Bones & All

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For Kate Garrick

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When people who know I'm vegan hear I've written a novel about cannibals (ghouls, really, but “cannibals” is easier), they think it's bizarre, hilarious, or both. The short version is that I believe the world would be a far safer place if we, as individuals
and
as a society, took a hard, honest look at our practice of flesh eating along with its environmental and spiritual consequences. To that end, I'd like to thank Will Tuttle, whose book
The World Peace Diet
helped me clarify my purpose as I was revising
Bones & All,
and Victoria Moran, mentor, friend, and vegan superstar.

I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to Mrs. Drue Heinz and everyone at the Hawthornden Castle International Retreat for Writers, who gave me the time and space (not to mention nourishment) to redraft the manuscript in January 2013: Hamish, Ally, Mary, Georgina, and my fellows Helena, Kirsty, Melanie, Colin, and Tendai—thank you so much for your support. Thanks also to Ann Marie DiBlasio and Sally Kim for writing the recommendations to get me there.

I give thanks to Nova Ren Suma and Rachel Cantor for their early excitement (when all I had was “cannibals in love!”) over dinner at Dirt Candy, to Seanan McDonnell for being as thorough and as thoughtful as ever, to Kelly Brown and McCormick Templeman for their insight and enthusiasm, and to Elizabeth Duvivier, Amiee Wright, Deirdre Sullivan, Diarmuid O'Brien, Ailbhe Slevin, and Christian O'Reilly for all their kindness and encouragement. Love to Maggie Ginsberg-Schutz and Sarah Paré Miller for hosting me in Wisconsin and to Gail Lowry and Paul Brotchie for showing me how to make “hobo stew.” And thank you, as always, to Brian DeFiore, Shaye Areheart, Adrian Frazier, and Mike McCormack.

My agent, Kate Garrick, put a massive amount of work into each draft. It was well beyond her job description and I'm so grateful for her belief in me. Sara Goodman, you are wonderful and I am thrilled to be on your list. Shout-outs to Alicia Clancy, Melissa Hastings, Olga Grlic, Paul Hochman, Lauren Hougen, Melanie Sanders, Courtney Sanks, Steven Seighman, Justin Velella, George Witte, and everyone else who loved this book at St. Martin's, and to Hana Osman and the rest of the team at Penguin UK.

Thank you most of all to my family—blood and
as good as—
who have always taken it for granted that a story of mine is a story worth reading.

 

Someday I'll wake up and find they've built a maze around me, and I will be relieved.

 

1

Penny Wilson wanted a baby of her own in the worst way. That's what I figure, because she was only supposed to watch me for an hour and a half, and obviously she loved me a little too much. She must have hummed a lullaby, fondled each tiny finger and toe, kissed my cheeks and stroked the down on my head, blowing on my hair like she was making a wish on a dandelion gone to seed. I had my teeth but I was too small to swallow the bones, so when my mother came home she found them in a pile on the living room carpet.

The last time my mother had looked at Penny Wilson she'd still had a face. I know Mama screamed, because anyone would have. When I was older she told me she thought my babysitter had been the victim of a satanic cult. She'd stumbled upon stranger things in suburbia.

It wasn't a cult. If it had been, they would have snatched me away and done unspeakable things to me. There I was, asleep on the floor beside the bone pile, tears still drying on my cheeks and blood wet around my mouth. I loathed myself even then. I don't remember any of this, but I know it.

Even when my mother noticed the gore down the front of my OshKosh overalls, even when she registered the blood on my face, she didn't
see
it. When she parted my lips and put her forefinger inside—mothers are the bravest creatures, and mine is the bravest of all—she found something hard between my gums. She pulled it out and peered at it. It was the hammer of Penny Wilson's eardrum.

Penny Wilson had lived in our apartment complex, across the courtyard. She'd lived alone and worked odd jobs, so no one would miss her for days. That was the first time we had to pick up and move in a hurry, and I often wonder if my mother had an inkling then how efficient she'd become. The last time we moved she packed us up in twelve minutes flat.

Not so long ago I asked her about Penny Wilson:
What did she look like? Where was she from? How old was she? Did she read a lot of books? Was she nice?
We were in the car, but not on the way to a new city. We never talked about what I'd done right after I'd done it.

