35
I can’t tell them everything, but I tell them enough. That the job with Margaret imploded. That it took Hayden’s and my budding relationship with it.
That it made me doubt myself and the work.
“We can lighten your load at The Scratch for a while,” Bianca promises, “while you figure things out.”
“I don’t want to put anyone in a bad spot,” I say.
“Alice. You’re in a bad spot,” Cillian says.
“It’s fine,” I say. “This really isn’t that big of a deal, all things considered.”
“Well, then stop considering ‘all things’ for a minute,” Priya says. “This doesn’t have to be the greatest tragedy to ever befall anyone. It doesn’t even have to be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Exactly,” Bianca agrees. “You’re hurting right now, that’s what matters.”
“I’m so glad you’re all here,” I say again, and when Cillian opens his mouth, surely to say something snarky, I add, “especially you, Cillian,” and we all dissolve into laughter.
I show them around the property, let them take pictures with Marietta, the friendliest of our chickens.
Mom puts us to work for an hour in the afternoon, and afterward, we take turns using our house’s one shower.
Cillian is craving pizza, so for the first time I can remember, ever, my mom agrees to order some. As we’re waiting for the delivery, she and I make a peach crumble and set it out to cool while we eat dinner. After Mom goes to bed, we play three-quarters of a game of Monopoly, then agree that we hate Monopoly too much to play for another second.
“We should have a sleepover,” Priya says.
“That’s literally what this is, Pri,” Bianca says.
“No, I mean, we should all sleep in the living room together,” Priya says.
“I’m too old to sleep on the floor,” Cillian says through a yawn.
“But I hate sleeping alone,” Priya says.
“I’ll sleep with you,” Cillian offers, waggling his eyebrows.
“Never again,” Priya says, because that actually is how their friendship began.
“I meant platonically,” Cillian insists.
“It’s either that or one of you takes Audrey’s room and the other takes the couch,” I say.
Priya pouts. “Why can’t I sleep with you?”
“Because I already called it, within ten minutes of getting here,” Bianca says.
“Fine,” Priya says. “Cillian, you’re back in.”
“Well, now I’m not sure I’m up for it,” Cillian says, and they squabble for a minute while we’re all standing up and saying our good nights. In the end, he and Priya take Audrey’s room, and Bianca and I tuck ourselves into my bed.
“You seem better,” she murmurs sleepily as we settle in.
“You guys lifted my spirits,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. I mean, you seem somehow happier than you did before you left. More at peace or something.”
It’s strange, but she’s right. I feel at once utterly heartbroken and also like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
I miss Hayden. I love him. But after sending that letter, I’ve done what I can.
I’ve done what I need to do to live a life without any more regrets.
“I’m thinking about writing a memoir,” I whisper up to the dark ceiling.
Bianca turns over to face me. “Really?”
I nod. “About my parents. About everything they’ve taught me.”
“That’s a beautiful idea,” Bianca says.
“It’s not a Margaret Ives biography,” I say. “There’s no guarantee anyone will want it.”
“You can’t think about that yet,” Bianca says. “Right now you just have to think about what you want to write about.”
I want, I realize, to write about the same thing I’ve always wanted to write about.
“I want to write about love,” I say.
Bianca nods. “Then do that. Write about love.”
After one last group hug, I deposit my friends in an airport-bound cab. Mom and I wave as they retreat, the sun setting brilliantly behind them.
I think, as I always do at sunrise and sunset, about the tiny mosaic in my bedroom.
The colors of Nicollet. The colors of hope.
Back inside, we set up the camera and recorder and get back to work.
A month goes by. I garden with my mother during the day, the recorder running as we talk. We listen to music while we cook at night, all of Dad’s old favorites. Afterward we look through photo albums and watch old home movies.
I treasure every word she gives me. Not just the ones about my father, but the ones about her too. She was right when she said it wasn’t too late to know him, but the thing I’m realizing is, it’s not too late to know her either.
Sometimes, on very rare occasions when we wrap up work early in the day, we’ll sit outside on the grass, drinking beer and darning socks while the sun melts into the horizon, painting everything with its glory.
Sunset, I learn, is my mother’s favorite time of day. It relaxes her more than a hot shower or a glass of wine or anything else, to watch another day come to a close, everything in its right place.
We video call with Audrey when she’s able, and she tells us about her work and asks us about ours.
My mother isn’t a different person. I’m not either. But she asks me to send her a few of my favorite stories I’ve written, and sometimes, when she’s reading them at night on the couch opposite from me, she even laughs. She pushes her wire-frame glasses on top of her head and looks at me and says something like “You’re so much like him,” something that makes me feel not just seen but loved, liked.
Theo texts me a couple of times, but when I give as little in our exchanges as he does, they quickly peter out. It’s not a breakup, because it wasn’t a relationship, and I’m okay with that.
I try not to think too much about Hayden, but he’s everywhere. In one month, he invaded every facet of my reality. Like the Cosmo Sinclair song.
