A LIGHTER SHADE OF GRAY Excerpt

Neverland Publishing Company
Miami, Florida
This book is a novel and a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, with the exception of any and all
actual places which appear in the novel to give a sense of historical and informational accuracy
to the work of fiction, but all events relating to these establishments are entirely fictitious and
should not be considered real or factual.
Copyright © 2010 by Devon Pearse
The poem “Abandoned House”, © 2009 by Virginia Goebel, is used by permission.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any
form.
Cover Design by John Pierce
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN-13: 978-0-9826971-0-8
www.neverlandpublishing.com
BUY FULL VERSION of

A LIGHTER SHADE OF GRAY
at AMAZON.COM
Prologue

Through the Looking Glass
Have you ever seen the life within a photograph? Ever pondered how it
might feel to be one of those images – trapped, immobile for all
time? One minute you‟re moving along, free as a bird. Then, in the
glaring flash of a bulb, you are transfixed; an image captured on a
glossy white expanse. Eternity in one tiny breath of life. Not quite a
reflection. A pawn without a soul. A plaything in the eternal memory
of technology. Photographers live through the lens of a camera,
pressing onward frame by frame. But real life isn‟t like that. It rushes
at you headlong with a thundering force that knocks you breathless
and leaves you there to bleed. Beautiful in its savagery, intoxicating in
its fierce desire for more.
Black and white is supposedly clearer, but I have to ask, what‟s
the use in clarity with all the colors gone? The colors give us purpose;
make things more than shades of gray. And if one person‟s orange is
another one‟s violet, then so be it. All‟s fair among the varied hues of
earthly existence.
Or so I tell myself when colors become pain, when I stand in the
developing room of life, watching the images un-fade before me
through the ripples of my past. I often feel as though I can relate to
2 Devon Pearse
Alice in her Wonderland, like I‟ve fallen through a rabbit hole into
my life and it‟s not at all what I expected it to be. I recall gazing for
hours at the illustrations in my father‟s antique books. Alice‟s Adven-
tures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass held my fascination
for hours on end. Perfect little Alice. Through all her misadventures,
not a hair out of place. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be her.
Time and again my memory assaults me and I‟m thrust into the
child I once was. I am in my father‟s study, wondering at book-
shelved walls lined with stately, aged tomes. My father kneels beside
me. In his hands he holds his newest possession, his eyes glazed over
like a child at Christmas, which, coincidentally, it is. In his study,
books are opened like presents, holding wondrous things inside. He
opens the volume in his hand, a rare 1847 first edition of Wuthering
Heights, and tells me to smell the book. I do so, timidly at first, then
taking a good whiff. There is a scent like dusty cedar in the attic, the
aroma of thoughts transcribed so long ago. I inhale the pungency of
words, and a tradition is born.
The auras of butter-rum punch and cinnamon are also calming
presences. In the corner of the living room there stands a Christmas
tree. The slowly blinking lights invade my consciousness and I fall
asleep on his lap, curled up in his substantial arms, head resting on
his shoulder. I long to stay within that memory, and so many of its
fellows. The feeling of a shadow left behind. The overwhelming
yearning of an all-too-bittersweet life.
Still, the days of youth fall like petals from a flower. All too soon
they fade and blow away. We reach the gates of Grown-up Land in
haste, only to hesitate outside them for a time in shell-shocked hor-
ror, wondering how we got there so damn fast.
And so we advance through life, pressing on but looking back,
becoming collectors of things. Memories of sunsets, pictures of our
days and friends and loves. Wondrous little snippets of each moment
long gone by. These are things we hoard throughout our lifetime;
things we cannot bear to part with, all the trinkets of our past. They
A Lighter Shade of Gray 3
exist to prove that we were here. So that one day when we are gone,
in some future just beyond our grasp, someone may stop by, happen
upon our worldly goods and say, “Ah, so this was a life, then. Look!
Here is proof. I‟ve found a silver acorn, a Royal typewriter and a diary
of thoughts. Here‟s a poem, there‟s a thimble, an old book collecting
dust. Whatever could it mean? Alas, I suppose we‟ll never know.”
Each soul is a mystery, a puzzle box of hopes and wants and
dreams, and all the pretty little pieces of the vast illusion we create to
shield our inner selves. In the end, the colors run and bleed together,
and finally fade into the dust. But the evidence remains; captured im-
ages and writing and the like.
And so, who is more real, more permanent? The one who gazes
into the mirror, or the reflection locked inside?
Chapter 1

Metaphor
I miss you.
Don‟t go back yet.
Stay. Stay with me.
I can‟t. You have to go.
Go now.
Insistent rays of Sunday piercing through the numbing haze of sleep. I

remember morning and the timid play of light upon the water. The
sky in tones of peach and coral fire. For a moment it is peaceful, like
a gently blowing breeze. Then the sun consumes the sky, consumes
the earth in brilliant flames, and it is day. Too bright. Too futile. The
light can hurt your eyes, like a memory. Better not to look at it. Better
just to dream.
No, not today. Something might follow you back.
I pulled myself out of bed, letting the dreams fall away, shedding
my sleep-skin like a well-worn blanket and stepping into the day. My
clock was blinking; an obvious allusion to a passing storm during the
night. Judging by the play of light and shadows on my wall, afternoon
was fast approaching. Yawning, I rubbed my aching eyes. I‟d been up
half the night again, waging an unholy battle of words. It had cost me
dearly, this bold and naked journey into my other world, and I
couldn‟t even remember what I‟d written. I would read it later, some-
time tonight, and decide if all the effort had been worth it, if I had
truly emerged victorious from the settling dust of truth and make-
believe.
The water was cold as I splashed my face, leaving me breathless. I
looked into the mirror at the person staring back at me, watching the
liquid tendrils wind their way down my forehead and my cheeks,
traveling down my neck to touch the silver chain I had sworn I‟d
never take off. It was long and fine, but merely the instrument of the
treasure that it carried. I touched the white gold ring that was its cap-
tive, tracing the edge with one forefinger, watching my reflection all
the while. Who was this child-like woman? What was she thinking?
Would I ever really know?
I studied her, as I would a stranger, memorizing her colors, seek-
ing contrasts in her eyes, her smile, her pose. She was Myself, yet not
always me. My twin. My imp. My paradox. She wore her beauty like a
battle scar; aware of its existence but refusing to take note of it.
Disheveled blonde hair nearly reaching her shoulders, pale skin, a
spattering of passing freckles, pert little nose with a mind of its own,
always thinking it was better than the rest of the features. What her
grandmother would have called a beauty mark resided on the left side
of her smallish chin, which mark, upon further inspection, would be
revealed as nothing more than a mole in haughty disguise. The eyes –
the soul‟s own windows. I considered them to be her best feature,
never mind what the nose would have to say about it. Slightly almond
shaped and a deep shade of green, they appeared out of her pale skin
in a startling way. Her eyebrows arched above them, darker than they
should have been; little smudges of contrast on an otherwise stark
canvas, with a dusky fringe of eyelashes to match.
A host of memories played behind her eyes. The black and white,
the colors, all the happiness and loss, every lovely shade of in be-
6 Devon Pearse
tween. I ached for the resilience that she hid behind her back, taunt-
ing me with the knowledge of my need. Neither mindful nor oblivi-
ous; an indifferent, wanton child desensitized by time. Stronger for
the tragedy, she held greedily to the thorns of past regrets. She was
my only link to rationality, though madness could possess her at its
whim. She was fragile. She was tested. She was brave. The representa-
tion of all that I could ever hope to be, if only I knew how. Through
my own eyes she gazed back, as ever, refusing to let me in.
I‟ve wondered sometimes how long I can lock myself out, yet she
still denies me the pleasure of a formal introduction. She frightens me
and calls to me, my watercolor darling in the glass. I could grow to
love her if I dared.
“Who are you, really?” I said aloud. My reflection shrugged and
turned away.
I walked slowly to the kitchen, running my palm along the wall,
not wanting to lose contact with something solid, something real. A
patiently withering houseplant reposed upon my counter, awaiting
her demise with steadfast grace.
“O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!” I lament-
ed, sticking my finger in the soil. It was still moist, which caused me
to consider the possibility that I was drowning her. I made a mental
note to consult Mrs. Babcock about it. After all, she was the one who
had insisted on giving me the silly plant in the first place, “So you
won‟t be lonely, dear.” As if a houseplant would be such good com-
pany.
My stomach lodged a complaint and, grabbing a banana, I hoisted
myself up onto my kitchen counter. I surveyed the landscape from
the window as I chewed, blinking out into the day. My second storey
apartment was bathed in the shade of several oak trees, and I noticed
the resident squirrels were at it again. I watched them chase each oth-
er, fussing about the most mundane of topics. I had a fantastic ob-
servation point for their antics from both my kitchen and bedroom
windows. Unfortunately, that meant they had the same unobstructed
view of my life. I‟m sure this wouldn‟t bother most people, but to say
it unnerved me wouldn‟t be overstating the situation. On the bright
side, at least it gave me a steady excuse for feeling paranoid.
I shuffled to the door in my moose slippers, Bullwinkle staring
straight ahead from each foot, antlers protruding and slapping one
another as I walked. They were last year‟s Christmas gift from Carly,
repayment for the donkey ones I had given her the year before. John
didn‟t think I would actually wear them, but his insightful daughter
knew better. “Oh yes she will!” she chirped. And she was right. I al-
most hadn‟t wanted to, just to prove her wrong, but they were too
damn comfortable to resist. In the end, I caved, and had been wear-
ing them on a daily basis ever since.
I made my way outside, pausing to scoop up Matt‟s copy of The
St. Augustine Sun which he had been careless enough to leave un-
touched upon his doorstep. I took it with me to the stairs, stepping
down a couple and planting my pajama-clad bottom securely on the
landing. The aroma of newspaper enveloped me as I perused the lo-
cal happenings. “Bridge of Lions Rehabilitation Project: What You
Need to Know,” I read aloud, “by Jefferson Todd, Staff Writer.” I
smiled to myself. Haven‟t gotten your big break yet, huh, Jeff? Good.
I skimmed the article with a negative eye, ensuring I was unim-
pressed, then scanned the rest of the paper. Nothing earth-shattering
caught my attention and I eventually re-folded it as neatly as possible
and slid it back toward Apartment Four. Even if Matt noticed a few
new creases, I knew he wouldn‟t mind. And if he did, he‟d never
mention it.
Following the sound of a door closing downstairs, I watched Mrs.
Babcock make her way to the coiled garden hose behind the stairs.
Dressed in light blue Capri pants and a loose fitting white blouse tied
in a knot at her waist, her fading auburn hair pinned up under her
sunhat, she looked like Miss August from the AARP calendar. Her
feet were bare and her toenails were painted a light, pretty pink.
I hope I‟m like that when I‟m old, I thought, as if the years would
8 Devon Pearse
somehow transform me into an entirely different person just because

I‟d asked. She glanced up at me, and I waved.
“Good morning, Devon!” she called.
“Is it still morning?” I asked.
“Just barely,” she said with a smile, confirming her acceptance of
my unusual sleeping patterns. “How‟s Ophelia doing?”
I grimaced. “Actually, I was going to ask your advice. She seems a
little depressed lately.”
Unfazed by this development, she replied, “Oh, just put a couple
of used tea bags around her roots and pour a little water over them.
Should perk her up in no time.” She began to water her begonias.
“That was some storm we had last night. But I‟m sure you slept right
through it. You young people always do.” She threw a wink at me.
The sound of a car engine and squealing brakes accompanied
Cass‟s familiar black Camry as it rounded the corner. She parked it on
the lawn, ignoring the two empty guest spaces. Cass emerged. She
pushed her designer sunglasses over her forehead, wearing them like
a headband atop her mass of frizzy curls. She was poured into her
stretch jeans and a clingy, low-cut t-shirt, revealing plenty of caramel
skin below her neck. Slamming her door, she proceeded to the trunk.
She was bent double and leaning as far in as she could when some
passing teenagers cat-called from the street. Ignoring them, she hoist-
ed a giant box, balancing it on one bent knee while she tried to get a
better grip.
“Do you need some help with that, Cassandra?” Mrs. Babcock
called in her soft, reminiscently Southern drawl.
“No,” puffed Cass, “I think I can handle it, Mrs. Babcock. But
thank you for offering.” She looked pointedly up at me as I remained
perched atop the stairs, like one of her painted gargoyles, obstinately
immobile.
“It‟s not that I don‟t want to help you, Cass,” I said, “but I‟ve
learned that sometimes it‟s best to stay out of your way.”
As if to prove my point, she stuck out her tongue and lost her
balance, wobbling in her platform sandals and hitting her head on the
open trunk door.
“Ow! Damn!” she yelled, and a squirrel fussed at her from his
vantage point high in the oak tree.
“My dear, whatever do you have in that box?” asked Mrs. Bab-
cock as Cass struggled past, holding the cardboard leviathan in front
of her, both arms supporting its awkward weight.
“Cass is starting her own make-up company,” I answered for
Cass, giving her a chance to catch her breath.
“It‟s kind of a grass roots movement right now,” she chimed.
“And we‟re the roots,” I said. “She‟s lugging those toxic substanc-
es up here so we can put the labels on them.”
Mrs. Babcock frowned to herself. “Oh, my,” she said, looking up
at me from beneath the brim of her sunhat. “But wouldn‟t it have
been easier for you to go to Cassandra‟s house? Then she wouldn‟t
have had to bring it all over here.” Cass and I looked at one another,
bursting into laughter. We hadn‟t thought of that. “And what about
that nice boyfriend of yours, Cassandra? Couldn‟t he help you?”
Cass rolled her eyes at me. “Actually, I‟m between boyfriends
right now,” she said.
“Oh, I‟m so sorry!” said Mrs. Babcock, as if we‟d told her Cass
had three more days to live. “What happened to the last one?”
“That‟s what‟s really in the box,” I said, eliciting another chuckle
from Cass.
“And how‟s your love life, Mrs. Babcock?” she asked, sly as a fox.
The older woman blushed to the whitish roots of her hair. “Actu-
ally, Mr. Rooney, a nice gentleman from my Bingo club, recently
asked me to dinner. But I turned him down.”
“Why would you do that?” asked Cass in consternation.
Mrs. Babcock waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I had my chance at
love. And many wonderful years with Mr. Babcock, rest his soul. I‟d
rather leave all the romance up to you young folk.”
For Mrs. Babcock, this course of inaction was harmless and com-
10 Devon Pearse
pletely logical. To Cass it was an outrage. “Nonsense! You‟re never

too old for romance! Mrs. Babcock,” she said determinedly, carefully
placing the box on the ground and taking her by the shoulders, “I
want you to march inside and call Mr. Rooney right now. Tell him
you‟re accepting his dinner invitation and you‟re very much looking
forward to getting to know him better.”
“Oh, I couldn‟t possibly...”
Cass turned her to face her door, barely missing the geraniums.
“Oh, yes you could possibly!”
Mrs. Babcock sighed, stepping away from Cass, shooing her in
mock anger. “Oh, all right. But not right now. He‟s out of town visit-
ing his son. I‟ll call when he gets back.”
Cass looked at her, judging her resolve. For the grandmotherly
type, Mrs. Babcock sure could hold a steely gaze. Satisfied, Cass re-
hoisted the box and headed up the stairs. “I‟ll check in with you next
week,” she called over her shoulder.
“I‟ll just bet you will, you little busy body!” Mrs. Babcock pre-
tended to turn the hose on Cass and was rewarded with a squeal. I
forced myself upright with a sigh, removing my slippers and tossing
them back into my apartment. I met Cass halfway up the stairs. Pant-
ing, she handed me the box and followed me into my lair.
“Don‟t trip on my mooses,” I said as we entered.
“How clumsy do you think I am?” she replied indignantly. I felt
no need to respond.
Easing the box onto the nearest flat surface, which happened to
be my coffee table, I asked her, “So, how‟s the cosmetics business?”
“A couple of nibbles from the on-line auctions this week. Mostly
overseas. What can I say? Our economy sucks! I so wish I could quit
my stupid day job, but I still have to pay the bills.” She absent-
mindedly thumbed through a relatively fresh edition of the enter-
tainment magazine I subscribed to, mainly for the book reviews. I
recalled tossing it onto the sofa some time last week, none the wiser
as to the current status of any and all Hollywood relationships, but
intimately familiar with the most recent novels to crack the top ten
on their Bestsellers List. Cass went on, “I‟m thinking of putting up a
few more paintings, or maybe even trying that gallery again. Last time
I checked, the same stuck-up bitch was still running it, though. Guess
she‟s not big on dark surrealism.”
I began removing little jars from the box, placing them carefully
on the table. “I feel for you, sister. Art snobs aren‟t much different
from the literary variety. They‟re all waiting for you to lay your soul
out in front of them so they can turn up their noses and walk all over
it.”
“Finished with your novel yet?”
I groaned in reply. “And the online mag I was writing for went
under last week.”
“I‟ll bet it doesn‟t help to see Todd the Toad‟s articles every time
you sneak a glance at Matt‟s paper, either, huh?” She looked at me
knowingly and I bristled.
“I wish him nothing but the best, I really do.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“No, really. If it wasn‟t for him stabbing me in the back, I might
have his job right now. Who wants the stressful life of a reporter?”
“You do.”
I sighed. “I did, I admit it. But I honestly don‟t anymore. I want
to write from the heart and fill the pages of a book with my imagina-
tion and experience, not waste it on the reality of newsworthy events
that anyone could research and describe.”
“Reporters are fact monkeys, I get it. And you‟re holding out for
something more. But in the meantime…”
“I may have to hit up me dear ol‟ Da for the rent again.”
Cass tossed the magazine back on the sofa and studied me. “Why
don‟t you just move back in with him, Dev? He‟s got that whole big
house for you to prowl around in, and your lake besides.”
I was already shaking my head. “No way. It would be like admit-
ting defeat, and I‟m not ready to do that yet. Taking his money is one
12 Devon Pearse
thing, but actually living with him is quite another. I‟ve been getting
by just fine for the past ten years or so. I‟ll manage.”
She smiled devilishly. “Well, if it comes down to it, we can always
move in together.”
I flinched, remembering the fight caused by a misunderstanding
that had nearly destroyed our friendship many years before. “Again,
no way. I think we learned that lesson the hard way. Besides, I have a
feeling Botero wouldn‟t take too kindly to a new addition to the
household.”
She rolled her eyes. “That giant walking hairball needs an attitude
adjustment. And, anyway, he was de-clawed before I ever got him,
rendering him virtually harmless, albeit enormous, poor thing,” she
said. “That creature, on the other hand…” She let her statement trail
off, looking askance at my ever-present taxidermied hyena. He unas-
sumingly reposed in the corner of my living room, causing all who
entered to do a double take. Mrs. Babcock had only ventured in once,
and after seeing Smiley, had since made excuses not to come inside.
I flopped down on the sofa, grabbing a throw pillow to hug.
“Hey, he‟s the perfect pet! Completely housebroken, doesn‟t need
walking, requires no food or water, and is exceptionally good compa-
ny, especially for a cloistered writer. You have to put up with a bad-
tempered twenty pound cat as a roomie. But,” I conceded, “at least
you‟ve got a real job, even if you hate it. And benefits. And a car.”
Cass threw herself down next to me, stealing my pillow in the
process. “Yeah, but you don‟t have a car because you don‟t see the
need for one, or a real job, for that matter. And like you said, you‟ve
gotten by just fine, without ever workin‟ for the man like I‟m stuck
doing. Believe me, Dev, once you get in, you can never get out. The
gray suits suck you in and there‟s no turning back.” She paused, in-
serting a long-suffering sigh. “And speaking of the car, it‟s nothing
but trouble.”
I sat up straighter. “But you loved that car. What happened?”
She frowned, shaking her head so her tiny spiral curls bounced
around her face. “I did love it. But it got so old so fast! At first it was
exciting and new, but now it‟s got so many miles on it, the warranty‟s
expired and everything‟s falling apart. But I still have to fork over the
cash every month.”
“Sounds like your last relationship.”
“Yeah. Kind of like that.” She giggled. “Maybe we should do away
with my car...put it in a box and dispose of it, like you said we did
with Sergio.”
I smiled, but the image had struck a distant chord in my mind. It‟s
the curse of a writer‟s imagination. New ideas spring to life faster
than you can sort them out and determine whether they belong with
the keepers or in the discard pile. This was one of those moments,
and I said, without giving it much thought, “I guess you could always
drive it into some random body of water and claim that it was stolen.
That would solve your problem, right?”
Cass quickly produced a smile, letting it fade more slowly than it
had arrived. When she looked up at me, I felt a tickle of apprehen-
sion scurry up my spine. “That‟s not a bad idea, Dev!”
“Oh, yes it is,” I said vehemently. “I say stupid things all the time
and they are not meant to be taken seriously. Just ask my editor.
Shoot! I don‟t have one right now. Guess you‟ll have to take my word
for it.” I picked up a jar containing some sort of powder that I would
never know what to do with and held it up for closer inspection.
“Hey, what‟s this shade called, anyway?”
She removed it from my hand, placing it back on the table.
“Don‟t distract me, Dev. I‟m thinking.” She chewed on her thumb-
nail while the talented fingers of her free hand drummed an impossi-
ble rhythm on the pillow. Finally, she shook her head, like someone
emerging from hypnosis. “We‟ll work it out later. But I think, when-
ever we discuss it, we should call it „water polo‟ so no one will know
what we‟re talking about.” As if anyone ever did.
At this point, I knew there was nothing for it but to go along with
14 Devon Pearse
her, at least for the time being. Besides, I thought, if there‟s one thing I
know about Cass it‟s that she never follows through with anything. I glanced at
the make-up jars on my coffee table, wondering if any of them would
ever see the light of day.
We spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening meticulously
applying the labels to the jars, one by one, talking about nothing in
particular. We took one short break to wolf down some sandwiches
Mrs. Babcock was kind enough to deliver, along with a pitcher of her
patented sweet tea, and got straight back to work.
When Cass finally stretched and got up to leave around eight-
thirty, the last of the labels being successfully applied to the last of
the jars, and every jar packed gently in the box again, I held my
breath that the subject of water polo wouldn‟t rear its ugly head. To
my vast relief, it did not. I hoped against hope that this lack of further
discussion of the topic was enough to cause it to simply shrivel up
and die. But in the back of my mind there lurked the distressing
knowledge that sometimes the only things Cass followed through
with were the very ones she should have taken the greatest pains to
avoid.
Cass turned to me, one hand on the door knob, her foot resting
against the box, ready to slide it out the door, and said, “Oh, by the
way, my family is having a barbecue at my mom‟s house next Satur-
day for Janette‟s sixteenth birthday. You‟re invited, of course, so you
have to come. All my sisters will be there. It‟ll be just like old times!”
“That‟s what I‟m afraid of,” I said, and helped her carry the box
to her car.
Night drew the curtains on another day. Alone in the fresh dark-
ness of a new night, I curled up with a dog-eared copy of Crime and
Punishment, thinking how fitting a read it would be after my conversa-
tion with Cass. I reached up and turned on my lamp. The rest of the
apartment was dark. I had already closed all the blinds. I told myself
it was so the squirrels couldn‟t see in. But deep down I knew better.
Chapter 2

Cassandra and Her Sisters
I left my bike leaning against the railing of the front porch, as I had
countless times before. The simple action never failed to bring back a
deluge of memories and, in recent years, had the added side effect of
making me feel a bit silly that I was still riding my bike to my best
friend‟s house. Of course Cass had her own place now, but her
mother and her youngest sister still resided in the big two-storey on
King‟s Ferry Way. It remained the safe harbor for wayward Sloanes
and the meeting hall for familial events great and small.
How many times in our happily misspent youth had we bounded
up those porch steps looking for a place to hide away from the
world? They were innumerable, as were the hours we‟d spent curled
up together on Cass‟s worn but comfy bedspread, watching reruns
and eating junk food, home from school too early but hoping no one
would notice or care if they happened upon us.
I paused, letting my memory have its way with me. The porch
became a classroom, the sagging swing a teacher‟s desk, complete
with petrified apple. The years fell away. I heard her voice as clearly
as if she were pacing right before me, fresh white chalk in hand.
16 Devon Pearse
“You may all take your seats now.”

We watched her drift across the room, a tiny woman dressed in
plaid slacks and a long-sleeved blouse who somehow thought she
could control us. Like a pack of rabid wolves, we instinctively knew
we could overtake her if we wanted to. Lucky for her, we just didn‟t
feel like it today.
Assuming our seats as she bade us, we looked around at one an-
other. Some of us strangers, others old friends, we were bound by a
common thread. We became that day the united members of Mrs.
Keppelson‟s fifth grade class.
And what an impressive bunch we were. Judging from what I had
taken in so far, we were not ones to be trifled with. As the elder
classmen of Franklin Elementary, there wasn‟t much we hadn‟t seen
in our five previous years of bondage at this institution. Battle-scarred
and jaded, we looked to one another for support as quickly as we‟d
turn traitor to survive. Nothing more could be expected. It was the
way of things.
Mrs. Keppelson had arranged our desks like little islands in clus-
ters of six. We all sat facing the person across from us, ready for a
stare-down if it came to that. I recognized Sheila Einster immediately,
noting not much had changed for her over the summer, poor thing.
Her stringy hair still fell limply around her face, a predictable shade of
field mouse. Carlton Griffin was seated to her left, still my favorite
crush of a black boy. The seat to his left remained empty; a tantaliz-
ing mystery waiting to be solved. To my left sat Nina Allen. She was
tall and lean, like a model. I always thought she looked so perfectly
put together. I also thought if I had her kinky hair and smooth
chocolate skin maybe Carlton might notice me.
So far I had been stranded with familiar castaways. Not wanting
to seem too eager to make new friends, I glanced slyly to my right.
Ah, an enigmatic vessel in a sea of the mundane. I was prepared to
quickly look away should she turn in my direction, but she was ab-
sorbed in her own world and paid me no heed. I saw her eyes dart
toward Mrs. Keppelson, who was engrossed in her lesson plan. Con-
fident in her obscurantism, the girl deftly removed a pencil from her
She-Ra pocketbook and began to doodle on her desk.
I studied her while she sketched. Her hair was frizzy, not unlike
Nina‟s without the smoother coils, and she wore it in two braided
pigtails, but her skin was lighter – the color of coffee with just a
touch of cream. She was dressed in a light pink polo shirt, a slightly
darker wrap-around skirt and dirty pink sneakers. I noted, with more
than a small touch of envy, that she was wearing a bra...and needed
to. Jealousy aside, this new girl seemed more interesting than the rest
of the herd. She had a quietude about her that somehow made her
more noticeable, especially to me.
Mrs. Keppelson suddenly turned to us, her work on the chalk-
board now complete. By the time I shot a look to my right, the pencil
had already disappeared and my seat-mate was at full attention. Wow.
She‟s good, I thought, impressed. With her hands now resting on her
lap, I was able to get a quick peek at what she had been drawing. I
can honestly say it was the last thing I would have expected. Actually,
I never would have expected it at all. Looking back at me, preternatu-
ral eyes ablaze, was the creepiest gargoyle-like creature one could ever
hope to not encounter. I stared, hypnotized by this odd little being
glaring back at me.
“Ow!” I cried as Nina kicked my leg.
“Say your name,” she whispered through perfectly white clenched
teeth, her amber eyes wide and fixed on me like those of a cat about
to pounce. Apparently Mrs. Keppelson had been waiting for me to
introduce myself to the rest of the class as the other students had
done. Due to my fascination with the strangely crafted incarnation, I
had nearly missed my turn. Thanks to Nina, tragedy had been avoid-
ed.
I cleared my throat and glanced around the room. “I‟m Devon.” I
said, nonchalantly. I hated this part. In previous years I had been
greeted with chants of “Devon, Devon went to Heaven. Now she
18 Devon Pearse
works at 7-11.” I always wanted to protest that if I‟d gone to Heaven

that would mean I was dead and would have absolutely no business
working at a convenience store. Somehow I figured that wasn‟t the
point. They usually got bored with it pretty quickly, anyway. Soon
enough they would move on to their next victim. Little did I know it
would be my artistic neighbor.
The voicing of my name led to several chuckles from some of the
more unruly fellows I had been stuck with last year. A stern look
from Mrs. Keppelson put an end to that. “Go on, dear,” she said to
the artist. “Tell the class your name.”
The girl next to me looked like she would prefer bamboo shoots
to be slowly inserted beneath her fingernails than to have to tell the
class anything. Nina and I exchanged curious glances. Finally, in a
voice so quiet God must have strained to hear, she said, “Cassandra.”
Only it sounded more like “Cathandra” and after a brief moment
of contemplative silence, most of my classmates exploded in a mix-
ture of giggles, chuckles and guffaws. I did not share in their hilarity.
Perhaps if I had been seated far across the classroom and not in her
immediate vicinity, I may have felt a bit more jovial. As it was, sitting
close enough to hear her breathing, there was nothing I found amus-
ing at the moment. Instead I felt oddly...protective. I tried to catch
her eye, but she stared at her desk, refusing to look up. I remember
thinking she was gazing straight into the eyes of her very own gar-
goyle. Suddenly, the years of 7-11 comments didn‟t seem so bad after
all.
Several years of speech class later, “Cathandra” had evolved into
“Cassandra” and we had become nearly inseparable partners in crime.
Through it all, we weren‟t completely exclusive. Joining us for an oc-
casional summer bike excursion, Nina added the icing to our cake of
adventure. She was brave and daring, but never got caught in mis-
chief. It was always Cass who ended up taking the blame for every-
thing while I hovered under the radar and Nina stood up for us, so
self-assured she could talk us out of any situation. She had her own
set of friends, but enjoyed breaking the mold from time to time. I
always thought she seemed a bit removed from everyone. She lived
inside herself, years older than her actual age. All things considered,
maybe that was a good thing.
Something thudded and banged inside the house and I slid out of
my memory and back onto the porch. Following the audible sounds
of mayhem, I maneuvered carefully through the screen door, holding
it open with my foot while I pressed my shoulder against the front
door, giving it a good shove. It would always stick during the sum-
mer. Once inside, I was met by Trevor and Duncan, the package-deal
offspring of Delinda, Cass‟s younger sister. Before my eyes could
adjust, I was bowled over by a blur of primary colored t-shirts and
jeans.
“Auntie Devon! Come play with us!” I knelt and wrapped one
arm around each of them, squeezing with all my might. They both
continued speaking at the same time, and I nodded, trying to divide
my attention equally between the two. Making heads or tails of any-
thing that was spewing from their little mouths was out of the ques-
tion, but I went along with it as though I understood every word.
Monique appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a terry-
cloth dishtowel. “All right, you little devils. Leave Auntie Devon
alone so she can come and help us in the kitchen.” They rolled their
eyes and protested feebly with “aw‟s” and “oh‟s” but detached them-
selves from me quickly under their aunt‟s authoritative gaze. I
watched their fuzzy little Afros bob out of sight as they made their
way to the backyard where I could see the smoke trailing up from the
barbecue. Soon, a food fight would ensue, I was sure of it. As usual, I
wished I could follow. But duty called.
“Thanks, Monique,” I said, following her to the kitchen. Seeing
her always made me feel a bit self-conscious, like I was only her little
sister‟s friend – a nuisance, like Cassandra. Not that she sent out that
vibe intentionally. It was something left over from the good old days.
“Is the birthday girl here yet?” I asked her, needing something to say.
20 Devon Pearse
“No. Averey picked her up earlier. His grandma wanted to see

her, said she had something to give her for her birthday, so they‟re
stopping by there first.”
I nodded. That was probably an excuse. Ever since Marcus had
moved in, Janette rarely liked to stay at home without Monique. They
lived in Mullens Crossing, a little town bordering St. Augustine. What
it comparatively lacked in tourists, it more than made up for with
crime and drugs. Marcus had grown up there and felt no desire to get
out.
Entering the kitchen, I spotted Cass attempting to remove a ridic-
ulously large platter of meat and cheese from the double-wide refrig-
erator. Monique and I both rushed to her aid, knowing full well what
would happen if we didn‟t. Niqi got to her first and, ignoring her sis-
ter‟s protests, forcibly extracted the tray from her grasp. Throwing a
look of relief at me over her shoulder, she proceeded out the back
door. Cass shrugged and grinned at me.
“Hey, Babe.”
“Hey, Darlin‟. Put me to work.”
I was soon peeling potatoes over the sink. My gaze wandered out
the kitchen window as I jealously observed Trevor and Duncan at
raucous play in the backyard. Delinda was watching them quietly,
seated in the shade of the spreading oak tree, rubbing her belly lov-
ingly. I couldn‟t imagine dealing with the two boys on a daily basis, let
alone preparing to bring another child into the world. Dwayne was
tending the grill, looking every bit the picture of a strapping lineback-
er. He ventured over to kiss Delinda on the head, stooping down to
say something to the still-forming infant trapped inside her.
Olivia, the youngest Sloane girl, sat alone in the far corner of the
yard, her eyes glued to the pages of whatever mystery novel she was
reading at the time. She was the most divergent of the sisters, that
much was certain. But what percentage of this was her own doing as
opposed to circumstances beyond her control was debatable. Still, her
latest emotional peril was her recent conviction that she had been
adopted. I wondered how she could possibly think that when I found
her to be the spitting image of a younger Cassandra. They had exactly
the same bone structure and I pondered how much more alike they‟d
look if Liv ever decided to grow her hair longer and straighten it like
Cass often did, or, Heaven forbid, to actually wear a pair of jeans or
put on a little makeup. She tended to dress like an older person and
was currently wearing knee-length denim trousers and a button-down
blouse. I recalled the last time I had stopped by unexpectedly and
seen her in her pajamas. She had scurried from the room, covering
herself with her arms and complaining, “I‟m not in my optimum state
of attire!”
It had often been difficult for Cass, too, in our younger days, try-
ing to fit in as the product of a biracial marriage. There was a certain
amount of desperation to belong in two places at once that accompa-
nied her heritage, a mixture of Bahamian from her father and white,
Jewish New Yorker from her mother. And it didn‟t help matters any
when her father left. But she‟d learned to deal with it all and had
eventually grown into a more self-assured person because of it. I was
certain Olivia would, too, in her own way and in her own time. Then
we‟d start taking bets on whether she‟d go for white or Latin guys,
like Cass, or exclusively date black men with the rest of her sisters. So
far, she‟d shown no interest in the subject. With Liv, it was always
anyone‟s guess.
Outside in the yard, Monique bustled about, setting places at the
four picnic tables they had always used for family gatherings. I heard
the side gate slam and watched as everyone‟s heads turned simultane-
ously toward the latest arrivals. From the scattered whoops and
shouts of, “Happy birthday!” I concluded that Janette was among
them. She entered the yard, smiling and waving to everyone. She
wore a long white skirt and matching sleeveless top, a striking con-
trast to her dark hair and skin.
Close behind her and hovering protectively was her boyfriend
Averey, who carried several bags of assorted chips and sodas and a
22 Devon Pearse
giant foil-covered casserole which Monique hurried to rescue. I as-

sumed his grandmother had insisted on making something delicious
for the occasion. She really liked Janette.
After the resounding welcome had faded on the breeze, Janette
and Averey strolled over to the decorative iron bench in the shady
section of the yard. Janette took a seat and Averey rubbed her back.
She tilted her head to gaze up at him. Tall, good looking and usually
silent, he was never far from her side. He smiled down at her, com-
pletely besotted.
I don‟t know how long I was watching them, my mind wandering
from the present to the past and back again without my permission. I
suddenly felt older than I should have; as though I had spent too long
becoming who I was and had just looked up to realize how far away
I‟d drifted from something very precious, something that I‟d never
meant to lose. With that thought still lingering in my head, I was
lurched unceremoniously back to the task at hand.
“Save some spuds for the rest of us, will ya?” Cass said, sidling up
to me. I looked down at my work, realizing that I was slicing off huge
chunks of potato along with the skin.
“Sorry,” I said. She rolled her eyes, wandering back to the kitchen
island.
“I know you just do it so you can get out of cooking.”
“And I know you‟re just clumsy so you can get out of everything
else.”
She chucked a freshly-shelled hardboiled egg at me. I ducked and
it splattered on the window. I turned the sprayer on her and she
shrieked, covering her head. “That‟s not fair!” she whined. “You
know how my hair gets when it‟s wet!”
“Oh, so I‟m just supposed to let you pelt me with eggs, ever the
pacifist?”
She selected another and manically took aim...just as her mother
ventured in.
“Cassandra Sloane!” she wailed, in a tone of voice I recalled quite
clearly as being reserved exclusively for Cass. “What are you doing
with that egg?”
Cass lowered the would-be missile; launch aborted. I deftly wiped
the egg smear from the window before Dinah could notice and scold
Cass for it, my heart racing all the while. Wow. Just like old times. Only
without Nina to cover for us.
“Hey, Devon,” Dinah said, her slight New York accent still cling-
ing to her words. She came to give me a hug. “Thanks for coming.”
As usual, she smelled like lemon. Her shortish light brown hair was
pulled back at the nape of her neck, exposing her fair skin. She was
pretty, and I was always a little shocked at how she never seemed to
look any older, no matter how much time had gone by between my
visits. I knew that she was in her early fifties, but I still saw her as
Cass‟s ageless mother.
She looked down at the remains of the potatoes in the sink and
carefully removed the paring knife from my hand before I could do
any more damage. “You girls go on outside. I‟ll finish up in here.” I
smiled at her gratefully. She had always been kind to me, and tended
to be kinder to Cass when I was around. Maybe that‟s why Cass
asked me over all the time when we were kids. Maybe that‟s why she
still did.
“Thanks. Um, sorry about that. I guess I got a little carried away
with my work.” Dinah smiled graciously and Cass grabbed my arm
and pulled me outside before her mother could find something else
for her to do, or discover any lingering pieces of egg on the window-
sill.
Once outside, we mingled with the rest of the clan. I greeted
Janette with a hug and a “happy birthday” and presented her with a
tiny gift box. It was small enough to fit in the roomy pocket of my
cargo pants without getting crushed.
“Thank you, Aunt Devon!” She carefully opened the box to reveal
a small silver locket. “Oh, it‟s beautiful!” she gasped. She hugged me
again before asking Averey to fasten the clasp behind her neck.
24 Devon Pearse
“I‟m glad you like it,” I said. “It‟s similar to the one my parents
gave me when I turned sixteen.” That was true, and the only reason
I‟d had any idea what to give her.
Janette and Olivia soon struck up a private conversation, as was
usually the case whenever they got together. Although Olivia was
Janette‟s aunt, the two had always acted more like sisters. It was only
natural. They were no more than a few months apart in age.
Cass and I secured a spot for ourselves near the barbecue grill,
plates of food in hand. We chatted for a while about the old days,
ever reminiscing and giggling as the day wore on, lazy and familiar
with laughter and camaraderie. Monique joined us and Delinda wad-
dled over to get a fresh bottle of water from the cooler. Cass called,
“Hey, Blimpy, come on over here!” Her very pregnant sister gave her
the finger, but sat down with us, anyway.
“How‟s it feel to be cookin‟ number three?” Monique asked her.
“Pretty much the same as it felt cookin‟ numbers one and two,
only I finally get to paint the nursery pink this time.”
“Have you decided on a name yet?” I wondered.
“No,” she said, and Cass and Monique rolled their eyes in a here-
it-comes manner. “I can‟t make up my mind between Melinda and
Belinda,” she said, completely serious, as her sisters snickered.
“What? What‟s wrong with naming her after me?”
“Nothing,” Cass replied, “if you were actually naming her after
yourself. But you‟re not, Del! It‟s so much more of a joke being a
Delinda who has a Melinda or a Belinda for a daughter.”
“Wait!” Monique cried. “Are you sure you‟re not having twins?
Then we could have all three.”
She and Cass started laughing again. I tried hard not to join in, but
lost the battle.
“Et tu, Brute?” Del asked, narrowing her eyes at me.
“I‟m sorry,” I said. “Out of the two, I guess I‟ve always been par-
tial to Belinda.”
“Me, too!” said Del, excitement lighting her face.
“Tell her the middle name,” Monique gasped, still enraptured by a