“What do you want to know all this for, Maren?” she sighed, rubbing at her eyes with her thumb and forefinger.

“I just do.”

“She was blond. Long blond hair, and she always wore it loose. She was still young—younger than I was—but I don't think she had many friends. She was very quiet.” Then Mama's voice snagged on a memory she hadn't wanted to find. “I remember how her face lit up when I asked if she could watch you that day.” She looked angry as she brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. “See? There's no point thinking about these things when there's nothing you can do to change any of it. What's done is done.”

I thought for a minute. “Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“What did you do with the bones?”

She took so long to reply that I began to be afraid of the answer. There was, after all, a suitcase that always came with us that I had never seen her open. Finally she said, “There are some things I'm never going to tell you no matter how many times you ask.”

My mother was kind to me. She never said things like
what you did
or
what you are.

*   *   *

Mama was gone. She'd gotten up while it was still dark, packed a few things, and left in the car. Mama didn't love me anymore. How could I blame her if she never did?

Some mornings, once we'd been in a place long enough that we could begin to forget, she'd wake me up with that song from
Singin' in the Rain.

“Good morning, good moooooooorning! We've talked the whole night through…”

Except she always sounded kind of sad as she sang it.

On May 30th, the day I turned sixteen, my mother came in singing. It was a Saturday, and we had planned a full day of fun. I hugged my pillow and asked, “Why do you always sing it like that?”

She flung the curtains wide open. I watched her close her eyes and smile against the sunshine. “Like what?”

“Like you would've rather gone to bed at a reasonable hour.”

She laughed, plopped herself down at the foot of my bed, and rubbed my knee through the duvet. “Happy birthday, Maren.” I hadn't seen her that happy in a long time.

Over chocolate-chip pancakes I dipped my hand into a gift bag with one big book inside—
The Lord of the Rings
, three volumes in one—and a Barnes & Noble gift card. We spent most of the day at the bookstore. That night she took me out to an Italian restaurant, a
real
Italian restaurant, where the waiters and the chef all spoke to each other in the mother tongue, the walls were covered in old black-and-white family photographs, and the minestrone would keep you full for days.

It was dark in there, and I bet I'll always remember how the light from the red glass votive holder flickered on Mama's face as she raised the soupspoon to her lips. We talked about how things were going at school, how things were going at work. We talked about my going to college: what I might like to study, what I might like to be. A soft square of tiramisu arrived with a candle stuck in it, and all the waiters sang to me, but in Italian:
Buon compleanno a te
.

Afterward she took me to see
Titanic
at the last-chance cinema, and for three hours I lost myself in the story the way I could in my favorite books. I was beautiful and brave, someone destined to love and to survive, to be happy and to remember. Real life held none of those things for me, but in the pleasant darkness of that shabby old theater I forgot it never would.

I tumbled into bed, exhausted and content, because in the morning I could feast on my leftovers and read my new book. But when I woke up the apartment was too still, and I couldn't smell the coffee. Something was wrong.

I came down the hall and found a note on the kitchen table:

I'm your mother and I love you but I can't do this anymore.

She couldn't be gone. She couldn't be. How could she?

I looked at my hands, palms up, palms down, like they didn't belong to me. Nothing else did: not the chair I sank into, not the table I laid my forehead on, not the window I stared through. Not even my own mother.

I didn't understand. I hadn't done the bad thing in more than six months. Mama was all settled into her new job and we liked this apartment. None of this made sense.

I ran into her bedroom and found the sheets and comforter still on the bed. She'd left other things too. On the nightstand, paperback novels she'd already read. In the bathroom, almost-empty bottles of shampoo and hand lotion. A few blouses, the not-as-pretty ones, were still hanging in the closet on those cheap wire hangers you get at the dry cleaner's. We left stuff like this whenever we moved, but this time I was one of the things she'd left behind.

Trembling, I went back into the kitchen and read the note again. I don't know if you can read between the lines when there's only one sentence, but I could read all the things she hadn't said clearly enough:

I can't protect you anymore, Maren. Not when it's the rest of the world I should be protecting instead.

If you only knew how many times I thought about turning you in, having you locked up so you could never do it again …

If you only knew how I hate myself for bringing you into the world …

I did know. And I should have known when she took me out for my birthday, because it was too special not to have been the last thing we'd do together. That was how she'd planned it.