Hayden, Hayden, all the time.
I’m still doing work for The Scratch, but mostly short-form pieces, with phone interviews and email exchanges. Once, I go to Atlanta for a weekend to interview a chef, but mostly I spend that whole first month at my mother’s side, her shadow once more but still my own person.
Five weeks after my friends left, I talk her into ordering pizza again.
“It was pretty good,” she allows, then negotiates, “no more than once per month though.”
We shake on it, and then I call the order in.
She’s in the shower when it arrives, and I’m putting the finishing touches on a fresh salad. “Coming!” I shout in the general direction of the door, then rinse my oniony fingers and pat them against my legs as I jog toward the door.
I swing it open and the sunset blinds me for just a second, before the inky blot in front of me resolves into a person.
A tall, devastatingly handsome, walking, talking glower of a person.
“Hayden,” I gasp, feeling vaguely like I’ve run at a dead sprint into a wall.
He stares at me, face hard and impassive as ever. “What is this?” he asks sharply, and holds up a piece of paper.
Nothing fancy. Notebook paper with blue ink scrawled across it, front and back. My handwriting.
For a split second, I go ice cold with the fear that I mailed the letter to the wrong person. Him instead of Margaret.
Then I realize the flaw in that theory. I don’t even have Hayden’s address.
“Does it look familiar?” he asks me.
I try to speak. No sound comes out.
When he realizes I’m not going to answer, his eyes drop to the front of it. He clears his throat and reads tersely, “ ‘Dear Margaret, you asked me once if you could trust Hayden. I told you that you could, but that wasn’t the whole truth.’ ”
“I know what it says,” I weakly manage, but he goes on.
“ ‘Yes, he has some walls up, the same as you do. And just like you, he has his reasons. He’s careful about who he lets in, but when he does, he loves them wholly. He’s blunt, and he’s honest, but he’s never cruel or unkind. He can be hard to read, but he doesn’t play games.
“ ‘He doesn’t sleep well. He knows where every twenty-four-hour diner is within forty minutes of Little Crescent, and probably where all of them are back in his own neighborhood too. He’s careful about his health—he doesn’t have a complete family medical history to rely on, so he tries not to take risks.
“ ‘He’s funny, very funny, but because he’s so dry about it, it might take you a while to realize that.
“ ‘He never wears shorts. He’s afraid of snakes but not so scared he wouldn’t protect you from one if it came to it.
“ ‘He’s generous and thoughtful, and every second you spend not getting to know him is a second wasted. I don’t know what your daughter will say if you ask again for a chance to know her. And I can’t know for sure what Hayden would say either. But I know he takes life seriously. I know he’s not the kind of person to put off uncomfortable conversations now and regret not having them later.
“ ‘He is, I think, the most wonderful person I’ve ever met, and in the interest of full disclosure, I have a personal stake in whether you tell him the truth or not, because I love him with every fiber of my being, and as someone once told me, when you love someone, you do anything to give them what they need. You unmake the world and build a new one.
“ ‘I’ve already lost him, but maybe you don’t have to. Either way, he deserves the chance to say yes or no. He deserves to be asked. Your friend (I think, I hope), Alice Scott.’ ”
He stares down at the page for several seconds, and I stand there, trembling with nerves and raw emotion. Finally, his eyes lift to mine, his face etched with tension.
“How did you get that?” I force out.
“She sent it to me,” he says. “Along with her own letter. Explaining what happened.”
My eyes burn. My cheeks burn. My skin burns, even as my insides feel chilled.
“Is it true?” he says finally.
“What?” I whisper.
“Is it true?” he says.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” I get out. “I wanted to tell you—”
“Is”—he steps in closer, the letter falling to his side—“it true?”
“About Margaret’s connection to you?” I ask.
His chin moves to the left one inch. “That you love me?”
The tears break. “Of course it’s true. How could it not be? I loved you almost instantly, before I really even knew you. Before I understood it. I trusted you, and I loved you, and I still do.”
“Good,” he says, taking another small step toward the open door. “Because I love you too. I love you so much, and I don’t want to be without you ever again. I’ll move to Los Angeles, I’ll find a new job, whatever.”
“Hayden—”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Alice,” he says. “Every time we try to protect each other, all it does is cost us more time together, and I’m not willing to lose any more. I want to be with you. Nothing else is going to matter to me more than that. Not at the end of my life. Not even now. Nothing will matter more than who I spent my time with, and I want it to be you. I need it to be you.”
I’ve done more crying in the last two months than in the two years prior, and I’m determined to hold these tears back, to be cool, calm, and steady until the end of this conversation.
“Okay?” he says, ducking his head to hold my eyes.
“I love that plan,” I whisper. “And I’m so grateful and honored. But there’s a problem.”
His brow rumples, an expression that hits my heart like one of Cupid’s arrows. “What?”