fit of giggles.
“Well, we thought it would be nice to use Dwayne‟s mother‟s
name.”
“Oh,” I said, “what is it?”
“Lucinda,” she said, and Monique and Cass fell upon each other
in utter hysterics. As Cass clawed at her eldest sister, Monique‟s scarf
was pulled away from her neck to reveal a bluish-purple bruise the
approximate size and shape of a man‟s fist. Cass stopped laughing as
if she‟d suddenly been switched off.
“What?” Monique questioned.
“What the hell did he do to you, Niqi?” Cass asked in a harsh
whisper as Del stood up and walked awkwardly around the table to
examine her sister more closely. Cass held Monique‟s hands down so
she couldn‟t cover up the bruise.
“Nothing!” Monique said, struggling to free herself. “Don‟t make
it a big deal, Cassie. I just...”
“You just what?” Cass demanded. “What was it this time? You
fell down the stairs? Walked into the door? Caught a fly ball with
your neck?”
“I thought you got smart and finally kicked him out,” Del said.
“Yeah, but she got stupid again real fast,” Cass told her, tossing a
disgusted expression at Monique.
“It was my fault, okay? Just leave it alone.”
“Hell, no!” Cass and Del chorused.
“Please?” Monique pleaded. “Let‟s not do this now. I don‟t want
to ruin my daughter‟s birthday.”
Cass shook her head. “But you don‟t mind ruining the rest of her
life.”
Monique stared at Cass for a moment, then got up and walked
away. Delinda followed, giving me an apologetic smile.
Shadows grew long and Dinah flicked on the back porch light. It
didn‟t detract from the festive glow of the candles on Janette‟s birth-
26 Devon Pearse
day cake as we all gathered to sing the inescapable anthem. As Janette

bent to make a wish and blow out the candles, we heard someone
yelling from the front of the house. Monique murmured something
under her breath. I saw Averey take hold of Janette‟s wrist, holding
her to his side. The yelling grew louder and Marcus appeared, striding
purposefully through the gate and letting it slam behind him.
“What the fuck you think you doin‟ here, bitch?!” His anger was
directed at Monique and she quickly stepped forward to head him
off. For obvious reasons, no one else wanted to.
“Calm down, Marcus,” she said, approaching him. “I told you we
were coming to my mother‟s to celebrate Janette‟s birthday. Remem-
ber, Baby?” She tried to put her arms around him, but he brushed her
off. Olivia quickly rounded up the boys and ushered them inside. I
saw Delinda look around for Dwayne. He had gone to the corner
store to pick up some more drinks. We always ran out early.
Marcus grabbed Monique‟s arm and twisted it behind her back.
With the other hand, he took hold of her hair. Pain distorted her face,
but she didn‟t make a sound. Dinah stepped forward, holding the
barbecue prongs in one hand and clenching the other into a fist by
her side. “You get your filthy hands off my daughter and get outta
here, Marcus Jamieson. Nobody invited you. Why do you always have
to show up causing trouble?” Her accent had become more pro-
nounced, a sign that she was very angry.
He smiled malignantly. “Sure, head bitch, I‟ll go. But I‟m takin‟
this bitch wit‟ me,” he said, dragging Monique toward the gate. I
couldn‟t help but notice how willingly she gave in. This was not the
Monique I remembered from my youth. Where was the tough and
confident older sister who was unafraid to take on Cass at her worst?
We were all intimidated by her then. Now I felt only sympathy...and
regret for the person she had somehow lost – or given up – for him.
“Momma!” Janette yelled, rushing forward.
“Janette, no!” Averey pleaded, trying to restrain her. She broke
free, launching herself at Marcus. He backhanded her, sending her
sprawling to the ground. Averey gently pulled her up, his eyes locked
in a hateful gaze with Marcus, and she clung to him, shaking and cry-
ing. Delinda sprang to her feet and ran at Marcus. With amazing agili-
ty and a primal scream, she jumped on his back.
“You bastard!” she wailed. “You coward! You can‟t hurt my fami-
ly anymore! I won‟t let you!”
Marcus let go of Monique and spun in circles, leaking expletives
like liquid from a sieve. I watched, stunned, as he attacked Delinda,
pummeling her belly with his fists. Determined to free himself, he fell
back against a tree, crushing Delinda. She slid off and Cass and I
dragged her to safety, pushing her up the back porch steps and into
the house.
“Stay here, Del, for God‟s sake!” Cass shouted at her.
“I‟ll kill him! I swear I will!” Del struggled, trying to get past us
and back into the fray.
“Think about Belinda,” I told her, and she finally calmed down,
promising to stay inside and out of danger.
Dinah held Marcus at bay. He towered over her viciously, ignor-
ing the prongs that were digging into his chest. Monique stepped be-
tween them, holding up her hands, palms out, dislodging her
boyfriend from her mother‟s personal space.
“It‟s okay, Ma,” she said to Dinah. “I‟ll just go home with Marcus
now and we‟ll straighten everything out.” She turned to Marcus, im-
ploring, “Won‟t we, Baby?”
“Damn right we will, bitch,” he said, and slapped her. Monique
put her hand to her face, but showed no emotion. Marcus brushed
past her, approaching Janette who shrank back in what seemed a
common reflex. “But the little bitch is comin‟ home, too.”
Averey moved in front of Janette, blocking her with his body. She
looked absolutely terrified, but ready to do anything that he asked of
her. He leaned forward, the weight of his body on the balls of his
feet. Clenching his fists, tension visible in his every muscle, he said,
“If you lay a hand on her again, I swear, I‟ll...”
28 Devon Pearse
“You gonna do what, pussy?” Marcus asked, laughing and giving

Averey a shove. I heard Cass draw in her breath.
“Leave them alone, Marcus!” she said, diverting his attention.
Marcus looked at us, noticing me for the first time. Thanks, Cass.
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I waited as he sauntered up to me,
his hand on his crotch.
“What we got here?” he said. “We got a little snowflake in the
summertime.” Yeah, I‟ve never heard that one before. “I bet I got some-
thin‟ you‟ll like, Snowflake. I bet I got the biggest dick you ever
seen.”
I glanced at Monique. She looked sick and embarrassed. And
something more. Trapped. She couldn‟t stand up to him anymore. She
couldn‟t defend herself or her daughter. She‟d simply forgotten how.
Focusing on Marcus, I let my eyes travel to his hand and slowly
back up to his face before answering, “Let me know when you strap
it on.”
Next to me, Cass snorted, the adrenaline getting the best of her. I
may have actually seen my life flash before my eyes at that point.
“What you say, bitch?” He stepped closer to me, squaring his
shoulders.
Out of nowhere, Olivia inserted herself between us, cordless
phone in hand. She cleared her throat, like a teacher chastising her
unruly students. Standing in front of Marcus, the top of her head
didn‟t reach his shoulder. My mind forced the comparison to David
and Goliath.
“I wish to inform you that I‟ve phoned the police,” she said.
“They will be here without delay, so I suggest you leave peacefully
prior to their arrival unless you desire to answer to the local authori-
ties.” Her voice was shrill, but she stood unflinchingly, her chin held
high.
“This ain‟t nunna yo‟ goddamn business, bitch!” I had just enough
time to think, Well, at least he‟d be easy to buy a gift for. He could use a good
thesaurus, before he continued, “Stay the hell out of it, or I‟ll
come back tonight and fuck you up good.” Olivia paled, clutching the
phone to her chest.
“Don‟t you threaten my daughter, you lowlife piece of shit!” Di-
nah came at him, stabbing him in the shoulder with the prongs. Mar-
cus growled in rage and pain, pulling the prongs out of his flesh and
turning on Dinah.
Averey was preparing to tackle him from behind when there was a
loud crack and we all jumped. Dwayne had returned and busted a bot-
tle of beer on the gate. He now held the jagged neck out as a make-
shift weapon.
“Get the fuck out of here, Marcus,” he said. His voice was low
and heavy with threat. I‟ve never wanted to hug someone more than
I wanted to hug Dwayne at that moment. Marcus turned to him with
a snarl. Monique held her hand out to Dwayne, her eyes pleading.
“It‟s okay, Dwayne. Everything‟s fine. We‟re leaving now.” She
hugged Dinah. “I‟m sorry, Ma. Tell the police it was a misunderstand-
ing, okay?” she pleaded. Dinah nodded angrily, as ever giving in to
her eldest daughter‟s wishes. Leaning over to Cass, Monique asked
quietly, “Can Janette stay with you tonight?” Cass looked at Monique
and conveyed many unspoken things with her eyes, finally sighing
and speaking to Janette.
“You can stay with me for as long as you‟d like.”
“I‟m so sorry,” Monique whispered to me. I squeezed her hand,
not knowing what to say. She walked slowly back to Marcus. “Come
on, Baby. Let‟s go home, okay?”
Marcus locked eyes with us all, one by one. He took a few steps
backward, swaggering and baring his teeth. When his eyes fell on me,
he lifted his hand in the shape of a gun, took aim and pulled off a
shot. Cass spat at him and for a breathless moment I thought he was
going to charge. Instead, with a final sneer, he took Monique roughly
by the arm and pulled her with him past Dwayne and out the gate. It
slammed behind them.
“I think I‟m about to be ill,” Olivia said, and darted inside.
32 Devon Pearse
The silence which followed was slowly encroached upon by some

bravely emerging crickets and the distant cry of police sirens. Janette
huddled in Averey‟s arms. Delinda made her way carefully down the
back steps to throw her arms around Dwayne. Dinah began picking
up the broken glass from the ground by the gate.
I sank into the nearest folding chair, internally debating the virtues
of consciousness versus the alternative. Cass sat next to me, shaking
her head in wonder. “And my mom thinks I‟m the screw-up,” she
said.
Chapter 3

Dinner with John and Nietzsche
I awakened to the aroma of frying steak. There was a damp spot on my

pillow signifying that I had been sleeping very soundly for quite some
time. I always drool when I‟m sleep-deprived. Then again, maybe it
was the lovely smell of cooking meat wafting into my bedroom. I
yawned and squinted at the clock through crusty eyes. It was still
blinking. One day I would have to reset that thing.
My final recollection from the previous night was the effort it had
taken to slide my laptop off of my legs and ooze down into the bed,
absorbed by my comfy feather pillows, my one great luxury. I re-
membered that, and something else. An inkling of loneliness left over
from a fading dream.
I sat up in bed, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my
arms around my shins. It was love, this dissipating fantasy. The nearly
forgotten feeling of being wholly consumed by the thought of some-
one else. Someone far away, but still longed for, even if I could only
admit it to myself in my dreams. They left me feeling haunted, but
thankful for the brief respite, like taking a tiny sip of water from an
oasis only to find it was a mirage all along. I knew he was gone,
would never come back. But the knowledge couldn‟t take away the
yearning.
My stomach growled and I wondered how long it had been since I
had eaten. It was anyone‟s guess. The good news was there was
someone in my kitchen cooking steak. Cass couldn‟t cook to save her
life, and Mrs. Babcock didn‟t have a key. So, that would leave John,
the only friend of mine who cooked and had a key to my apartment.
Or a culinary genius of a burglar who broke in and then felt sorry for
me. Either way, there was food in the kitchen and that‟s where I was
heading.
I pulled on my tattered old robe over my tank top and boxers and
shuffled into the hall. Rounding the corner I was rewarded with the
sight of John in his chef‟s hat and apron flipping over a giant sirloin
and humming to himself. He looked up as I entered.
“Well, if it isn‟t the little woman, up at last.” Upon closer inspec-
tion, he added, “You were drooling, weren‟t you?”
“Shut up,” I said politely.
“That‟s good. That means you‟ve been writing.”
“Brilliant deduction, Watson,” I said, pulling up a barstool and
folding my arms on the counter that divided my living area from my
kitchen. With my chin resting on my hands, I was able to observe my
self-appointed private chef at work. Best seat in the house.
“Your hat‟s crooked,” I teased, knowing he‟d ignore me. In keep-
ing with our traditional gag gifts, I‟d bought him the set for his birth-
day, never believing he‟d actually find a use for it. As usual, I‟d been
mistaken. “Where‟d the steak come from?” I was almost positive I
had no remaining carcasses of any animal in my freezer last week, and
I hadn‟t been to the store since.
“Brought it with me,” he said. “I know you never have any food
here that‟s worth cooking, or even worth eating, for that matter. What
would be the point when you‟re so good at sitting around waiting to
be fed?”
“Aren‟t we snippy today,” I commented.
“Yeah? Well at least I‟m not a drooling writer.”

I reached over the counter and grabbed a leftover potato that had
narrowly escaped the mashing pot, flinging it in his general direction.
I missed. The unlucky spud bounced off of the corner cabinet and
ricocheted to the floor, spinning dervishly. John retrieved it, giving
me the same reprimanding look I‟d seen him use on Carly. She was
six.
“Lucky for me, death by potato wasn‟t in my cards today.” He
held the battered tuber out to me, looking grim. “What did my fallen
comrade ever to do you?”
I shrugged. “Guess he was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time.” I took it from him and placed it next to Ophelia. John
frowned at me.
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“Oh, I‟ll probably give it to Mrs. Babcock for a proper burial.
She‟ll plant it, wave her magic wand and before you know it, we‟ll
have our very own potato tree.”
“Potatoes don‟t grow on trees.”
“What do I know? I can‟t even raise a common houseplant.” I
glanced forlornly at Ophelia, who mirrored my expression. “Speaking
of rearing, where‟s your spawn?”
“With her grandma. Mothers sure can come in handy...” His voice
trailed off and I was sure I heard him mutter a curse under his breath.
I smiled at him reassuringly, hoping to convey the thought that
my mother‟s problems had nothing to do with him. He was more
than welcome to have a functional mother of his own, and speak of
her freely, without fear of upsetting me. I wasn‟t that delicate.
“I‟ll set the table,” I said.
“How‟s Cass?” he questioned while I hunted for matching silver-
ware.
“Okay, I guess. She‟s been pretty busy with her latest endeavor.”
“Oh, yeah, that deejaying gig, right? How‟s that going?”
“Actually, it‟s gone. That‟s so two months ago, Pierce,” I chided.
34 Devon Pearse
“Try to keep up.”

“Sorry. So, what is it now? Raising alpacas? Panning for gold?
Starting her own ghost tour?”
“Yeah. We don‟t have enough of those. None of the above, actu-
ally. It‟s a make-up company this time.” He rolled his eyes. “I know, I
know. But after so many tries, eventually something has to stick
right?”
He didn‟t look convinced. “What about her latest paramour? Any-
thing sticking in that department?”
I shook my head. “Nope. But at least she‟s better off than
Monique. You wouldn‟t believe what happened at Janette‟s birthday
party last week.”
“Try me,” he said, accustomed to the Sloane family saga.
I filled him in on the latest, finishing with, “I swear, if anything
happens to Marcus, the cops are gonna have a field day. I don‟t think
there was one of us who didn‟t threaten him in some way. And there
were plenty of nosy neighbors who witnessed the whole thing.”
I was shaking my head, the passage of time making the memory
less threatening, less serious than it had seemed when it had taken
place, and my lips hinted at a smile. John put down the plate he was
carrying and took me by the shoulders.
“Dev, this is not something to be taken lightly. I want you to
promise me you‟ll be careful around that animal. In fact, I don‟t want
you around him at all.”
I smirked, amused by his suddenly protective nature. “Yes, Dad,”
I teased.
Scowling, he released me, throwing up his hands. “Fine. Do what
you want. You will, anyway. God knows no one can ever control
you.” He sighed. “So, you don‟t have to promise me anything. But be
careful, okay? Please?”
“I‟ll be fine,” I said, uncomfortable with being cared for. Feeling
guilty, I added, “And I‟ll be careful. Really, I will.”
“That‟s all I ask,” he said, pulling out my chair for me.
Over dinner we discussed my squirrel problem, which led to rem-

iniscences, as squirrels often do. I recalled the first time we‟d actually
spoken. It was going on eight years ago now. I was dashing through
the hallway at Flagler College following a particularly harrowing Phi-
losophy class. The hour long discussion of the writings of Friedrich
Nietzsche still ringing in my ears, I heard John calling, “Hey, Miss
Pearse! Wait up!”
I waited obediently for him to catch up to me, actually noticing
him for the first time. He was tall. I estimated him at around six feet,
give or take. His hair, a rich, dark shade of brown, was longer than I
had realized, pulled back into a loose ponytail that curled slightly at
the back of his neck. Although clean shaven at the start of the semes-
ter, he‟d recently grown in a goatee and moustache, which, in my
opinion, added an air of daring charm to his already dashing persona.
He wore a red flannel shirt that I would come to know and love. The
first yearly sighting of John in his red flannel was as sure a harbinger
of winter as any weatherman could hope for.
Upon reaching my side, he said, “That was some lecture today.
How did you become such a Nietzsche expert?”
I‟d been the only one in the class already well versed in the discus-
sion material. Apparently I‟d impressed someone. “My best friend
Cass is kind of a Nietzsche freak, so I decided to read up on the sub-
ject and got a little carried away myself. Damn interesting human,
that one. Plus, I have a certain fondness for lunatics.”
He nodded, as though that were obvious and the most natural
thing in the world, and offered me his hand. “I‟m John Pierce, by the
way. I know. What are the chances, right? Pierce and Pearse in the
same Philosophy class.” I shrugged, returning his smile. “So, where
ya headed? I‟ve got some extra time to kill today. Professor Felton
wore his Thursday suit. That means two-for-ones at Ann
O‟Malley‟s.”
Curious and sensing a benevolent spirit, I replied, “I was going to
sit under the twin oak trees for a while and write some poetry.”
36 Devon Pearse
“Cool,” he said. “Mind if I tag along? I can draw while you write.”
He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “And protect you from
the squirrels.”
And with that, our happy friendship was born. In the years since,
I have watched his daughter grow, his marriage deteriorate, his wife
leave him, and his dreams get trampled. The youngish would-be artist
I had met that day was whittled down to a frustrated, though virtually
optimistic, graphic designer. I knew it had to be irking him constant-
ly, but he never complained. Life threw him a real curve ball in the
form of a little girl to raise alone. Yet he has never wavered from his
dutiful existence as father, friend and cohort. I think Nietzsche would
have liked him.
Apparently so did Mrs. Babcock. After I walked John to his truck,
I stood on the lawn and waved until the taillights vanished around the
corner. Turning to traipse back upstairs, I noticed Mrs. Babcock‟s
door was slightly ajar. Tiptoeing over, I sidled up against the wall un-
til I felt I was close enough to be heard by the nosy occupant of
Apartment One.
“Come on out, Mata Hari. You‟ve been discovered.” To my great
satisfaction, I heard a little gasp from the other side of the door.
Sheepishly, she emerged. Wearing her favorite pajamas, the lavender
ones with the eyelet roses, her hair done up in its customary evening
attire of bobby pins and head scarf, she didn‟t look exactly up for
company. “My, aren‟t we up past our bed time,” I teased.
“Oh, don‟t pester me, Devon! I was just...”
“Checking on the hydrangeas?”
She smiled through her uppity guise, offhandedly admitting her
guilt. “You know I don‟t mean to pry,” I had my doubts, but I let her
continue, “but he‟s such a nice looking young man and it‟s so good to
see you...entertaining a gentleman caller.”
I made a noise not unlike that of a congested seal. My „gentleman
caller‟? Wait till John hears this! Smirking, I explained, “No, Mrs. Bab-
cock. He‟s just a friend. A very good one, but a friend nonetheless.”
The poor woman looked so crushed I was tempted to take it all

back and lie up one storm of a story that would keep her bingo club
gossiping for days. But really, there was no way I could do that and
keep a straight face. Nor could I simply speak my thoughts, “I know
where you‟re going with this, and I thank you for your concern. But I feel you
should know that I can handle my own sex life. There are certain friends you just
don‟t do the nasty with, under any circumstances, and John is one of those. Yes,
he‟s attractive, single and one hell of a guy, but to me he‟s also family, and you
just don‟t mess around that way with family.”
It‟s not as though we hadn‟t tried, back in the early days before
Carly came along. There were times when Amy nearly sent him over
the edge with her neuroticism and uber-sensitivity. I was the easy-
going one. The refuge from her maelstrom of emotions. The safe
harbor always waiting whenever he needed a comforting shoulder.
And when you‟re young and single and lonely yourself, it can be flat-
tering to have someone depending upon you, of all people, as their
end-of-the-day pick-me-up. Flattering, and also exciting, even if in
your heart you know you can never replace the other someone that
you‟re wishing you were with. But when you can‟t even get each oth-
er‟s clothes off without bursting into laughter, you realize that maybe
a safe harbor is all you‟re really meant to be.
Of course, I wasn‟t going to share that wealth of information with
my neighbor, either. Although she did tempt me when she said, “Oh.
Well, is there anyone with whom you might be interested in settling
down?” Settling down? I couldn‟t even settle myself down, let alone
consider trying it with someone else. And apparently Mrs. Babcock
wasn‟t getting the message.
When all else failed, I took a page from Cass‟s book and turned
the tables on her. “Have you spoken to Mr. Rooney yet?”
She blushed. “No. But I am considering it.” Looking at me mis-
chievously, she continued, “What about a double date? You and your
nice young man...”
“I don‟t have a nice young man, Mrs. Babcock. I‟m afraid you‟re
38 Devon Pearse
on your own for this one.” She looked at me forlornly. My con-

science slapped me on the forehead and I gave my darling little
neighbor lady an awkward hug. “But thank you for asking.
I...um...appreciate your concern.” This gesture brought a smile to the
old gal‟s lips and made me feel better, too. Maybe I should hug old people
more often, I thought.
“Good night, dear,” she said, letting me off the hook, at least for
now. She even allowed me to get half way up the stairs before adding,
“But don‟t be alone for too long. Life‟s too short to miss out on
love.”
I turned back to her, smiling slightly to soften my own words.
“And painful enough without it,” I said, and continued up the stairs.
Chapter 4

To Ernest Hemingway, on His
One Hundred and Sixth Birthday
“Don’t forget the wine,” my father called over his shoulder. He was al-
ready making his way down my stairs, picnic basket of bread and
cheese in hand.
“It‟s being cradled gently in the crook of my loving arm, Da! Jeez,
how many times have we done this before? I think I‟ve got it down
by now.”
He ignored me, mumbling to himself and situating the basket in
the backseat of the Caddy. I locked up and followed his route to the
car. The squirrels fussed at us, knowing we had food that we didn‟t
intend on sharing. Shut up, you little mothers. It was a beautiful day, at
least. “Papa” wouldn‟t have it any other way.
A while later, slathered in sun block and encased in a protective
haze of mosquito spray, we strolled the familiar path to the river, as
we‟d done countless times in the past on the same day every year. No
matter what else was going on in our personal lives at any given time,
and regardless of what day of the week it fell on, July twenty-first was
sacred. It was a day when all other pursuits must be set aside in defe-
40 Devon Pearse
rence to our all-important celebration. It was a day of reflection, a day

of tradition, a day that lived in infamy. It was Ernest Hemingway‟s
birthday.
We settled ourselves on the rocks, feet inches from the water,
placing the picnic basket between us. I uncorked the wine and Da
tore into the crusty French loaf. Our wine was chilled in ice, not a
coldly rushing mountain stream, and we weren‟t at all likely to catch a
trout. Yet we shared in this our similar and time-honored ritual, ever
the thought that mattered most.
Once the wine was poured and we each held a glass, the tradition-
al toast was given.
“To Ernest,” spoke my father with adroit solemnity, “May his
adventures continue across the river and into the trees.”
“And may he write them all down so the rest of us will have
something good to read when we get there,” I added.
Our glasses clinked and we both took a drink in honor of the
great man and his works, past and ethereal.
“Favorite quote?” my father asked, knowing it would change
along with my mood.
I thought for a moment. “„All things truly wicked start from inno-
cence,‟” I said, smirking mysteriously.
He raised his eyebrows and his glass. “Good one,” he said.
“And yours?” I asked him, already knowing and ready to say it
along with him, as I‟d done for the past twenty-odd years.
“Courage is grace under pressure,” we chorused.
Without further fanfare, my father opened the book he had been
carrying, Green Hills of Africa, to a page he had marked with a receipt,
most likely from his latest venture to one fast food restaurant or an-
other. He held the book at a distance to give the best advantage to his
eyes and began to read:
“Now it is pleasant to hunt something that you want very much
over a long period of time, being outwitted, out-maneuvered, and
failing at the end of each day, but having the hunt and knowing every
time you are out that, sooner or later, your luck will change and that
you will get the chance that you are seeking. But it is not pleasant to
have a time limit by which you must get your kudu or perhaps never
get it, nor even see one.
“It is not the way hunting should be. It is too much like those
boys who used to be sent to Paris with two years in which to make
good as writers or painters after which, if they had not made good,
they could go home and into their fathers‟ business. The way to hunt
is for as long as you live against as long as there is such and such an
animal; just as the way to paint is as long as there is you and colors
and canvas, and to write as long as you can live and there is pencil
and paper or ink or any machine to do it with, or anything you care
to write about, and you feel a fool, and you are a fool, to do it any
other way. But here we were, now, caught by time, by the season, and
by the running out of our money, so that what should have been as
much fun to do each day whether you killed or not was being forced
into that most exciting perversion of life; the necessity of accomplish-
ing something in less time than should truly be allowed for its doing.”
He closed the book and I said, “God, that makes me want to
write.”
“Makes me want to go to Kenya and shoot something big,” he
said, his eyes fixed on a faraway African plane somewhere beyond my
sight.
I shook my head. “One man‟s novel is another man‟s kudu.”
For the next hour or more, we discussed all things Hemingway
while we munched on bread and cheese and watched the wine rapidly
deplete. The sun climbed high and poured its fury down upon us un-
til even the trees seemed too weary to offer shade, the water too
warm to refresh. Knowing the rising heat would soon mark the end
of our visit, I took the opportunity to broach a usually-off-limits top-
ic.
“Da?”
42 Devon Pearse
“Hmm?” he replied, leaning back against a tree, his ancient fishing

hat pulled down over his eyes and his hands folded atop his belly.
“Have you been to see Myma lately?”
He didn‟t move, but I saw the muscles in his jaw clench, if only
briefly, before he answered, “Just because I don‟t like to give you a
bi-weekly postmortem doesn‟t mean I don‟t visit.”
“I know. I guess I should have asked if you‟ve spoken to Doctor
Keller, or if anything‟s changed, if there‟s been any progress...”
“No, I haven‟t and no, there‟s been no progress.” Hearing my
silence, he sighed, removing the hat from his eyes long enough to
look at me and say, “It doesn‟t mean we‟re giving up, but I don‟t
want to live with false hope, either. I‟m getting too old for that.” He
replaced the hat, signaling the discussion was closed.
“„A man can be destroyed but not defeated,‟” I quoted, and he
grunted his approval.
In the quiet moments that followed, I listened to the water against
the rocks and felt the sweat trickle down my neck. I thought of what
Cass had said, about my moving back in with Da, and knew that I
had recently illustrated my own point. Living in the house with him
would be like going back in time, like locking myself in with all the
ghosts I‟d worked so long and hard to get away from. I had escaped.
Why would I want to go back now?
Later, the annual ceremony having drawn to its inevitable conclu-
sion, I lay on my bed, showered and replete. I thought of Papa Hem-
ingway and all that he had seen in his life, and lived to write about.
And in the end, when he felt he could no longer put pen to paper
succinctly, he had chosen not to live. For what is left for you when all
that you have lived for, from the very depths of your soul, is gone? I
viewed his life and death as cautionary, attempting to find as many
things as possible each day to catalog within the layers of my
memory, storing them up for the winter yet to come, to ward off the
chill of incapacitation should it rear its ugly head.
Memories, thoughts, recollections of sorrow, joy and fear. Every-
thing that made up the person I‟d become was wrapped up neatly in
my mind. How it all had changed throughout the years, molding and
reshaping itself into new forms and new realities. It felt like a lifetime
of things remembered. Things I‟d yearned to live anew, and things
too painful and too wonderful to forget.
The Alone
She played sweet music while I danced

By cello willfully entranced
Gentle fingers did caress the strings and fell to dream
He cared for her until she slept
With none to comfort while he wept
The broken angel of the night who stood to guard and keep
Their palace spun of lullabies
All nestled in the clouds on high
The kingdom of the fallen stars who dwelt unheard, unseen
We once were safe within these walls
But night delayed more fiercely falls
And steals away the fading light in eyes of palest green
She watches from her windowed cell
Where goes her spirit none can tell
And lonely spins the dancing child held fast within her dreams
Chapter 5

Down the Rabbit Hole
The five minute bell was ringing and I knew I’d be late for class. And it
really sucked, too, because Elton John was singing and playing the
piano in front of Mrs. Simpson‟s class and I couldn‟t find my tuba in
my locker. It was filled instead with butterflies and gargoyles. As I
searched through brambles and lace, the butterflies escaped and flew
off down the hallway. The gargoyles followed, hopping intently along
and looking hungry. I stared after them, wondering where they‟d all
end up. At least I could finally get a better look inside my locker.
They‟d certainly messed everything up, friggin‟ gargoyles! Cass must
have put them there before skipping out after lunch. Where the hell
was my tuba? Wait. Something didn‟t seem right about this. “I don‟t
play the tuba,” I said, and sputtered awake, relieved to find it was
only the phone and not the bell. No matter what else I had to face
today, it would have to be better than getting another tardy slip from
Mr. Hutchins in Biology, even in a dream.
An unfamiliar voice responded to my garbled hello. “Miss
Pearse?” it questioned brightly.
“This is Devon,” I answered, emphasizing my first name. Miss
46 Devon Pearse
always made me feel like I was at a tea party with a spider lurking
somewhere above me.
“Hello, Devon.” Ooh, a fast learner. “This is Connie Whitaker from
Glen Harbor.” A myriad of questions scrambled through my foggy
brain, jockeying for position. Before I could establish a clear winner,
Nurse Whitaker said, “Please don‟t worry. Your mother is fine. Actu-
ally, she‟s made a bit of a breakthrough that we‟d like you to see for
yourself.” I remained silent, processing her words, and after a brief
pause, she continued. “I‟ve tried to contact your father...”
“He‟s out of town,” I informed her. He had left on a book finding
mission a few days ago, leaving Jimmy to deal with the patrons of The
Gilded Page. Just like the Big Five of the hunting world, my father was
always after what he considered to be the most valuable first editions
of antique bookdom. Sometimes the book snobs agreed with him,
quite often they did not. Their opinions mattered little to him. He
had his own idea of what made things valuable, and I liked his system
better.
“That would explain why we can‟t reach him, then.”
Yes, it would. “I‟m not sure when he‟ll be back, but I‟ll be there as
soon as I can.”
“That would be wonderful! We look forward to seeing you.”
I thanked her and hung up, not sure if I was looking as forward to
seeing them as they were to seeing me. Just the same, it was some-
thing that needed doing and I must be the doer. I showered and
dressed quickly, grabbing a questionable apple off the counter on my
way out. Luckily Da had left me the Caddy and I wouldn‟t have to
bother Cass for a ride.
A little over two hours later, I made the familiar turn onto the
long and winding tree-lined drive which led to Glen Harbor. The
sprawling, beautifully maintained grounds spread out before me and
the grand old house loomed ever larger through the windshield. The
apprehension which accompanied me whenever I visited Myma re-
turned with a flourish. What could Nurse Whitaker possibly have to
show me? What progress could my mother have made? It had been
years since she‟d actively spoken to anyone, or done anything at all,
for that matter. Something must have changed. I hoped it was for the
better.
I parked beneath a large magnolia tree and made my way to the
front door of the hulking estate. The white two-storey antebellum
beauty didn‟t mean to be foreboding, but it was. There were a total of
eight bedrooms, two of which were converted into double rooms so
the house could hold no more than ten patients at a time. The care
was superior and the waiting list long and I often wondered just how
much money Aunt Tippy had donated for my mother‟s continuing
care. Whatever it was, it must have been substantial.
I paused on the porch, Alice about to tumble into Wonderland.
Every time I visited, I had to wonder if they might decide to keep me
there. Like mother, like daughter. I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
Nurse Whitaker opened the door, calm and reassuring as ever in lav-
ender skirt and off-white blouse. Her brown hair, lightly dusted with
gray, was pulled back in a loose coiffure and she wore on her feet
what my grandmother would have called “sensible shoes”. The staff
made it a point to dress in everyday clothes rather than in uniforms
to propagate a less clinical atmosphere.
“Hello, Devon,” she said, with a welcoming smile. “It‟s nice to see
you again. Your mother is in the sunroom. I‟ll take you to her.” She
continued speaking as we walked the bright and airy halls. “The rea-
son I called you here, Devon, was so you could see something for
yourself. Something…miraculous. Doctor Keller asked me to apolo-
gize that he couldn‟t be here to speak with you personally, but he was
called away to another facility and had to finish his rounds here earli-
er than usual. He‟ll be back next week, but asked me to fill you in on
everything and, of course, you can call him this evening if you have
any questions.”
I was only half listening to her. I heard the music all the way down
the hall, but disconnected it from my thoughts. It‟s funny how
48 Devon Pearse
your senses can overwhelm and tease you. Light and breezy as a crisp,
clear day in early spring, the melody surrounded me and I floated on
a stream of flowing notes, causing memories to rush past me like so
many tiny minnows in my mind.
During my childhood, my mother played her cello regularly with a
chamber music quartet. I remember going to the concerts and being
so proud that it was my mother up there on the stage. She always
looked so beautiful with her golden hair coiled neatly atop her head, a
few soft and wispy strands escaping to fall around her face. They
swayed gently as she played, with a rhythm all their own.
I knew her music was her lifeblood. She enjoyed playing at home
for us, her own private audience, as much as she did for a crowd. Da
would sit in his easy chair, a book turned over on his lap, eyes closed
and a smile on his lips. As a child, I would spin around the room,
arms outstretched, completely overcome by music and melodic bliss.
Those are still some of my favorite memories of her. She could en-
rapture us with song. Until the day her music disappeared.
Having no idea what to expect when we arrived, I hung back.
Nurse Whitaker held out her arm, gesturing me toward the open
door. Her other hand pressed gently on the small of my back, urging
me onward. My gaze sweeping the room, my eyes were forced to be-
lieve what my ears could not. In the center of the light-filled enclo-
sure sat Myma, cello in place between her knees, her delicate fingers
working the strings and bow in beautiful, melodious unison. It was
like a dream; my most beautiful dream come true. I felt Nurse Whita-
ker‟s hand on my shoulder and heard her words from another realm.
“Devon, as you know we‟ve kept your mother‟s cello here with
the hope that she might one day take an interest in playing it again. In
the years since her admission here, she has never shown any sign that
she‟s been ready to play...until now.”
I was sure whatever else the nurse might have to say was im-
portant, but I couldn‟t focus on it. All my energy was pointed directly
at my mother, as I had seen her in my mind a thousand times.
Older, yes, but still beautiful. She played the music of my childhood
and I could almost see myself dancing around the room, spinning in
careless circles of pure joy.
Then, like a ghost of my imagination given life, the dancing waif
appeared before me. Me, but not me. My reflection? My own compo-
site self, made of wishes, prayers and daydreams? I stared at her,
dancing there as I knew I must have danced, and still did in my
memory, arms outstretched and languidly graceful. And Myma was
smiling. Glad to play her cello, but also shining forth her love toward
the dancing child. A painful realization came to take my breath away.
The music was for her. For her and not for me.
My composure was slipping away in a deluge of mixed and name-
less emotions. Who was this girl who dared to take my place? She
looked too young to be here – pale and out of place. A tragic, fragile
being perhaps, but I found it difficult to care. She danced like a gypsy
in a trance, drunk upon the music. My music, my dream, my dance,
my Myma. She had stolen them from me. What right did she have?
But when I looked at Myma and saw her smiling peacefully, for
once not locked away inside herself, a captive no more, a part of me
was grateful for whatever brought the change.
We stood in the doorway for countless minutes, Nurse Whitaker
and I, until finally she took my arm, attempting to lead me back down
the long hallway whence we came. Away from the music I had longed
to hear. Away from happiness and thoughtless jealousy. Away from
Myma and my dancing doppleganger.
“Wait,” I said, and Nurse Whitaker stopped and cocked her head
at me like a curious dog. “I, um, I just want to sit with her for a while,
if you think it‟s okay. I came all this way and...” She touched my el-
bow.
“Of course. I should have thought of it myself. I‟m sure she‟d
love to know you‟re here with her, hearing her play.”
I turned and forced my leaden feet to journey back to the sun-
50 Devon Pearse
room where my mother played and the stranger-girl danced so happi-

