The Chance You Won't Return (35 page)

“I’ve got to do it sometime, right?” I pulled him back down with me. “And when I pass, we should go somewhere. To celebrate. Like a road trip.” Aside from a couple of soccer tournaments and family vacations, I hadn’t really been outside of Virginia. I wanted to go places with Jim — drive along the coastline and run through the surf, talking to everyone we met along the way. Maybe we could pass it off as a college tour. Possibility flickered around us like fireflies.

We talked about all the places we wanted to go, until the stars shifted position and we had to climb back into the car. I drove, but along the familiar country roads, it didn’t feel like I was behind the wheel. It felt like I was running and I could run forever.

Mom had been at Saint Giles for a month when Dad brought home the first letter. I was sitting on the couch with Jackson curled in the crook of my legs, spacing out in front of some reality show. I barely noticed Dad was around until he dropped the letter on the coffee table.

“Special delivery,” he said.

Jackson leaped up and followed Dad into the kitchen. I picked up the envelope, plain and white, with no address or stamp on the front. I ripped it open and pulled out the pages inside. They were lined and torn at one edge — from a notebook. Immediately I recognized Mom’s handwriting and all the ventricles in my heart froze. I hadn’t seen her or talked to her in so long that holding her letter was kind of a shock. After a few weeks of her not being around, it was like she had gone forever. Now here she was again, in my hands.

I told myself not to get my hopes up.

There was no greeting. It might have been a journal entry, except she kept saying “you,” which I assumed was me, or otherwise Dad wouldn’t have given me the letter. She talked about the weather — how it was going to be spring soon, with the daffodils flowering in the front yard — and how she was getting some rest. Mostly, she was vague on details or mentioned names without explaining them. Was Deborah her roommate or someone in her therapy group? Or was it a name she remembered from one of her Amelia Earhart books?

Then I noticed. She didn’t really refer to Amelia Earhart at all. I flipped the pages over again to make sure — no G.P., no Fred Noonan, no Lockheeds, nothing. Nothing about us, either, but maybe it was something.

In the last paragraph, she wrote:

There wasn’t a signature, either. But it was like she remembered me. The real me, not some imagined girl pilot. We would keep searching for her, and she would keep searching for us. Even though Amelia Earhart’s plane was probably at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, people kept looking for her. No one knows when or how rescue could come. Mom was out there, somewhere, too. We were trying to find each other again.

Thank you to my family for all their love and support, especially my parents, who encouraged my love of words in every form. Thank you for reading to me, for punning with me, for driving me to and from writing camp, and for believing this was a possibility.

To Taylor Martindale, whose encouragement and hard work are invaluable. Your e-3mails always leave me with a smile, even when we talk business. I’m so glad to have you in my corner.

To Hilary Van Dusen, the best editor anyone could ask for. Your editorial judgment is flawless, and your comments always left me enthusiastic about the next draft. Thank you also to the entire Candlewick team. Your talent and dedication to children’s literature are unparalleled.

To the PEN New England Children’s Book Committee, especially Susan Goodman, for changing my life.

To my critique partners — Akshay Ahuja, Andrew Ladd, Heinz Healey, Michelle Fernandes, Kim Liao, Kirstin Chen, Bridget Pelkie, Tara Sullivan, Lauren Barrett, Lisa Palin, Julia Maranan, and Katie Slivensky. Thank you for your thoughtful feedback, your writerly gossip, and for making conferences way more fun.

To Ben Brooks and Pam Painter, who first helped bring this novel to life. Thank you for taking a chance on YA.

To the 2014 debut community, especially the Fourteenery. You make this debut ride a little less scary and a lot more awesome.

To writers, researchers, and publishers of works about and by Amelia Earhart, including the George Palmer Putnam Collection at Purdue University, the official website of Amelia Earhart, and books such as
The Fun of It,
Last Flight,
and
20 Hrs., 40 Min.
Your resources were so helpful in the creation of this novel. Special thanks to Candace Fleming for her wonderful
Amelia Lost: The Life and Disappearance of Amelia Earhart.

Saving the best for last — thank you to my husband, Walt McGough, a brilliant playwright and my favorite person in the world. Thank you for your endless encouragement, for the quiet nights writing in separate rooms, for making every day better than I could have imagined. We have fun!

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2014 by Annie Cardi
Cover photograph copyright © 2014 by Kativ/iStockphoto

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First electronic edition 2014

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2013946619
ISBN 978-0-7636-6292-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-7039-9 (electronic)

Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

visit us at
www.candlewick.com