Forgiven (28 page)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The first draft of
Forgiven
became my creative thesis for my MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults at Vermont College of Fine Arts. I could not have written the novel without the guidance of my thesis advisor, Leda Schubert. Her patience, vast knowledge, encouragement, and editorial skills sustained me when I needed them most. Leda, I’m grateful and proud to call myself your former student and forever friend.

My critique partners, Kathy Whitehead and Shirley Hoskins, read bits and pieces of the novel as I struggled to bring it together, and as always, their wise words guided me through thick and thin.

My friends in SCBWI, in the classes of 2k9 and 2k10, and at the Vermont College of Fine Arts—you are my heroes. You have come through for me time and time again, when I felt I couldn’t go on, or when I needed guidance, or when I needed to know that the struggle was all worth it. My ThunderBadgers—especially my friends and confidants Kari Baumbach, Anne Bustard, and Lindsey Lane—I love you all.

The faculty of Vermont College of Fine Arts is without peer. My advisors, Sarah Ellis, Jane Kurtz, Uma Krishnaswami, and Leda Schubert, provided me with craft tools I will use forever. And Kathi Appelt and Cynthia Leitich Smith—you are my special Texas connection, boosters, and sweet friends.

Wayne and Martha Sellers, and Tim and Randi Jacobsen—thanks for being there, and for supporting my craft, again and again.

Alyssa Eisner Henkin—you are my agent; but you are also my rock. I can always count on you, and I love you for it.

Jen Bonnell, my talented editor—you are amazing. You cut right through to the heart of my story, every time. I am in awe and forever grateful.

The other fabulous folks at Speak/Penguin—Kristin Gilson, Eileen Kreit, and Caroline Sun, and all the wonderful folks in School and Library Marketing—thank you for believing in me and in my stories. And thank you, Jeanine Henderson, for giving me two of the most beautiful covers an author could desire.

And last, but oh so not least, thank you to my husband, Jeff, and my son, Kevin. You tolerate my moods, my late nights, my roundabout discussions of character, motivation, plot, and you both have the wisdom to advise me when I desire it, support me when I need it, and leave me in peace when all else fails. I love you.

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FAITHFUL

I KNOW A PLACE ON THIS EARTH THAT CONTAINS wonders enough to stop the breath. A place where the very rocks whisper and whine, where the rivers boil and the snow-studded peaks thrust into a bowl of blue; where great shaggy beasts press the earth with cloven hooves or threaten with claw and fang; where new life and lurking death coexist in the shallows of varicolored pools.

I went to this place to search for what I had lost, but instead found a life unexpected.

THE TRAIL WAS TOO CROWDED FOR A HARD RIDE. Too groomed, too manicured. I wished I could fly, could gallop away from my raging confusion, but I couldn’t give Ghost my crop and set him off at a canter. I urged him into a fast trot instead and even then I saw it in the faces we passed: the raised eyebrows, the surprise, the disapproval. Disapproval draped over me like a funeral crepe.

I pressed my lips together. I imagined the glares I’d receive if I rode astride instead of sidesaddle. Mama had worn a split skirt when we rode. When I was little I’d thought it fun—they all watched her, my mama! But when I reached my teens I saw the attention for what it was. The eyes had skimmed from Mama to me. I was guilty by association.

I sighed as I slowed Ghost to a walk, then bent forward and caressed his silky neck with my gloved fingers and stuffed my warring thoughts all the way down.

Ghost twisted his ear toward me. “You’re always ready to listen, aren’t you? I wish you could come with me. That would be such a comfort. But I have to go, and you have to stay. It’s not forever, old friend. Only a little trip. I promise I’ll be back.” Promise. Like Mama had promised me. I squelched that thought, the misery of broken promises. My lips drew tight. “I promise.”

Ghost tossed his head; he understood. I sat up in the saddle and thought it all through again.

Papa’s plans, having come from out of the blue two days ago, had thrown me into conflict. First, I’d felt excitement.

“There is some suggestion—only a possibility, mind you,” Papa had said. I tensed, waiting. “Your mother was there before. We took a trip out west, right after you were born. You stayed in Newport with your grandparents, but we went west. Did I ever mention it? No? Well. Your mother and I were there, years ago.”