ly to the music of my mother‟s soul. I moved slowly, cautious in my
approach, not wanting to disturb Myma, so afraid I‟d break the spell.
She appeared not to notice me, her eyes remaining focused on the
dancer as she flitted across the room. When I reached my mother‟s
side I gently sank down on the floor beside her chair, resting my head
on the outside of her knee next to the cello, as I had so many times as
a child. I closed my eyes and listened to her play. I might have been
asleep and captive in a dream, but at that moment I didn‟t care. I only
knew I never wanted to open my eyes in case it would all fade away.
I don‟t know how long I stayed that way, but at some point the
music ceased. I felt a slight pressure on the top of my head, reminis-
cent of the way Myma used to place her hand there when I had fallen
asleep. The feeling was one of familiarity and comfort. Longing to see
for myself that I wasn‟t dreaming, my rebellious eyelids fluttered
open.
I gasped and scuttled backwards across the floor. Childlike hazel
eyes had been burning into mine. She sat just as I had but opposite
me, her head on Myma‟s other knee, precisely mimicking my posi-
tion. To say it really creeped me out would be an understatement. At
first I couldn‟t tell exactly what it was I saw in her constant, unnerv-
ing gaze. It could have been anger, hate or even curiosity. What I fi-
nally settled on was a fierce protectiveness; a blatant warning that she
saw me as a threat. I could never claim to be psychic, but something
passed between us and I understood what she was trying to tell me,
heard her unspoken words so clearly that at first I thought she‟d ac-
tually spoken them aloud. “She‟s my mother now. Mine. And you
can‟t have her back.”
Getting shakily to my feet, I glanced at Myma. Her left hand rest-
ed on the girl‟s head, slender fingers entwined within tangled blonde
hair. Her right, still holding the bow, hung at her side, as though it
had fallen away from me when I retreated. The serene smile
that always accompanied her music was still intact as she gazed into
her memories, refusing to look away, unwilling to choose between us.
I walked the halls in a surreal trance. Nurse Whitaker had asked
me to join her in the private nurses‟ office at the rear of the house.
When I entered she offered me a glass of water, which I drank,
quenching a thirst I didn‟t know was there. Maybe that‟s how Myma feels,
I thought, and suddenly found it very difficult to keep from bursting
into tears. I wanted to feel only joy, to be caught up in the happiness
that should by all rights be encompassing my heart. But it had been
tainted; spoiled by the sight of someone else absconding with it first.
Grow up, Devon, I chided myself. That girl hasn‟t done anything but
draw your mother back from the undead. If anything, you should be thanking her,
not hating her. As much as I knew these things in my mind, my heart,
stubborn child that she is, refused to play along. Luckily, Nurse Whit-
aker seemed oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“Won‟t you sit down?” she offered, indicating the small sofa. I
sank into the plushness and she kindly joined me there rather than
seating herself more professionally behind the desk. She leaned slight-
ly forward, adjusting her weight. As she smiled, a spray of tiny lines
appeared around her eyes.
The nurse put her hand on my knee in a friendly and calming ges-
ture that I both appreciated and disliked at the same time. Sensing my
impatience, and perhaps reading my mind, she withdrew her hand
and continued, “Libby was admitted about a week ago. She‟s only
seventeen, but what that child has gone through...” She trailed off,
somewhere far away, seeing mysterious, unmentionable things. Snap-
ping herself out of it, she continued, “She seemed to be settling in,
but two nights ago she ran out of her room and down the stairs,
screaming all the while like the Devil himself was on her heels. We
thought for sure she was heading for the front door, which was
locked, of course, so she wouldn‟t have gotten far. But just as she was
rounding the corner, your mother came rushing out of her own room
into the downstairs hallway. Libby stopped and they stared at
52 Devon Pearse
one another for a minute and then…the most amazing thing hap-
pened. Your mother held open her arms and Libby ran right to her.
She clung to her and Delilah rocked her like a baby. They‟ve been
inseparable ever since. One of the double rooms was open upstairs
and, well, I hope you don‟t mind, but we moved them both into that
room. It‟s the biggest one and has a wonderful view of the grounds.
Since then, Libby‟s night terrors have nearly stopped altogether and
your mother...well, you‟ve seen for yourself. We‟re not sure what to
make of it, but it seems to be doing a world of good for both of
them.”
“Yes, it, um, appears so,” I croaked.
“It was a beautiful scene, wasn‟t it?” I nodded, my untrustworthy
mouth clamped shut. “We love to see our residents help one another
to overcome their obstacles.” Great. Shrink talk. Just what I needed.
Nurse Whitaker went delightedly on. “I‟m sure you can see why it
was so important for me to have you here to witness it for yourself. I
wish your father could have seen it, too, but I‟m sure we‟ll have many
more chances in the future. Libby and your mother have certainly
bonded. It‟s imperative our residents learn to express themselves in
any way possible, and when they do it together, well, it‟s miraculous!”
She had used that word again, and it wasn‟t exactly the word I had
in mind. Envious and hurting, I could think only about how I was
missing out. What good did it do me to have Myma play the cello for
a surrogate daughter when I was right here and still needed her? I
wanted only to escape and find a nice place to cry, alone and undis-
turbed. But the nurse was still speaking and, repressing my selfish
immaturity, I forced a smile and stewed within her words.
My eyes drifted and I noticed a file on the desk brandishing the
name Reesor, Elizabeth J. Not wanting Nurse Whitaker to notice the
subject of my surreptitious glances, I made a point of looking obvi-
ously out the window before turning my attention back to her. The
few details she had mentioned about Libby had made me curious to
find out what exactly it was that had brought the girl to Glen Harbor.
Suddenly I was more anxious than ever to flee the old manor.
Mumbling something about rushing home to telephone my father, I
clumsily said my goodbyes to Nurse Whitaker and practically ran
from the house.
Old memories pursued me, dredging up the years I‟d tried so hard
to put behind me. All the questions and the reasons that my mother
had ended up at Glen Harbor in the first place. It had all started so
innocently, as hardly anything worth mentioning.
From the time I was very young, I knew my mother sometimes
talked in colors. I was a little older when I realized not everyone else
did. It wasn‟t something anyone would notice, and those who did had
no trouble simply laughing it off as one of Delilah‟s many trivial
quirks. She had always been vibrant and fun and the life of the party.
No one cared if her antics sometimes seemed a little left of center.
That was just Delilah being herself. So, if she told me Sunday was
yellow, I believed her. When she asked me how I felt and I told her,
“Blue,” she knew it didn‟t necessarily mean that I was sad. To my
mother, blue was a peaceful color; the color of happiness. And feel-
ings came in shades. Pale blue was sleepy, but content; the last color
you would see before you drifted off to sleep. Dark blue was hopeful,
yet mysterious; the promise of tomorrow. Aqua was delight. But ce-
rulean was her favorite shade of all. It was like all the other blues
rolled into one. A glorious combination, hinting at a wonderful sur-
prise. White was a fresh start, a clean slate. Black, an ending or the
loss of something important. Orange grew more mischievous the
darker the shade. Purple was romantic and green always made her
laugh. Gray was the only color you had to watch out for. Gray was
lonely emptiness. Gray could make her cry.
The list was endless, but I somehow knew them all. I learned
them like I learned the alphabet or how to count to one hundred or
to write my name in script. It had seemed so harmless then. But there
had been more to come. So much more. She‟d been taken away from
us by something that we couldn‟t comprehend, could never hope to
54 Devon Pearse
conquer. It had stopped the colors and the music and the hope. It
had stopped Myma. Until now.
I was being selfish and I knew it, but I wanted Myma back only
for me, and for Da. Not as the drug of choice for some fragile, help-
less girl who probably had her own perfectly good mother out there
somewhere. Therapy was one thing, but stealing someone‟s mother
was a different matter entirely. I had tried for years to reach Myma. I
had suffered, I had wept, and I‟d had to live with failed attempts.
What made Libby so special? Could she speak in colors? Could she
understand the different shades of laughter? Of love? Of sorrow and
of joy? She had muted all my hopefulness. She had broken through
the dark and awakened Myma. But I would be the one to set her free.
Chapter 6

Lost Weekend
I had no idea what time it was, and I honestly didn’t care. It was dark
outside, an indication of night, but the date remained a complete
mystery. The candescent screen of my computer filled the room with
an unearthly glow. I had been encased in the same pajamas since my
return from Glen Harbor, at which point I had balled up the clothes
I‟d been wearing and tossed them unceremoniously upon the floor,
where they still resided in a heap of denim and poly/cotton blend. I
could not recall putting on the pajamas and was toying with the theo-
ry that they had simply encompassed me of their own volition, com-
pletely out of habit. Whatever the case, the blue plaid flannel felt like
home and comfort and I needed that feeling desperately.
The countless hours spent researching my latest obsession had left
me drained and discontented. Libby Reesor had appeared at my life‟s
door, suddenly, uninvited, and seemingly hell-bent on luring my
mother out of her quiet, solitary world and keeping her all to herself.
What seemed like a miraculous bonding to Nurse Whitaker was, to
me, an act of thievery. I had begun my journey into discovery with
the sole intent of finding something, anything that could make me
56 Devon Pearse
hate Libby more, somehow give me one startling piece of evidence I

could take to Nurse Whitaker or Doctor Keller, some reason that she
shouldn‟t be allowed to interact with my mother. What I found in-
stead made me feel a hundred times worse. My case was hopeless. If I
went before a jury of my peers, I would be shamed and found to be a
jealous, selfish wretch. Libby would be blameless in their eyes, at least
by comparison to me. She would be viewed by everyone to be the
helpless, troubled creature she appeared and I the heartless torturer
of innocence.
I groaned and buried my head in my pillow. A box of photos fell
from the foot of my bed, spreading themselves across my floor. Their
fellows lay strewn atop my bedspread and the ghosts of memories
haunted every corner of the room. I heard a noise – a quiet knocking,
then silence. A moment later, the sound of a key being carefully in-
serted, cylinders turning, my front door opening, then closing quietly.
Light footfalls neared the bedroom, not rushing but taking their time,
hoping for an invitation. None was given. Cass entered anyway and
sat next to me, causing the bed to dip slightly and another box of
photos slid softly to its doom.
“Oh, Dev,” she said, surveying the clutter that surrounded me.
“I‟ve been calling you for two days. Why didn‟t you answer if you
needed me?” Interesting question. I needed her now and I still
couldn‟t answer. Understanding in the way that only Cass ever could,
she ignored my silence and curled up beside me, laying one arm over
mine and supporting her head with the other, knowing I would talk
when I wanted to, when I was able.
I lay still until infinity got bored with me, then sat up slowly, tak-
ing Cass along for the ride. She was looking at me quizzically, obvi-
ously interested but unwilling to press the issue. I shrugged and rolled
my eyes at myself, wordlessly apologizing for worrying her, although
we both knew this was my way of getting her here without asking her
to be. Her acceptance of my need for surreptitiously unwanted inde-
pendence was the governing reason we had finally started speaking
again five years ago without either of us actually having to claim or

beg forgiveness.
“I‟m okay,” I said. “Thanks for coming to check on me. Did you
bring food?” I was suddenly ravenous.
“Do the Chippendales wear white cuffs?” she asked, her expres-
sion the epitome of innocence. “There‟s a fully loaded stromboli rot-
ting on your counter.”
Later, as she helped me collect the pictures, Cass asked, “How‟s
Myma?” I had never told her about my visit, never mentioned I was
going to Glen Harbor in the first place. But to her, the reason for my
current state was obvious and required discussion. She was right, as
usual, and I filled her in over Baileys and the chocolate ice cream she
had brought with the stromboli.
“I know I‟m being irrational and childish,” I said, my hour-long
tirade coming to an end, “but I can‟t help it. Seeing her there with
Myma like that, ugh! It makes me so...”
“Lonely,” she finished. And it wasn‟t a question. It was an exact
statement of fact, meant to let me recognize the answer I‟d been
seeking. I had been meaning to say “jealous” or “angry” or even
something as innocuous as “upset” but none of those words came
out because none of them seemed quite right. Now I knew why. Cass
had realized what I couldn‟t. Of course I hated to see this somehow
familiar young girl drawing the attention I so desperately craved from
my mother. It was what I had been missing for the past decade and
having it shoved in my face forced me to feel how alone I was with-
out her, made me think about how much I missed her and still need-
ed her in my life.
“Myma loves you,” Cass went on. “This girl isn‟t your replace-
ment, Devon. She‟s just...an addition. Something your mother can
bring into her world and keep. She can‟t do that with you, and she
never wanted to. She wants you to be out here, living your life, just
like you have been. You‟re okay out here, at least most of the time.
You‟ve learned to get by without her, and she knows that somehow,
58 Devon Pearse
I‟m sure of it.” She touched my shoulder and looked at me hopefully.

“But I don‟t like it!” I protested. “I still want her back, Cass.”
“I know that, and she knows that, too. But think about it, Dev.
She loves you enough to let you live your own life. She doesn‟t want
to drag you down.” Glancing at my laptop, she asked, “So, what have
you found out about this Libby girl, anyway?”
Sliding my laptop in her direction, I said, “Read for yourself. This
is the only actual article I could find on her. The rest I‟ve amassed
from various social networking sites. Seems her peers had a lot to say
about her.” Cass began to peruse the open windows of my computer,
each containing bits and pieces of information on Elizabeth Joy
Reesor. I stared over her shoulder and re-read the article by Carol
Jennings of The Savannah Digest.
This past Monday night an incident occurred in Chatham Coun-
ty that has shaken the community to its core. Brian Reesor, Presi-
dent and Founder of the prominent Public Relations firm of Reesor
and Sacks, was killed in his home, struck on the head by his step-
daughter Elizabeth. According to police, Miss Reesor, who turned
seventeen last June, acted in defense of her younger sister and no
charges will be filed against her. An anonymous source reports that
rumors of abuse have surrounded the Reesor family for years and
police records show that officers responded to several domestic
violence calls over the past two years. Mr. Reesor is survived by
his wife, Amanda, his step-daughters Elizabeth and Emily and his
brother, George Reesor of Austin, Texas. Services for Brian
Reesor will be held at Riverside Memorial at noon on Friday.
Cass looked up and her left eyebrow twitched in acknowledgment
of her interest. Minimizing the article and bringing the other windows
to the forefront, she read aloud some of the comments posted by
Libby‟s former classmates on their web pages.
“„Loser Libby‟s finally been put away.‟ „About time.‟ „Creepy wan-
nabe Goth chick!‟ „I heard she liked to get it on with her stepfather.‟
„Ew! Gross! That‟s disgusting!‟” Cass paused and shook her head.
“God, kids can be so cruel.” She looked at me pleadingly. “Please

tell me we were never like that.”
I shrugged, holding up my hands. “I hope not, but it‟s all a blur
right now. Anyway, looks like she had at least one friend. Bring up
that last window.”
Cass did and we perused the personal web page of Shanti, a beau-
tiful dark-haired girl of obvious Indian heritage. The two apparently
became friends by default. Both came from families with money, but
neither seemed to have a very good family life. Shanti‟s mother, from
what I could winnow, worked long hours at a local hospital and had
recently filed for divorce from Shanti‟s father, an aerospace engineer
who was never home to begin with. Her latest post was titled “The
Truth About Libby” and contained a wealth of information and pas-
sionate writings in defense of her friend. She wrote about how Libby
was the only person who had welcomed her and not shunned her like
the other students at their high school. She had been Libby‟s confi-
dant and her writing made reference to the abuse Libby had suffered
at the hands of her stepfather.
It appeared Shanti was the only one who knew about all that Lib-
by had gone through in the past eight years since Brian Reesor had
married her mother and legally adopted Libby and Emily. The girls‟
real father had left the family shortly after Emily‟s birth and could not
be located.
Shanti‟s web page gave the clearest account of what had taken
place the night of Brian Reesor‟s death, and, if Shanti‟s version of the
events was accurate, Libby‟s actions were clearly justifiable. At least in
the eyes of the law. Her mother, however, saw things differently.
Amanda Reesor had apparently rejected her daughter following her
husband‟s demise, preferring to remand her to the custody of Doctor
Keller and Glen Harbor rather than deal with the problems which
had led to her husband‟s death – things she‟d obviously turned a
blind eye to in the first place. It could be inferred that this deplorable
behavior on the part of her mother, particularly following such a hor-
60 Devon Pearse
rific event, was what led to Libby‟s break with reality and the onset of
her delusions and night terrors. It also explained her overwhelming
need for a new mother figure, such as my own mother.
We finished reading and Cass shuddered. “Poor thing. Sorry, Dev,
but I‟m really glad she‟s got Myma.”
I sighed and reluctantly admitted, “Yeah, me too.”
Cass gave me a one-armed hug. “Aw! Our little Devon‟s growing
up.”
“Shut up, Cass.”
“So that‟s the thanks I get for coming here and feeding you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She punched my arm and scurried to the door before I
could retaliate, banging her shin on my end table in the process. I
pretended not to notice. Turning back, she said, “Oh, I almost for-
got. I was meaning to ask you if I could take Olivia to visit Myma
sometime. Actually, Glen Harbor in general, but I‟d like to see My-
ma.”
“Sure. I‟ll call and have your names put on the visitors list. Any
particular reason? Finally trying to have Liv committed? Is she talking
to the walls again?”
“Again? She‟s never stopped! But she‟s been reading up on a lot
of Psychological stuff lately and she recently told me that she believes
she would benefit from electroshock therapy.”
“No!”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I‟m sick of her acting all withdrawn and scared
to leave her room and venture out into the real world. I felt some-
thing drastic was in order, Scared Straight style.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me. Let me know what you think of
Libby. And give Myma a kiss for me...if Libby will let you get close
enough.”
“Sure thing.” Cass winked and vanished and a moment later I
heard my front door being re-locked from the outside.
My wandering gaze fell upon the framed high school picture of
my mother with her cello. A beautiful sepia masterpiece, the portrait

had been the one thing I‟d insisted on absconding with when I
moved out of Da‟s house and it had resided on my bedside table ever
since. It was kept company by a small lamp and Peter and Wendy. I
wondered what Myma was thinking now. Was she trapped inside her-
self, as still and lifeless as her photograph? Or had Libby stirred up
thoughts of the life she‟d left behind? If she had, if those thoughts
were dancing in some corner of Myma‟s brain, I hoped they‟d be
enough to bring her back.
Chapter 7

In Self Defense?
The moon was huge and the light was silvery. My computer screen
shone before me; a welcoming companion. My fingers itched and my
brain felt too full. Inspiration had thrown a tantrum, forcing me to
listen to her pent up plans. It was seven minutes after three, accord-
ing to the clock on my computer, when the phone rang.
“Devitsme.” Cass‟s usual greeting. As if I didn‟t know. Who else
would need me, and actually call me, at this time of night...morning?
“Averey shot Marcus.” She said it in the same manner one might
mention what they‟d had for lunch. Honestly, I‟m not sure I was a bit
surprised, either. My first thought was, the bastard deserved it. I was
more concerned for Averey and Janette.
“Wow,” I said, trying for some emotion but coming up a bit
short. She didn‟t hear me, anyway.
“Janette and Ave are okay,” she continued, answering my unspo-
ken question. “So is Monique, but she‟s really upset. Guess it stands
to reason she would be, coming home and finding her boyfriend lying
in a pool of blood, paramedics running to and fro like worker bees,
cops everywhere, and worst of all, her daughter standing by the
guy who did the shooting. Who was, of course, cuffed and resting
not-so-comfortably in the back of a police car. She pretty much blew
a gasket. Cops had to restrain her. Delinda‟s still with her. Ma‟s got
the kids. Marcus was taken to North Regional. Last I heard, he was
still breathing, but it didn‟t look good.” She laughed maliciously.
“Guess that depends on how you look at it.”
I had to agree. “So, what brought it on?”
She sighed, obviously getting a little tired of telling this story by
now. Cass was always the one to spread the news, of anything. “I
don‟t have all the details yet, but here‟s what I‟ve gathered. Janette
and Averey were hanging out together at Monique‟s when Marcus
came home. Did I tell you he‟d been gone again? Yeah, for about a
week this time. I was hoping it might be for good, especially after the
way Niqi kicked him out for messing around with that ho she caught
him with. Same one as last time. It‟s been on and off since then, but I
guess it was back on, in his mind, anyway, so he came around looking
to get some. Guess he noticed Niqi wasn‟t home, so he moved on to
Janette. Busted her door down and had her up against the wall before
Averey could get to him.
“Well, Ave wrangled him off of her and chased him out of the
house with...” she started to giggle, “with a curtain rod. You know,
one of the pointy ones with the swirl on the end? Guess it was the
best weapon he could grab. Now here‟s where it gets tricky. Averey
had given Janette a gun to keep in her room just in case...you know.
Don‟t ask me where he got it, I‟m just thankful that he did.
“So, ‟Nette grabs it and brings it outside and gives it to Averey,
sort of behind his back so Marcus won‟t see. Marcus walks to his
truck, cussing at them all the while, but it looks like he‟s just gonna
give up and go away. Then he reaches down for something in the
truck and turns back real fast in their direction, and Averey thinks
he‟s gonna shoot, of course. So, Averey beats him to it. Only prob-
lem was, Marcus didn‟t have a gun. He was just moving something
over so he could get up in the seat.” She chuckled. “Figures, huh?
64 Devon Pearse
The one time he was actually leaving peacefully, the idiot gets himself
shot.”
I heard her mumble something that sounded like “good night”
and something else completely garbled and unintelligible. She was
obviously speaking to someone she was with. I was used to it. Cass
was rarely alone.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “I was in the middle of a date when I
got the call from Del. Hot guy, too. I‟m watching his ass appreciative-
ly as he walks away.” Amusing. Damn funny, even. Her sister‟s boy-
friend gets shot by her niece‟s boyfriend at the end of a long road of
criminal activity and heartache, and Cass is still more focused on her
love life. Remembering Marcus‟s repulsive interaction with me at the
barbecue, I thought, Good for you, Cass.
“He‟ll probably never ask me out again after this fiasco. Damn
shame. But it isn‟t every day something like this happens, and I want-
ed to be there for Janette. Adamo – guess I was in the mood for Ital-
ian – had to tag along ‟cause it would have taken too long for me to
drive him home and then go to Monique‟s. It was really eerie when
we got there. Monique was sitting on the steps with a blanket around
her. Can you imagine? In this heat? Why do they always feel the need
to put a blanket around everybody? Like it‟s really gonna help.
“Anyway, Averey was in the back of the cop car and Janette was
by his side. Looked like she refused to leave him. They‟d already tak-
en Marcus, but his truck was still there with the door opened, like it
was just waiting for him to come back. I could see the dark spot on
the ground where the blood was. It was so...reflective. The moon, as
you know, is gorgeous tonight in St. Augustine, but pretty creepy in
the ghetto. It played off that shiny silver truck in such an incandes-
cent way.” I heard her shudder through the phone line. “There was a
light breeze blowing and it rustled the leaves and I remember being
really spooked. It all had the feeling of something waiting to creep up
on you. Or me, rather. I‟m the blissfully ignorant one.”
I couldn‟t argue with that, but I was also appreciative of her beau-
tifully descriptive story-telling abilities. Prose rolled off her tongue

with no more effort than breathing. I‟d always told her she should be
a writer, although I knew she only spoke that way to me. No one else
would see the beauty in a moonlit pool of blood.
“I‟m glad Janette‟s okay,” I said. “I don‟t even want to think about
what else she might have had to endure tonight if Averey hadn‟t been
there.”
“Yeah, me too. If I‟d been the one with the gun, I would have
shot the bastard straight off, no questions asked.”
“I agree. And should that ever be the case, I‟ll help you hide the
body.”
“You promise?”
“Sure thing. Averey did the right thing, under the circumstances. I
say it‟s an obvious case of self defense. Let‟s face it, Marcus isn‟t like-
ly to have very many good character witnesses, if he even survives to
press charges. If it hadn‟t been Averey, it would have been another
dealer. And Averey‟s record is spotless. In my mind, he‟s a hero.”
“Too bad Monique doesn‟t see it that way. In her world, it‟s all
about Marcus. I can‟t help but think about how much better off so
many people would be if he doesn‟t make it. Anyway, the cops were
nice enough and the paramedics were efficient.” I knew that meant
none of them were good-looking enough to mention specifically.
“They said the bullet entered through his neck and bounced around
for a while. They‟re not sure of all the damage yet, of course, but we‟ll
know more by tomorrow. Janette will be staying with my mom until
this all gets sorted out. They took Averey into custody, but he hasn‟t
officially been charged with anything yet. Guess we‟ll see.” She
yawned loudly. “Anyway, I‟ll keep you posted.”
“Yeah, you do that,” I said, glancing at my laptop. My leg started
to twitch.
“Get back to writing. Love ya. ‟Night.”
“‟Night, Cass.” I said, even though she was already gone.
Chapter 8

A Stolen Kiss
I replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at the ceiling for countless
minutes, listening to the distant ticking of the clock in my living
room. The words I had so desperately wanted to write had scurried
away like little mice and now that the interruption was over, I found
it impossible to slide immediately back into my other world. The spell
had been broken, the mood irreparably altered.
Restless, inexplicably weepy and aching for something more, I
was wide awake, and sleep was seldom anxious to console me when I
felt this way. Like a recovering addict, I had learned to live with the
emptiness, to push it aside through sheer force of will and move
along. But sometimes the memories, the heartache, returned with a
vengeance and I was helpless to resist their wistful temptations. Re-
member me, they called. Remember all the happiness you had, the promises you
lost.
Swept up in a sudden tide of loneliness, I reached for my beloved
October 1911 edition of Peter and Wendy, illustrated by F.D. Bedford.
The book, as ever faithfully resting on my bedside table, had been my
very first purchase at an estate sale when I was five. I‟d saved up
nearly twenty-seven dollars in birthday money that year and was de-
termined to buy something. Da had let me tag along, our first joint
book buying expedition, and I was beyond excited. Not having the
faintest idea what I was looking for, I wandered amongst the tables of
earth-bound possessions, hoping to find that one thing that I could
cherish. The elderly gentleman handling the sale, I‟ve in later years
realized was the brother of the deceased, approached me with the
book. He held it out to me, offering it up like a precious, beloved
thing. The cover was a light, faded brown with gilded writing. The
spine was chipped a little at the top, giving it what my father would
call “character”.
“Pe-ter...and...Wen-dy,” I sounded out slowly. “Oh! It‟s the one
about Peter Pan!”
“Open it,” he said, and I did so, giving it a good sniff as Da had
taught me. The old man smiled and nodded his approval. There was a
dedication on the first page in delicate, spidery writing, which I could
not yet read.
“What does it say?” I asked him.
“„For my dear little girl Bettie. From Auntie. Christmas, 1911.‟”
I looked at the writing, recognizing the abbreviation “X-mas” as
the same one my grandmother used for “Christmas”.
“It looks very old,” I said. “Is it?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “very old. It was a gift to my sister from our
favorite aunt Elizabeth.”
“That‟s my middle name!”
“Well, it was my sister‟s name, too, but we called her „Bettie‟.”
“My first name is Devon, but everybody calls me „Lillibet‟.”
He held out his hand and I shook it firmly. “It‟s very nice to meet
you, Lillibet,” he said. “I‟m Henry.”
“It‟s nice to meet you, too, Henry.” He turned, taking the book
and placing it on the long, cloth-covered table with the rest of the
books. “Wait, Henry!” I called out. “Is that book for sale?”
He frowned at me, thoughtful. “Yes. It is for sale.”
68 Devon Pearse
“How much?”
“Oh, well, I‟m sure it‟s much more than you think,” he told me
gravely.
“Please, Henry,” I begged. “I‟ve saved almost twenty-seven dol-
lars, and I‟d really like to buy it. Is it enough?”
He waited what seemed an eternity before answering. Finally, he
said, “Well, I was asking thirty...but I suppose I can let it go for twen-
ty-five.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you, Henry!” I threw my arms around the
old man and hugged him within an inch of his life. I fished the crum-
pled wad of mostly one dollar bills out of my coin purse and rever-
ently handed it over. He did the same with the book, and the
purchase was made.
Shortly thereafter my father came looking for me and found me
helping Henry sort through the rest of the books. They shook hands
and I remember he called Henry by his given name, although I don‟t
recall Henry telling it to him. I‟ve often wondered, but never asked, if
he‟d set the whole thing up beforehand. I guess a part of me doesn‟t
really want to know. It would take away the magic, and magic is the
best, most memorable part of childhood.
For the next few years I remember being fascinated by the book.
My father had read the story to me countless times, but now it be-
longed to me. I could keep it in my room, next to my bed, and look
at it without asking his permission. I‟d stare at the illustrations for
hours on end, and wait every night for Peter to come through my
window and take me away. Little did I know I was soon to meet my
very own real-life version.
His name was Drew Westcott and he had come to spend the
summer with his great aunt who lived across the street from us. She
had been my grandmother‟s best friend and had somewhat adopted
us all after my grandmother‟s passing. Although not related by blood,
we called her “Aunt Tippy” just as everyone else did. She had no
children of her own and had never married. The love of her life, who
had happened to be my grandmother‟s brother, was killed in World

War II. Drew‟s father was the eldest child of Aunt Tippy‟s sister and
Drew was her favorite great nephew.
It was summer the first time I saw him. Out of school for two
months and bored out of my mind, I was thrilled to hear that Aunt
Tippy would be coming over for dinner. When she brought Drew
along, I wasn‟t sure what to make of him. He was twelve and as I had
only recently turned eight I assumed he‟d want little to do with me.
Even so, I glanced at him from beneath my lashes all evening. He
was very polite, but also self-assured and capable of carrying on a
lengthy conversation with my father. I wasn‟t very interested in their
chosen topic of boating and kept trying to turn their attention to me.
During my frequent outbursts, which must have been incredibly an-
noying, Drew would stop and listen, as if what I had to say was the
most important thing in the world. By dessert, I was in love.
After dinner I insisted Drew come and sit with me on the porch
swing. It was warm outside, but there was a pleasant breeze blowing
which made the evening bearable.
“Make sure you don‟t keep Drew to yourself for too long, Lil-
libet,” my mother called from the living room.
“Okay, Myma,” I asserted, rolling my eyes.
“That‟s a cute nickname,” Drew said. “Little Bit.”
I gasped. “It‟s not „Little Bit‟, it‟s „Lillibet‟,” I said succinctly.
“Well. That‟s different,” he said, and for the first time, I hated the
mutation of my middle name. Seeing my face, he added, “But I like it,
I really do.”
I raised my chin, not believing him and wanting to distance myself
from the child I so obviously was. “My name is Devon Elizabeth
Pearse”.
“I‟m Drew Alexander Westcott, the third,” he said. “And you,
henceforth, shall be known as „Bitsy‟.” He extended his hand, and I
took it, dreamily. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He then
had the temerity to smile at me and say “Bitsy” again in a very soft
70 Devon Pearse
and personal way, like he was giving that name to me to make me

special and his alone. I don‟t know if that‟s really what he had in
mind, but if it was, it worked. He nodded once as he said it, confirm-
ing it for all time.
It was then that I raced inside to rummage through my mother‟s
sewing box, hunting for the one thing that I must find and give to
Drew. By the time I returned, he and Aunt Tippy were saying their
goodbyes to my parents on the porch.
“Wait!” I called to Drew as he helped Aunt Tippy down the steps.
“This is for you.” I took his hand and placed my treasure in his palm.
“It‟s a thimble,” he said, perplexed.
“No, it‟s a kiss,” I corrected, turning pink. “Just like in the book.
Wendy wants to give Peter a kiss, but he doesn‟t know what that is,
so she gives him a thimble instead. Then he gives her an acorn but-
ton, but I wouldn‟t expect you to have one, so you can give it to me
later. I don‟t mind waiting.”
Chapter 9

The Sinking of the Wanderlust
During my childhood, I’d seen Drew a few more times around the holi-
days when he visited from Chicago, but he was sixteen and I freshly
twelve before we spoke again and he thereafter became the subject of
my embarrassingly innocent daydreams. He was handsome and
strong, and tan by the day after he arrived, and he made me tingle
inside and blush whenever Cass would tease me about him, which
was often. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead and across one
side, like a perfectly feathered wing. I always wanted to run my fin-
gers through it to see what it would feel like. Would it be as soft as I
imagined? That summer, Drew Westcott was all I thought about.
I was lucky enough to grow up in a house whose rear property
line is approximately thirty feet from Lake Maria Sanchez. If I wanted
to dangle my feet in the water, all I had to do was walk out my back
door, cross Cordova Street and plop myself down under my favorite
scrawny tree. Cass lived across the lake. It was about eight blocks to
her house walking all the way around. But I figured it would be much
faster if I could somehow find a boat and sail across. Turns out I
didn‟t have to look far. Old Mr. Hanson from the pharmacy, who
72 Devon Pearse
had been a friend of my father‟s ever since I could remember, had an

old dinghy sitting in his garage. I took one look at it and begged him
to let me have it. I promised I would fix it up myself and then he
could use it, too, whenever he wanted.
With a smile on his face and a wink at my father, he agreed and
brought it over in his old pick-up the very next day. I was so excited I
hardly ate a bite for breakfast before running outside and getting to
work on my little boat. I knew Drew was interested in boating, too,
and if I could pull this off, he‟d have to be impressed.
Of course, I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing or
how on earth one goes about fixing a boat, especially one with a giant
hole in the hull. So I did what any enterprising twelve-year-old would
do – I borrowed my father‟s duct tape. By the time I was finished, the
hole was filled with old sheets I had packed tightly together and the
sticky silver tape ran from bow to stern.
Sweaty, filthy, near exhaustion yet undaunted, I dragged the din-
ghy, which I had christened the Wanderlust, across Cordova and slid it
into the Lake. I climbed in, grabbed an oar and set to paddling. Al-
most immediately, my craft began to fill with water. It came seeping
in through every crack and crevice – all the ones that had gone unno-
ticed when I was busily patching up the glaring hole – and I started to
sink rapidly.
After that, everything happened in slow motion. I remember try-
ing desperately to bale the water out with my cupped hands, like
some cartoon character, optimistic till the end. Useless, of course, but
I couldn‟t just stand there and do nothing.
Drew, of all people, who‟d had the audacity to pick that day to
help my mother in with the groceries, vaulted easily over my back
fence and ran toward me, stripping off his shirt as he came. At that
moment, there was one clear thought in my mind: I would go down
with my ship rather than let Drew Westcott see me in such a ridicu-
lous state. I could stand up easily and had the ability to swim as good
as any fish since the tender age of two, but I allowed myself to sink
beneath the surface, planning on staying there until my drowning

breath. Fate had other plans.
I heard a splash next to me. I had one moment of unbearable clar-
ity as I watched the play of light on the surface of the water, wonder-
ing at its silent beauty, hearing the call of the mer-people and all who
dwelt below. Maybe they would give me a home there, right at the
bottom of the lake, so I would never have to come up again. It was
so peaceful, so quiet.
Then Drew had me by the back of my shirt. He hauled me up and
out of the water where I dangled helplessly in front of him, waist
deep in the lake and covered in muck, my feet searching for purchase
on the slippery rocks below. Not the meeting I had envisioned in my
hours of lovely daydreams. Still hoping to salvage at least a little of
my pride, I stood as upright as possible and sputtered, “Let me go!”
“Hold on, Bitsy,” he said, and I saw a glimmer of amusement
mixed with sunlight in his endless brown eyes. It shot through my
heart and ricocheted all around my insides.
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” I insisted, trying
to seem very grown up, even though I was soaked to the skin and
standing in a sunken boat that I had tried to patch up with duct tape
and sail across the lake. Suddenly, I saw myself as he must have seen
me and I wanted very much to burst into tears. God in Heaven, whatever
you do, Devon Pearse, do not let him see you cry! I thought, biting the inside
of my lip to stop it from quivering.
He studied me for a moment, that pensive smile still on his per-
fect lips, then slowly released me. I pulled my shirt away from my
body. It was clinging in all the wrong places, making it obvious I
wasn‟t as well-endowed as Cass.
“Well, that won‟t do at all,” he said, and I suddenly thought that
he could hear what I was thinking. But I didn‟t have much time to be
mortified, for at that moment he hoisted me over his shoulder and
began to carry me to dry land. “I can‟t leave my little Bitsy to wallow
in the lake. Although you were doing a fine job of it, I must admit.”
74 Devon Pearse
I didn‟t know where to put my hands, overwhelmingly aware of

the bare skin of his back and the half-formed thoughts in my mind. I
hung limply and stared at the ground as it moved quickly past.
He set me down on the grass. I could hear my heart pounding
everywhere and I felt like I was somewhere else, looking down on my
body and this infuriatingly handsome and self-assured man-boy
standing in front of me. He‟d called me his little Bitsy. I think I half
smiled, maybe blinked a little. Still in slow-motion, I watched him
raise his hand to my face and pull a tendril of sopping hair out of my
mouth with one finger, dragging it across my cheek. Before I could
even begin to think about what had just happened between us, or
how to mark it in my memory, he was jogging back across Cordova
Street as quickly as he‟d appeared, calling over his shoulder, “Gotta
go, Bitsy! See you soon.” He winked and I felt my knees turn to liq-
uid.
I stumbled back across the street, my feet squishing in my sneak-
ers all the way through the backyard and onto the porch. My mother
would only let me venture as far as the mud room, but brought me a
towel and a change of clothes. I glimpsed my father skulking in the
doorway. He was trying hard not to laugh, but fighting a losing battle.
One of the many truths of life which I have come to appreciate
and fear is that you cannot help who you love. Oh, you can try. You
can refuse to sink meekly into the depths of hapless passion. But, one
way or the other, we all eventually find ourselves ensnared in Cupid‟s
trap with that person who makes our heartbeat double and our con-
science fade away. Out of place, out of time and only the desire re-
mains; to want, to need, to agonize over, and to love until we breathe
no more. Some people wait their entire lives for their truest love.
What my father didn‟t understand, and I couldn‟t possibly tell him,
was that I believed, with all my heart, I‟d just found mine.
Chapter 10

