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256 pages, Paperback
First published March 7, 2017
Andrea and I were thirteen and beginning to outgrow this daylight world of lessons and games and sing-alongs. We were sick of having our days parsed into hour-long blocks, sick of being led from one activity to the next. We were hungry for feral time. That's why we loved the dark.
We approached the horses quietly, with the single-mindedness of lovers. It was as though Andrea and I had created them, as though they were our secret, a gift we'd given each other. They had a quiet kind of bravery, a grace I've rarely seen since. The only thing that comes close is the dignity of some old women – the ones who remember being beautiful, the ones who know they still are.
She wanted him to say it. To expose his hunger so she could hate and pity and love him for it. She wanted him to grip her hand the way the hawk had.
I wanted to tell her what had happened with Cody, how it was nothing like Cosmo had promised. I wanted her to wipe my eyes with her sleeve and say, it's okay, and then it would be. I wanted us to sit at the bottom of a pool that would never be filled. To go to paradise and never get caught. To live together in another country, in our own house, a house with gold walls and a tiger guarding the door.
She shuddered in his hand. Then made a low, tuneless sound, like she was asking a question. And he tried not to cry, tried not to keen. Tried to quiet himself so she could listen for an answer, so she could find her way. He touched the bird's broken wing-feathers, settled her against his chest, and hoped this would calm her. Hoped she'd forgive him. Hoped she was listening to tectonic shifts, or meteors, or the hush of rain before it falls.
I held out both hands to him, knowing we would build our own ark in this world. But he didn't catch me. He moved calmly away, one step higher. And I lost my balance, fell down the stairs, fell so fast that my brain didn't keep up. My brain didn't keep up for years. It still reached for him, still felt relief, still believed in this story: that this was love, that it would save me.
Life seemed so solid once, but now it had melted like Dali’s watch and slipped through their fingers. They read over their tax returns, looked at the photos, and decided they’d lived a good life, without tragedy or scandal. Did this make them a success? Had it been the goal? Was it enough?
I lived in a fog, a beautiful fog like in paintings of winter, of ocean. Memories passed by like clouds on the other side of a window.