Papa’s eyes had grown bright; he leaned toward me with a smile. “Your uncle John’s been investigating. He’s made some discoveries. There may be a chance, only a chance . . .”

“What?” A chance she was alive? My breath quickened. I reached out my hand, tugged his shirtsleeve. This was the thing I’d prayed for these many months. “Papa, are you saying she’s alive and we can find her?”

But Papa looked away; he didn’t answer. He bent and picked up the train schedule, flipped it open, and pointed. “If we leave within the week, we’d be there by the middle of June.”

“Wait. So soon?” My mind twisted in another direction, my feelings in conflict. Elation turned to shock.

Leave within the week. This week. Be somewhere out west in the middle of June. And back—when? To find Mama was my greatest hope. But to leave Newport at this very moment, even to find her, was . . . I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead to quell the ache. We’d be gone well into the start of Newport’s season.

“Papa, wait. How long will we be away? You know I have so much to do! Kitty and I have so many plans!” It was my season, and it should have been Mama planning with me. The conflict in me began to boil and my voice rose with it. “There are the clothes, and the orchestra, and the flowers, and the invitations . . . all the little details to manage.”

It was my sixteenth spring, the eve of my debut. This was the summer I’d dreamed about for as long as I could remember, the summer in which my future would finally be sealed. A debut required hundreds of preparations. The ball alone would take weeks to plan. Most girls planned theirs with their mothers, but my mama was gone. I was on my own, with only Kitty to help me. Yet now, here suddenly was the possibility of Mama . . .

Mama. I wanted to know what my uncle John had learned, out there in the wilds of Wyoming. For the past year I’d stubbornly insisted that Mama was alive; now Papa had given me fresh hope.

I felt dizzy. My hand clutched at Papa’s shirt, twisting the cotton. My stomach twisted, too.

It was unfair that this was happening now. That Uncle John and Papa would make this unnamed discovery now—it was unfair! I didn’t expect Papa to understand how much my debut meant to me. If Mama had been here she would have understood. I like to think she would have understood.

Ghost whinnied and brought me back to the moment. I caught the eye of Mrs. Wolcott as we passed on the trail. I smiled; her return was faint, not quite a sneer yet not a smile. I stiffened. A glittering debut with all the right trappings was one of the few things that might make the Mrs. Wolcotts look at me new. Since Mama had left, I’d tossed and turned at night, alone with my wretched thoughts. And now, when I’d finally begun to make some peace with my life, to let go of my desperate insistence that she’d be back, now everything was about to change.

I’d asked Papa two days ago (two days! A lifetime!), “Can we be back in time? If we’re back by July, that would be all right. Maybe Kitty can manage till then. But Papa, we have to be back by then.” I remembered tightening my hold on his sleeve.

“Yes, yes,” Papa said, waving his hand, the train schedule flapping, brushing off my questions. He paused and looked at the floor, tugging his mustache with two fingers. “There’s something else, Mags. Listen. You must promise not to tell anyone that this is anything but a pleasure trip. You must promise especially not to tell your grandparents.” He looked up at me with a piercing gaze.

I was taken aback. “Not tell? But . . .”

“It’s important, Margaret.” Papa took my free hand. “You must promise. I don’t want to give them false hope.” He searched my face, his eyes unusually bright. “Lord knows your grandfather is angry enough with me.”

His grip tightened around my hand, so I put my other hand on his and lied. “I understand.” Why wouldn’t he want my grandparents to know that he may have found their daughter?

“Good girl. Now, I have some things to do, eh?”

“But, Papa. I want to hear what Uncle John . . .”

“Margaret, please.” And he ushered me out of his studio and shut the door. I stood in the dark hall, alone, my lips pursed in frustration.

Ghost snorted and I stroked his neck again. He knew me better than anyone, my Ghost. “I have to go.” I sighed. “I’ll miss you, my friend.” I would miss the pleasure I took in our daily rides. I’d miss our unspoken connection.

There were many things I’d miss. Like Kitty. And the first round of parties that Mama should have been here to help me prepare for. Sad, gray, boring winter had yielded at last to spring—my spring. In only a few weeks the wealthy from all over the East Coast would descend on Newport to hunt, sail, mingle, and play the complicated social game.