The Persian Flaw
My father was pondering one afternoon while I lay on the Persian rug in
his study, carefully perusing a 1939 first edition of The Grapes of
Wrath. Like many downtrodden youthful souls before us, my ninth
grade classmates and I had been assigned to read any once-banned
book over winter break. I decided if I was going to read one it
wouldn‟t be a re-print, by gum; it would be one of the actual books
which had survived a banning, or a burning. This one smelled faintly
of tobacco and something else I couldn‟t quite place. I was wonder-
ing if I would be able to survive all six hundred and nineteen pages,
along with the peculiar odor that accompanied them, when my father
spoke.
“Since you seem to have taken up residence on my rug, I feel you
should know something about it. Part of your continuing education,
as it were.”
I sighed, but resigned myself to the day‟s lesson. With any luck I‟d
still get out of here by dinner time. Myma was making roast chicken
and stuffing tonight and my mouth was watering just thinking about
it. It wasn‟t that I minded the lessons, exactly. Sometimes they could
76 Devon Pearse
be quite informative. But there were also the not-so-rare occasions

that a little lesson could turn into a ninety minute lecture, complete
with graphs and slide show. The tone of Da‟s voice and the twinkle
in his oh-so-Irish eyes hinted that this would not be one of those
times, and I felt myself relax.
“This rug that you so often take for granted as you lounge there
on my floor is of Persian decent. I know this because the man I
bought it from was Persian and had been raising them for quite some
time.” I smiled. I knew that if I didn‟t he would only repeat the joke
until I did. “Well, not unlike myself, this wise man believed that when
something was given to someone it should be accompanied by an
anecdote; a little piece of knowledge passed along from giver to re-
cipient. The tale he spun for me was doubtless of ancient origins. The
Persians have a strong, almost innate, belief in God. They believe that
only God can be perfect and for anyone else to even attempt perfec-
tion is a grave and heinous sin. And so, it is for that very reason that
you will never find a perfect Persian rug. For while they are being
hand-made by the Persians, it is the duty of every rugger to make a
tiny, purposeful „mistake‟ on each one, thereby assuring that in no
way was perfection attempted, or even implied. No sin has been
committed in the making of this rug. And that is what you call a „Per-
sian Flaw‟. Beyond rug making, it‟s the bit of imperfection in all of us
that makes us who we are; imperfect but also unique.”
He leaned back in the massive chair and grinned at me, impishly
clever and content in his loquaciousness. I glanced noncommittally at
the rug, not wanting him to see my agitation. Still, I think he knew
that I was dying to investigate every last thread of the rug until I
found it; the elusive “Persian Flaw” that he had spoken of. Beyond
that, I wanted to argue that the flaws in ourselves were actually quite
different than those of the rugs. Most of us weren‟t flawed on pur-
pose, and any other flaws could most likely be fixed or glossed over,
or so I believed at the time.
But then, I once believed in lots of things, like Peter Pan and San-
ta Claus. And although I‟ll never completely let go of the idea that
they could exist, in dealing with the reality of living, it‟s more the idea
in and of itself that I hold to now, not the truth or myth behind it.
My childhood had been ideal, but it seemed that Fate had noticed
that little inconsistency and decided to make up for it later. The
cracks widened and the flaws began to make themselves known.
In this, the Christmas season of my fourteenth year, my parents
hosted a holiday party of sorts. Or rather, my mother hosted it and
my father congenially put up with it because he knew it would give
her a chance to play for our friends and neighbors. Her quartet began
rehearsing the Christmas standards, along with their usual favorites. I
was excited about the party, of course. Cass was invited and having
her there insured my constant entertainment and laughter.
But beyond that, and as ever, most importantly in my world, I had
heard that Drew was in town and would be escorting Aunt Tippy that
evening. His parents were vacationing in Hawaii, or Tahiti, or one of
those exotic places that ends in an “i” and he had chosen to come to
St. Augustine rather than remain home and brave the frigid Chicago
winter. They wanted him home for Christmas day, however, and I
knew he was leaving in the morning. I also knew I wouldn‟t see him
again until summer and I decided enough was enough. There was no
way I would let him go back to Chicago, and the myriad of young,
attractive girls who presumably lived there, without at least giving
him something to think about: me. In the grand romantic scheme of
things, the time had come for me to make my mark. I was going to
get him to kiss me or die trying.
Cass had been with me all day, helping me formulate a fool-proof
plan. Now, giggling excitedly in the upstairs hallway like little school-
girls, she handed over the contraband: a perfect sprig of mistletoe she
had swiped from her mother‟s house that morning before heading
over to mine. Now all we had to do was hang it in the doorway to my
room. Then Cass would go downstairs and summon Drew, saying I
needed his help with something upstairs while I stood under the
78 Devon Pearse
magical kissing twig, waiting to be smooched. He would turn the

corner and see me there, standing beneath the mistletoe, a vision in
my ankle-length, lacy dark green skirt and matching cashmere sweat-
er. I was wearing my high-heeled lace-up boots so our lips would be
on approximately the same latitude. I had rehearsed the scene so
many times in my mind that I knew it by heart.
What Cass and I had failed to take into account was the difficulty
we would have in hanging the pesky mistletoe. We dragged my desk
chair into the doorway, and I looked to her to climb up and do the
honors. She looked down at her long, tight denim skirt and shrugged
helplessly. “There‟s no way I‟m getting on that chair in this,” she said,
somewhat apologetically, although I sensed more relief than remorse.
“Then why did you wear it?” I asked, a little too snarkily, and im-
mediately felt bad.
“It‟s a hand-me-down from Monique,” she said. “It was all I
could find.”
“Your sweater‟s really pretty,” I said, trying to make up for my
previous dumb-ass comment.
She shrugged. “It‟s my mom‟s,” she said, fingering the faux-pearl
beading around the plunging neckline of the ivory sweater. “I figured
if I was borrowing our mistletoe, I might as well borrow this, too.”
“Thanks,” I said, and really meant it. I gave her an awkward little
half-hug and she rolled her eyes at me.
“Could we get on with this, please? I‟ll hold the chair.”
Rather unsteadily, my knees beginning to shake, I put one boot-
covered foot on the chair. Holding the doorjamb for support, I
pushed off with my other foot. Miraculously, I was able to keep my
balance and raise the mistletoe above my head. Cass held up the tape.
“Hang on, Cass,” I said, starting to tremble. “I‟m not sure I can
let go. I think I‟m gonna faint.”
“No, you‟re not. You just feel that way because you‟re afraid to
climb on anything wobbly and you‟re standing on a really old desk
chair while wearing high-heeled boots. Even I‟d be afraid to do that.”
“Thanks.”
“No prob.”
Taking several deep breaths, I let go with one hand to take the
proffered piece of tape from Cass. Staring straight ahead, I reached
above my head and affixed the mistletoe by feel. Amazingly, it held.
“How does it look?” I asked hopefully.
“Fine,” Cass replied quietly, but she was starting to smirk.
“Seriously, Cass! This is the most important moment of my life
we‟re preparing for. Everything has to be perfect!”
With a repentant look, she said, “Honestly, it looks like you hung
it up there without looking.”
I groaned. Several minutes later, with Cass assisting me with direc-
tives of, “Up a little right there. Now a little higher on the left. Wait!
Down a bit. Okay, that‟s it!” we‟d adjusted it to as perfect as possible,
which really wasn‟t saying much. But it would have to do.
I carefully eased myself down from the dizzying heights and re-
placed my chair in front of my desk. “Okay,” I said, smoothing my
skirt and checking my hair in the mirror, “I‟m ready. Send him up.”
Positioning myself directly beneath the hanging white berries, I
took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Cass saluted, tapping her
heels together, and slunk down the stairs, calling a heart-felt “Good
luck!” over her shoulder as she descended. No sooner was she out of
earshot than the troublesome bit of plant life pulled loose from its
tether and bounced off my head. Little white orbs scattered across
the floor like so many tiny marbles in a childhood game. Desperate, I
retrieved what was left of it and reached for the chair once more. I
could hear people laughing from downstairs, their happy voices waft-
ing through the air. As I hurriedly clambered back onto the chair, I
heard Cass obediently telling Drew, “Get your ass upstairs! Devon
needs you for something.”
Come on...come on! I pleaded with my uncooperative fingers. This is
your only chance to get this right! I became so preoccupied with getting the
tape to stick that I underestimated the amount of time it would take
80 Devon Pearse
Drew to climb the stairs. I saw his hand on the banister, heard his
footfalls on the bare wood. There! Now all I had to do was get off this
stupid chair before he saw me. I stretched my leg behind me, prepar-
ing to step down backwards. As I did, the heel of my boot caught the
lace trim of my skirt. There was nowhere to go but
down...backwards. I closed my eyes tight and plunged into nothing.
I never touched the ground. Suddenly, I was in Drew‟s arms in-
stead. My breath caught in my throat with a muffled little choking
sound. For a moment, I considered pretending to pass out, but real-
ized that would only draw the unwanted attention of my parents and
the other party-goers. Before I could consider any alternate course of
action, the unruly mistletoe took the plunge once again, this time
landing on Drew‟s shoulder. He glanced at it from the corner of his
eye, then looked at me inquisitively. I have never wished for death
more fervently than I did at that moment.
I‟d never been that physically close to him and the sensations
were overwhelming. He smelled like the sea and his breath was warm
on my cheek. He was impossibly handsome and I had humiliated
myself in his god-like presence...again. Since I couldn‟t seem to pass
out, and turning back time was not a likely possibility, I did the only
other thing I could do: I lied. “Hello, Drew,” I made myself say.
“Thank you ever so much for catching me! I was just...” I removed
the offending sprout from his shoulder, “trying to hang this mistle-
toe...in my doorway...because...I thought it was pretty,” I finished
lamely.
He pursed his perfect lips, obviously trying to hold back laughter.
“I see,” he said. “And is that why Cassandra told me you needed my
help up here?” He placed me gently on the floor. I tried not to cling
to him.
“Um, yeah, that‟s it!” I forced myself to smile brightly, twirling the
scrawny twig between my fingers. “Guess I‟ve destroyed it, though.
Oh, well. There‟s always next year!” Hearing the melodic strains be-
ginning to issue forth from the living room, I tossed the
feeble sprig over my shoulder, full of phony Christmas cheer.

“Sounds like they‟ve started without us. We‟d, um, better go down.” I
slid awkwardly around Drew and headed for the stairs. He had no
choice but to follow me, and though far too embarrassed to actually
look at him, I couldn‟t help but wonder what he was thinking.
We reached the Christmas tree, sidling in wherever we could
amongst the friends and neighbors. Cass kept throwing me question-
ing glances and bugging out her eyes, but I ignored her, keeping my
gaze trained on my mother‟s cello, trying to become as caught up in
the music as I was pretending to be. Soon the need to pretend was
replaced by the truth of comforting fascination. My mother was seat-
ed with her friends surrounding her. Stan stood behind her. He was
quite tall, over six feet, and his violin was plainly visible, tucked se-
curely beneath his chin. His wife Eva stood to his left, her viola as
delicate as she was. To his right was Marjorie, the second violinist.
She was also the organist at the Methodist church that Aunt Tippy
sometimes attended and when the quartet was finished with their
rehearsed pieces, she took a seat at our old piano and began to play O
Holy Night, which I‟m sure she‟d been practicing many times with the
church‟s vocalist. The rest of the ensemble joined in and the concert
soon morphed into an impromptu Christmas sing-along.
The fire crackled and snapped. The cold wind blew in through the
open windows, making the candles flicker on the hearth. Good will
and happiness soon replaced my humiliation and I found myself gen-
uinely smiling and singing along. Had I been a little braver I might
have gone upstairs for my guitar, but it was warm and peaceful by the
fire and besides, I‟d already embarrassed myself enough for one even-
ing. By the time we‟d sung the closing chorus of The First Noel most
of the guests had begun trickling out. Marjorie began to softly play
Clair de Lune. It had always been my mother‟s favorite and she smiled
as she played along, happy for the accompaniment.
About three quarters of the way through the song, she suddenly
stopped playing. A puzzled expression came over her face, chasing
82 Devon Pearse
away the beautiful, faraway look she always had when she played it.
Marjorie kept playing for a few bars, then let the music trail off, look-
ing questioningly at my mother, who stared back, confused and com-
pletely distraught. My father opened his eyes and frowned and asked
her what was wrong. I remember that she looked at him with such a
lost expression, as if she didn‟t know why her fingers had stopped
their delicate motion on the strings, why her hand had rebelled and
refused to move the bow. But somehow she was frozen there in time,
poised for the next note that never came.
“It‟s the strangest thing,” she said, perplexed. “I‟ve suddenly for-
gotten what to play next. It felt so creamy, just like always, but then it
all slipped into the gray.”
“You look tired,” my father said. She looked at him as if she
meant to agree not because it was true, but because it was the most
plausible answer. Aunt Tippy sprang to action, as was always her way
in any potential crisis.
“Devon, Cassandra, please take your mother upstairs and see that
she‟s comfortable.” She always referred to Myma as though she were
Cass‟s mother, too, which seemed perfectly natural to us. It also
seemed perfectly natural to simply obey Aunt Tippy without ques-
tion, and this time was no exception. We accompanied Myma up-
stairs, with her protesting uncertainly and apologizing over her
shoulder to Stan and Eva and Marjorie, who were all exchanging
glances of concern and contemplation.
Once in my parents‟ bedroom, my mother pulled away from us, a
wary look in her eyes. She motioned us over and whispered, “They‟re
talking about me. I know they are. They always are!”
“Who, Myma?” I asked.
“Stan and Eva. I don‟t think Marjorie‟s one of them yet, but she
will be soon, I can feel it.”
I looked at Cass and she shrugged. My mother curled up on the
bed, hugging her pillow defensively. I was surprised that Stan and
Eva would treat her this way. I thought they had always seemed like
nice people, but I suddenly hated them for not understanding her.
We took off her high heels and covered her with a blanket. Not
knowing what else to do, I kissed her good night and looked helpless-
ly at Cass. Knowing what I was thinking she said, “Don‟t worry. I‟ve
got everything covered up here. Why don‟t you go back down and
wish everyone a Merry Christmas before they leave?” I knew exactly
who she meant by “everyone” and I smiled at her thankfully before
heading downstairs to say my farewells to the rest of the lingering
guests...including Drew.
It turned out Aunt Tippy and Drew were the only ones left, and
the former had cornered my father in the parlor. Drew sat on the
couch by the fire, looking a little bored and studying the Christmas
tree. I took a deep breath and walked over to him. At the sound of
my boots on the wood floor, he looked up and smiled. As usual, my
lungs refused to function properly and my thoughts became an unfo-
cused, muddled blur. Sinking down next to him, I tried to make idle
conversation. He had the same idea and we ended up talking nonsen-
sically over each other. We laughed, gave up and stared at the tree
together.
“This is weird,” he finally said, which was not exactly what I‟d
hoped to hear. Noticing my sudden frown, he laughed and expound-
ed on his previous, unmannerly statement. “Actually, I meant that in
a good way. Most people are uncomfortable with silence. They think
that if they‟re not saying something every minute then there must be
something wrong, something unspoken that needs to be said.” He
crossed an ankle over his knee and rested his arm along the back of
the couch. “Last month I got to go out sailing with Ben Lucas – he‟s
a friend of my father‟s. Actually, he‟s more like my father, really. How
I wish my father could be, I mean.” He sounded bitter, alone, and I
wanted to comfort him somehow. “Anyway, it was wonderful, being
out there on the water. At night, it gets so quiet. So incredibly, awe-
somely quiet. You‟re surrounded by darkness; it‟s everywhere you
look, and you can‟t see past your hand in front of your face.
84 Devon Pearse
But it‟s so beautiful. Even in the nothingness. Because of the silence.

There‟s no noise. No one in a hurry. Nobody telling you what to do.
Wonderful, peaceful silence. It‟s so perfect, so fragile. But everybody
feels the need to break it.” He turned to me, a very sincere look in his
incredible eyes. “But you‟re not like that, Bitsy. You‟re completely
comfortable with silence, and I like that.”
What he‟d said was so beautiful, I wanted to cry. He was my By-
ron, my Emerson, my Thoreau, all rolled into one. Looking into his
eyes was like being hypnotized into a contented obscurity. I could no
more control my actions than I could make the world stop spinning.
Leaning toward him in a most ridiculously brazen manner, I whis-
pered, “I like you, too,” and waited for him to kiss me. Of course, he
didn‟t, and after a moment I opened my eyes to see him staring at me
with a rather uncomfortable expression. “Oh, God,” I said mournful-
ly, burying my face in my hands.
I felt him shift on the couch, felt his warm hand on my shoulder.
He didn‟t realize it, but he was doing the only thing worse than reject-
ing me, which was comforting me after he‟d rejected me. “It‟s not
what you think,” he said quickly. “I‟m not...I mean...it‟s not that I
don‟t find you...attrac...um, pretty. It‟s just...well, you‟re a kid, Bitsy.
Oh, that didn‟t come out right. Listen, Bits, I like you, just not that
way. Not yet. Maybe in a couple years, who knows? But I‟m sure by
then you‟ll have guys knocking down your door and you‟ll forget all
about me.”
“Never!” I projected. “I‟ll never want anyone but you!”
I ran upstairs, Drew trailing helplessly after me. Reaching my
room, I had the door open and slipped inside before he caught up to
me. I gracelessly closed it in his face and slid down the other side,
holding back sobs all the while. He knocked softly for a few minutes,
then gave up when I wouldn‟t answer. “Good night, Bitsy. And Mer-
ry Christmas,” I heard him say through the door. And then he was
gone.
As soon as his footfalls drifted away, I threw myself on my bed
and sobbed. A few minutes later, I heard a soft tapping and Cass
called, “Dev? Dev, what happened? Are you okay in there?” Not
waiting very long for a reply, she entered and made herself at home
on the foot of my bed. I couldn‟t speak, but I reached blindly for her
hand. Eventually, she was able to get most of the story out of me.
“I‟m sorry, Dev,” she said when I was finished. Still holding my hand,
she sat with me until I fell asleep.
I awoke early the next morning. Stumbling into my bathroom I
was greeted with a reflection freakishly resembling a raccoon. My
mascara had run hither and yon, but the majority of it had pooled
under my eyes, leaving ashy circles. As I washed my face, I wondered
how long Cass had stayed with me last night and how I would ever
face Drew Westcott again. I brushed my teeth, which felt like a colo-
ny of little furry pebbles, and threw on some sweat pants and a pullo-
ver. I was working up the courage to venture downstairs when I
heard a gentle knock on my door.
“Come in,” I said, hesitantly. My mother entered. She was in her
robe and slippers and looked as tired as I still felt. But she looked
happy, too, as she always did after spending time with people she
loved. The incident from the night before seemed completely forgot-
ten. She was my intuitive, caring mother once more.
“Cass told me what happened with Drew,” she said quietly. For a
moment, I was furious with Cass. I curled up on my bed, hugging my
pillow, prepared to never speak to her again. I wanted to stay angry,
but my mother shook her head. Coming to sit next to me, she put
one hand over mine and lifted my chin with the other. “Look at me,
Lillibet,” she commanded. I could never resist her for long, and my
watery eyes met hers. “I know you‟re angry now,” she said, her voice
a soothing, velvety balm, “but you won‟t always be. And you won‟t
always be embarrassed, either. Everybody makes mistakes and does
things that they regret, or wish that they could do over again. That‟s
all a part of life. It‟s what we do afterward that really matters.” She
smiled at me reassuringly, bursting with the wisdom of Mother. I
86 Devon Pearse
wondered how she could possibly know how I felt, but somehow
thought that she did.
She continued, “Sometimes, at our darkest hour, if we press on,
things can turn out a lot brighter. The trick is not to let it steep for
too long. The stronger the tea, the harder it is to sweeten.” She
brushed a stray lock of hair away from my face and rose to leave.
Turning back, she said, “I‟m making blueberry pancakes. And Drew
Westcott is leaving for the airport in half an hour...in case you wanted
to say goodbye.” She left me alone to brew.
The inevitable twitching started with my right leg, and eventually
consumed most of my body. Not able to sit still, I craned my neck to
see Aunt Tippy‟s house from my window. I saw Drew stuffing a suit-
case into the trunk of the old silver Cadillac that was his great aunt‟s
pride and joy. He was wearing his favorite pair of beat-up old jeans
and a dark blue sweater. I loved him in blue. I sighed involuntarily.
As though he knew I was observing him, or had somehow heard my
sigh, he suddenly turned to look right up at my window. I flattened
myself on my bed, holding my breath. As embarrassed as I was about
the previous night, the sight of him had shocked me back to the pain-
ful reality that he was leaving today. If we didn‟t get things settled
right now, I wouldn‟t have another chance until next summer. And
my mother was right. The longer you let things go, the harder it be-
came to fix them.
Jumping up from my bed, I dashed back into the bathroom and
hastily brushed my hair into some semblance of order. It was still a
little springy from the curls I had so painstakingly created the night
before and I judged my reflection to be somewhere between un-
kempt and reminiscently elegant. I hoped it was more of the latter.
I rushed down the stairs and hit the front door. The process of
unlocking it had somehow escaped me, and my bumbling fingers
struggled to turn the deadbolt. Finally getting it open, I rushed
breathlessly down the street to Aunt Tippy‟s Caddy. Drew was help-
ing its owner down the front steps. She was dressed primly in a pale
green skirt suit, her wispy white hair curled neatly under a matching
hat. She looked like she was going to church instead of driving her
great-nephew to the airport. But that was Aunt Tippy, ever a slave to
fashion. She looked up and looked twice when she caught a glimpse
of me.
“Devon! My, it‟s nice of you to stop by. Did you come to say
goodbye to Drew? We were just getting ready to leave for the airport.
I‟m so glad you didn‟t miss us!”
I wasn‟t sure if I was glad yet or not. Drew looked at me with an
unreadable gaze, still holding on to Aunt Tippy‟s slender elbow. It
was inevitable that she would sense the tension between us, but a
lesser soul might have remained silent. That wasn‟t Aunt Tippy‟s
style.
“Oh, shoot!” she exclaimed, “I think I‟ve forgotten something...a
letter I wanted to mail. I‟m sorry, Drew. I‟ll have to go back inside
and get it.”
“I‟ll get it, Aunt Tippy,” he offered quickly, and I looked away,
suddenly stung.
“No, no,” she shushed him. “I‟ll only be a minute.” She shooed
him away, taking a firm hold on the porch rail and turning around
abruptly. And with that, she marched right back inside, closing the
door solidly behind her.
Drew looked at me and smiled his adorable half-smile, which ab-
solutely drove me crazy from the inside out. He sauntered up to me,
hands in the pockets of his jeans. “So,” he said, “guess this is good-
bye until next summer.” He leaned casually on the leviathan of a car,
his eyes searching mine. My mind went numb.
There were so many things I knew I wanted to say to him, but
none of them were coming to me. I had started down the stairs, out
the door and across the street with some idea in my head, but
damned if I knew what it was now. I had a feeling it had something
to do with making up some excuse for what had happened last night,
but I hadn‟t actually rehearsed anything. All I could think about was
88 Devon Pearse
the fact that he was leaving and next summer seemed so very far
away.
Then his words came back to me from the night before, like they
had been asleep the whole night with me and had only now awakened
to make their meaning clear. He hadn‟t said never. He had said not yet.
And that wasn‟t all he‟d said. I recalled the rest of it, maybe in a couple
years, how I‟d have guys knocking down my door and forget all about
him. When he‟d said that last part, hadn‟t he sounded sort of...sad?
Regretful? I wasn‟t positive, but I thought he might have. My heart
flip-flopped and tried to fly right out of my chest. I must have been
staring at him for an extended period of time, because he finally said,
“Look, Bitsy...” But he never got any farther than that.
Before I knew what I was doing, I took his handsome face in my
hands and said adoringly, “I‟ll wait for you, Drew, just like you‟ll wait
for me. And someday, when you‟re ready to love me, too, I‟ll be here.
It‟ll be sooner than you realize. I‟m not as much of a kid as you think
I am.” My life flashed before my eyes, but there was no turning back.
I pulled him toward me, gazing into his eyes until the last possible
second. Then I closed my eyes and kissed him full on the lips. “I love
you, Drew Westcott,” I said.
Then I ran back across the street and into my house without look-
ing back. As I slammed the door behind me, my father glanced up
from his paper. “You look a bit flushed,” he said. My mother peeked
around the corner, spatula in hand and wearing her Christmas apron.
I saw her shake her head at him, the most minute of movements, but
he didn‟t press the issue.
“It must be the cold,” I said automatically, and ran back up the
stairs to my room.
Sprawled across my bed, I dared a quick peek out my window,
half hiding behind my curtain. Aunt Tippy was laughing and shaking
her head. She patted Drew on the back and ushered him into the
Caddy. She didn‟t have a letter with her. As she reached the driver‟s
side door, she turned and looked up at my window. I wasn‟t sure if I
was imagining it, but I could have sworn she winked at me before
climbing into the driver‟s seat.
At that moment, I thought I could fly. It‟s funny how age changes
us, how the worries of the world can be swept away with just a
thought, a happy circumstance, when we‟re young and not inclined to
dwell on things. When I look back, I seem so cold, so unconcerned
about my mother in the wake of kissing Drew. But I had no way of
knowing then that what seemed like a tiny Persian Flaw in the woven
fabric of our lives was growing bigger than I ever thought it would.
Chapter 11

Wishing Death
We sat by the bed, listening to the monitors beep. The stagnant, medicat-
ed air closed in and I was starting to get that claustrophobic feeling
that always came over me whenever I stepped foot inside a hospital.
It was one thing to put up with it when visiting a relative, someone
you loved and cared about. It was quite another to endure this torture
for a monster who deserved everything he‟d gotten.
Monique sighed and stretched, finally stirring from her place next
to Marcus. She‟d been cradling his head and stroking his face for the
past hour or more and I was hopeful she was ready to leave. “I‟m
going for some coffee,” she said, and my heart sank. “Would you like
something?” She directed her question to Cass and to me simultane-
ously, glancing back and forth between the two of us and waiting for
an answer. Cass shook her head.
“No, thanks, Monique. I‟m fine,” I lied, resigning myself to my
fate. As was usually the case when I found myself somewhere I didn‟t
want to be and had absolutely no business being in the first place, my
id began jumping up and down inside my psyche, asking for the mil-
lionth time that hour, “Why am I here and what‟s in it for me?” That really
was a good compound question. I supposed I was here simply be-

cause it was the right thing to do. I was here because Cass needed me
to be, and that was that, and I couldn‟t come up with a damn thing
I‟d get out of it. Wishing I had better answers for myself, I slouched
in my chair, resting my feet on the bottom rail of the hospital bed.
As though reading my thoughts, Cass apologized for the
umteenth time, “I‟m sorry, Dev. I know this sucks.”
“That‟s okay, Cass. I know it sucks for you, too.”
“Yeah, but I‟m more closely related to it than you are. You‟re just
here because you‟re an awesome, though slightly warped, friend. But
seriously, I appreciate you letting me drag you here.”
“Don‟t mention it. I know Monique dragged you here and we‟re all
morally supporting each other.” I glared at the patient. “Or immorally,
as the case may be.” We‟d been silent for so long, our voices sounded
strange and hollow. We seemed unable to speak above a whisper
even though it was a private room.
“Did I tell you about the gang sign?” Cass asked me, shifting un-
comfortably in the thinly-padded wooden chair. I shook my head.
She sneered and aimed a dirty look at Marcus. If looks could kill, he‟d
be a goner already. “Apparently he‟s bringing his work home now
and it‟s seeping into Monique‟s neighborhood, which I know wasn‟t
exactly pristine to begin with, but now it‟s gotten worse. I don‟t keep
up with all the ins and outs of it, but we all know Marcus is dealing
and involved in other...unsavory activities. Apparently there‟s a gang
that‟s been around longer and they think he‟s trying to take over their
territory, or they‟ve decided they‟d like to take over his. Monique told
me they gave him the option of joining the gang, but he turned them
down. They told him that was fine, and he could keep on doing what
he did best, as long as he shared the profits.” She looked unadoringly
at Marcus. “Well, he‟s an idiot, as we know, and he basically told
them to go fuck themselves.”
“Not a good idea, I take it.”
She laughed. “Remember the guys who were questioned about
92 Devon Pearse
Nina? Same gang. I know the responsible party never paid for that
one, just worked his way up the ranks.” Her thoughts had pulled her
far away, and I looked on from the outside, watching her mind wan-
der through memories we shared. “Geez, we were seventeen. Seems
so friggin‟ long ago. Anyway, they‟ve been around since then, and
longer, and now here comes this upstart trying to encroach on their
dealings and they want him gone. They‟d probably like to offer
Averey a corner office in gangland right about now. Anyway,
Monique came home the other day to find their gang symbol spray
painted on the side of her house, along with some sort of code that I
found out means a death threat. Looked it up online. Amazing what
you can find on the internet nowadays, huh?”
“What about Monique and Janette? Now he‟s putting them in
harm‟s way, too, without a second thought, right?” I asked, assuming
the obvious.
“Who knows – maybe. I‟d really like to get Janette out of there, at
least for a while, but she doesn‟t want to go. It‟s her neighborhood
and her friends are there, you know, all the typical teenage ballyhoo.
Good news is that the DA has decided not to press any charges
against Averey. Guess he‟s been at the job long enough to spot a bas-
tard when he sees one. The two love birds have spent practically eve-
ry waking moment together since then, but Monique has to go out of
town a lot for her new job and Ave can‟t always be there and that‟s
got me worried.”
“Well, let‟s make it a point to keep Janette with us whenever pos-
sible.”
Cass smiled at me. We never had separate problems – it was al-
ways an us thing. She yawned and walked over to the window, look-
ing out across the city. I joined her, appreciating the change of
scenery. Still watching the world below, she said, “It‟s a shame about
the neighborhood. It used to be so quiet and peaceful, remember?
Mostly older folks with decent homes in disrepair. Now the sur-
rounding areas are filling up with drug addicts and homeless people. I
feel sorry for them, the homeless ones.” Her eyes and voice were
filled with the true emotion of what she spoke. It was beautiful to
watch.
She shook it off, slipping back into her narrative. “I went by to
check on Janette after work the other day and stopped at the conven-
ience store on the corner for a snack. There was an old black man
outside begging for spare change. He was dirty and missing some
teeth, but he had the most pleasant smile. I asked him if he was hun-
gry and if I could buy him anything. He very politely told me that he
would like a turkey sandwich and an iced tea. I came back with his
food and he looked up to thank me, and then he said, „You don‟t
remember me, do you, girl?‟ and I probably frowned at him, all puz-
zled. He laughed and said, „Well, I remember you, yessiree. I remem-
ber all three of you. You and the tall one with the beautiful eyes and
that little white girl with the pretty blonde hair.‟”
My jaw dropped open and tears of recollection sprang into my
eyes. Cass smiled at me and went on, her voice a close approximation
to an old, Southern baritone. “„You and the blonde one, I think you
was scared of me. That‟s all right, now. I don‟t blame you! But your
other friend,‟ he said, „she was something special. She‟d always stop
and give me all her change.‟ He smiled with that gaping grin of his
and he said, „Next time you see her, tell her old Caleb said thank you.‟
I didn‟t have the heart to tell him, but I think he saw it in my eyes
because he asked me what happened to her. I told him the basic story
and he remembered it. He said he‟d never forgotten because it was so
sad, but he‟d never known her name, so he hadn‟t realized it was Ni-
na.
“We talked for a while longer and I got a better look at him and
noticed that he was in a really old wheelchair. Damn thing was practi-
cally ready to fall apart. I know some of those guys are good at fak-
ing, but his legs looked pretty useless. He saw me looking and told
me he‟d been hit by a car a few years ago, but not to feel sorry for
him. The manager of the store lets him stay in the back and pays him
94 Devon Pearse
a little to clean up the lot and watch out for robbers and vandals. I
couldn‟t help but notice that he had a decent vantage point of Niqi‟s
house from the back of the store, so I slipped him a twenty and asked
him if he wouldn‟t mind keeping an eye out for me and I‟d check
back with him from time to time. The store‟s open twenty-four sev-
en, so he could always call for help if anything suspicious was going
on over there. Oh, stop that!”
I had been staring at her like a proud parent for a while and she
finally gave my shoulder a good shove. “I‟m sorry,” I said, laughing.
“It‟s just that you put on this tough, streetwise persona, yet under-
neath that rough exterior beats the heart of a true humanitarian.”
“Don‟t compare me to Mother Theresa just yet,” she said, turning
to look at Marcus. “I may be putting up with this for Monique‟s sake,
but there‟s murder in my heart. If I could get away with it, I‟d do this
bastard in without a second thought.”
“Thereby making the world a marginally safer place.”
She laughed sourly, “Yeah, probably. I feel a little better with
Caleb on the look-out. Funny how when you‟re younger you can be
afraid of all the wrong people for all the wrong reasons.” She walked
over to stand next to the bed, looking down upon its comatose occu-
pant. “They tell us we‟re not supposed to trust strangers, but some-
times it‟s the ones closest to us we can‟t trust.” I saw her clench her
fists as she leaned over the bed, close to Marcus‟s ear.
“They say maybe you can hear us, and I really hope you can.
You‟ve made my sister‟s life so much worse than it ever should have
been. If it wasn‟t for you she‟d be living a different life right now,
away from all this fucked up misery you‟ve brought her. And
Janette...you never should have touched her. Thank God for Averey.
Thank God for him! I just wish he‟d had better aim. Then you‟d be
lying six feet under instead of possibly recovering here in comfort
while the damage you‟ve caused outside this place is still there; still a
part of our lives.”
I saw a nurse talking quietly to Monique in the hall and another
one checking a chart. I hoped they couldn‟t hear what Cass was say-
ing. At that point, I don‟t think she would have cared if they were
standing in the room with us. She was going to have her say and no
one was going to stop her.
“They say you may come out of this, but you‟ll never be the same.
I hope to God you‟re not! I pray you live as a drooling idiot for the
rest of your days. Or better, yet, I pray you don‟t wake up at all. But
I‟ll tell you one thing, and you‟d better not forget it. If you ever lay a
hand on Janette again, I swear I‟ll kill you. Either way, I‟d say you
don‟t have much to look forward to, so why don‟t you do us all a
favor and die?” Her lips were inches from his ear as Monique and the
nurse entered the room and they didn‟t seem to hear her when she
said, “Die, you bastard. Just die!”
Chapter 12

The Thimble and the Acorn
“Don’t let go!”