“I’m not going back to Los Angeles,” I say. “I’m staying in Georgia for now. Maybe forever, I don’t know. I’m working on something new, and even when it’s over, I think I’m going to want to be close to my mom, while she’s still healthy. I love you so much, but I can’t miss out on more time with her. I did that with my dad, and I need this, and I’m sorry, because if it was anything else—I’d give up anything else, but I don’t think I can give up on this, and I know I can’t expect you to wait for me, but I wish that—”
He takes my face in his hands while I’m still rambling. “Alice.”
“I’d love it if you interrupted me right now,” I whisper, heart heavy in my chest.
He smiles. “I hear Atlanta’s a great place to be a music journalist.”
Just like that, my resolution not to cry snaps. Tears fall hard and fast, sliding down my nose, dripping onto my chin. “Really?” I ask wetly.
“Really,” he says.
“Are you sure, because—”
This time he does interrupt me, our mouths colliding, my hands in his hair, his flat and firm against my back, molding me to him, drinking me in. I hold on to him as tight as I possibly can, the sunset scorchingly bright, all that hope gathered in one place.
We pull apart just enough to rest our foreheads together, his hand moving softly, lovingly up and down my back.
“When I let myself dream,” he murmurs against my ear, “or it all comes crashing down—it’s Alice, Alice on my mind. Alice all the time.”
The Story
Their version: Pulitzer-winning biographer Hayden Anderson teams up with celebrity journalist Alice Scott on salacious new Margaret Ives biography From the Far Side of the World.
Our version: It’s a love story. Like everything I write, that’s what it comes down to. That’s what always matters most to me, about any interview subject: Whom do you love? What makes your heart beat? For whom would you unmake the world, and how would you build a new one?
We tell the truth, mostly.
Nicollet, though, is a casualty. It’s the only way.
Hayden’s mother doesn’t want to be known, not in that way. But she’s open to knowing her biological mother. Open, if not eager.
There’s a path forward, and it will end wherever it ends. All they can do is walk it at their own pace.
Margaret’s moving slower these days, moving less. She can’t tend to her own garden, but Mom and I drive down to work in it often. Hayden comes up from the city to meet us. Sometimes we take the airboat out and collect trash, bring it home and watch Margaret fit all these broken pieces together into something beautiful.
As much as I love my mosaic, I give it back to Margaret, and it sits in a place of honor on her mantel, until, one day, it doesn’t.
“What happened to it?” I ask her while I’m dusting her bookshelves.
“Sent it off with a letter,” she says.
I don’t press her. She’ll tell me more when she wants to, or maybe she won’t.
She’s being brave where it counts.
The book is a hit. The message boards go wild. Some of them are onto something, though just far enough off the mark to not figure out the truth.
Cosmo Sinclair is still alive, I SWEAR, you can just FEEL it in the way M.I. talks about him, one conspiracy theorist writes, and hundreds more upvote the comment.
In a way, he is. His memory will never be lost now. It was passed on to his grandson.
It will be passed on to our daughter.
We didn’t expect it, but almost overnight, Hayden becomes the kind of man who sings to my pregnant belly, who sends dozens of “what about this name” texts over the course of the day, sometimes when we’re working in our separate offices, four feet apart in our new home.
We don’t settle on one until we’re driving to the hospital, my contractions getting closer and closer.
In the hospital waiting room, my mother and Hayden’s take turns pacing. Every thirty seconds, Jodi or Margaret or Cecil or Audrey or Priya or Bianca or Cillian or Hayden’s brother, Louis, texts us some variation of Is she here yet?!
Until, finally, she is.
Laura Grace Anderson-Scott is born at 11:53 p.m. She slips in, just under the wire, on a Tuesday.
Half him. Half me. Entirely her own.
Hayden holds her against his chest with tears in his eyes—our whole world, packed into this tiny, impossible thing, and I’ve never felt anything like the love that spreads through my heart.
Like I swallowed the sun. Like it’s breaking up every bit of darkness inside me.
I know I would do anything to protect her, anything to make the world better for her.
In that moment, I feel closer to my parents, both of them, than I ever have in my life.
And strangely, I find myself thinking about the meandering path of broken glass around Margaret’s workshop. About the unicursal labyrinth.
I find myself thinking that maybe every bit of heartbreak in life can be rearranged and used for something beautiful. That it doesn’t really matter whether I chose this path or I was born onto it, so long as I stop and appreciate the path itself.
Four months after Laura’s born, once she finally starts sleeping better, I sit down with the notes I’ve spent years compiling with my mother and a blank document on my computer, a freshly brewed cup of coffee sitting at my elbow, where Hayden left it for me.
I crack my knuckles, and then I start to write.
Everything I want to tell her someday.
Not just the headlines, but the whole truth.
The good and bad, the magic and curses, all the blues and grays right alongside the reds and golds. I tell her the story about a love so powerful it remade the world for her. I welcome her to this great big beautiful life.