Which seemed simple in comparison with the tangle of feelings weaving through me now.

I adjusted my seat, restless, and fidgeted, the wool riding habit chafing my thigh even through the silk of my petticoats. Most people said Mama was dead. Now I’d be proved right. When we found her, out in that terrible Wyoming wilderness, we’d bring her home. We’d make her well. Then the matrons of Newport would forget her eccentricities. I’d have everything—Mama, my season, my future, everything.

But there was the other possibility. We might go west and not find Mama. Mama might return to Newport and find us gone. I picked unhappily at a loose thread on my velvet cuff. I wanted to find Mama and have her back home with me. But even if we did find her and bring her back, there was still the chance that she could drag me down with her unsocial behavior . . . or with her madness . . .

That unspeakable thing. I reached my hand to Ghost’s neck and smoothed the stiff braids lacing his mane. I ticked the riding crop against my knee,
tick-tick, tick-tick,
tapped the pace of Ghost’s footfalls. The breeze, carrying the faint scent of salt water, lifted the veil on my hat. Ghost’s ears twitched.

I wanted a normal life. But I also wanted Mama.

Normal
had not defined Mama;
bohemian
had. Other mothers served tea, my mother painted landscapes. Other mothers wore hats, while mine wore ostrich feathers. My mother laughed, openmouthed with joy; thin-lipped sedate smiles were all the others could muster. Even as a child, I’d watched Papa gaze at her, awestruck; I’d seen how other men stared at her, too. She was compelling, magnetic. Her silky black hair always ended up falling loose, the buttons open at her throat, her cameo pinned low.

Bohemian
was a likable word once—a flamboyant word, like ripe grapes on the tongue, conjuring something naughty but fun—but now it fell harsh on my ears. I now understood the flinty looks of Newport matrons and felt the slights from their daughters for myself. Her cameo hadn’t only been pinned low; it had been eyegathering low.

And the whispers—I’d heard them, too, about her lonely walks on the Cliff Walk. Whispers that she was mad.

But I pretended not to hear for as long as I could.

Last June, they grew so loud I couldn’t ignore them any longer. And on a morning when I stood in the doorway to her room and witnessed a dreadful thing, I feared they were right.

“Mama?”

It was a glorious summer day and I wanted a new shirtwaist, something cool for the coming heat. I went to Mama’s room to persuade her to take me to town, where we could shop and have tea and sweet cakes. My mood was so gay, I was unprepared for what I saw.

Perched on Mama’s splay-foot easel was not her usual dreamy landscape, but something ugly. A nightmare vision of hideous vapors and smokes. It was unfinished, a painting of frightening landforms—spires and terraces in the reds, ochres, and oranges of hell. Other new paintings like it leaned against the walls, against her dressing table. Fire . . . bubbling, steaming pits . . . it was grotesque, the product of a sick mind. While I knew Mama had been distracted of late, here I saw that she had drifted into something dark and horrific. And I hadn’t noticed until that moment.

She’d left her oils to pace before the brilliant window, her form a dark silhouette framed against unearthly light. Her watered-silk dressing gown gaped open. I froze, staring from the hall at her and at those hellish landscapes, misery flooding my body. She did not see me. I suspected that she could not see me.

“Mama?” I repeated, louder.

She stopped pacing, her face tilted away, her hair cascading in unkempt waves loose to her waist. “I don’t know where she is. I can’t find her.” She resumed pacing, never looking my way.

She was talking nonsense. I bit my lip. I balled my hands into fists in frustration. I whispered, “I wish, I wish . . .” I wished Mama would turn and look at me.

“Mama?” Nothing. I turned away into the empty hall.

My chest formed tight knot. She wasn’t normal. If she loved me, she wouldn’t act this way. Whispers snarled in my brain: “she’s mad,” “she’s shocking.” I leaned against the wall and swallowed the hot tears that rose into my throat. I wanted a mother who played by Newport’s rules, not a mama who was peculiar.

Not a mama who frightened me with her odd behavior. With the thought that I was too like her.