My voice drifted to me from someplace far away. In the part of
my mind that held my present Self, wrapped up tight and safe from
harm, I knew that I was viewing scenes from my past. But the young-
er Self that I was watching was secure in her present, and very wide
awake indeed.
My hair was long – longer than it had been since I was seventeen.
It billowed out behind me as I glided through gardenia-scented air.
The windswept grass rushed by below me; overhead the branches
flew beneath the painted sky. Little sprinklings of wildflowers dusted
the green – God‟s own confetti. It was Spring. It was my birthday.
“Hold on, Nina!” I cried. “If you fall off, your mom will kill me.”
“Don‟t worry,” Nina sighed, “she‟d probably blame Cass.”
“She‟s not even here.”
“Doesn‟t matter,” Nina said, and we laughed at the sad truth of it
all.
I sat with my legs through the middle of a tire swing. Nina stood
on top of it, holding on to the rope. We‟d passed by it nearly every
day since we‟d started taking the bus to high school, but that day it
had seemed too tempting to ignore. Now, giggling like children, we
were soaring through the air, two unlikely acrobats locked in our fear-
less display of wondrously freeing immaturity. Cass would have en-
joyed it, too. But it was her own fault for missing it. She‟d dropped
out of school a few months earlier, leaving Nina and me to walk
home by ourselves. She had said she‟d try to meet up with us that
day, but ended up having to work an extra shift at Chick-a-dee. We
stopped by to see her and, hurriedly serving up chicken and fries,
she‟d wished me a happy birthday and Nina a safe trip. Ever the
over-achiever, Nina had put in extra class time and finished the year
early so she could go to France for the summer. She was leaving the
next day.
“Gotta get home to pack,” she said, allowing the swing to slow. I
scraped my sneakered feet across the grass, helping it along. “And
you‟ve gotta go see your boyfriend.”
“He‟s not my boyfriend, Nina.”
“Um-hmm,” she said, rolling her eyes as she jumped from the tire.
“But he will be soon.”
“You think so?” I asked, all pretense suddenly forgotten.
She looked at me as if I‟d somehow missed the most obvious
thing in the world. “Girl, why else would he fly all the way over here
from Chicago just to see you on your birthday?” I shrugged and she
smiled. “He liiikes you. He wants to maaarrry you.” She teased me in
a sing-song voice, dancing around me all the while.
“Shut up, Nina!” I shoved her, laughing with her in spite of my-
self. She staggered, grinning widely, and picked up her book bag. I
like to remember her like that, smiling in the sunlight, walking back-
wards and away from me, so happy and expectant of a life she‟d nev-
er get to finish.
“See you senior year,” she called, turning to sprint home.
“‟Bye, Nina,” I said, not knowing it would be for the last time.
I walked home slowly, enjoying the day. My stomach felt all shi-
98 Devon Pearse
very and I was consumed with thoughts of Drew. I wondered if Nina

was right – if he really had come only to see me for my birthday. And
if that was the case, did it really mean what she thought it did, or
would that be too much to hope for, after all?
Following the now-infamous mistletoe incident, I‟d dreamt cease-
lessly about our summer reunion in varying degrees of impatience
and dread. When it finally came, it seemed so anticlimactic in com-
parison to my romanticized dreams. Drew acted completely normal
toward me, as though nothing had ever happened between us. Our
friendship deepened, nonetheless, and over the past two years we‟d
become more comfortable with one another. We spent long nights
talking about anything and everything that had happened during our
months apart. He had started college, majoring in law, as his father
had planned. He confided that he wasn‟t wild about it, but didn‟t
want to disappoint his father.
“I wish I had your strength of character, Bits,” he‟d said to me
one evening while we walked along the sea wall. “You know exactly
what you want out of life and you‟ll always be brave enough to go
after it.”
I‟d stared at him, in total shock. It had never occurred to me that
he thought of me as strong, or as anything in particular, for that mat-
ter. It was minor things like those words that completely threw me
for a loop. That and his seemingly innocent displays of affection, like
brushing my hair away from my face on a windy day, holding my
hand to cross a busy street, throwing his arm around my shoulders
for no discernable reason.
But as close as I felt we had become, I couldn‟t help but get the
impression he was still holding back a part of himself from me. Of
course, I was far from being his girlfriend, and I never asked if he had
one back home in Chicago, mostly because I was afraid to know the
answer. Every time I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. If he touched
me, I wanted to die. When he spoke my name, I melted, even when
he called me “Bitsy”. Especially when he called me “Bitsy”.
With these thoughts a whirlwind in my mind, I languished

through dinner with my parents, finally escaping to shower and
change into the frilly white sundress Myma had given me that morn-
ing. I had just finished applying my lip gloss when I heard a knock on
the front door. My heart fluttering wildly, I flitted down the stairs. I
could see him through the glass pane in the door. He was dressed in
khakis and an airy white cotton shirt, looking like the wind might
have blown him there. As I slowly opened the door, I noticed the
bouquet of wildflowers he had clutched in his hand. He coughed a
little, then said, “Happy birthday, Bitsy,” and handed me the make-
shift bouquet. I stared at him, speechless, and he continued, “I would
have gotten you roses, but I didn‟t think they suited you.”
He was right. I was not a rose girl. Sure, they were beautiful, but
they were also fragile and needy and never seemed to last more than a
day. Definitely not a flower I wanted to be associated with. The wild-
flowers were strong and self-sufficient, having survived on their own,
sprouting up out of nothing to live where they pleased. They were
exactly what I would have picked for myself, and I felt my heart
quicken at the thought of Drew knowing me so well. I also knew I
needed to put them in water, and I was very glad for something to
do.
The flowers taken care of, I returned to the door where Drew
waited patiently. “Aren‟t you going to come inside?” I asked, per-
plexed at why he remained in the doorway. He smiled and offered me
his arm. “Where are we going?”
“You‟ll see,” he said with a mysterious smile.
He borrowed Aunt Tippy‟s Cadillac and drove us across the
Bridge of Lions to Anastasia Island. We passed the lighthouse and
eventually turned onto one of the many roads leading to the beach.
He parked the car on the side of the road and came around to open
the door for me. Taking my hand, he led me onto the pale, shimmer-
ing sand.
The moon was a beacon in the ebony sky and it seemed as though
100 Devon Pearse
every star had come out that evening just to see us, and to be seen by
us.
As if reading my mind, Drew said, “They‟ve been waiting a long
time for this, you know.”
“Who?”
“The stars, of course. They‟ve known it all along.”
“Known what?” I asked, suddenly breathless.
He took both my hands in his, stepping very close to me. “That I
would bring you here someday and tell you all the things I want to
say.” I tried to focus, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to be-
lieve I wasn‟t dreaming. “Bitsy, when I‟m with you, I feel complete –
like you‟re the only one who really understands. I don‟t have to talk, I
don‟t have to pretend. I can be myself with you.” He sighed. “You
have no idea how refreshing that is. Every time I see you, I feel it
more and more. And every time I leave you, well, that keeps getting
harder to do. When I‟m in Chicago, I look up at the stars and wonder
if you‟re looking at them, too.” He paused and ran his fingers
through his hair. “God, that sounds so lame.”
“No, it doesn‟t,” I said. “Not if you mean it.”
He looked at me, his expression ravaged. “I do mean it, Bitsy.
More than I ever thought I could. I‟ve never thought about someone
the way I think about you.” When he took a step back from me, it
was all I could do not to follow. I forced myself to wait patiently, a
statue in the sand, listening to the water and the wind and my own
heartbeat. “You gave this to me a long time ago,” he said. “I wanted
you to know that I still have it.” He held something small and silver
up in the moonlight and I gasped when I realized it was the thimble I
had given him when I was eight. I‟d never realized that my childhood
promise had meant so very much. “Thank you for waiting,” he said.
“Can I give you a kiss?”
When he withdrew his hand from his pocket, a silver chain was
wrapped around his fingers and dangling from it was a perfect silver
acorn charm. Unable to speak, I nodded my ascent and he fastened it
around my neck. I shivered as his hands brushed my shoulders, as he

gently lifted my hair, freeing it from the necklace. Looking up at him,
the sea-wind blowing and the stars all shining on, I begged time to
stand still, or at the very least slow down, and let me have this mo-
ment just a while longer than I should have.
That was what I was thinking when his fingers tangled in my hair
and he brought his lips to mine. I grasped his wrists, pressing his
hands against my skin, not wanting to release him for fear he‟d let me
go. Too soon, shaking, he pulled away and stumbled back. I reached
for him, suddenly more alone than I‟d ever felt before.
“No, Bitsy,” he said, his voice sounding strangled. “That‟s enough
for now. Stay away from me before I lose my willpower.”
Frustrated, I allowed him to pull me to the sand. We sat next to
each other and he sighed, pulling me closer, one arm around my
shoulders. We listened to the waves, the stars, the silence. A horrible
thought occurred to me and I buried my head in his chest.
“What is it, Bits?” he asked, concerned.
“You‟re leaving again. I don‟t know when, but it‟ll be too soon.”
“Next week,” he said.
“See! That‟s too soon!”
Wrapping both arms around me, he kissed my forehead, then lift-
ed my chin with one finger. “I have to go, but I‟m never far away.
You‟ll always know how to find me.” He pointed to the stars. “Se-
cond to the right, and straight on till morning.”
Whenever I have this memory-dream, I never want to open my
eyes. I want to trade the present for a quondam evening in the sand. I
want to linger in Drew‟s arms and forget about the years of in be-
tween. But life goes on and years go by and not all memories are
sweet.
On a very ordinary day in August, 1992, Nina Allen was killed in a
hail of senseless gunfire while celebrating her seventeenth birthday.
The police suspected it was gang related and made a couple of ar-
rests, but they seemed guided more by politics than justice. Either
102 Devon Pearse
way, Nina was gone and hardly anyone, in the grand scheme of
things, had noticed her departure.
Cass and I were devastated. She was one of our former classmates
and partners in menial, harmless summertime crime; someone our
age who wasn‟t supposed to die that way, that young. It made us
think. And it made us angry and emboldened, too. We wanted to
leave something of ourselves behind as we faced our own mortality.
And so we started a diary. We wrote in it together and marked it
with our fingerprints, red as blood, but really red nail polish as we
were too squeamish to actually prick our fingers. Cass sketched a
guardian gargoyle on the first page and we each wrote a little com-
memorative verse; mine poetic, though scribbled in my impatient
script and Cass‟s a typical rant in her quirky, artistic hand. It was with
us for the next few years or so, the writing becoming more sporadic
as our lives diverged like Frost‟s two sylvan roads. We eventually lost
track of it, along with the rest of our childhood, and moved on to
other things. I was always sure some day one of us would come
across it at the most unexpected time and hold a glimmer of our yes-
terdays lovingly within our grasp. Selfishly, I hoped it was me.
Born of necessity this 23rd day of August, 1992
R.I.P. Nina
Devon
What shall be written here? What manner of embellishments
scrawled within these pages? What memoirs of the damned shall herein
be strewn? Read on, for only then shall these answers be revealed.
Here begins our journey. Here is writ our legacy. This shall be more
than a journal. It shall be our lives in print! Every emotion, every
heartache, every triumph, every downfall. All our hopes and dreams,
our trials and disappointments in this book penned for the sake of
posterity. We shall truly be immortal!
Cassandra
Life sucks! Here’s your proof. Read it if you dare, but
look for no answers, foolish mortal, for I sure as hell
have none to give.
The Guardian of Secret Thoughts, until the end of both our times.
September 1st, 1992
I didn’t go to work today. I couldn’t. My alarm went
off, I got up and got dressed and even walked to the
bus stop. But when the bus came I just stood there,
like someone in a movie, and didn’t get on. The bus driv-
er asked if I was okay. I don’t remember what I said,
if I said anything at all, but she finally closed the
door and drove away. I went home and got my bike. I
didn’t know where I was going, or if I even wanted to
go anywhere. I just rode around all afternoon. It felt
strange being so alone, without my Dev, without Nina.
Only me and the wind in my face.
Remember when we used to sit at the back booth in
Pizza Town and listen to music on the jukebox? We’d
bring a stack of quarters and play We Belong by Pat
Benatar over and over again. It seems like so long ago
now. A different life. A forgotten, screwed up childhood.
Where did it go? I miss it. I miss Nina.
September 2nd, 1992
I know, Cass. I miss her, too.

December 31st, 1992
Dream Seer
Fragile and fluid and clear; echoes of midnight surrounding me here

Weightless and free of all inclement fears, sleeping alone on the tide
Come now to me as I dream, starry-eyed wisp on a tattered moonbeam
Tell me that I’m not as lost as I seem; stay ever here by my side
All through the velvety night, watch over me with unwavering sight
A clarity granted by Heaven’s own light; kiss me awake with the dawn
Crystal the tears of the day, gentle the breeze as you lull them away
Ever to linger here, never to stay; one last ardent glance and then gone
Drew, I miss you so much. It all seems like a dream,

even now. I wish you weren’t so far away from me. I
hate saying goodbye.
Happy New Year, I guess.

January 15th, 1993
This totally sucks!
Ma caught me making out with Jose Santos in my room
and now I’m grounded...again. There’s no way she would
have known (or cared) that I skipped school today un-
less Monique told her. What right did she have? She’s
the one who got herself knocked up and now Ma’s com-
pletely over-reacting to every little thing just because
my sister’s a slut. Monique’s such a bitch! I wish she’d
never been born. I wish I was an only child like Devon.
And I wish I had her mother. But I’m stuck with what
I’ve got, so I might as well make the most of it. Pay-
back’s a bitch, Monique. Just like you!
March 3rd, 1993

I just found out from Delinda that Cass’s mom had
her taken to a juvie center. She said she got in a fight
with Monique and kicked her in the stomach. Monique’s
okay and so is the baby. I know Cass shouldn’t have
done that, but Monique has such a way of pushing her
buttons. Still, I wish Cass would learn to control her
temper.
March 5th, 1993
Finally heard from Cass. She earned a ten minute

phone call from the place where they’re keeping her. It
sounds like a jail. She told me that Monique caught her
skipping school again and drinking wine coolers with a
couple of older boys. They got in a fight and she called
Monique a whore. Monique came at her with a kitchen
knife and that’s when Cass kicked her. She really wasn’t
trying to hurt the baby. She just wasn’t thinking. Niqi
ran upstairs and called her mother. Nobody would listen
to Cass. They let the cops take her to the detention
center. Her mother wants to leave her there until she
turns eighteen, but Cass says she can’t spend three more
months in there or she’ll kill herself. She asked me if I
could help her get away. I’m scared, but I can’t just leave
her there like that. I know she’d help me if I needed her.
God, I just want to get away from all this! I miss Drew
terribly. I miss his stories of the sea. I miss the silence.
March 17th, 1993
Been a while. I’ve been busy lately, hiding myself away
in Devon’s room, counting the days until my 18 th birthday
when I can walk out of here a free woman. I know
Dev’s been writing everything down “for posterity” as she
calls it. As if anyone would care. She’s out with her
family for their traditional St. Patrick’s Day dinner.
Irish people are weird. I’m beginning to wonder if I
wouldn’t have been better off just waiting it out at
that damn juvie center. No, that’s not true. But I still
feel like a prisoner. If anyone finds out I’m here –
especially Devon’s dad – I’m screwed. I can’t believe her
mom is letting me stay here and actually helping her
hide me. She scared me to death yesterday, though.
She suddenly came bursting into the room like somebody
was chasing her, then grabbed me and pulled me into
the closet with her and told me not to make a sound or
they might hear us. The look in her eyes was really
creepy. I was convinced somebody was in the house, at
least for a while. Then Dev came home and found us
huddled together in the closet. She pulled her mom out,
trying to calm her down and explain that she’d only im-
agined everything. It was hard to do because I’d be-
lieved her and she kept trying to tell Dev that I’d
heard it, too, but of course, I hadn’t. It was just like
one of those mass hysteria happenings where everybody
just believes what they’re told because someone is so
convincing. It must be awful to really believe someone
is after you, and to hear things like that all the time.
Poor Myma. She’s a pretty cool lady, even if she is kind
of crazy sometimes. She doesn’t deserve to be sick.


Chapter 13

Slipping Away
It had started so slowly, like the rising of the sun. One moment, a glow-
ing blur on the horizon, but sooner than it would have seemed possi-
ble, there it was; a burning ball of flame that seared its illusion into
your irises, still brilliant when you blinked. That‟s how it happened to
Delilah Pearse. The onset of her illness crept up through the night of
many years. The first signs were hardly noticeable and we never knew
to look for them. A random outburst here, an awkward turn of
phrase there, sudden ramblings no one else could understand. No
one, it seemed, but me.
We looked for many more answers after the “gray-out” Myma
had experienced at the Christmas party, when “She‟s just tired” had
been the plausible excuse of the moment. But as the years marched
past, they became more and more elusive. Reasons for her sleeping
late, forgetting to make breakfast. Excuses for her un-brushed hair
that was often tangled in the back. Desperate explanations for why
she would disappear for hours on end, returning late at night with no
more idea of where she‟d been than we had. For a while I think my
father was convinced she might be having an affair. Maybe he almost
wished she was. That was something tangible he could find a way to
deal with; a simple matter of confession and forgiveness. But there
was nothing to confess, no sins to be forgiven. Only the forgotten
reasons that were locked inside her mind.
Living with the process of my mother taking her leave of our real-
ity was like watching the colors fade from a photograph. Often there
were months of happy normalcy when we prayed the worst was over.
Then the grayness would return, like it had never been away. I found
myself desperately trying to find new ways to communicate with her.
I had learned the colors so I must be able to decipher this new lan-
guage she‟d adopted – this strange new way of living life.
Over time, I was able to pick up most of it. I learned to read her
moods like the changing of the tide. Her mannerisms clued me in to
what might set her off. If she rubbed her temples, she was getting
very angry and she might say something like, “Take the orange away!”
I would always make sure to get her out of the room and away from
other people if I saw an outburst coming.
Sometimes I could talk her out of it. She often thought anyone
holding a conversation out of earshot was talking about her. If I tried
very hard, I could convince her that they weren‟t. I thought that, even
if she never trusted anyone else for the rest of her life, as long as she
trusted me, everything would be okay. I would be there for her as her
translator, her protector. Her truest blue of all.
But I didn‟t count on growing up. I didn‟t factor in the chance
that I might fall in love and want to leave, to live a life of my own.
And with that change came other realizations. What if I was just like
her? I understood her language. Maybe it wasn‟t from years of prac-
tice, but because it was innate, an inescapable part of me. By that
time, I was eighteen years old. How many more years did I have be-
fore the symptoms truly set in?
One night as Drew and I lay on the beach gazing up at the stars, I
finally worked up the nerve to share my deepest fears with him. I had
hesitated not because I thought he wouldn‟t understand, but because
112 Devon Pearse
I was afraid he might agree with my conclusions. It was the night be-
fore he would have to return home to Chicago and Loyola University
to finish up some courses so he could get his BA and start law
school. His father was insistent that he dive right in, but Drew was
dragging his feet, convinced he could put it off another year.
The night was calm and beautiful and I was oddly quiet, prompt-
ing Drew to ask, “What‟s on your mind, Bitsy? I know there‟s some-
thing eating at you. You haven‟t even attempted to poeticize the
opalescent moonlight on the water.” He grinned at me, proud of his
progressing descriptive abilities.
“I see you‟ve been reading the thesaurus I gave you.”
“You caught me. Seriously, Bits. What up?”
I sighed, resigning myself to whatever pain may come. I stared up
at the stars, forcing the words out one after the other, like walking
through water. “I know you know about my mother...how she‟s...” I
trailed off.
“I know,” he said, after a silent moment.
“Well, I‟ve heard that...what she has...can sometimes run in fami-
lies, and, well, I wouldn‟t blame you if...”
He cut me off this time, sitting up and pulling me with him. He
held my face in his warm palms, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs.
I felt moisture and realized I must have been crying. “Oh, my Bitsy.
How could you think I‟d ever leave you? You‟re the sanest thing
that‟s ever happened to me.”
“But what if I wasn‟t? What if someday I didn‟t even know who
you were? What if...”
“That‟s not going to happen.”
“But what if it does? What if the odds aren‟t in my favor?”
He sighed and wrapped his arms around me, cradling me against
his chest. “The way I see it, everything is fifty-fifty.”
I frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
“In any situation, the odds are always fifty-fifty; it‟ll either happen
or it won‟t.” He shrugged. “So there‟s no sense in worrying about it.”
I pondered this illogical conclusion for a moment. “It‟s a good

thing you‟re majoring in law. I don‟t think Statistics is your strong
suit.”
“Neither is law. But maybe we can figure out what is,” he said,
pulling me down with him again.
Later that night, tucked safely into my bed, I thought I heard the
strains of Clair de Lune floating softly on the breeze. I‟ve never been
sure if it was real or my imagination; a comforting illusion brought on
by Drew‟s calming assurances. But I drifted off to sleep in tones of
pale blue while everything around me turned to shades of white and
cream.
I awoke to voices, the music fading with my dreams. Light was
seeping through my curtains, but I felt like I‟d hardly slept. The clock
on my wall insisted it was eight forty-three. Drew would be airborne
and halfway home by now. Lying quietly, I strained to hear the con-
versation. My curiosity eventually dragged me out of bed and I crept
lightly to my door, cracking it as soundlessly as possible. I heard my
father‟s voice coming from somewhere downstairs – probably the
study.
“...gone all night. I don‟t know what to do,” he said.
I heard a muffled response in a comforting timbre, definitely fe-
male. I tiptoed to the stairs but didn‟t dare go down. Remaining on
the top landing, I leaned my back against the wall and slid down until
my fanny touched the floor. I pulled my knees up to my chest and
wrapped my arms around my shins, settling in for the duration of
whatever discourse passed below. If I craned my neck a little, I could
see the reflection of my father‟s study in the glass doors of the china
cabinet in the dining room. The colors were muted and the perspec-
tive a bit dizzying, but it served its purpose. My father paced his well-
worn route. A petite white-haired lady sat in the straight-backed an-
tique chair reserved for guests. Her slender legs were stretched out in
front of her, crossed at the ankles. She wore a salmon-colored pant-
suit with a flowered silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. I could
114 Devon Pearse
picture it covering her hair as she drove Drew to the airport again
earlier this morning. Aunt Tippy was unmistakable, even in a glass
reflection.
“Sit down, Owen. You‟re making me nervous.” She patted the
large leather chair next to her. My father obeyed, reluctantly. “Now I
don‟t want you to worry about all this. I‟m very glad you called me.
There are some burdens we simply are not meant to bear alone.” She
now took to patting my father‟s hand instead of the chair. “You have
been wonderful friends to me throughout the years, you and Delilah
both. Like family. And I know your mother, God rest her soul, would
have wanted me to help you in any way I can. She was my dearest
friend for many, many years.” My father nodded at her. He looked so
mechanical and lifeless – almost like a zombie. It made me shudder
to see him like that. It was scary.
When he spoke, his voice was hollow. “She won‟t take the medi-
cation they‟ve prescribed. I keep telling her it will help, but I don‟t
even know if that‟s true anymore. It did seem to help in the begin-
ning, but it also took her away in a different way. She seemed so un-
happy in that...wherever it was she went. I want to do what‟s best,
Elise. Best for her and best for Devon. And if what turns out to be
best is the place you‟ve suggested...”
Aunt Tippy nodded. “I think it might be good for her. It‟s near
the town of Brunswick, Georgia, about a two hour drive from here,
so you could visit whenever you‟d like. She could be monitored twen-
ty-four hours a day until they found the proper medications that
could turn her right around. They run a private institution, so there
are never more than ten patients at a time...”
Her voice continued floating up the stairs to my ears, her mouth
went right on moving. I knew the words were coming out, but I
couldn‟t seem to understand them anymore. Realization flowed like
poison through my veins. I could feel it burning me up inside. By the
time it reached my heart, the pain was so real I cried out in agony.
The reflections of Aunt Tippy and my father looked at one another
in alarm. They rushed out of the study, my father in the lead. Part of
me wanted to get up and run back to my room, jump in bed and hide
beneath my covers. But the greater part of me was numb and so I sat
where I was and waited, the pawn of immobility, as my father
climbed the stairs. I could see Aunt Tippy still below, looking up at
me with such sorrow in her eyes. “Oh, Devon.” she said, and clasped
her hands together, pressing them to her lips.
“Da-dee?” I questioned, sounding like a little girl. It occurred to
me I must have looked like one, too. A fragile waif, Cosette-like in
my over-sized sleep shirt, one chilled shoulder exposed. My father
reached for me and I jumped away, backing toward my room. “No!
How could you? How could you even think it?”
“Wendy-bird,” he said, and we both cringed at his use of my
childhood appellation. “You know I love your mother. I don‟t want
to have to do this, but I have no other options right now.”
I stared at him, my anger building with each passing second.
“Doesn‟t she get a say in all this? Or are you planning to sedate her
and ship her off to la-la land?”
“Devon, it isn‟t like that. I can‟t possibly give your mother the
care that she needs now. When this all started, it was like a trickle, but
now it‟s a full-blown flood. A little forgetfulness here and there is one
thing. Her saying things that don‟t make sense, I can deal with. But
we‟ve gone from harmless little foibles to aiding and abetting a crimi-
nal...”
“That was Cass, Dad! She‟s not a criminal. She needed a place to
stay, just for a while. Myma should be sainted for taking her in, not
locked away and forgotten in some facility where I can‟t even talk to
her. Where I can‟t see her every morning and kiss her good night.
She‟s the only one we can really count on – Cass and I both. Don‟t
take her away. You can‟t!” I stopped talking because I was shaking
uncontrollably. I had to breathe. My father took the opportunity to
speak, but he was less forceful now.
“I know the situation with Cassandra got...out of hand. And I
116 Devon Pearse
realize your mother loves you very much – Cassandra, too – and she
was doing what she thought was best under the circumstances. The
problem is, I don‟t know if that‟s what she would have considered
best if she had been thinking clearly. And having someone hiding in
the house only strengthened her delusions. She loves to care for peo-
ple – that‟s part of her nature. That‟s why she‟s so easy to love.” I saw
a muscle twitch near his jaw and I realized for the first time how very
hard this must be for him, too. I saw Delilah as a mother, mine alone.
But she was also a wife. This had to be equally as difficult for him as
it was for me, perhaps more so.
An idea was forming in my mind, one that could save us all. My
father continued, gently, taking his time with me now. “This is be-
yond my control, Devon. She can‟t be left alone. She requires nearly
constant supervision.” He sighed and I waited. “I went to bed before
you came home last night. She said she wanted to wait up for you. A
while later, I heard you come in, but she never came up. She hasn‟t
come back yet this morning and I don‟t know where she is.” He held
his hands out to me, entreating me to listen to his reason.
But I wanted him to listen to mine. “Da, listen. I don‟t have to go
to college this year. No, no, wait. Please hear me out. I know how she
thinks. I know what she needs. No one else does. Not you, not Aunt
Tippy and certainly not some strangers in a looney bin.” He flinched,
but I didn‟t care. “I‟ll put off college. I‟ll study on my own. Cass can
help out, too. We‟ll take shifts here and at the bookstore so she never
has to be alone. We‟ll put bells on all the doors so we can hear her if
she opens one. I‟ll even make her take her medication if you want me
to.” I felt suddenly quite silly, as if I were begging to keep a pet. I‟ll
feed her, I‟ll love her, I promise to walk her.
My father was staring at me, but I didn‟t know what else to say. I
was afraid that if I continued speaking, if I said even one more word,
I would go past the point of being convincing. “Wendy-bird,” he
said, looking as sad as I‟d ever seen him, “I can‟t put that on you. I
won‟t let you take on that much responsibility. It isn‟t fair to you.”
I snorted. “And so taking my mother away is fair to me? Da-dee, I

need her! She‟s my mother and I need her!” My throat hurt deep in-
side, but I rambled on, as unable to stop the flow of words as the
salty tears that poured from my eyes. “Please, Da, think of how she
feels. She must be terrified sometimes when she realizes some of the
things she‟s done. We‟re her only constant – the only ones she knows
will always be there when she comes back. I‟m afraid that if she
thinks we‟re gone, even for one minute, then she‟ll have nothing left
to come back for. She‟ll just...slip away from us forever. I can‟t lose
her, Da-dee, please...”
Sobbing, I still wouldn‟t allow him to comfort me. He looked at
Aunt Tippy who seemed to be crying as hard as I was. “Just give me
a chance,” I pleaded. My father looked at me appraisingly, measuring
my potential as my mother‟s primary care giver.
Finally, he heaved a tremendous sigh, and I knew he was almost
convinced. “This may be a moot point if the police find her wander-
ing around before we do. Lord only knows what she‟s gotten into by
now.”
My mind raced desperately. I had to know where she was. I had to
prove that we could handle this – that I could handle it – even if eve-
ryone else had given up. I closed my eyes, blocking it all out. I tried to
think like she would. I had to see into her world. If I could find her
thoughts, I could find her. All right, I thought, it‟s Sunday. That‟s a start.
Sundays are yellow...or sometimes even white. She was happy yesterday, planting
flowers, something new, so I think it‟s probably white. Sundays that start out
white make her think of Sunday dresses...going to church...where God is. To be
nearer to God, where would she go?
I suddenly had a vision so clear it stole my breath. I saw the em-
broidered flowers that my mother had created so painstakingly one
summer when I was four, or maybe five. They were the border for a
little verse that made her smile. It was part of a longer poem, “God‟s
Garden”, by Dorothy Frances Gurney. Myma had framed it and hung
it on the wall next to the backdoor in the mud room so she
118 Devon Pearse
could see it before she went outside. I knew the stanza by heart. I,
too, had seen it every day of my life.
The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the bird for mirth. One is nearer
God‟s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth
My eyes flew open. “Myma!” I called, pushing past my father and
flying down the stairs. Aunt Tippy stepped aside, not wishing to be
trampled. They followed behind me at a safe distance as I scrambled
to the backdoor. I flung it open and ran for the gardenia bushes. She
was there, curled up peacefully beneath the largest one. Her garden-
ing spade was stuck in the soft earth a few feet away from her out-
stretched hand. All around her were little holes that she had
presumably been busy digging late into the night. In each hole was
planted a shoe. High heels stuck up out of the ground at precise in-
tervals. I recognized my Birkenstocks protruding near the japonicas.
They really looked quite lovely there. I needed a new pair, anyway.
Of course, I understood that this was strange – almost complete
lunacy – but it was also perfectly harmless and it made my mother
happy. She was always happy in her garden. The thought of losing
her caused the tears to overflow and I sniffed, more loudly than I‟d
meant to. Her eyes opened and she looked up at me and smiled. She
was covered in dirt and still wearing her nightgown. Her feet were
bare; she had planted her slippers. Her hair was tangled and she wore
a gardenia tucked behind her left ear.
I heard Aunt Tippy gasp behind me. My mother smiled at her,
too, so glad that she could join us. “Hello, Elise!” my mother said.
“I‟m sorry I couldn‟t wait for you. I wanted to be early.” Her brow
crinkled in a little frown. “I don‟t like to miss the hymns.” I had a
mental image of three bluebirds, two cardinals, several sparrows and
an oriole all holding little hymnals and singing just for her. She stood
up and brushed herself off. Then she marched directly to my father
and kissed him good morning. She strode into the mud room, picked
up a dirty sneaker and placed it in a flower pot, toes down.
“Who wants breakfast?” she asked.
March 6th, 1994
I love you, Drew Westcott. I’m watching you right

now, and you don’t even know it. I see you gazing out
across the water, dreaming of starlight and sails and
great adventures. Will you ever share them with me?
Your dreams...and your adventures? I hope you know
how much I love you. How I never want to be without
you. You’re walking back over here now and I wish I
could take your picture and make it a part of this
page. My words can’t convey the expression in your eyes,
the purpose in your step, and the way I know that you
won’t interrupt me if you think I’m writing something
serious, but you’ll tease me if you know I’m not. And you
know when I’m pretending, just like now. But you’ll lie
down next to me and wait...just wait, like always.
In just - spring when the world is mud-luscious the

little lame balloon man whistles far and wee
(e e cummings, of course)
Chapter 14

Star Patterns
“How can you think when the sky is so blue?” He lay on his back in the
soft grass looking up at me. His eyes glistened with untold secrets in
the sunlight. He was painted by the gods, and he didn‟t even realize it.
Even upside down from my perspective, he was beautiful. A gentle
breeze was playing with the pages of my journal and the air was warm
and sultry. He was watching a dragonfly make its way across the
greenery, slipping in and out of mottled sunlight. I was watching him.
It was something I wanted to capture so clearly. I‟ve always been a
frustrated artist, wishing I had the talent to scratch a pencil on paper
and in the end have my creation resemble what my eyes had translat-
ed to my fingers. Unfortunately, my eyes and fingers didn‟t speak the
same language. If I wanted to draw a picture, I had to do it with
words. I sat with my back resting against a scruffy cabbage palm. It
wasn‟t much as givers of shade go, but it was our tree for the after-
noon and one can‟t expect perfection in all things.
Behind us loomed the fort, the ever-imposing Castillo de San
Marcos, and beyond that billowed the Matanzas, its brilliant waters
belying the meaning of its name: place of slaughters. How odd that
such a lovely part of nature should have such an unsettling epithet.

Odd...yet somehow fitting. A beautiful duality. A mystery of self. For
some reason I had always found that thought comforting.
It had been nearly a year since we had been near the water togeth-
er. I had visited him in Chicago for Christmas, a trip I‟d been saving
up for since we‟d said goodbye under the stars, our feet buried in the
white sand, clinging to each other as though it was the last time we‟d
ever be together. It always felt that way. But now it was spring again
and he was here and everything felt so wonderful.
“I‟m not thinking. I‟m writing,” I replied as I began scribbling the
opening lines of In Just by E. E. Cummings, which had suddenly
popped into my head. In just- spring when the world is mud-luscious the little
lame balloon man whistles far and wee. I had to look like I was writing
something, just to prove my point, but this poem always made me
giggle. Drew rolled over, propping himself up with his sun-kissed
forearms, elbows bent on the grass. He watched me intently, knowing
it would make me squirm. “Don‟t look at me like that,” I said. I was
feigning obstinance but it was starting to become a habit. Recogniz-
ing this adverse trait in myself, I sighed. “All right.” I closed my jour-
nal and slid my pencil behind his ear, ruffling his hair in the process.
“You win. But mark my words, Drew Westcott, someday my random
musings will be consulted in matters of great import.”
He laughed his infectious laugh, grabbing my ankles and pulling
me down so I was prone on the grass. My shirt rode up my back as I
slid down the tree, exposing my skin to the itchy green blades. I
didn‟t care. “Devon Pearse: writer extraordinaire,” he teased, now
sitting on my thighs so I couldn‟t get up and run away. As if I would
have wanted to. “You must promise not to forget me when you‟re a
world famous author.” He poked me in the ribs and I squirmed. “A
critically acclaimed wunderkind.” He moved on to my underarms. “A
miracle of modern literary masterpiece.” His fingers rippled on my
neck and I squealed in frustration, batting his hands away, quite fu-
tilely. “But no matter where you go and what you do, you‟ll always be
122 Devon Pearse
my little Bitsy.” I wriggled and tossed until he finally allowed me to

sit up, red-faced and glaring, with bits of dead grass now residing in
my tousled hair.
With perfectly executed irritation, he allowed me to silently seethe
for a moment before leaning in and bravely planting a kiss on the tip
of my nose. I narrowed my eyes and he laughed at me again before
standing and offering his hand. I can still see him standing there, with
the sun shining behind him and gleaming off his hair, the wind play-
ing hide-and-seek between the leaves and making everything come
alive in a rustling wonderland of warmth and light.
“Come on, Bits,” he said, grinning his boyishly evil grin. “Let‟s go
paint the town.”
“Lady‟s choice?” I asked lazily before taking his proffered hand.
“Any color you like.”
Distrusting, I queried, “Even burnt orange?”
He looked at me the way he did when he wished to convey that
he was the only person in the world who could ever know me that
unfailingly well. “It is Wednesday,” he said. I quickly stuffed my jour-
nal into my nearly defeated knapsack as he hoisted me to my feet.
“Shall we start with a stroll?” He led the way, knowing I would always
follow.
I don‟t know why that one particular memory has stuck with me
so vividly for all these years. Maybe for the same reason I still have
that grass-stained white t-shirt folded neatly in my bottom drawer.
Maybe because that was the last day I remember believing in my pre-
ordained quantum of perfection, or the possibility of it, at least.
We walked along the sea wall for a while, staring out at the waves.
Like our restless thoughts, they angled in to tease us, then rushed
away in moments, leaving us to wonder what they may have ever
been. “Looking forward to law school?” I asked as Drew heaved a
stone into the murky water. He sighed and turned to me, walking
backwards and squinting into the sun.
“I think you already know the answer to that one, Bits,” he said.
“Then why are you going?” I took his hand, stopping his back-
ward motion. I sat and pulled him down next to me. We dangled our
feet over the edge of the wall, letting the spray wet our sneakers. I
entwined my fingers with his, resting our hands on my knee. “Drew?”
I questioned gently when he still had not answered me after several
waves had scattered themselves beneath our feet.
He turned to me, his face a map of bygone dreams. “What else
can I do, Bitsy?” he asked me. “It‟s like it was...patterned in the stars
before I was born. At least my father sees it that way. His father had a
son. He wanted his son to become an attorney, just like he was. And
so it came to pass. My father had a son. Said son will grow up and
become an attorney, just like said father and said father‟s father be-
fore him. In my family, it‟s just the way of things.”
“So be the one to break the pattern.”
He looked at me sadly – no, resignedly. It broke my heart a little
every time he did. And it seemed to be happening a lot lately. He
touched my cheek, his eyes seeking solace in mine. “You know I can‟t
do that,” he said, near a whisper.
“I know you could do it.” I looked into his eyes with a fervor I
hadn‟t known was boiling inside me until that very moment. Taking
both his hands in mine, I angled myself toward him and clutched
them to my chest, hugging them to my heart. “You could, Drew. We
could. I know you have dreams inside you that your father would
never understand. Things he‟s never even thought of because...well,
because he isn‟t you.” My eyes searched the clouds for the proper
analogy. I located it somewhere between the flying dragon and the
wispy contours of a steadily evaporating lotus. “It‟s like trying to ex-
plain a rainbow to a blind man. He has no reference for comparison,
no way to ever truly understand it. And eventually he‟ll get bored
with even trying. Your father will never see the colors, Drew. Stop
worrying about what he thinks of you. Quit trying to make him un-
derstand. It‟s time to give up and live for yourself.”
He turned away from me. I didn‟t mind. I knew he wasn‟t angry
124 Devon Pearse
with me, but frustrated with himself. And more importantly, I knew
that he knew I was right. We sat in silence for a few minutes, looking
at the water. Finally, he said, “You know what I‟d really like, Bitsy?”
Understanding he needed no answer from me, I waited quietly. “I‟d
like to buy a boat and sail around the world. Just you and me, togeth-
er.”
I pulled one knee up, resting my chin on it to look at Drew. I
searched his face for signs that he was joking and found none. A
thrill bubbled up inside me. “Where would we go first?” I asked
breathlessly, hoping to encourage the dream, and the dreamer.
“Oh, anywhere the wind wanted to take us.”
I looked up at him, smiling slowly. “Or we could follow the stars,
make our own pattern,” I suggested. When he looked at me, I could
see the awakening in his eyes. He really wanted this. The excitement
was getting a firm hold on me, too. The idea was so infectious that
we soon found ourselves discussing what type of boat we‟d buy, how
we‟d ask Aunt Tippy to finance it, what exactly he‟d say to his father,
and a myriad of other questions we now somehow dared to ask our-
selves. We were like two starving prisoners, ravenous for freedom,
planning our daring escape.
Then his expression became guarded. “What about your mom?”
My heart flipped over. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein having just an-
imated the monster, only to watch him die. I didn‟t want to be the
reason for the end of the dream. When I was with Drew I could for-
get about everything else so easily. My mother‟s illness and all the
complications it brought with it faded away and left nothing but the
elation that was my love for Drew. These precious stolen moments
were everything I lived for. I had waited so long for these afternoons
of freedom, and when Myma was herself, when the medication was
doing my job for me, I raced out the door to feel the sunlight on my
face, to feel alive again.
It sometimes made me feel a little twinge, like I was abandoning
Myma. Of course, I knew I wasn‟t really. I had done more than my
share. I had kept her home with us. I couldn‟t go on feeling guilty
every time I thought of myself, of what I really wanted out of life.
Fate had to toss me a line at some point. Besides, we were just talk-
ing, speaking aloud the corollaries of our wishful thinking. Up to this
point, at least, when suddenly every hopeful thought took on a more
solid form. How I wished we could sail away together. But could I?
Could I actually leave my mother now and go with Drew? I knew
that if I asked her, she would insist that I go. She had been doing
much better lately, well enough for me to leave her alone for a few
hours here and there. It seemed like the medication was really work-
ing this time. She hadn‟t had a “spell” in months. I couldn‟t stay
home forever. And after all, how could I expect Drew to stand up to
his father and shatter his own family‟s ambitions for him if I wasn‟t
willing to leave the nest myself?
My decision was made, although it stood on shaky legs. “I‟ll figure
something out.” I spoke quickly, reassuring Drew, and myself, that
this really was possible. After what had seemed like the longest, most
difficult year of my life, self-preservation was starting to kick in. I felt
an overwhelming need to save him – to save us both – and I couldn‟t
stop now that I had started. This passion deserved to live. It had tak-
en its first breath and now it struggled to survive. I wouldn‟t be the
one to end that life. It would be like murdering a friend.
An hour later, we strode slowly through the twilight, hand in hand
up the front walk to my door, not wanting this day to end, but know-
ing that it had to for tomorrow to arrive. And we wanted our tomor-
rows, all lined up and waiting in our happily ever after. He kissed me
good night, holding me close, our lips lingering upon each other‟s
until we almost couldn‟t breathe. “I have to go,” I sighed, burying my
face in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, inhaling the
rich, familiar scent of him.
“I know,” he whispered. His warm breath slid languidly across my
ear, lifting the fragile strands of wanton hair that had come loose
from my careless braid. I tingled. He owned every nerve ending in
126 Devon Pearse
my body. Reluctantly, I pulled myself away from his warmth and

stumbled to the door. Leaving him was always like going underwater.
I‟d have to hold my breath until I saw him again. He was my air.
The house was dark and tepid. I made a mental note to open
some windows. In my hand I held a yellow slip that had been stuck to
the door announcing that an attempt had been made to deliver a
package. The driver had circled “Recipient not at home” and indicat-
ed that a second attempt would be made in the morning. That was
odd. Myma said she‟d be inside all day. And those drivers usually
weren‟t shy about their knocking. One of them, delivering our
Christmas shopping last year, had actually rattled the windows.
Lordy, it was dark in here! The blinds weren‟t even opened. I
should probably give them a good dusting soon. I‟d want to do a lot
of cleaning while I decided what to pack –
My thoughts came to a standstill when I saw her. “Myma!” I
gasped, rushing to her, dropping my bag in a heap in the doorway,
the little yellow sticky-note fluttering to the floor. Drew was already
gone. I had stood on the porch waving to him like a lover at the train
station until he was inside Aunt Tippy‟s house. Da was still at the
bookstore, and probably would be for awhile. I was alone. And my
mother was curled up naked on the floor with the big Thanksgiving
turkey knife clutched in her trembling hand.
It didn‟t occur to me that she might actually harm me. The only
thought in my mind was to abscond with the knife before she could
hurt herself. What terrified me most was the wild look in her eyes;
like a frightened animal. “Myma, what happened?” My voice sounded
small and frail in the waning light – as all alone as I was.
I knelt beside her, not sure where to touch her, or if she‟d even let
me. I wanted to pick her up and carry her to her room, like she used
to do for me when I was little and had fallen asleep on the sofa. She
needed to be tucked into bed. Then everything would be okay in the
morning.
“Myma, you need to give me the knife.” I was steadier now,
speaking to her like a parent to a child, a sudden inspiration my recol-

lection had left behind. She was hesitant at first, but I remained calm,
at least outwardly. “I know it all looks gray right now, but it‟s getting
lighter. It‟s going to turn blue very soon. See? Right over there, up in
that corner, I can see it! Look, Myma! There it is...that little bit of
cerulean that you like so much. Here it comes. We can probably catch
it ‟cause it‟s floating really slowly.” Gradually her clutching fingers
loosened their grip on the handle and I gently extracted the knife
from her hands, sliding it across the floor into the kitchen. I didn‟t
care where it stopped, or if I scuffed the floor. I wanted to get it as
far away from her as possible.
She lifted her wary eyes, looking suspiciously around the room.
Although not exactly focused on me, at least I was convinced she
knew I was there. “Is he gone?” she asked.
For a moment, I was utterly terrified. Oh my God. There‟s someone in
the house! As unappealing as that thought was, there was a part of me
that wished, for one fleeting moment, that it was true. I clung to that
irrational desire because at least that would mean that my mother
wasn‟t completely crazy after all. If there had been someone in the
house, if she had been attacked, then it would make perfect sense for
her to be curled up naked on the floor, terrified out of her mind and
threatening every movement with a giant knife. But as she continued,
reality came home to roost.
“I burned my clothes so he wouldn‟t smell me,” she said. “I put
them in the oven, lit a match and threw it in.” In the back of my
mind I realized, thankfully, that she must have closed the oven door
and put out her own fire by depriving it of oxygen.
She was still speaking and my frazzled brain had to hurry to keep
up. “I grabbed the knife on my way back out of the kitchen and
crawled along the floor, reaching up to lower the blinds as I went.”
She leaned into me, divulging a secret. “So he wouldn‟t see me.” It
was as though she was seeking my approval. I bit the inside of my
bottom lip to keep from crying and nodded slightly in encourage-
128 Devon Pearse
ment. “I didn‟t want to hurt him, but he wouldn‟t go away!” Again, a

terrifying flash in my mind, Did she kill someone? Then she went on and
I realized her imagined stalker was the delivery man, who departed
whole enough to leave a yellow sticky on the door. “He kept pound-
ing on the door like he knew I was here and he was going to break it
down and I got so...so scared!” She started sobbing and I pulled her
to me, rocking her back and forth in my arms, comforting the com-
forter.
I don‟t know how long we stayed that way, curled up together on
the cooling floor, the remaining light being siphoned from the room
like water through a straw. I could still look out our opened front
door and see the sky, so far away. The first stars were beginning to
appear, timidly poking their brilliant heads through the canopy of
darkness, one by one. They should have been so beautiful, my un-
changing nightly companions, but something seemed so wrong about
them. I wondered why it looked so unfamiliar, so glaringly obtuse.
Then suddenly I realized that the pattern I‟d struggled to create in the
stars that night with Drew, the one hope I had to live by, the one I
thought was meant for me, was nowhere to be found. It was gone.
And like my quantum of perfection, it was never really mine.
March 20th, 1994
Cass and I went looking at apartments today. I

know she really wants to get away from Tony, and I
don’t blame her. He’s such a jerk, and she’s got nowhere
else to go. It’s something we’d always talked about,
dreamt about - having our own place. But that was
back then, before...everything. The timing isn’t right
for me now, obviously! I’m trying to be a good friend,
I’d like to do what I know she wants me to do, but it
would make everything so much harder for me. I would
have to get a second job to afford the rent and I don’t
know how I’d have the time to take care of Myma, too.
Drew’s been working so hard lately, saving money for our
boat, and I’d feel guilty using any extra money I made
for rent instead. I told Cass that Drew and I want to
leave as soon as possible, but I don’t think she’s listening
because she’s so excited about her own escape. I’ve
stopped talking to her about how hard things are with
Myma because I know she’s got problems of her own. I
don’t think she really believes that I’ll leave with Drew.
Sometimes I’m not sure I will, either. But Drew’s taken
the first step by refusing to continue law school. If it
wasn’t for Aunt Tippy, I guess he’d be completely on his
own. It’s hard, but it’s our one chance to live our dream.
I know Cass doesn’t understand - how could she? I
shouldn’t have told her I’d move in with her, but she was
so excited about it. And I really want to. I really do! We
found the perfect townhouse, just like we always talked
about getting. It’s beautiful. God, why can’t I just split
myself in two? No, I can’t think like that - not ever -
because maybe someday it will happen. But how can I do
it all? How can I be everything everybody needs me to be?
I have to make a decision, and I know what it’ll be. It
isn’t fair to Cass, but I have to tell her soon. I just
don’t know how. I don’t know...maybe I can work it all
out somehow.
April 1st, 1994
Happy April Fool’s Day. Looks like the joke’s on me. I was
all set to sign a lease today when my oldest, dearest,
most trusted friend completely screwed me over.
Thanks, Devon. No problem, Devon. I’ll just find someone
else to move in with me. Some total stranger – anyone
off the street. Oh, it’s no big deal. I wouldn’t want to
interrupt your perfect little life, now would I? Or your
plans with Drew, for that matter. It’s obvious he’s the
only one you really care about anymore.

