under the stars and happened to meet another lonely girl. A few chance words that night became the start of a friendship that changed both of their lives.
And we thought we looked good. Have you gone there yet, Marah? Followed fashion to a ridiculous place that makes no sense and still looked in the mirror and seen a cool, magical version of yourself? That was the eighties for me. Of course, Tully was in full control of my wardrobe …
Marah touched her short black hair, remembering when it was pink and gelled …
When I met your father, it was magic. Not for him—not then—but for me. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can look into a pair of eyes and see your whole future. I wish that kind of love for you kids—don’t accept anything less.
When I held my babies and looked into their murky eyes, I found my life’s work. My passion. My purpose. It may not be trendy, but I was born to be a mother, and I loved every single second of it. You and your brothers taught me everything there was to know about love, and it breaks my heart to leave you.
The journal kept going, winding and turning and bending through the years of her mother’s life; by the time Marah came to the end, the sun was gone; night had fallen and Marah hadn’t even noticed. Orange exterior light came through the windowpanes. Marah clicked on the bedside lamp and kept reading aloud.
Here’s what you need to know, Marah. You are a struggler, a railer-against-the-machine. I know losing me will wound you deeply. You’ll remember our arguments and fights.
Forget them, baby girl. That was just you being you and me being me. Remember the rest of it—the hugs, the kisses, the sandcastles we made, the cupcakes we decorated, the stories we told each other. Remember how I loved you, every single bit of you. Remember I loved your fire and your passion. You are the best of me, Marah, and I hope that someday you’ll discover that I am the best of you, too. Let everything else go. Just remember how we loved each other.
Love. Family. Laughter. That’s what I remember when it’s all said and done. For so much of my life I thought I didn’t do enough or want enough. I guess I can be forgiven for my stupidity. I was young. I want my children to know how proud I am of them, and how proud I am of me. We were everything we needed—you and Daddy and the boys and I. I had everything I ever wanted.
Love.
That’s what we remember.
Marah stared down at the last word—remember—through a glaze of tears that burned her eyes and blurred the text. In that watery haze, she pictured her mother down to the minutest detail—her blond hair that never seemed to fall right, her green eyes that looked right into your soul and knew exactly what you were thinking, the way she knew when a slammed door was an invitation and when it wasn’t, the way she laughed in fits and starts, the way she brushed the hair from Marah’s eyes and whispered, “Always, baby girl,” just before a kiss good night.
“Oh, my God, Tully … I remember her…”
* * *
I can feel my heart beating. In it, I hear the rise and fall of the tides, the whoosh of a summer breeze, the beat of a drum.
Memories of sound.
But now there is something else in my darkness, tapping at me, prodding me, unsettling the beat of my heart.
I open my eyes, not even realizing that they’ve been closed, but it makes no difference; there is nothing to see except the endless black around me.
“Tully.”
That’s me. Or it was me. I hear it again, my name, and as the letters coalesce, echo with sound, I become aware of tiny bits of light, fireflies maybe, or flashlight beams, dancing around me, darting like fish.
Words. The starlight points are words, floating down to me.
“… coolest girl in the world…”
“… the sandcastles we made…”
“… the best of you…”
I draw in a sharp breath of discovery; it rattles in my chest like a pair of dice.
Marah.
It is her voice I hear, but the words are Kate’s. Her journal. I read it so many times over the years I have memorized it. I find myself straining forward, reaching out. Darkness presses back, restrains me, starlight is falling past me.
Someone takes my hand. Marah. I feel it, the warm strength of her grip, the curl of her fingers around mine; the only real thing in this world that makes no sense.
You can hear her, Kate says.