April 12th, 1994
Cass, please don’t be mad at me. I’m sending you the
diary so you can read what I want to tell you. I talked
to Monique and she told me everything that happened
with Tony. Cass, I had no idea it was so bad for you.
Why didn’t you tell me he hit you? I’m sorry you had to
go and stay with Chandra. Tallahassee seems so far
away and I miss you. I didn’t mean to leave you in a
lurch like that, I really didn’t. Everything happened so
fast and I wasn’t prepared for it. There were things I
didn’t tell you, either. Things about Myma and how
hard it’s been for me. I was just so tired and confused
and scared and I didn’t know how to fix things. I know
that’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I’m an idiot, and
I’m really, really sorry. Please forgive me.
May 3rd, 1994
Oh, excuse me. Was I supposed to feel sorry for you? I
trusted you and you lied to me. Stay out of my life
and keep your stupid diary. It’s all yours now.
And one more thing.
Go to Hell!
Chapter 15

Confusing God
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“Now where have I heard that before?” I sat up slothfully, rub-
bing my eyes and yawning like a cave. “How did you get in here, an-
yway?”
He was crouched next to my bed, lit by excitement and as dishev-
eled as I‟d ever seen him. “I snuck past Da when he came out to get
the paper. I‟m pretty sure he saw me, but he knows I know better
than to try anything with him right downstairs. Besides, I didn‟t bring
any mistletoe.” He smirked and winked at me.
“Very funny. So, why am I awake at this ungodly hour?” It was
nearing ten o‟ clock, but I‟d stayed up reading well past four.
“Get dressed,” he said. I could tell that this was all the infor-
mation he was willing to bestow. Leaving me no choice but to wallow
in my ignorance should I choose to stay in bed, he backed quietly
from my room. “I‟ll wait for you downstairs. Myma says today is very
green and so she‟s making bacon. If you hurry, I might save you
some...but I‟m not making any promises.”
Within the hour, I found myself blindfolded and being led care-
fully along, my hand clutched firmly by my handsome captor. “This is

ridiculous,” I said, starting to laugh. “Drew, I know exactly where we
are. You walked me down St. George, made a right on St. Francis and
a left on Avenida Menendez, as we have done nearly a zillion times
since we‟ve known each other. We‟ve been walking next to the water
for quite some time now and I can just smell the tourists gawking. I
also smell saltwater and fish and hear the tide lapping at boats and
seagulls cussing each other out in language they‟ve picked up from
the sailors. I know we‟re at the marina, Drew, and you couldn‟t have
seriously thought that I wouldn‟t, so, for God‟s sake, why am I still
blindfolded?”
“I‟m sorry,” he said, “but it was a necessary precaution. Also, I
thought it would be funny to lead you around like this and give the
tourists a good show. I think a few of them got your picture. Who
knows? Maybe you‟ll sign one someday when you‟re famous.”
The suspense was driving me beyond annoyance, and he knew it.
With little fanfare, he deftly removed my blindfold with one hand,
still holding mine with the other. “Here she is, Bitsy. Our very own
transport to Neverland.”
I blinked in the light. A thousand diamonds blinded me, perched
atop the waves. I could see that my assertion was correct: we were
indeed at the marina. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dazzling
water, I was able to focus on the object of Drew‟s enthusiastic mur-
murings.
There before me, rocking leisurely with the tide, was...a boat. How
I wished I could come up with a better description of it for myself,
but, honestly, I didn‟t know a speedboat from a cutter. I supposed
that one was faster, but I wasn‟t sure why. I knew that sailboats, ob-
viously, had sails. So did this one, but I wasn‟t sure if that was enough
to make an informed attempt at classification. It was pale blue and
white, which made me feel very comfortable, but, with prolonged
exposure might also make me want to take a nap. It wasn‟t new, that
much was certain, but it had a sort of charm to it that more
134 Devon Pearse
than made up for the age spots and wrinkles. And, if Drew was to be
believed, I was standing next to its proud owner.
“It‟s...she‟s beautiful,” I said, suddenly recalling that all boats were
considered female. “What is she?”
I felt perfectly comfortable asking Drew this question, even
knowing that it would blatantly expose my ignorance of the boating
world. He knew that my knowledge of this topic was limited to what-
ever I picked up in conversation and that it had nothing to do with
my vast appreciation of water craft in general. Besides, he could never
argue the reticent splendor of Shelley or Byron, or even come close
to understanding Yeats. But he had a passion for the sea which mir-
rored my love for poetry, and on that level even now we could con-
nect.
“She‟s a 1982 Flicka, Bits. I know the old gal could use a bit of a
facelift, a little nip here, a minor tuck there. But all in all, she‟s one
damn fine yacht.” And I thought yachts were only for rich people.
Go figure.
Drew‟s excitement was insatiable as he helped me aboard and
showed me around. She was a small boat – yacht – only 20 feet, and
without a doubt in need of some repairs, but she was truly beautiful
inside. Just like an old showgirl with a heart of gold. Her name, paint-
ed on the hull in ancient golden script, was Gypsy Rose. How fitting.
When he finally ran out of words, I turned to Drew and wrapped my
arms around him.
“She really is beautiful. Drew? Is this...she what you‟ve been
working so hard for? How did you ever come up the money to afford
her?”
“Well, I had some allowance saved up, so that was a start. Since
it‟s not likely I‟ll ever see another penny from my father, I figured I
might as well use it for something he‟d hate to know he had a part in
financing. I didn‟t know how much I‟d need, or when I‟d even find
the right boat for us, but one day Aunt Tippy told me she had a
proposition for me. She knew what I was up to and had taken it
upon herself to „call in an old friend‟ as she put it. His name is Cap-
tain Murray, or at least that‟s all he ever goes by, and apparently he
owed her some sort of favor.
“Long story short, next thing I know she‟s telling me I need to
come down here ‟cause there‟s a boat he wanted me to see. I told her
I was sure I couldn‟t afford what I wanted yet, but she sent me down,
anyway. I spoke with Captain Murray and he asked me what I had
saved up. I told him and he said, „Ha! Imagine that. That‟s exactly
what I‟m askin‟ for a down payment. The rest you can work off. I‟ve
got a lot of aging beauties that could use a bit of sprucing up.‟” His
perfect imitation of a gruff old sea captain made me laugh, and love
him even more. “And that, as they say, my love, is that! I‟m sure Aunt
Tippy had a bit more to do with it than she let on, and I promised to
repay her somehow, but her only stipulation was that we always come
home for the holidays.” He grew silent and looked at me quite seri-
ously. “I hope you don‟t mind that I agreed to all of this without con-
sulting you first.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Of course I don‟t mind – any more
than you would mind if I secretly published a book of poetry. This is
all for us, Drew, and our dream, and I know that. I just hope it really
can come true.”
He held me so tightly I thought I might swoon from lack of oxy-
gen. “It can come true Bitsy. I know it can.”
After the grand tour, which included a trial run involving the
bunk, tourists be damned, Drew wanted to stay and work on some of
the many repairs that lay ahead. I walked home slowly, reversing our
earlier route. Traveling back up St. George Street I would pass Aunt
Tippy‟s house before reaching my own. I thought that I was eager to
get home to tell Myma about Gypsy Rose. Following the incident with
the kitchen knife, I had put off telling her about the plans Drew and I
had made. The episode had been brought on because she had only
been pretending to swallow the pills I gave her every morning. I‟m
not sure what she did with them, but I always suspected she planted
136 Devon Pearse
them in her garden. The flowers had been looking very serene that
spring.
At first I was horrified. The medication was the only thing making
her better, more normal. But when she looked at me, completely lu-
cid for the moment, with her pale, sea-green eyes so sad and pleading,
I had to listen with an open mind, and heart. She told me that the
medication made her feel trapped inside herself, like a participant in
her own life rather than its master. I tried to understand her when she
described everything, including what she could remember of where
her mind went when she was away. It seemed so peaceful there inside
her thoughts, but the medication blocked it all, kept her captive and
repressed. She said it drained the colors from her world. I couldn‟t
bear to see her sad anymore. It was her life, after all. Shouldn‟t she
have some say in it?
I spent most of the next few months trying very hard to keep it
from my father. And now I was faced with my most oppressive fear:
what I would do when it came time to leave with Drew. I needed to
tell Myma, but I didn‟t know how. She would still insist I go, I was
sure of that, never realizing the strain that choice was putting on me,
with or without her blessing. At no time did it occur to her that by
refusing to take her medication and clinging so desperately to her
own life, she was, in effect, robbing me of mine.
I suddenly realized how desperately I missed Cass and needed to
talk to her right now, but she was gone, and still, as far as I knew,
very angry. And so, in need of unknown solace, I found my feet
straying from the sidewalk and climbing the steps of Aunt Tippy‟s
over-sized porch. Without giving it much thought, I tapped lightly on
the door, not knowing what I‟d say when she opened it.
Open it she did, her beautifully creased face breaking into a huge
smile. “Devon! How wonderful to see you. Please, come inside and
sit with me for a while, won‟t you?” I did as she asked, following her
into the foyer where her two upholstered wing-backed chairs resided.
On the little table set between them sat a cup and saucer and a folded
magazine revealing an article titled “The Best Years of Your Life:

Looking Fabulous After Fifty”. I honestly didn‟t think Aunt Tippy
had to worry about that. She had looking fabulous down to a science.
She held out her hand to one of the chairs and I sat obediently. “I
was just having a cup of tea. Would you like one, too, sweetheart?”
“No thank you, Aunt Tippy. I‟ll grab a Coke when I get home.”
She tisked at me, but let it go at that. Crossing her legs and folding
her hands neatly on her knee, she looked at me and said, “Well, then.
Let‟s have it.”
Unexpectedly, I began to cry. Aunt Tippy reached over and placed
one papery hand on mine. “There, there, love. It will be all right.
You‟ll see. These things have a way of working themselves out in
time. It just takes time.”
I sniffled. “But what if I don‟t have time, Aunt Tippy? What if
today is all I‟ve got?”
A less caring person might have laughed at me, or at the very least
been quite offended. Here I was, at the tender age of nineteen, sitting
in the foyer of a woman nearly four times that and possessing the gall
to complain about such a thing as time and how much of it I might
have left to my name. She didn‟t laugh, or even blink. Instead she
looked at me with a sorrowful expression and said, “Well, my dear,
that‟s what dreams are for. We make a lot of them and hold tight to
them. If tomorrow never comes, then at least we‟ve had our dreams.
And if we‟re lucky and we get to have tomorrow, then there are that
many more dreams to look forward to. Throughout all our tomor-
rows we sometimes are lucky enough to see some dreams come true.
Others, unhappily, we have to watch die. And sometimes we have the
horrific honor of murdering them ourselves.” I flinched. “They are
such lonely people, those murderers of dreams. I‟ve always tried, in
my life, to let mine die a natural death whenever possible so as to
avoid the dire consequence of the scarlet letter M.”
Her rosy lips twitched upwards at the corners and I couldn‟t help
but smile back. She had such a way of putting everything in perspec-
138 Devon Pearse
tive while making me feel so comfortable. It truly was a gift. She sat
back in her chair and studied me. “Now tell me, plain and simple,
what it is that‟s wrong.”
I fear it wasn‟t plain, or simple, but I told her everything that I
knew was bothering me, and even a few more things I hadn‟t realized
were wrong until that very moment. I spoke about my mother and
my fears for her if I should leave. I told her how my father didn‟t
understand and couldn‟t care for her himself. Sometimes I couldn‟t
sleep because I thought she might sneak out. I even mentioned, as I
had to Drew, my terror of developing the same illness that was con-
quering her mind.
When my torrent of words subsided, Aunt Tippy kept her steady
gaze on me, not moving a muscle, as if she feared she‟d frighten me
away. Finally she shook her head and said, “Too young. Oh, much
too young to carry such a burden on your shoulders.” She went to
the kitchen, returning with a glass of lemonade. “It‟s not a Coke,” she
said, “but it‟ll do you good.”
I thanked her, taking a sip. It was sweet and tangy and wonderful
and I felt it sliding down my throat with a glorious coolness. Every-
thing seemed so much better, although nothing was resolved. Aunt
Tippy was wise, funny and caring. She‟d make a wonderful grand-
mother. Without conscious thought, I said, “Aunt Tippy? How come
you never married, after Uncle Bud, I mean?”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to lunge
for them and stuff them right back in. Unfortunately, there is no de-
lete button for spontaneous thoughtless speech. But, in her usual
fashion, my hostess was unmoved by my blatant faux pas. She gazed
out her front window as she spoke, a faraway look in her faded blue
eyes.
“I never married because I only loved one man and he was taken
from me many, many years ago. I‟m sure you must have heard this
story from your grandmother?”
I shook my head. “Actually, she didn‟t talk about that part much.
She mostly told me stories of their childhood and...happier times.

You know, before the war.”
She nodded her understanding. “Well, then, I‟ll fill you in from
my point of view. Some of this I‟m sure you‟ll know, but it‟s a love
story and as such must be spoken in its entirety.” I smiled, already
enthralled. “His name was Robert but everyone called him Bud, as
you know. He was a sailor, like your grandfather. He joined the Navy
during the Depression and worked his way up to Chief Engineer by
the time I met him. I was attending classes at Alabama Polytechnic
Institute, that‟s Auburn University now, which your grandmother
Alice also attended. She and I had met at camp when we were teen-
agers, I‟m sure she must have told you.” I nodded, recalling the many
stories of their youth that my grandmother had shared throughout
my childhood. “Well, we‟d always planned to go to college together,
and that‟s where we ended up. Then she met a nice young sailor who
was attending the Navy‟s Radio School they‟d opened up there. We
used to double date all the time, your grandmother and I, and she was
anxious to go out with Whitey.” I smiled, recognizing my grandfa-
ther‟s nickname and recalling the naturally platinum hair he sported
in old photos.
“Well, I wasn‟t interested in anyone right then, so Alice suggested
I go out with her brother. He was older and I‟d somehow never met
him, but he was on leave at the time. I was hesitant, but Alice just
begged and begged, and so, as was usually the case, I gave in. We
planned to attend a dance together and Bud said he would meet us
there.” She looked at me and smiled. “I was around your age then.
Young and pretty and fresh as a daisy. Oh, I thought I was some-
thing! I still remember, I wore a pale pink dress that clung in all the
right places. Alice had worked on my hair for hours until I looked
like Jean Harlow.” She laughed and touched her hand to the side of
her face in such a girlish way and I could picture her just as she‟d de-
scribed, young and pretty and really something.
“Well, there I was, breaking hearts left and right, and suddenly I
140 Devon Pearse
looked across the room and saw him standing there, the handsomest
man I‟d ever laid eyes on. Of course, I had no idea it was Bud, but I
just looked at him, I couldn‟t help myself, and he looked back and it
was...magic. Oh, nowadays it seems like so much nonsense, but back
then things were different. People really did fall in love at first sight,
at least sometimes. The world was a smaller place. A better place for
lovers. He introduced himself and asked me to dance and we were
inseparable thereafter. He may as well have asked me to marry him
on the spot. I would have said yes in a heartbeat. Oh, I could have
spent years searching for someone better, but there would have been
no point to that. The only man I‟d ever want was right there in my
arms, and I knew it. I knew it like I knew the sun would come up
every morning and go down every evening.” She paused, seeming to
gather her thoughts, or perhaps her courage.
“He didn‟t ask me that night, but he did three weeks later. He had
received orders to report for duty on the USS Lindon, a destroyer sta-
tioned in the South Pacific. We wanted to marry immediately, but my
mother wouldn‟t hear of it. She wanted plenty of time to plan my
wedding back home. We were the height of Savannah society, you
know.” She said this almost apologetically, but also with a hint of
something else. Remorse? Anger? I couldn‟t be sure. “Bud and I de-
cided to elope the night before he had to leave. I met him like we
planned, but something had changed. To this day I don‟t know what
it was, some sort of premonition he had, perhaps. He told me he
loved me, but he wouldn‟t marry me that night. He wanted to wait
until his tour of duty was over. We all hoped the war would end
soon, and then it could be a happier occasion. I pleaded with him to
reconsider, but he flat out refused me, telling me he couldn‟t stand
the thought of leaving me a widow if anything should happen to him,
or, if he should be wounded or maimed, he wouldn‟t want me to be
trapped in that kind of a marriage.
“We wrote letters as often as we could, professing our love for
one another, dreaming of the future that awaited us when the war
was over. He always ended his correspondence to me with the same

phrase: Yours across the sea, forever your Bud. I still have those letters,
every last one of them. I keep them in a hat box along with the tele-
gram I received in May of forty-five.”
She became so quiet for a moment, I wondered if she was going
to continue. When she did, her voice was flat, almost dead. It was as
though she was reciting lines for a school play. “The Lindon had been
lost off Okinawa. She had been struck in the after section by a kami-
kaze, knocking out the port engine. The engineering spaces flooded.
After that, the rudder jammed and she began to list to starboard and
there was an order to abandon ship. Moments later came a violent
explosion and she went down quickly after that, taking most of the
men on board with her. Although there were some survivors, I knew
there was no hope that Bud would be among them. It was his duty as
Chief Engineer to remain below until all of his men had escaped.
There would have been no time.” I wanted to speak, to say some-
thing that would comfort her, but after fifty years, there can be none
left to give.
“I never forgave my mother for prolonging my engagement like
she did, and a part of me has never forgiven Bud for agreeing with
her. If we had only married sooner, I would have been a widow in-
stead of just an inconsolable fiancée. I know that he was trying to do
the right thing by leaving me a free woman, and I understood his
point years later when I heard stories of wounded soldiers being
abandoned by their fragile wives who could no longer take the stress
of living with the scarred and mangled bodies of what used to be
their husbands.
“My mother tried to comfort me for a time, telling me frivolous
little things like it was God‟s will and I would meet someone else
someday. God had a plan for me and it was my responsibility to find
out what it was. I hardened my heart against her words, and against
God‟s plan. I decided that whatever plans He had for me I would
thwart in any way I could. I would make it my life‟s mission to con-
142 Devon Pearse
found Him at every turn. I didn‟t care if He wanted me to be happy.

It didn‟t matter if He had a hundred other men lined up for me to
meet. I wanted no part of any of them. My one love was gone, and it
was all His fault and if He didn‟t like it, that was just too bad for
Him. I vowed to spend my life confusing God and all his plans. I
knew that one day, when I shuffled off this mortal coil, I would meet
my love in Heaven and there wouldn‟t be anything God could do
about it then, short of tossing me to the guy downstairs, and I didn‟t
think He‟d go that far just to prove a point.
“Eventually the war did end. Your grandfather came home, thank
the Lord, and wasted no time in marrying your grandmother. They
moved here and bought the house your family still lives in. I legally
changed my last name to Tipton, which had been Bud‟s name, as you
know, and should have been rightfully mine. My parents, beside
themselves because their daughter was determined to be a spinster,
lavished their money upon me, which I used to buy this house and
I‟ve been here ever since.”
“Why did you buy such a big house?” I asked, not even thinking
of the indelicacy of the question.
She looked at me with a sad and lonely smile. “I suppose it was
mostly because Bud and I had talked about having so many children,
and even though I knew that could never be, I was still set on having
a big house because it was what we‟d had in mind. Silly, isn‟t it?”
“I don‟t think so,” I said.
“Well, looking back, I‟m rather ashamed of myself for not doing
more with it. Your grandmother and I had a friend at camp who
wanted to be a dancer. She lived for it. I remember when she finally
got up the courage to move to New York to give it a try. She‟d send
us letters, telling us how wonderful everything was. Then we finally
went to visit her and found her living in a tiny room of an apartment
that she shared with two other girls. They had no money – it all went
to pay the rent and bills. They all worked as waitresses, making next
to nothing, while they struggled to find work doing what they loved.
That always stuck with me, the idea of loving something so much
that you‟d give up your own comfort for the pursuit of that one, spe-
cific dream.”
“That‟s how I feel about writing,” I said, and she looked at me in
a way I‟d never seen before.
“Is it? How wonderful. I wish that I‟d followed through with an
idea I‟d had back then, of opening this house up as a refuge for
struggling young people who were following their passions.”
“Why didn‟t you? It sounds like a great idea.”
She was thoughtful, gazing out the window. “Perhaps it was. I
really always meant to follow through with it, but the years got away
from me. That happens sometimes. And I know that a part of me
was bitter because my dream of a happy life with Bud would never
come true. So maybe, deep down, I didn‟t want to watch other peo-
ple being happy. Terrible, I know. But most likely the truth of the
matter. Yes, this big house has been mostly wasted, except when
Drew visits, of course. And I‟ve lived a lonely life. But I‟ve been con-
tent to be so.”
I looked around the house, wondering if I would be able to live
the solitary life that she had chosen. I hoped I‟d never have to find
out.
“So you see,” she said, “sometimes we murder our dreams, some-
times they die a natural death and sometimes they get murdered for
us. I‟m not sure I‟ve done the right thing by living my life the way I
have, but it was my choice. I believe God gave us free will, and I be-
lieve He and I have reached an understanding. He‟s held my love in
Heaven and I‟ve held him in my heart. Our love is still as pure as the
day we met, undiluted by the years. Someday soon I‟ll join him, and
when my heart beats its last, I hope I‟m smiling, seeing him before
me. I never got to walk down the aisle like a proper bride, but I‟ll be
damned if I won‟t run to him then!”
I couldn‟t sleep that night thinking about all that Aunt Tippy had
told me, everything she‟d been through. Try as I might, I couldn‟t
144 Devon Pearse
imagine ever losing Drew that way, never seeing him again. I would
rather be the one to die. But what if I didn‟t die physically but men-
tally? How would he be able to stand to watch me slip away more and
more each day until I wasn‟t really me anymore? It would be a kind of
death, that much I knew from experience. A slow and painful one
whose aftermath would be so much worse than a simple burial. It
would be like living with the body of the one you loved, but nothing
more than that, like the wives of the wounded soldiers after the war.
And what was God‟s plan for me? For Drew? If we really had free
will, like Aunt Tippy believed, then could I make it all work out right
on my own? Was I strong enough to try?
I finally fell asleep, but the next morning my pillow was still damp
from my tears.
June 11th, 1995
Time goes by so fast, and before you know it, someone’s

gone. I started to go across the street this morning to ask
Aunt Tippy if she thought my poem was good enough. I
was halfway down the stairs before I remembered she wasn’t
there. She’ll never be there again. She always told me to be
happy for her because she’d finally have everything she
wanted. But I’m so lonely here without her. She was the
only person I had left to talk to, besides Drew, of course.
Myma’s here, but it’s mostly torture. I can see her and talk
to her, but I’m not sure she really hears me. Sometimes she
acts like she used to, before she got sick, but those times
are happening less and less. I wonder how much longer it can
go on, how much longer I can take care of her. I know
Drew wants to go; I can feel it every time we’re together.
He’s not mean about it - not at all - and I know he would
never ask me to leave before I’m ready, before I’m sure Myma
will be okay without me. But that’s the thing. She won’t be
okay without me. I can’t fool myself anymore, but I don’t
know what else to do about it. I’m so tired, but I don’t
want to give up yet. I hate giving up. Maybe Aunt Tippy’s
the lucky one. No more responsibilities or worries. No more
problems to deal with. But she had to live her whole life to
get there. She was really very brave. I wish I’d have
thought to tell her that before. Now I guess I’ll never have
the chance.
Chapter 16

Becoming Gray
Acceptance is an agile thing. Obtuse and slippery, it glides along the

corners of your mind, seeking purchase wherever it might nestle,
waiting to spring upon your consciousness with the slightest provoca-
tion. It waits patiently. It bides its time. But one day, mark my words,
it will wage battle with denial, and most times emerge victorious from
the settling dust of war. I can‟t say that I recall the exact moment of
its victory, but I‟ll never forget the surrounding days.
A poignant rain was falling. Thankfully, the groundskeeper had
the forethought to erect a large tent over the area surrounding the
open grave. Those not able to fit under it huddled beneath dark um-
brellas, creating a nylon wall around us. We stood gathered before the
coffin, friends and loved ones thrust together in a potpourri of grief.
The preacher was a quiet man, not prone to outbursts of Bible
thumping like some others I had witnessed. But then, Aunt Tippy
was a Methodist “in general practice” as she liked to say, and though
she hadn‟t attended church regularly, she had paid her Sunday dues.
At least enough to buy her a proper Christian burial by the local
Methodist minister, which is, I do believe, all she ever had in mind.
“Elise Mariana Wallace Tipton,” he began in a soothing, gentle

voice, “was beloved by many and shall be greatly missed. We are met
here at this most solemn moment to commend her into the hands of
our Heavenly Father...”
His words trailed off into the nothing I was staring at. I reminded
myself to breathe as evenly as possible so the nerves wouldn‟t get me.
Crying was out of the question and I hadn‟t eaten anything that could
come back up to haunt me. My only other option was unconscious-
ness and I somehow thought that might be more embarrassing in the
long run than the terrible task at hand.
At some point before she died, the far-sighted Miss Tipton had
scribbled a note to her Executor stating that she wished for me to
read an original poem at her funeral, whenever it should take place.
Of course, she had never bothered to consult me in this little en-
deavor, knowing full well I would immediately decline the honor.
And so, the shifty old darling had cornered me into it. Oh, how easy
it is to put off the living, but no one refuses the dead.
I knew I was squirming like a little girl. I kept turning out my feet
until I could feel the grass tickling the sides of them. It must have
been quite noticeable as I was wearing high heels and therefore
shrinking two inches every few seconds, then popping up again, but I
couldn‟t stop myself. I wondered what everyone must think of me
and I knew it couldn‟t be good. I hoped they‟d all forgive me. I truly
meant no disrespect. And at this point they were lucky I wasn‟t lifting
up my skirt and tugging at my pantyhose.
Drew squeezed my hand and I realized my time had come. I
squeezed back, in utter terror. He opened his fingers, gently unbind-
ing them from mine, and I wobbled gracelessly toward the minister.
His smile was calming and serene, but then he‟d done this a few more
times than I had.
I cleared my throat and turned to face my audience. I was remind-
ed of the oral presentations Mrs. Keppelson would make us recite
before our peers, and for a moment, my mind was a complete
148 Devon Pearse
blank. Then my panicked eyes found Drew‟s and it all came back to
me, line by line. Here we go, Aunt Tippy, I thought. I hope you like it, even
if nobody else does.
“Solitude – the empty shell I left you finally shattered, you are
free. Never was this life your fate, to dwell alone and broken. Not
forever, though the years have passed. You were always strong, my
love, through every lonely heartbeat. The dreams we wove together
were your tapestry of days. Your breath upon my memory has kept
me here with you. The ghost of love you‟ve held within your soul has
calmed the waves and now we two shall reunite as one. A wedding
and a vow beyond the veil. Eternity our gilded circle, death our mar-
riage bed. Now you are mine forever, as I was ever yours across the
sea.”
Following the funeral, in the house formerly known as Aunt Tip-
py‟s, a much smaller congregation reassembled in the living room.
How funny; they had gathered in the living room to talk about the
wishes of the dead. Drew was among them, as were his parents, his
father looking stoic and his mother the epitome of fragile. I went
home with Da and Myma. Feeling the reading was more of a family
affair, we had chosen not to intrude.
Drew knocked on our door about an hour later, a strange expres-
sion on his face. He handed an envelope to my father, along with the
keys and title to Aunt Tippy‟s beloved Cadillac. The action was me-
chanical and heavy, as if he were wading through molasses. “I need to
see Bitsy,” was all he said.
“What happened, Drew?” I asked when we had left the world
behind and were safely tucked away in the tiny cabin of the Gypsy
Rose.
“It‟s so weird, Bits. I still can‟t believe it‟s real.” He shook his
head; a dreamer wide awake within a dream. “She left it to me. All of
it.”
“All of what?”
“The house, her inheritance and most of what she‟d squirreled
away over the years. She asked that I live my dreams and „do some-
thing remarkable‟, whatever that‟s supposed to mean.”
“Drew! That‟s…incredible!” He looked bewildered and more than
a little lost. “Isn‟t it?” I finished quietly.
He sighed. “I don‟t know. I suppose. But there‟s quite a bit of
pressure that goes along with it. Not to mention that it certainly can‟t
help my relationship with my parents. My father knows I‟m as good
as gone from law school already, but I‟m sure he was planning on
gloating over the fact that I‟d never make anything of my life without
his help. Now that his money doesn‟t enter into that equation…well,
let‟s just say he isn‟t happy.”
“What about your mother?”
He laughed bitterly. “What about her? You know she‟ll only feel
what she knows he wants her to feel. I don‟t think she‟s had an origi-
nal thought since the early seventies. She‟s been spoiled all her life –
groomed since childhood to marry some wealthy gentleman who
would care for her and their inevitable offspring. She‟s never had to
work for anything. It‟s all been handed to her on her own, personal
silver platter.” I touched his hand and felt him shudder. “And my
father,” he said, shaking his head, “he allows her to be that way, may-
be because it gives him all the power and he likes that.”
A faraway look came into his eyes and I wondered what was lurk-
ing in his mind. I doubt that he shared every thought with me, but he
said, “I know sometimes he wants to get away from her. She clings to
him so fiercely, so absolutely, I know he must feel smothered. It‟s like
she can‟t exist without him. She‟s so damn needy.” He looked directly
into my eyes and continued passionately, “I could never be with
someone like that, Bits. I‟d feel so...trapped, like a caged animal.
That‟s why I love being with you. You are completely your own per-
son, with your own ideas and dreams and your own path to follow. I
would never keep you from it and I know that you would never keep
me from mine. We‟ll always support each other; do what‟s right for
one another, won‟t we? Tell me that‟s true. Promise me, Bitsy.”
150 Devon Pearse
He was looking at me so intently that I was captivated out of my

thoughts. Something was gnawing at the back of my mind, but I
couldn‟t bring it out into the open – not yet. At that moment all I
could do was swallow past the lump that had formed in my throat
and nod a desperate affirmation of his words in silent promise; a
painful acquiescence that would haunt me later on.
Finally he smiled, putting his tirade to rest and encasing me in his
arms. “Anyway, it‟s over now,” he said, sounding relieved for the first
time that day. “At least we know we‟ll have a place to come home to
when we tire of the sea. The house is as much yours as it is mine –
some place for us to live happily ever after.” He winked at me and I
smiled, rolling my eyes. “The money‟s mine to do with as I see fit,
whatever the hell that might be. I know Aunt Tippy meant well, but
I‟ve never been comfortable with money – never wanted any of it
that I hadn‟t earned myself.”
“Think of it this way,” I said. “If you ever do something remarka-
ble with it, like Aunt Tippy asked, then you have earned it.” He was
silent, still thoughtful, and I snuggled into his chest. “It must be more
difficult to spend money that‟s been given to you like this than mon-
ey that you feel is your own. It‟s quite a responsibility, but I know
Aunt Tippy was right in giving it to you. I know you‟ll end up doing
exactly what she wanted for you to do with it. You should be very
proud. She not only loved you, she trusted you, too.”
I felt his arms tighten around me and I was deliciously smothered
in love. “She trusted me with something else, too. Something more
important than all the money in the world.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said, looking up at him. “What‟s that?”
He looked into my eyes, melting me from the inside out. “You,”
he said. I frowned at him, puzzled. He dug in his pocket, pulling out
a small, familiar object.
“Aunt Tippy‟s ring,” I gasped. It was the engagement ring my un-
cle Bud had given her. She had never taken it off and seeing it now,
in his hand instead of on her finger, brought tears to my eyes.
“She wanted you to have it,” he said. “But she also requested that
I be the one to put it on your finger.”
The sad smile slowly faded from my lips and a terrifying chill be-
gan to creep through me.
“You‟re trembling,” Drew said, pulling me close.
“I‟m sorry,” I said, trying to make light of it. “It‟s just so odd see-
ing it off her finger.”
“Are you sure that‟s all it is? If you‟re not ready for this, I under-
stand. It doesn‟t have to mean, you know. Not yet, anyway. But she
wanted you to have it.” He pulled back, taking my hand and glancing
at me, then looking away, oddly bashful. “I do, too. But only when
you‟re ready.”
“I‟m ready,” I said, wanting so badly to believe it.
Later that evening I tossed fitfully in bed, flopping this way and
that, but never managing to get comfortable enough to actually fall
asleep. Realizing my insomnia probably had more to do with my anx-
ious mind than my restless body, I arose quietly and oozed down the
stairs, silent as a feather on a moonbeam. I believed I had every in-
tention of simply making my way to the kitchen for a midnight glass
of milk, but my wandering feet led me instead to the door of my fa-
ther‟s study. He had left it open a crack and the desire to peek inside,
as I had done many times as a child, overwhelmed me. Feeling
naughty, I slipped in, carefully closing the door behind me. Nimbly
crossing the room, my hands reaching blindly in front of me, I felt
around for the chain on the desk lamp and tugged it once. From the
faint illumination I could see fairly well and I spotted what I had been
unconsciously seeking straight away.
The envelope lay on my father‟s desk. It had been opened, but the
contents had been replaced neatly inside. Feeling like a thief, I eased
myself behind the mahogany behemoth and sank into the cushy
leather chair. With fluttering fingers I opened the envelope. My hands
looked so pale and foreign. Maybe it helped to think that I was really
watching someone else‟s hands invade my parents‟ privacy.
152 Devon Pearse
Regardless, the envelope was opened and I extracted the papers

inside. The first page was a letter, handwritten in Aunt Tippy‟s tidy
script. I held it under the lamp and began to read.
My Dearest Delilah & Owen,

How it pains me to know that you are reading this and grieving over
my death. I ask that you not do so, as I am now reunited with my
love. Be happy for me and dry your eyes, my dear, dear friends.
As to the purpose of this letter, I will be brief. Delilah, I know that
you are more aware than some may realize and from our many conver-
sations I know that you appreciate my forthrightness in regards to the
discussion of your illness and your worries regarding your present and
future care. I have spoken with Owen also, as you know, and told him of
the place near Brunswick, Georgia where I have certain connections. The
people there are truly caring and are ready to welcome you whenever
you decide to go. Fear not for your family, my darling girl. You have
been like a daughter to me, and as such, you must trust me to know
what is best for them and for you. Glen Harbor is a quiet place with
sprawling grounds and moss-draped oaks and even a lovely little pond.
As I know you well, I know you will be happy there. Trust Owen, for he
loves you and can help you do what is best. Trust Devon, also. She is
strong and self-sufficient and will want the best for you, as well. She
will be with Drew and he will care for her as Owen cares for you, what-
ever may come.
Owen, I must now be blunt with you. Delilah knows, although she
cannot always convey it to you or Devon, that she will soon be in need of
such a place as Glen Harbor with people who can look after her on a
daily basis. You have been, and continue to be, her loving husband, her
rock and her protector. But sometimes, in order to protect the one we
love, we have to let them go.
Delilah’s happiness and well-being are in your hands now, Owen. I
want to give to you the best gift that I can. Delilah will always have a
place at Glen Harbor. Her future there is secure. Payment arrangements
have been made for her continuing care commencing at whatever date
you should both decide upon. I have enclosed two forms with this letter.
They must be signed by either Delilah or yourself. If Delilah chooses to
sign and commit herself, she will be, in essence, also signing over her legal
guardianship to you. However, should you decide to wait, and there
comes a time in the future when she is not able to sign for herself, I have
also included the papers necessary for you to obtain that legal guardi-
anship yourself. I have retained my attorney to assist in this process,
and he shall make himself available to you in whatever circumstance
you may require his services.
Please know that I love you both dearly and will be looking fondly
over you, and Devon, for the rest of your days.
All my love,
Elise, Your Aunt Tippy
I stared at the words as they blurred together on the page. The
tears were streaming freely from my eyes, and had been for so long I
couldn‟t even feel them anymore. A consuming ache was building up
inside me, threatening to burst forth from my tightened throat in a
scream I knew would bring my father running. How could this be
happening? How could the walls of my world be crashing down upon
me with me still living here inside? I would be shut in. I would be
trapped. Is this how Myma felt? And if she did, how did she ever
stand it? I guess that was the point. She couldn‟t stand it, so she cre-
ated an escape route into a different world, a world that made more
sense to her, a world where she felt free.
I was choking back sobs of realization when I heard the study
door creak. Myma was suddenly there, looking frail and beautiful in
her long silky blue robe belted at the waist. Her hair was long and
154 Devon Pearse
loose, still holding onto the waves it had acquired from being pinned
up all day. I was sure it smelled of jasmine, as it always had. Without a
word she entered and knelt on the Persian rug. I bolted from behind
the desk, throwing myself into her outstretched arms. The embrace
of motherly love surrounded me and I cried until I thought my eyes
would burst.
I flung myself into a comforting memory, wishing I could stay
there, a child forever. Awakening to the sound of music, my sleepy
eyes focused on her. Enraptured by her song, she became the melo-
dy, swaying languidly like water in a stream. Her bow was a part of
herself, her fingers dancing angels on the strings. She was my dancing
angel; my beautiful, golden mother. The last note echoed, then died,
and I questioned, “When will it be time to go, Myma?”
“Go where, my Lillibet?” she asked. Her gentle hands caressed my
pale, wispy hair.
“To Grown-up Land so I can be like you.”
I remembered what my expression felt like and finally understood
what made her smile. The tiny features of my face must have held far
too much in the way of seriousness for any mother not to smile. But
when she spoke it was with a melancholy sweetness, like the music
from the cello that she played. “Don‟t hurry there, my sweetheart.
Promise me you won‟t. Life isn‟t something to be rushed along. Take
your time and linger in the moonlight.”
Falling back into the present, my sobs subsiding, I lifted my head
to look at Myma. She smiled lovingly down at me, stroking my hair,
gently pulling the wet and clingy strands away from my swollen eyes.
Rocking me smoothly in her arms as she would an infant, she spoke
in a soothing tone. “There, there, my Lillibet. Everything will be
okay.” For a moment, I was sure she thought I was a child again.
Then she continued and I knew that she was as right-minded as I
was, although maybe that was a bad analogy.
“I know you don‟t want me to go, but it‟s time, my sweetheart.
Things have been getting...darker lately, like I‟m lost in a tunnel and I
sometimes can‟t find my way out. I‟m afraid that one day I‟ll get
trapped in there and I won‟t come out again.” A stream of fresh tears
sprung to my eyes and she wiped them away. “I know this all seems
sudden to you, even though it‟s been coming on for many years now.
We‟ve all tried to ignore it and dance around it, but it can‟t be put off
any longer.”
She gently held me at arm‟s length, studying my face with mother-
ly love and concern. “I also know how hard you‟ve worked to keep
me here and I do appreciate that. I‟m not the easiest patient to deal
with, and you were never meant to be my nursemaid. You have your
own beautiful life to live, my wonderful girl, and I want you to go and
live it. Free from me, free from the worry and the heartache and the
responsibility of it all. Your father‟s had to deal with it, too, and Aunt
Tippy and Drew. And Cass, too, before you girls had your falling out.
You‟ve all been so wonderful to help me like you have, but no one
should have to bear a burden like this, even if you‟re willing to. Let
me go, Lillibet. I‟ll be okay. And I‟ll be happier not worrying about
you when I do come back to reality.”
“But I don‟t trust anyone else with you! What if they don‟t under-
stand you? What if you really want to come back and they won‟t let
you?”
“Then you‟ll have to come to me. You can, you know. As often as
you‟d like. It isn‟t very far away. And when you‟re not here, you won‟t
have to worry about me. The part of me that‟s still me knows where
you are and that you‟re okay. You have plans with Drew to sail
around the world, and now you can do that without feeling guilty.”
She got up and walked to the desk. She leaned down, her long hair
cascading over her shoulder like a golden blanket. I watched through
fresh tears as she signed her name to the document, committing her-
self and signing over her care to my father and the people at Glen
Harbor.
“There,” she said. “Now it‟s done and I feel better, whiter.” She
smiled and a part of me believed her. The other part never wanted to
156 Devon Pearse
let her go. Sinking back onto the rug beside me, she pulled me into
her arms again and I curled up with her, wrapping my arms around
her waist, as a child would. I spoke to her in colors, as I always had,
and I knew she‟d understand.
“I can‟t feel better. I can‟t see the white ‟cause everything‟s so
gray.”
“I know, my sweetheart. But it won‟t always be, at least not for
you. It might take a long time, but it will gradually get lighter. You‟ll
fight your way through all the gray until you find your blue again.
And then it will be so beautiful, like the dawn breaking after a storm.
Just know that wherever I am, I love you, my Lillibet. I‟ll always love
you, even in the gray.”
We spent the night like that, together on the Persian rug. It was
the last time my mother spoke coherently to anyone, and I sometimes
wondered if I hadn‟t imagined the whole thing. But her signature was
on the commitment papers, and her words, real or imaginary, were
etched into my heart and mind where they would stay until my world
went black. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
But I wanted to go with her, like I did to Grown-up Land. Who
knew? Maybe one day I would go there, or to a world all my own,
where no one else could reach me or understand me. Not my father,
not Cass, wherever she was. Not even Drew.
August 31st, 1995
I’m so scared. I had a dream last night that I’d fallen

through a mirror. One minute I was looking at my reflection
and the next, I was my reflection. I screamed and pounded on the
mirror, trying to get back through to the right side, the real
side. I could see my real self, but she turned around and walked
away. She left me there, trapped inside the mirror. How could I
leave me like that? I waited for a while, but she never came
back. I never came back. Inside the mirror, everything was so
different, but almost the same. I wish I could explain it better,
but I don’t know how. When I tried to reach for things, my
hands went through them. It was like I was a ghost. I tried to
walk down the stairs, but I fell, for what seemed like forever,
and when I landed, I was in a strange new place, surrounded by
people I didn’t know. Their faces were frightening and mad.
Everywhere I looked, the colors seemed too bright, too garish. I
tried to run, but hands reached out, grabbing, from everywhere,
from nowhere, and they held me down. Someone made me drink
something, then all the colors started to fade, getting lighter
and lighter until I almost couldn’t see them at all. When I woke
up, I was really afraid to look in my mirror. I know it was just
a dream, but it wasn’t really, was it? Maybe that’s exactly what
happened to Myma. Maybe it’s what will happen to me someday,
too. If it was only me, if I was alone and nobody cared what
happened to me, then I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. Some of the
people in my dream looked like that. They look that way at
Glen Harbor, too. Lost and alone. But what about Drew? What
if I’m okay for a while but then someday I look into the mirror
and forget how to stop looking? What if I never come back?
Chapter 17

Bargaining with Aunt Tippy’s Ghost
The days and weeks that followed Myma’s departure, from us and from
reality, felt much the same to me as I believe they did to her. Colors
became muted, thoughts formed in waves then fused together before
breaking free completely. Lost and incoherent, they floated off to
elsewhere in search of everything they wished they could become.
Loneliness is a desperate, wanton thing. It drains you with its need to
be consuming, then leaves you hollow and bereft of what you were.
The shell that I once knew to be my father was an empty vessel of
a soul without a harbor. His life was with Delilah and Delilah had
gone away. Alas, he could not follow and so he wandered through the
halls that once contained our laughter. The music of a cello still ech-
oed somewhere, slipping from our grasp whenever we drew near.
We drifted on tormented seas together, but managed to avoid
each other, and ourselves, on our cramped and tiny life raft. For years
I‟d been my mother‟s comforter but realized when it came to my fa-
ther, I now had nothing left to offer. Silences were strained with the
tones of wilted agony. Expression of our grief, though not forbidden,
was the stranger on the stairs; a foreign and unwelcome presence.
Watching my family crumble before my eyes, I felt disconnected,

locked within myself. There were words I wanted to say, but in silent
mutiny they never reached my lips. Emotions roiled inside me, but I
held them all at bay. One moment I felt pity for my father and anger
toward my mother. Then the clock would chime and they would
neatly line up and reverse themselves until I missed Myma with a
wave of bitter ineptitude and became furious at Da for letting her go.
But, had it all been up to me, what would I have done? In his place,
would I have been any stronger? Could anyone possibly hope to con-
tain the raging confusion that ruled my mother‟s mind? Feeling like a
coward, I conceded, if only to myself, my relief that it had not been
my decision in the end.
Riding home with my father from a particularly draining visit with
Myma at Glen Harbor, I stared out the window at the passing scen-
ery, feeling very alone and at odds with myself.
I‟m a Gemini, I thought. Why can‟t I just split myself in two? Then one of
us could be forgiving and supportive of my father while the other one could go on
feeling betrayed and loving Myma. Why couldn‟t I have been twins? I miss the
missing part of myself that‟s locked away inside somewhere, still waiting to be
born. Maybe that‟s what happened to Myma. Maybe she had felt this way and
had found a way to split in two.
As soon as the thought broke free of my subconscious and found
its way into the light of realization, I felt a shiver ripple through me
and I drew a loud breath. Da glanced at me but was unable to do so
for long since he was driving. Thank God for small favors. I success-
fully feigned a huge yawn and slouched against the door. My father‟s
voice was loud in the previously silent car and it startled me when he
spoke.
“I‟m sorry, Wendy-bird. I really am. I know we haven‟t talked
about it much, mostly because I‟m not very adept at this sort of
thing. It‟s how I was raised. Stiff upper lip and all. In the past I let
your mother handle anything...emotional with you because I knew
she‟d be better at it.” He sighed a weary sigh and the ice that had
160 Devon Pearse
formed over my heart cracked. “It never occurred to me that there

would come a time when she might not be able to be here for you.
So, I‟m sorry if I can‟t give you what you need right now.” His voice
became gruff and I bit the inside of my lip. “I just wanted you to
know that I...I love you, kid, and I‟m proud of you for being so
strong through all this.”
Still holding the steering wheel with his left hand, he clumsily
reached out with his right to tousle my hair. It was like being pawed
by a big, loving bear and I nodded vigorously in reply, unable to
speak and sniffing loudly as my heart thawed completely. I wanted to
tell him so many things. I wanted to say that I knew it was hard for
him, too. I also wanted to ask him how it felt to lose the love of your
life that way – to still have her physically there but not be able to
reach her mentally. Did he regret marrying her now? Did he wish that
they had never met? Would he not trade all the good years for any-
thing in the world, or would he give them all up just to have someone
sane to come home to?
These were questions that I desperately needed the answers to,
but, bound and gagged inside myself, the needy me would never be
allowed to speak. Best to be strong, like Da had said. Best to work it
all out on my own. I just needed time and a chance to think things
through. After all, who could I ever really count on but me?
I was silent for the remainder of the trip, listening only to the
voices in my head. Drew‟s bitter words about his mother, how needy
she could be, how she chained his father down, how her frailty held
him back. He loved me because I was strong, because I would never
be to him what Amelia was to his father: his own personal albatross.
But what if something snapped inside my head? What if it was al-
ready starting to happen? What if one day, like my mother, I went off
into my own little world, and then, either out of guilt or love, he
would, like my father, be trapped within the web that I had forged
inside my mind?
Sure, we had spoken about it once or twice and he had his quirky
ways of tiptoeing around the topic, like his New Math version of sta-
tistics. It‟s always easy to downplay something until it‟s staring you
directly in the face. Then all bets are off. It wasn‟t reality to him and
so he wasn‟t concerned about it. But what if one day it was real? Was
I being selfish to love him, to want to keep him close to me?
My uncle Bud had loved Aunt Tippy, and so he had given her a
chance at freedom. He had given her the option through an act of
selfless love. My literary mind echoed with romantic quotes of love
unfettered, and one kept repeating itself over and over: If you love some-
thing, set it free. If it comes back to you, it‟s yours forever. If it doesn‟t, it was
never meant to be. The most unselfish course of action: an invitation to
a chance at freedom.
We arrived home relatively early in the evening, far too early to
turn in. Even so, I stumbled upstairs to my room and threw myself
across my bed, exhausted to the core. Sleep came urgently to my
troubled mind, sensing my need for escape. Almost immediately, she
was there. Dressed in a sweeping rose-colored skirt and creamy
blouse, her white hair was pinned primly into a delicate coil at the
nape of her neck and she wore a string of pearls with matching ear-
rings. In death, as in life, she was the immaculate and striking Aunt
Tippy.
“It‟s good to see you, dear,” she said, and her voice was soothing,
as it had always been. She held out her hand. “Come walk with me.
There‟s a lovely little bench beneath the willow tree.”
Looking around I noticed we were in a meandering garden. Flag-
stone walkways branched out in all directions, edged with wild roses
and fragrant, draping vines which clung to pure white trellises. I fol-
lowed Aunt Tippy past the lily pond and through a rose-encrusted
archway. We emerged upon an endless hillside whose sole inhabitant
was the giant tree. And, as promised, beneath it was a small stone
garden bench.
I sat beside her, and as her guest, waited for her to speak. She
took her time to do so, and I supposed she may as well since now she
162 Devon Pearse
had no shortage of the stuff to play around with. Her keen blue-gray
eyes scanned the waving grass and the sunlight, if that was what the
warm, somehow familiar light actually was, washed across her face. I
don‟t know how long we sat that way, with her looking out across the
fields and me staring at her, enraptured, and I don‟t know if time ac-
tually existed there at all, but finally she turned to me and simply said,
“I know what you‟re thinking, and I don‟t approve.”
I lowered my head, ashamed at my transparency. “I don‟t expect
you to,” I said. “But I know you‟ll understand that in the end it is my
choice to make.”
“Understanding and supporting are two different animals.”
Something occurred to me. “Can you stop me?” I asked.
“No.”
“Good...good.” We were silent for another moment, which for all
I knew may have actually been a century, and I quietly considered and
sorted through my thoughts. I had been longing for someone to talk
to, someone I knew I could count on, and here she was, sweet Aunt
Tippy, tried and true. Why was it so difficult to seek her advice now
when it had seemed so natural before?
“Because you already know what I‟ll say and you don‟t want to
hear it,” was her reply to my unspoken thought.
“I love him, Aunt Tippy.”
“I know you do.”
“Enough to let him go, to allow him to choose.”
“Ha! Allow him to choose what, exactly? You‟re not giving him a
choice, my dear, you‟re forcing his hand. He‟s already chosen and he
wants to be with you...”
“For better or worse? Is that the ending to your statement? Just
like my father promised my mother? People say those words all the
time, you know. But how many of them actually take the time to stop
and think about what „worse‟ could be? He wants to be with me now,
strong and confident and coherent, at least most of the time. But will
he still feel the same when I‟m holding him back from his dreams?
Dedication and commitment – it all leads to being trapped! And I

won‟t trap Drew. I won‟t!”
“You wouldn‟t trap him. He‟d never feel that way about you.”
“You don‟t know that. What if I lose my mind, Aunt Tippy? What
happens then? I would rather die than to have him be stuck with me
like that, the way my father is. I know he loves Myma, but what does
it matter? She can‟t love him back. We go to visit her and it‟s like she
doesn‟t even know we‟re there. We may as well be sparrows chatter-
ing away on her windowsill! She‟s gone, Aunt Tippy, and one day I
might be gone, too.
“And I know Drew loves me. I know he does. I know he‟d never
leave me and that‟s the problem. I know that he‟d stay with me, just
like my father will stay with my mother till death do they part. Why?
Because he loves her, yes. But also because he promised. I don‟t want
Drew to make those promises to me, not when I see what most likely
lies in wait for me, for us. And then it would be too late. I might want
to let him go, but I wouldn‟t be able to tell him so.” Tears were
streaming down my face leaving trails of moisture for their followers.
“And even if you were able to tell him...” she said gently.
“He‟d never leave,” I finished.
“And that would be his choice. It‟s the one he‟s already made; to
stay with you no matter what may come.”
“But maybe it wasn‟t a very educated choice,” I said. “Maybe he
should think twice, and I know he‟ll never do that just because I ask
him to. He needs to be away from me, to think about it all on his
own and then decide again. I know he would never willingly hurt me,
and for that reason alone, I have to be the one to make it happen.”
I looked into the eyes of my ethereal hostess, pleading silently for
her to understand. “I need to do this, Aunt Tippy, for both of us.
And I know that you don‟t want me to, and believe me, I don‟t want
to, either. But it‟s the only way I‟ll ever be able to live with myself,
and with him.”
“And what if when he comes back you‟re still not sure? What
164 Devon Pearse
then, Devon? Will you accept him, accept that he wants you, come
what may, or will you push him away again?”
I thought about it for a moment, then answered, “If he comes
back and I‟m still not sure, then I‟ll truly leave it up to him. If he‟s
spent his time away from me and decided that I‟m really who he
wants to spend his life with, come Hell or high water, then so be it.”
She nodded, but a frown creased her brow as she studied me. “I
know you, Devon, quite well, actually, and that knowledge makes me
very afraid that you‟ll push things too far, hurt him too much, and
then where will you be?”
“Alone,” I said, “like you.”
She smiled at me, tender and sad and lovely. “And what if you
drive him away only to live out the rest of your days alone, and com-
pletely sane? What‟s your time line, Devon? How long will you make
him wait? How long can you let him stay away?”
I shook my head, not knowing the answer. “I guess that part‟s up
to him. I‟m setting him free, hoping he‟ll come back, and when and if
he does, that‟s all that matters. I have to push him away and let him
come back on his own. And I have to do it convincingly, otherwise
he‟ll never leave, never stop to think about the part of our future that
could all unravel.”
“You‟ll hurt him.”
“I know, and I‟m sorry. But I promise to only hurt him once. On-
ly this once and never again. It‟s for his own good, I truly believe
that.”
Aunt Tippy sighed, deep and low, her eyes raised to the copper
sky. “There‟s no way I can talk you out of this, is there?” she asked
without looking at me.
“No. Not unless you can tell me, no, promise me, that you‟ve
seen our future together and I‟ll never lose my mind, I‟ll never be-
come like Myma.” A tiny, trembling part of me was hopeful as I
asked, “Can you? Can you see our future?”
She looked at me, unreadable. Achingly, she said, “No, my dear,
I‟m afraid I cannot. Some things are left entirely up to God.”

I bristled with an anger I had as yet not known was festering in-
side me. “What good is having God if He can‟t tell you what you
should do? If He can‟t make everything right?”
Aunt Tippy smiled her sad, sweet smile and said, “And what good
would life be if He did?”
I opened my eyes to find myself alone in my room, still fully
clothed and sprawled diagonally across my bed. The sky outside was
dark, but paling with the promise of the dawn. It could have been my
imagination, but I thought I could smell roses in the air.
Chapter 18

Making Over Mrs. Babcock
I was staring blankly into the tundra of my freezer when I heard a tim-
id knocking at the door. Hoping it was one of my keepers, preferably
with a bag of goodies, I abandoned my foraging and scurried from
the kitchen. The knocker happened to be Mrs. Babcock, looking for-
lorn in an excited sort of way and wringing her hands as she stood
meekly on my doorstep.
“Mrs. Babcock, what‟s wrong? Is everything okay?”
“Oh, Devon, I don‟t know what to do!” she said.
“Well, why don‟t you come in and sit down and tell me what hap-
pened.”
“Oh, I‟m too jittery to sit,” she said, glancing nervously over my
shoulder and into my apartment where she knew Smiley was lurking.
“Maybe we could talk outside? It‟s such a nice day. It would be a
shame to waste it indoors.”
Not pressing the issue, I joined her outside and we leaned on the
banister in the open-air hallway, looking out into the branches of the
oak tree. The squirrels were nowhere in sight and their glaring ab-
sence felt ominous. Little buggers must be plotting something, I thought.
I nudged Mrs. Babcock with my elbow. “All right, sister. Lay it on

me.” I was rewarded with a tiny smile.
“It‟s Mr. Rooney,” she said. “Something‟s happened and it‟s all
Cassandra‟s fault. I never should have taken her advice, but I did and
now it can‟t be undone. I‟m really in a pickle.” She paused for em-
phasis before stating matter-of-factly, “I have a date tonight.”
“Mrs. B! That‟s wonderful! Cass will be so proud of you...”
“Hold your horses, girlie. I‟m not at all convinced about this. I
haven‟t been on a date since hammer was a hatchet. I don‟t know
what to wear, what to talk about – I‟m at a total loss.”
“I‟m not sure if I‟m the best person to be asking...”
“I know you‟re not. I was hoping you could call Cassandra for
me.”
It was one thing to know my own limitations in the dating arena.
It was quite another to be reminded of them by a sixty-eight-year-old
widow. Nevertheless, I put in the call and in less than an hour, the
cavalry arrived. Cass had brought not only her ample bag of cosmet-
ics, but also reinforcements in the form of Janette, who had taken
several cosmetology courses and actually knew what she was doing.
And, glory be, they‟d picked up burgers and fries on the way.
“Let‟s get down to business, shall we?” Cass said, leading the way
into Mrs. Babcock‟s apartment. She introduced Janette and seated
Mrs. Babcock at the kitchen table where there was plenty of light and
room to spread out her wares. Scribbling her number on the notepad
by the phone, she said, “In case of another emergency, feel free to
call me directly from now on.”
“I can‟t believe I let you talk me into this in the first place,” Mrs.
Babcock complained as Cass sorted through the beautification com-
ponents.
“You‟re welcome,” said Cass. “That‟s for later when you‟re thank-
ing me instead of bitching at me and giving yourself frown lines.”
I saw Mrs. Babcock smirking in spite of herself. She was a feisty
one, but it seemed that she‟d met her match in Cassandra Sloane.
168 Devon Pearse
Twenty minutes later, Janette was handling things like a real pro
and Cass was busy giving advice on current issues to be spoken of, as
well as those to be avoided, and the updated versions of first through
third base. Apparently, a home run still meant the same thing, but the
time it took to achieve one had lessened considerably over the years.
As they spoke I watched Janette artfully apply the make-up. She was
really good, and I told her so.
“Thanks, Aunt Devon,” she said, gracing me with one of her
beautiful smiles.
“How‟s Averey?” I asked, and the smile grew wider.
“He‟s fine. He‟s decided he wants to become an attorney. I‟m
glad. He‟s really smart, Aunt Devon, and I want everyone to know it.
He‟ll make a great attorney, like that DA – really make a difference,
you know?”
I knew, and I nodded my agreement, studying her, absorbing her
youthful hope of all things wonderful to come. “He loves you. Don‟t
let him go,” I said without even realizing I‟d said it aloud. A blush
crept through her mocha complexion.
“I won‟t,” she said, so quietly I almost didn‟t hear her. After a
thoughtful moment she questioned, “Aunt Devon?”
“Hmm?”
“Why don‟t you ever date anybody? Don‟t you want a man to love
you, take you out, talk nice to you?” She smiled naughtily and I had
to laugh.
“I go out, Janette. And I‟m not exactly a nun, you know. But I
don‟t want to date anyone. I mean, what would be the point?”
“You don‟t want to get married someday? Have kids and stuff like
that?”
My hand automatically went to my throat and my fingers traced
the chain until they found the white-gold circlet. I absent-mindedly
fingered the ring as I spoke, a familiar habit that felt much the same
as breathing. “No, I don‟t. And that‟s why I don‟t date anyone seri-
ously, because that would be like leading them on, and I wouldn‟t
want to do that. I know how it feels to believe in something and then

have to let it go...and I never want to feel that again, or cause anyone
else to.”
I hadn‟t meant to sound so jaded and depressing, and I felt terri-
ble for darkening the mood. There were some topics that should be
withheld from me at all costs. Janette frowned, but somehow made
the expression seem soft and alluring.
“But what about love, Aunt Devon? Don‟t you ever want to fall in
love?”
I knew I was in a funk, but I couldn‟t seem to claw my way out of
it. “Love‟s only good for writing poetry after you‟ve had your heart
broken.” Or broken someone else‟s, I thought, but didn‟t say aloud.
“I can think of a few other things love can be good for,” Cass
chimed in, doling out her two cents worth.
I felt a gentle touch on my arm and realized Mrs. Babcock had put
her hand there. I looked at her, coaching my face into its customary
unreadable mask.
“I understand how you feel, dear,” she said. “I often felt that way
after Mr. Babcock passed away. He was gone before his time and it
left me very lonely. But at the same time, I didn‟t want to find anyone
new because that would be like...replacing him. And I knew that no
one ever could. Not really. Sometimes the pain can be just awful
when it comes to love and loss, but I believe it‟s only natural, only
there to show us who we are.”
I glanced up to see Cass looking at me pointedly. Feeling my
composure slipping away, I smiled as best I could and stood abruptly.
I made some unreasonable excuse and scurried from the apartment.
The evening was cool and I lingered outside the door. One of the
front windows was open and I heard Mrs. Babcock question Cass,
“What happened to her to make her so jaded about love?” Then,
“I‟m sorry. It‟s really none of my business.”
“No,” Cass said. “It‟s okay. I mean, it isn‟t a secret or anything.
She doesn‟t like to talk about it, but I‟m sure she wouldn‟t mind you
170 Devon Pearse
knowing as long as you don‟t bring it up or try to comfort her. She

hates that.”
“Oh. I‟m sorry. Had I known I never would have...”
“Me neither, Aunt Cass.” I heard the regret in Janette‟s sweet
voice and felt all the worse for my obvious glumness.
I pressed my back against the door and rested my head on the
cold surface, waiting to hear what Cass would tell them. As I listened
I felt a familiar pang of guilt in my gut. The guilt of lying to a friend.
“She went through something...really difficult. She lost someone
she cared about. He wanted to marry her, but things didn‟t work out.
They didn‟t part well.” She paused and I listened. “And then he
died.”
I heard Mrs. Babcock‟s intake of breath and could picture her
with her hand over her heart. Janette was probably tearing up. Cass
continued, “It was a long time ago, but it‟s been really hard for her to
get over.” She sighed loudly, enduringly, and I wondered if she knew
I was listening when she said, “Sometimes I think she doesn‟t even
want to get over it.”
Quietly walking to the steps, the last thing I heard was Mrs. Bab-
cock saying, “Poor dear.” Don‟t feel sorry for me, please don‟t. I‟m not the
one who deserves your sympathy. These thoughts accompanied me up the
stairs and followed me into my apartment. There was never any shut-
ting them out and so I welcomed them like old, familiar friends.
That night I dreamt of water, falling through it into darkness,
sinking to the bottom of the sea. At some point in my restless slum-
ber I spoke with my great uncle Bud. He was waiting for me there
beneath the waves and he told me that he understood my pain. I
knew that if anyone ever could, he would be the one to understand.
My mind shuffled through the years, turning up things I had once
buried in my wake. They clawed at my ankles, reaching out and forc-
ing me to watch. I had never wanted to remember this, the worst
night of my life, my worst mistake. A deluge of emotion in a mael-
strom of doubt, regret and fear. I tasted salty air and drifted back.
September 23rd, 1995
Goodbye
Phantoms in the moonlight. Windswept fronds with

ghostly fingers dancing wildly in the night. I am here,
awaiting all I fear yet need to feel. Echoes of laughter
fill my vacant mind. Memories out of time, lullabies
unwritten. Fantasies of the lonely derivative of hope
left behind with the falling rain. I turn to see where you
were standing - ever forgotten, always remembered. Rest-
lessness of life. Energy of heartbreak, vanished with the
wind, restored upon the tide. Speak to me, I'm falling;
out of hope, out of forgiveness...out of life. Catch me
on the next wave - I’ll wait for you forever. Let me go
and watch me running through the sand. See me trapped
here always in a chasm of your mind, racing free beneath
the stars. Keep me in your heart and I will save you.
Leave me here to ache and I will haunt you. Give me one
last kiss and feel me vanish, letting go of wonder,
breathing in my last goodbye. My tears fall silently,
yet speak. I am beautiful and free and you must leave
me in the moonlight. Here is all I've left to give. Take
this memory of love - it is as I am, ever yours.
Chapter 19

A Murderer of Dreams
I walked toward him through the sand. The wind was picking up now
and it blew my hair into my face. I would have tied it back had I
known it would be this blustery. I guess there were a lot of things I
could have done differently that night. But it‟s all shot to Hell now.
Might as well remember it just as it was. That‟s all I have left of it,
anyway.
I took each step seeing nothing but Drew before me, getting clos-
er, becoming clearer. A silhouette before the dark. Then a figure.
Then my Drew. The waves rolled up to meet him, rushing in to kiss
his toes and then retreating to the depths to start again. He looked so
lonely there amongst it all, surrounded by the sand and wind and tide.
The water‟s edge can be the most solitary place on earth. I only
glanced at the thought that night and brushed it aside like a worri-
some fly. Truth can be like that – elusive when it first appears, fero-
cious upon its return.
The moon was high and full, a Harvest Moon, my mother called
it. Memory, ever the enemy of change, bowled me over like a wave.
Drew, last autumn, somewhere on this very beach, holding me tightly
and singing “Shine On, Harvest Moon”. As he sang, he held me from

behind, swaying with the rhythm of the song, accompanied by the
sea. I laughed and he made me twirl around once in the sand before
catching me up in his arms again, this time face to face. Now all I
wanted was to go back to that time, before I knew that this day
would ever come. Before I knew what I would do.
A flurry of thoughts hit me in the stomach and took my breath
away. Would I ever laugh like that again or feel his arms around me?
Would this be the last time I saw him? What would happen after to-
night? How the hell would I ever live without him? I hadn‟t really
thought that far ahead, and the realization caught me so off guard I
nearly stumbled. But the wind blew on. It taunted me and held me
back, as though it were pleading with me to turn around now, before
it was too late. I was glad for the distraction. In my mind I had pic-
tured nothing more beyond this night. It was as if there was a dark-
ness where tomorrow should have been. An emptiness of nothing. A
nothingness of days.
You‟re doing the right thing, Devon, I muttered to myself beneath the
wind. If you really love him, then you know this is the only way. And you‟ll be a
better person for it.
It was amazing how easily I had talked myself into it all, and how
voraciously I had accepted every word I had to say. For the first time,
I had made my own life-altering decision with no one left to lean on,
none who would approve of it. This path was completely mine to
follow to the end, come what may. And it had all seemed so clear in
the light of day. But now, here, watching him waiting there for me,
knowing everything he didn‟t, feeling everything he would, but wish-
ing it away, I wasn‟t sure of anything at all.
Seeing me, he raised his hand and smiled. I felt my heart go
numb. I love you, Drew. Enough to let you go. That was my final thought
before I reached his side. And once I did, he pulled me to him faster
than I could collect my thoughts or form a word. I looked into his
endless eyes, knowing he saw my tears and thought they were only
174 Devon Pearse
from the wind. Then his lips were on mine and for one beautiful
moment, there was nothing else at all.
But time can‟t hold its breath forever and now is over far too
soon. Reluctantly, I pulled back, turning away so he wouldn‟t see my
lower lip begin to tremble. He wrapped his arms around me and said,
“I made the final payment today. She‟s ours, Bitsy. All ours!” He
pulled back a little, turning me to him and cupping my cold face in
his hands. They were warm...so warm. “I know we could have af-
forded something bigger now, with the money from Aunt Tippy, but
I wouldn‟t have felt right about it. I did splurge a little on the paint,
though. She‟s an incredible shade of blue...cerulean, I think you call it.”
I choked back another sob, but he was too wound up to notice.
“Her new name is painted on in gold, but I‟m not telling you what
it is yet. And don‟t try to get it out of me. It‟ll be a surprise. Ah, just
wait till you see her, Bits. She‟s so beautiful...just like you.” He rubbed
his nose on mine; Eskimo kisses in the flying salt spray. “I really love
you, you know that, right? I hope you do, ‟cause I‟m just so damn
happy right now!” His laughter bubbled up from deep inside and my
sorrow did the same. I couldn‟t do anything but nod my head. He
looked so content and I wanted desperately to remember him this
way. The last true smile I would see on his handsome face before I
broke both our hearts. Then he continued, “What do you say, soon-
to-be-Mrs. Westcott?” He dropped to one knee, taking my hands in
his. “Sail away with me.” I knew it was now or never. Fresh tears
spilled over, salty as the ocean and limpid as my thoughts.
“Drew,” I said, and my voice flew with the wind, a choking sob
blown miles away. I watched his radiant smile dissipate as he finally
saw me in the crude light of reality. I knew at that moment he real-
ized something was very wrong.
“What is it, Bits?” he said, getting to his feet to take me by the
shoulders. I began to tremble and I hoped to God he would think it
was only from the cold. He had to believe everything I was about to
say. He had to. I have no idea how I said it and I didn‟t think I‟d have
the strength to ever do it again, but somehow I willed myself to look

at him and say the last words I ever wanted to say.
“I...I can‟t marry you. I won‟t.” Once these first words were out,
the rest tumbled after them in a rush of fictive explanation. “It‟s not
that I don‟t love you, Drew. I do...very much. It‟s just that...well, I
really want to live my own life for a while, you know? I still have so
much thought to put into my writing and...I wouldn‟t be able to study
and attend lectures if I‟m drifting around somewhere out to sea.”
He sighed. “I know what this is really about, Bitsy, and we‟ve
been over it a million times. Things with your mother have pro-
gressed so far beyond your control now. There‟s nothing more you
can do for her, love! You have to let her go. Aunt Tippy made sure
she‟ll be well taken care of, and she will be. I promise we‟ll come back
to visit more, if that‟s what‟s bothering you.”
He was frowning at me and I knew I‟d have to do much better if I
wanted to convince him that I meant any of this, and that it wasn‟t
about Myma. “But that‟s just the thing, Drew. I‟ve never had my own
life, not really. My entire so-called adult existence has been spent
solely on taking care of my mother. Not that I minded, of course, but
I‟ve never had the time to do what I want to do. The past few years,
when I haven‟t been with my mother, I‟ve been with you, or Cass,
and I really need to live for myself for a while. To become the person
I haven‟t had the time to get to know yet. Maybe even get to know
some other people, too. Some different people. And besides, if I really
want to write from my heart, I think I need to experience all life has
to offer.” I paused for a bit of effect, letting my words sink in, hoping
they were ringing truer than they felt. I took a breath, tired and impa-
tient. “I was thinking that maybe we should take a break from each
other for a while, you know, just so we can be sure...”
He pulled back then, dropping his hands from my shoulders as
though I had radiated heat and burned him with my words. “What
are you saying, Devon?” He never called me that unless he was very
angry with me, and it cut me to hear my own name coming from his
176 Devon Pearse
lips. “You want to…to date other guys?” I remained silent, casting my
eyes away from his. I was completely shocked at his assumption,
though I didn‟t let it show. This hadn‟t been part of the plan, but if it
was the only way to get him to spend some time apart...
He threw up his hands and took a few steps away from me, shak-
ing his head in disbelief. “You‟re really something, you know that?
You chase after me all these years, professing your undying love, and
then, after I propose and you say yes and I buy us a boat, when we‟re
ready to sail all the way around the goddamn world, when it comes
right down to it, what do you do? You run away. You always run
away!”
I started to say so many things. I‟ve never been good at standing
by and letting someone pummel me with words, especially when I
know they aren‟t true. There was so much that I could say in my de-
fense, sham though it would be. In actuality, the only thing I had ever
run from was reality. I had tried to keep my mother‟s mental deterio-
ration a secret, but deep down I knew it wouldn‟t be possible for
long. I had been strong. I had been faithful, to myself, my family, and
most certainly to Drew. And even if I‟d had the chance to date
someone else, I wouldn‟t have wanted to. Drew was my everything.
And he should have known it.
With that thought came a whole new level of pain, one that made
the previous twinges seem like paper cuts compared to gashes. How
could he believe me? How could he not know me better than that?
After all that we had been through, everything I‟d confided in him, all
the love that we had shared, how could he believe I‟d want to be with
someone else? How could he accept what I was saying? Why wasn‟t
he fighting more for us? Maybe it was because, deep down, he was
afraid to. Maybe a part of him knew that I had been right all along
and was willing to take this opportunity, believe in this excuse. Total,
blind acceptance of my unrefuted lies would be his pass to freedom.
I could have challenged him and asked if it was true. I could have
told him all that I was thinking. I could have at least put up some
defense. But I never said a word. I just stood there, silent as a still-
life, for that was what I had become; a stark depiction of myself with
all the pain locked deep inside. Every word that could redeem me,
every admission of deceit left me abandoned in the night. My lies had
served their purpose. Now all I had to do was let them live.
Our eyes met and for a moment I thought that he could see that I
was lying, feel the pulsing hurt within me that threatened to break
free and prove me false. At that very second, looking into his eyes,
the eyes I loved and knew so well, I could feel my heart breaking. It
shattered, piece by piece, and drifted away somewhere, to a place I
knew, but would never find again. A fragile memory floated into my
mind, something long held onto from an afternoon when Drew had
pulled me from the lake. God in Heaven, whatever you do, Devon Pearse, do
not let him see you cry! As I had done that day so long ago, I bit the in-
side of my lip to stop the quivering, hiding my pain and all the emo-
tions that were barely held in check. Then I realized he was far too
consumed by his own pain to see mine. I couldn‟t blame him, really,
after all the hurtful things I‟d just said to him. And the even more
hurtful things I had let him believe. I was the one who had caused
this. Why should he go easy on me now?
I drew a breath and stood my ground, blinking back the tears. He
looked away first, admitting defeat. Quietly, he said, “I put up with all
your craziness for so long. Nobody else ever will, I hope you know
that. You and your colors for emotions. Your talking to yourself and
pulling on your hair. Your mood swings and your incessant doubt
and all your goddamn piety of self!” He spat the last words at me, his
voice rising as he spoke. Then he shook his head and laughed without
a bit of joviality. “God, now I sound like you.”
He walked away from me and stood at the edge of the waves, qui-
et and pensive, just as he had been when I had met him only a few
minutes ago. Just before he‟d kissed me. Before I had said the words
that had ruined us forever. For a moment I thought maybe I had
somehow pushed back time and everything would be okay. Then he
178 Devon Pearse
turned to me and said, “Go on, then. Sink into your own little world
and leave me out of it. But remember, Devon Elizabeth Pearse, when
you‟re a famous, experienced writer, locked all alone within yourself
with no one else to care or understand you, just what you gave up to
get there. I hope, I really hope that you‟ll be happy someday. Because,
for once, I won‟t be there to pick up the pieces and put it all together
for you. Once I leave, I swear I‟m never coming back here.”
He waited. I waited. Newly estranged hearts on the brink of the
unwelcome unknown. I knew we were each so desperately wanting
the other to break down and say we hadn‟t meant the things we‟d
said, somehow make it all okay again. But they had been said, and
could not be taken back. I remember thinking how very odd it was to
be looking into his eyes then. They were the same, he was the same,
yet everything was different. Only yesterday I could have thrown my-
self into his arms, but now I had to stand there, pain stealing away my
breath, holding me prisoner in my own body, and watch him force
my love away. Who are we now, Drew? Friends? Lovers? Strangers?
After a moment of internal struggle, he grabbed me to him, kiss-
ing me as roughly as the waves had churned the sand. “Goodbye,
Bitsy,” he said, releasing me to stand or fall, for that was up to me
now. A harsh goodbye, but the last one I might ever get, though I
prayed that wasn‟t true.
He walked away from me, never knowing how much his words
had hurt me and how well he knew exactly what would shake me to
the core. I remembered his excitement as I‟d first approached him.
What was it that had made him so happy before I‟d hurt us both? It
seemed so long ago, although it had been only moments. Oh, yes.
He‟d named the boat. I wondered what he‟d decided to call her. How
silly that with all the torment I had caused, for Drew and for myself,
that I should feel regret over such a trivial detail. I had waited so long
to see our little boat completed, dreamed of the day when we‟d be
ready to set sail. Now I‟d never see her. Now I‟d never know.
A glimmering reflection of moonlight caught my eye. Aunt Tip-
py‟s ring was still on my finger, glistening beautifully like the dia-
monds on the waves. I should have called after Drew then, should
have given him the ring. But some part of me thought that Aunt Tip-
py might still have wanted me to have it. I would put it on the chain
around my neck, the one that held my silver acorn, and wear it
proudly – an outward symbol of the scarlet M I knew was seared up-
on my heart.
I sank to the sand, holding onto the earth as though I was afraid I
might slide off. And, at that moment, I actually thought I might as I
watched my future walk away into the dark.
Chapter 20

Haunted
A phantom wind was dancing with the leaves as I pedaled down Sevilla
Street in the soft and hazy light. Da had phoned an hour before, una-
pologetic for having snatched me from my dreams.
“Jimmy called in sick today,” he‟d informed me, “and I have to be
home this afternoon because the plumber is finally coming to fix the
slow drain in the upstairs bathroom. I wouldn‟t ask this of you, but
it‟s taken me forever to get him to give me an appointment at a con-
venient time, and this afternoon was convenient until Jimmy got the
flu...or rather the flu got Jimmy.” He chuckled at himself.
“What is it you‟re asking of me, exactly?”
“I need you to mind the store for me. Just a couple of hours.
Probably won‟t get any customers, anyway, but I‟d like to at least give
the appearance of running a respectable business, even if we know
better.”
“Sure,” I‟d told him, “as long as you realize my expected salary‟s
gone up a bit.” He humphed and I got the feeling he wasn‟t taking
me seriously. Good thing for him I was a pushover.
The Gilded Page didn‟t open until ten, but I thought I‟d get there
early and tidy up a bit. I hadn‟t been there alone in years and it took
me a minute to remember how to trick the lock into opening, but I
finally gained entry and wheeled my bike into the back storage room.
The air was thick and smelled of words and endless knowledge. The
ghosts of literary genius haunted every corner of the room, each nook
and cranny. I could hear them conversing ceaselessly amongst them-
selves, arguing the virtues of heartfelt prose over well thought-out
rhetoric, the joys of alliteration and the ever-popular use of onomat-
opoeia. I really should come here more often, I thought, feeling oh so mel-
ancholy and prone to reminiscence.
I decided to surprise Da and rearrange the front window. He‟d
either hate it, appreciate it or never notice, but at least it gave me
something to do. It was nearly Halloween and not a single horror
novel graced the display. I rifled through the shelves, locating every
Stephen King book I could find, and hauled them all to the front of
the store. One by one, I placed them lovingly on the window shelves,
recalling every story as I went. It made for a somewhat creepy morn-
ing, but it was exhilarating nonetheless.
At nine fifty-five I placed my favorite, the old, signed hardcover
of Salem‟s Lot with the cracking spine that Drew had read with me
one Halloween, in the center of the window and flipped the door
sign to OPEN. I took my seat atop the barstool behind the tall coun-
ter and settled in for my shift.
Absolutely nothing happened for the next hour and a half and I
began to remember why it was I never came here anymore. I fell
asleep for a while with my head resting on my folded arms on the
counter top. When I came to, I had a terrible case of pins and needles
in my left hand and dragged myself off the barstool with a yawn. I
had to find a way to entertain myself, or at the very least, to stay
awake.
Just past noon, as I finished my sixteenth lap around the shop, I
heard the tinkling sound of the wind chimes on the door which sig-
naled the arrival of a customer. Not a moment too soon. I was be-
182 Devon Pearse
ginning to wear a path on the carpet. I rushed to the front and wished
I hadn‟t. It might have been a leftover vision from one of the Ste-
phen King novels. That would have almost been preferable to the
tangible and ripened personage who stood before me.
In the years since I had spent my afternoons here, I had tried hard
to forget my father‟s best and worst customer. With more money
than God and twice as much free time on her hands, she made eve-
ryone else‟s business her own and caused misery wherever she went.
She had been widowed since before I was born and spent her hus-
band‟s money on anything rare or collectible. It seemed she lived for
nothing more than the acquisition of things and she must have made
his life a living hell. I often thought he had died young just to get
away from her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Vandersloot,” I said and forced a smile.
“What can I do for you today?”
She appraised me as she would a stray, looking me up and down
with an expression of distaste. “For a moment I thought no one was
here. Where‟s your father?”
“Um...” Oh, for crying out loud, Devon, you‟re not twelve! Stand up to the
old bat! “Mr. Pearse won‟t be in this morning, Ma‟am. Is there any-
thing I can help you with?”
Her countenance remained unchanged, but her nose seemed to
tilt up a bit more of its own accord and I remembered why Drew
used to call her “Mrs. Vandersnoot”. I barked a laugh before I could
stop myself and covered by faking a coughing fit. She sneered and
took a step away from me, obviously considering me contagious.
Good. The farther away the better.
“I ordered a first edition of Madame Bovary.” She pronounced the
title with an unnecessary French accent. “Your father promised he
would find one for me last year and he finally got around to it.” She
acted like first editions grew on trees. I wondered how much trouble
Da had gone to for the ignorant, ungrateful bitch. “He told me when
I checked last week that it had shipped and would arrive today.”
It was barely afternoon. The mail usually didn‟t get here until at
least half past one, and packages quite often not till four or later.
“Well, it hasn‟t yet,” I told her. “But I could take down your
number...”
“Your father has my number on file. Has had for years. My pro-
jects and acquisitions are a very important part of this community.
Don‟t you realize who I am?”
“Of course I do, Mrs. Vandersnoot...Vandersloot!” Her eyes nar-
rowed and I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from bursting into
laughter. She continued as though I hadn‟t spoken, let alone just
scandalized her name.
“I run the Oldest City Book Club. I promised the ladies I‟d have
the book in my possession no later than this afternoon!”
“That may still be possible, Ma‟am, but I can‟t make the mail get
here any faster.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
Anything but wait here. “Maybe you could go into town and do
some shopping along St. George Street.” Go get some ice cream. Frighten
the kiddies.
“With all the tourists? Heavens no! If you don‟t know what‟s go-
ing on here, then maybe you should telephone your father and ask
him. I‟m sure he‟d be more than happy to help you figure things out,
young lady.” I wasn‟t sure whether to be flattered or offended. To
Mrs. Vandersloot, sixty might be young. As she obviously had no in-
tention of leaving, I determined to call my father. With any luck, the
book had arrived early and was cringing on a back shelf somewhere,
hoping not to be discovered and handed over to its crotchety new
mistress.
“One moment, please,” I said and walked behind the desk to
where the out-of-date phone resided. I punched in my childhood
number and Da picked up on the fourth ring.
“„lo?”
“Hey, Da. Shop‟s up and running. How‟s it going over there?”
184 Devon Pearse
“The plumber called and said he‟ll be here in an hour or so.”

Mrs. Vandersloot cleared her throat, indicating her dissatisfaction
with my methods of questioning. I drew out the conversation just to
piss her off.
“I spruced things up a bit for you.”
“Oh, God. Now I‟m afraid to go back.”
“Very funny.”
Old Vandersnoot was looking daggers at me and I pretended I‟d
forgotten all about her. “Oops, I actually called because I have a
question. Mrs. Vandersloot is here...”
“My sincerest condolences. What does the old witch want now?”
“She‟s looking for a book you tracked down for her...a first edi-
tion of Madame Bovary...”
“I swear, if I‟ve told that dingbat once, I‟ve told her a thousand
times, that book isn‟t due to be shipped until Monday. It should be
there by this time next week.”
“Apparently she was under the impression that it would be arriv-
ing today.”
“Well, she‟s wrong.”
“Would you care to tell her that?”
“Nope.”
“Didn‟t think so.”
“Gotta go. Good luck.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I replaced the receiver carefully and turned to face my nemesis.
She wore an expression of premature triumph. It gave me immense
pleasure to know her erroneous taste of victory would be short-lived.
“Well? What did he say?” she questioned in her most superior
manner.
“I‟m sorry, Mrs. Vandersloot, but my father says he told you that
the book would not be in until next week. I guess there was a misun-
derstanding...”
“I‟ll say there was! You tell your father that he shouldn‟t go
around telling people things that aren‟t true just to keep their busi-
ness. You tell him...”
She went on speaking, but her words floated in a congealed cloud
of gibberish above her well-dyed head. My gaze traveled past her out
the window where something caught my eye. Someone was staring in
the window, studying my display; a tallish, well-built man with dark
hair. My view was a bit obscured by the clearance rack, and that was
the best look I could get at him. He seemed especially interested in
Salem‟s Lot. There was something about him that held my attention,
but I couldn‟t put my finger on what it was.
Then he tilted his head in a certain way and I felt the blood drain
from my face. Mrs. Vandersloot must have noticed something was
amiss, and I suppose I looked absolutely ghastly because she stopped
mid-sentence, appearing uncharacteristically concerned for my well
being. She stepped directly in front of me, taking my forearm and
blocking my view of the window entirely. I tried to lean around her
and fell into the counter instead. By the time I looked back up at the
window, he was gone.
“Are you all right, Devon?” That was the first time Mrs.
Vandersloot had ever bothered to call me by name. Maybe I was dy-
ing. I certainly felt like I might be. “Come sit down. I‟ll get you some
water.” I floated to one of the musty old reading chairs Da kept on
hand for the lingerers and sank into it. Mrs. Vandersloot scurried to
the cooler and returned with a flimsy, pointed paper cup filled with
wonderfully chilly water. It slithered down my throat and pooled
sickeningly in my belly. I thought I might have been better off if
she‟d tossed it in my face instead, but it was too late now. “My, my,”
she said with furrowed brows, “you certainly look like you‟ve seen a
ghost!”
“I think maybe I have,” I said, and she looked a bit rattled at that.
Maybe she thinks I‟m finally going the way of my mother, after all. I smiled
weakly at the thought.
“Maybe I‟ll just leave now, if you‟re sure you‟ll be okay.” I nod-
186 Devon Pearse
ded. “Tell your father I‟ll be by for the book next week, like he said.”
And with that, she hurried out the door, the wind chimes tinkling
their goodbyes.
I stayed in the chair for a long time, gazing out the window with a
mix of anxiety and hope. In a couple of hours, Da came to relieve me
and I made my escape. I walked my bike down to the water, in no
particular hurry to get home. Sitting on the sea wall, the events of the
day waltzed through my mind, forming a haze of disbelief across the
world. My eyes saw only the reflection of the day, played over again
in slow motion. The man looking in the window, reaching out his
hand to touch the glass that separated him from a book I once had
read with someone I‟d loved...and lost.
Somewhere in that moment, a connection had been made. He had
not touched the book, but instead had lain a finger on my soul. The
way he cocked his head, the desperate longing he gave off, everything
about him had reminded me of something, of someone.
All the pieces of my vision came apart and as I put them back
together, they formed a scene of something new and more complete.
I was as sure as I could ever hope to be. The man that I had seen was
not a stranger. He was familiar and beloved as a faithful rose of
spring. I had recognized him with my heart before my mind could
comprehend it. He was real. He had been there and I had seen him. I
didn‟t want to admit it to myself until I‟d had a chance to get outside
and clear the cobwebs from my brain.
But in the waning light of day with the clouds embossed by a bril-
liant sunset, I was sure.
The man that I had seen today was Drew.
Chapter 21

Reinventing Wonderland
“No way in Hell!”

“Please, Dev? It‟ll only be for a couple of days, I promise. Amy‟s
pulled her usual shit and gone MIA, Mom‟s under the weather and
there‟s no one else I can leave her with on such short notice.”
John paused and sighed so dejectedly I would have dared any
card-carrying sadist to turn him down. Still, I couldn‟t quite agree just
yet. There was a disconnect in my brain that was hard-wired against
caring for anything living other than myself, and even that was a
struggle. Ophelia was managing to survive, but being responsible for
a ravenous, hyper six-year-old was another thing entirely. And if I
didn‟t even trust myself with her, how on earth could John? Yet trust
me he did and the cajoling continued.
“I know you‟d be great with her, even if you don‟t. And this inter-
view is really important to me, and Carly, too. I need this job, Dev,
and there‟s no one else I can count on.”
“What about Cass?” I hedged, the self-confirmed bachelorette at
her most desperate. But I knew that option should not be taken seri-
ously the moment the words had left my mouth, and so did John.
188 Devon Pearse
“Cass?! You can‟t be serious!”

“She has younger sisters. At least she‟s got some experience...”
“Experience? You‟ve told me what she used to do to her sisters!
Mangled Barbie dolls in little Pringles coffins, malevolent creatures
drawn on their walls in florescent marker so they‟d only come out at
night. Not exactly the experience I‟m looking for in a spawn-sitter.”
He was right, of course. Cass was not a reasonable option. In my
opinion, neither was I. However, there are times when the lesser of
two evils must prevail and this was one of them. Desperate situations
call for desperate measures, things you‟d never consider rationally
under any other circumstance. He must really need me. I felt myself wa-
vering and John could sense it, like an animal smelling fear.
“Come on, Dev.”
“How long would you be gone?”
“Two days...three, tops.”
“What about school?”
“I‟ve spoken to her teacher and told her Carly wouldn‟t be in this
Monday. I‟ll be home by Monday night, so you won‟t have to worry
about it.”
“How far away is Minnesota?”
“Three hours by plane, two days by car, about one week by bike,
approximately one month by foot or pogo stick, give or take, and
mere seconds via cell phone.”
“And what if, by some miracle, they think you‟re the best Graphi-
cian for the job? What then? Will I be expected to Carly-sit on a
weekly basis or what?”
“If I get the job, it‟ll last a week and I‟ll lug the kid and Grandma
along.” Contemplative silence. Scattered brain waves and horrifying
echoes of the pitter-patter of little feet. I can‟t believe I‟m actually consider-
ing this. “Please, Dev?” John at his most persuasive. “If anything goes
wrong, but it won‟t, but if it did, I‟d be on the first plane back, you
have my word. Just call and I‟ll come a-runnin‟ home.”
I was grinding my teeth, a habit that usually drove John crazy, but
he didn‟t even mention it. I wondered how long I could get away
with it. There was something truly wonderful about the idea of hav-
ing John indebted to me, even with Carly as a side effect.
“Oh, all right. I‟ll do it. But it better only be for a couple of days,
like you said, and if she lays one finger on Smiley...” He was thanking
me profusely with numerous disgustingly gratuitous phrases and I got
the feeling he didn‟t hear a word I was saying. So much for laying
down the law. His attention span was as anemic as his daughter‟s.
They arrived later that afternoon. My very own life-sized Carly-
doll came dressed in pink shirt, jeans and pigtails and carrying a fuch-
sia overnight bag that was nearly as big as she was. John was gussied
up for business travel, which always made me giggle.
“Hi, Dad,” I teased.
“Fuck off,” he mouthed in return over Carly‟s head. I was still too
amused to be offended.
“Hey, Carly-cat,” I said, stooping to her height. I was graced with
the typical snarl which unfailingly accompanied the use of my nick-
name for her. She hated it. I knew it. And worst of all for her, she
knew that I knew it and that was exactly why I used it. We stared
each other down, our usual greeting, and I watched her pale, silky
eyebrows knit together in complete concentration above her endlessly
blue eyes. The orbs had been inherited from Amy, but the rest was all
John, ashy brown hair, perfect nose and all. She really was a cute kid.
I wondered if I‟d still think that by the time John came back to pick
her up.
“Give Daddy a hug, Bugbear,” John said, and I sniggered, earning
another dirty look from Carly. But, to my credit, I turned away and
searched for wayward squirrels while they said their goodbyes.
“Love you, Daddy,” I heard Carly say in a soft baby-voice. I
glimpsed her out of the corner of my eye. Her arms were wrapped
fiercely around his neck and I wondered how he could breathe. He
carefully and lovingly pried himself away and Carly stood before him,
resolute, with only the merest hint of a quiver on her pouty, pink lips.
190 Devon Pearse
“I‟ll be back for game night, I promise.” Carly nodded, the epito-
me of stoicism. “Try to keep her out of trouble,” John said as his
offspring came to stand beside me.
“I‟m not planning on letting her out of the apartment. How much
trouble could she be?”
“I was talking to Carly.” The aforesaid sprite squealed a laugh. I
blew John a sarcastic kiss and Carly waved floppily as he drove away.
Alone, we looked at each other and I shrugged.
“Race you to the stairs?” I suggested.
“What about my overnight bag?”
“What about it?”
“Who‟s gonna carry it for me?”
I looked around and shrugged again. “Guess you‟re on your own,
kiddo.”
“But that‟s not fair! It‟s heavy and you‟ll win for sure!”
“Life lesson number one: Sometimes you‟re the only one you can
count on, heavy stuff and all. The trick is to figure out what you can
lug around with you and what you need to leave behind, and then
whether or not to go back for any of it later.” I winked and she rolled
her eyes. I felt alarmingly like my father.
“I just won‟t race you, then. You‟re mean and you‟re no fun!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
No sooner had she turned huffily away than I felt myself shiver
with gooseflesh. Someone was watching, I was sure of it. My eyes
scanned the street, and I looked about calmly, squashing the fear that
was rising from my chest. No one there. Nothing out of place. Shake
it off, Dev. I turned my focus to Carly, now thankful for her company.
She certainly is a determined little cookie, I thought, watching from the
top of the stairs as she dragged her bag up after her, step by treacher-
ous step. Feeling generous and merciful, I reached out to take it from
her about two thirds of the way up, but she ignored my hand and
made me wait for her. A full minute later, I held the door open
and she stumbled in, near exhaustion. Good. Lots of energy expended on
that little exercise. Maybe she‟ll sit still for a while.
“Eww! What‟s that?!” She had paused just inside the doorway, eyes
wide and staring. I had no idea what she was talking about, but im-
mediately began checking the floor for dead palmetto bugs.
Finding nothing amiss, I queried, “What‟s what?”
“That thing...in the corner,” she said in utter contempt, lifting one
arm and pointing to the back of the living room. My hackles rose
when I realized she was indicating my stuffed companion.
“That‟s Smiley,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “He won‟t
hurt you. He‟s really kind of nice once you get to know him.” She
looked at me with a mixture of horror and disbelief.
“He‟s dead! You have a dead dog in your living room!”
“No! No, Carly. I mean, yes, he‟s dead, but I certainly wasn‟t the
cause of that. And he isn‟t a dog, he‟s a hyena.” As if that makes it all
better.
Her expression didn‟t change. “But why?”
I bit my lip. “I don‟t know. We just sort of...found each other.
Your dad took me to an auction with him, to look for coins, and
somebody was selling Smiley. I looked at him and I knew he was
meant to be mine. Nobody else wanted him...”
“Why on earth would they?”
“...so I bid on him, won him and took him home.”
“You mean you actually paid for that thing? Real money?”
“Not very much, but he was worth every penny.” I tried to smile
but had the feeling I looked sick instead. I employed a different tac-
tic. “You‟ve seen him before. That time you and your dad came over
for Christmas.”
“I was two.”
“Well, you didn‟t mind then, and you shouldn‟t mind now.” I
walked over to Smiley and patted him on the head. “See? He‟s really
very sweet.” She looked doubtful, but slowly entered the apartment.
“I‟m hungry,” she said, expecting me to do something about it.
192 Devon Pearse
We ordered pizza. I figured we‟d be doing a lot of that for the

next few days. It wasn‟t the healthiest thing in the world, but it wasn‟t
the worst, either. And what did John expect when he was the one
who usually brought me food? For the remainder of the evening,
while the rug rat meticulously unpacked everything she‟d brought
with her and then played with her Barbie dolls and I tried, unsuccess-
fully, to get in some writing, she seemed to have forgotten all about
Smiley...until she asked where she‟d be sleeping.
“Right here. On the sofa.” I replied.
“Oh, no! I can‟t sleep here, with that thing!” This is what I get for
letting a six-year-old stay up past midnight. Her whine was approaching a
fever pitch and I was starting to panic. But not enough to let her
sleep in my bed. That was completely out of the question. And there
was nowhere else for her to sleep. The kid was just going to have to
get over it, dammit! Frustration threatening to consume me, I took a
deep breath and made my voice as even and motherly as possible. I
got down on my knees beside her and put my arm around her shoul-
ders as I spoke.
“Look, Carly. He‟s just a hyena. A stuffed, harmless, albeit not
very attractive hyena. He isn‟t going to hurt you and he couldn‟t even
if he wanted to, which isn‟t likely since, as you previously pointed out,
he‟s dead. And as unappealing as it may be to you to sleep in the
same room with him, it‟s only for a couple of nights and we don‟t
have a choice, so you‟re just gonna have to buck up and manage it,
okay?”
Her bottom lip trembling slightly and her eyes moist, she nodded
bravely. “I wish we could have stayed at my house,” she said quietly,
almost to herself, although I knew that she‟d intended me to hear. A
pang of guilt stabbed me in the gut, along with the disconcerting feel-
ing that she had somehow overheard me telling John that I didn‟t
want to have to pack up my stuff and go to his house. I wondered
who was being more childish.
“I‟m sorry, Carly,” I said, and actually meant it. “Let‟s try and
make the best of it, okay?” She nodded again and helped me dress the
sofa in its nightclothes. I watched her brush her teeth and asked if
she needed help changing into her pink Strawberry Shortcake pajam-
as.
“No, thank you. I can do it myself.”
Good lord, I thought. I‟m babysitting a miniature adult. Maybe John
wasn‟t kidding when he‟d told her to keep me out of trouble. I tucked
her in, wished her a good night, left the kitchen light on dim, and
scurried off to bed before I could be talked into reading what she
called a “bed-night story”. It was late and I was tired and mentally
drained. There would be no writing for me tonight, no matter how
many muses came knocking down my door.
Shortly after two o‟clock I was roused by a warmly wet and quiv-
ering mass of child crawling into bed next to me.
“I...had...a...nightmare!” She sobbed, rubbing her teary face on my
shoulder. Banishing the urge to dart away, avoiding snot, I scooted
over slowly, reluctantly making room for her and handing her a pil-
low. At least the wetness had been tears and nothing more.
“It...was...that...thing! I dreamed...that he was chasing me...around the
room, trying to eat me, and when I...woke up he was staring at
me...and smiling!”
“He‟s always smiling,” I mumbled.
“D-Don‟t let him eat me, Devon. Please!”
“There, there,” I said, because I thought it was what I should say.
I patted her head and watched her wipe her nose on my sheets.
Eventually her crying subsided and her breathing grew deep and
regular. Maybe we can both get some sleep now, I remember thinking. I was
half right. She twisted and turned and purred and kicked in her sleep,
finally stretching out diagonally across my double bed.
The sun was making its daily debut when I gave up and headed
for the sofa, dragging my pillow and a fuzzy blanket that I kept on
hand with me.
“Well, Smiley, old chap, looks like we‟re gonna be roomies.” The
194 Devon Pearse
hyena smiled back, as always, but unlike Carly, I found it reassuring

and drifted happily to sleep at last…
...only to be goaded into wakefulness a mere three hours later by a
pounding on my door, which could only be accompanied by my fa-
ther. Snarfy and bleary-eyed, I staggered to the door as quickly as
possible, hoping to spare my pint-sized guest another rude awaken-
ing. I needn‟t have worried. As I belatedly came to realize, Carly
could sleep through an earthquake, an atomic bomb and a herd of
dancing elephants without so much as twitching...as long as she
wasn‟t in the same room with my hyena.
“What is it, Da?” I questioned as I opened the door a crack and
squinted uselessly into the offensive sunlight.
“Sorry to bother you, kid. Boy, you look tired. You really should
start getting more sleep. Anyway, I‟m on my way to the store but
thought I might ask my wayward daughter if she‟d like to meet me
for lunch later, benevolent soul that I am.”
I yawned. “I‟d love to, Da, especially if you‟re buying, but I‟ve got
Carly for a couple of days.”
“What the heck, bring her along. I‟m in a generous mood.”
A brilliant thought occurred to me. “How generous, exactly?”
“You‟re planning on pushing your luck here, aren‟t you?”
“Maybe a little. Would you mind if Carly and I bunked with you
for the weekend? We‟ll stay out of your way, I promise. A change of
scenery is in order as apparently little girls and stuffed hyenas just
don‟t mix.”
“Ah. That explains those dark circles under your eyes.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“Anytime. I‟ll probably regret this, but, sure, you can stay at the
old homestead. I‟ll come by around noonish and scoop you up for
lunch. Try to get some sleep. You really do look awful.”
I hadn‟t spent a night in my old room since just after Drew had
left and I was nervous about how I‟d deal with it all. In the end, it
wasn‟t as bad as I‟d thought it would be. The memories being home
stirred up were present, but bearable. The demons that in my mind

were still lurking in the house had apparently decided to take a vaca-
tion, or had simply moved out years ago, leaving no forwarding ad-
dress.
I took my time, taking it all in, reliving erstwhile days and sorting
out my feelings. I hadn‟t quite decided yet whether to pretend that I
had never seen the man that could only have been Drew at the shop
window, or to believe it with all my heart. If I chose to believe, that
would open up a whole new world of things to ponder, and I wasn‟t
sure that I was ready for that yet. And so I pushed these thoughts to
the back of my mind and let my present life consume me.
I descended the stairs the next morning in search of my overly-
energetic charge and was greeted instead by a much calmer and con-
tented version of the little girl I‟d acquired the day before. They were
seated in his study, Da in the comfy leather chair and the ragamuffin
curled up on his lap, as I had done at her age. He was reading to her
from the same copy of Alice‟s Adventures in Wonderland that had held
my fascination so many years ago. I was somehow sure I had just
missed the site of Carly with her little nose buried in the pages,
breathing in the old-book smell, acquiring a love for the scent of ce-
dar and mothballs. It was such a pretty picture that I stood silent in
the doorway as the minutes ticked by, remembering and watching it
anew simultaneously until Carly noticed me.
“I saw the white rabbit, Devon!” She jumped up and ran to me.
“Uncle Owen turned the study into Wonderland in my ‟magination
and I finally saw the white rabbit! He told me how to pick-chur
things in my mind when he was reading and he wouldn‟t let me look
at the draw...the illustray-shuns till I did. At first I was a little mad...”
She dropped her voice and looked over her shoulder, “a little mad at
him ‟cause I really wanted to see them, but Uncle Owen told me that
it was better if I could see them in my mind, ‟specially ‟cause I want
to be an artist.” She puffed out her chest, an expert relating how it‟s
done. “He told me I have to learn how to come up with my own
196 Devon Pearse
ideas of how things should look. It took a little practice, but now I
can do it really well. I can see Wonderland whenever I want! All I
have to do is consternate and I can see it all!”
I hid my smile behind my hand, pretending to rub my nose.
“That‟s great, Carly-cat,” I said, and she actually smiled, in spite of
the hated nick-name.
“And I‟ve been learning a lot about books, too. If you ever want
to know anything about them, you can ask Uncle Owen.” She turned
and smiled at my father and he beamed at his very apt pupil. Turning
back to me she added seriously, “He‟s a book excerpt.”
Chapter 22

The Chosen One
Around two o’clock on a lazy Sunday afternoon I met Cass for lunch at
Scarlett O‟Hara‟s. The big porch was the perfect place to sit and
gorge ourselves on chicken and mashed potatoes, drink iced tea and
watch the world go by. I‟d been trying all week to shake the edgy,
light-headed feeling that had come upon me since my day at the
bookstore, but it was still with me. Unfiltered thoughts ran rampant
in my mind, infiltrating my dreams and causing sleepless nights. I
wanted to confide in someone, but I couldn‟t bring it up with Cass.
Not yet. Not until I was sure.
“You gonna eat that?” Cass inquired, stabbing my last remaining
green bean without waiting for my reply.
“Help yourself.”
“So, Liv‟s settling into her new classes,” she said as she chewed,
then took a swig of tea to wash it down. “I can‟t believe one visit to
Glen Harbor was all it took to set her on a new path. She‟s like a
completely different person. I haven‟t seen her this happy
since…well, I don‟t know if I‟ve ever seen her happy. But I was wor-
ried. The past few months she‟d seemed so scattered, you know?”
198 Devon Pearse
I nodded. Cass licked her fork and continued, “The best part is,
and I wouldn‟t tell the nurses this, of course, I think it‟s also great
therapy for her. She‟s really bonded with Libby. It‟s good to see her
talking to somebody after all this time. It‟s like she‟s finally found a way
to fit in somewhere.”
Albeit a nuthouse, I thought, but didn‟t share my opinion.
Cass sighed and leaned back in her rocking chair, content and full
to the gills. “The funny thing is, I think the nurses assume Liv‟s al-
ways been majoring in Psychology or something. It‟s her definite plan
of action for the future and Ma is so proud of her. Doctor Keller
asked her to sign something that would enable Liv to actually appren-
tice at Glen Harbor, working closely with him and some of the pa-
tients, and earn college credit at the same time. I saw tears in Ma‟s
eyes, Dev!” She shook her head, giggling, and there was truly no hint
of ire in her voice when she said, “Everyone‟s so proud of Olivia.
Little do they know she‟s been pondering the virtues of electroshock
therapy in her spare time. Who cares, right? Therapy is therapy. And
at least one of us will make something of our lives. Guess she‟s the
one the gods have smiled upon.”
“They would smile upon you, too, Cass, if you‟d ever follow
through with anything.”
She rolled her eyes, ignoring me and altering her topic slightly.
“You should see the look on Myma‟s face when she watches Liv and
Libby together. She looks at them just like she used to look at us
when you and I were their age. It sounds weird, but I somehow get
the feeling she actually thinks they are us.” She watched me for a reac-
tion, and I smiled crookedly from my vantage point of faraway.
“What‟s wrong, Dev? You seem – I don‟t know – distracted?”
“I‟m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.” I yawned for emphasis.
She looked suspicious for a moment, then her eyebrows shot
straight up, a sign that she had remembered something that she‟d
wanted to tell me. “Oh, I haven‟t had a chance to tell you. The doctor
said the bastard was well enough to go home last week. Of
course, „home‟ meant to Monique‟s house where he can start his evil
all over again.”
I frowned, knowing the forenamed bastard to be Marcus. “Do
you really think he will? Things like that can change people, or so I‟ve
heard.”
Cass shrugged with a touch of doubt. “Who knows? I‟d like to
think it‟s possible for even the scum of the earth to go through evolu-
tion, but I‟m not holding my breath. Good news is, he‟s in a wheel-
chair, for the time being, anyway. Still hasn‟t regained full control of
his legs. One thing I don‟t like is that Monique is going out of town
for a while to take some teaching course that‟s only being offered in
Atlanta. Supposedly Marcus will be staying with his brother while
she‟s away. He‟ll be picking the gimp up the day after she leaves. In
the meantime, he‟ll still be at Monique‟s house with Janette.
“He keeps making a big deal out of it, too, telling everyone who‟ll
listen that they‟ll know who to come after if anything should happen
to him. Of course, I know it‟s all just so much bugshit and he secretly
can‟t wait to be alone with Janette. Needless to say, I‟ll be checking in
on her a lot. In between my shifts helping Del with Bella. Cute nick-
name, isn‟t it? Almost makes up for the fact that she‟ll have to go
through life with the moniker „Belinda Lucinda‟.” She giggled. “Any-
way, I‟ll keep you posted.”
She took a swig of tea and crunched on a captured ice cube, mak-
ing me shiver. Studying me, she ventured, “Dev, are you sure you‟re
okay? You can tell me anything, you know.”
I took a deep breath, contemplating. Where to begin? What to say?
“Cass, I…”
Her cell phone chirped and she plucked it off the table to view
her latest text message. Smiling naughtily, she said, “It‟s Dylan. Hate
the name, love the guy. Anyway, he wants to meet me for drinks lat-
er.” Her eyes grew wide. “I‟ve gotta get to the salon!” She jumped up
from the table, only to sit back down again. “Are you sure you‟re
okay?” she asked me hopefully, anticipation dividing her loyalties.
200 Devon Pearse
“Yeah, Cass. I‟m fine.” I smiled. “You go and get yourself beauti-
fied and let me know how your date goes.”
She grinned, anxious and excited. “Okay. I‟ll call you later.”
“Later,” I parroted, part of me glad for the distraction and anoth-
er feeling like a coward for not speaking up sooner. There was so
much I wanted to tell her; things I should have told her long ago. I
just didn‟t know how. And all the things that I hadn‟t said back then
because I couldn‟t bring myself to talk about them hadn‟t become
any easier to say. Now they defied logical explanation. But if I‟d been
right – if I‟d really seen Drew – then, one way or another, I‟d have to
talk to Cass. I‟d finally have to tell her the truth.
Chapter 23

The Healing Properties of Chicken Soup
Thinking back on how the next few days, Fate’s circumstantial victims,
all fell into place, the phrase “If I‟d only known then what I know
now” immediately comes to mind. But hindsight sees unerringly
while the present wears blinders most of the time. And so we stumble
through life believing what we‟re told by those closest to us, casting
the rest aside and ignoring what our minds won‟t let us see. I never
would have thought my dearest friend would mislead me, but I had
done the same and could in no way hold it against her with my own
sins of omission so very thinly veiled. The only difference was, my
deception couldn‟t land me in the slammer.
On the eve of what I would later come to know as “the night in
question” Cass called, sounding gurgley with a stuffy nose and
scratchy throat. I mentioned her ailment to Mrs. Babcock and before
I could even think of saying Jack Robinson, she had brewed up a veri-
table vat of aromatic heaven in the form of chicken soup and sent me
on my way. I tarried but a minute, phoning Cass to inform her of my
impending arrival. She answered her cell on the fifth ring. She was
anxious, distraction dripping from her voice in a breathless, “Yeah.”
202 Devon Pearse
“Cass?” The question was more a delay tactic than actual inquiry.
I knew it was Cass, but something didn‟t seem quite right and I was
silently wracking my brain to figure it out.
“Yeah,” she repeated, somewhere between desperate and an-
noyed.
“Um...Mrs. Babcock waved her magic wand and conjured up
some chicken soup and the promise of a speedy recovery to all who
partake. She wanted me to tell you that she‟s very grateful to you for
making her accept Mr. Rooney‟s invitation. They‟ve already been on
two dates and they‟re having a wonderful time. I believe her exact
words were, „Now I‟m in love and it‟s all Cassandra‟s fault. The least I
can do is make her some soup.‟ I was gonna bring it over. Unless
now isn‟t a good time...” I trailed off, sensing Cass might have the
feeling I was rambling. I certainly felt like I was, but the strange si-
lence that followed made me want to start reciting Jabberwocky just to
fill it.
“Cass?” I tried again. I knew she was there. I could hear her
snarfy breathing.
“Yeah, hold on.” She was whispering something that was not di-
rected at me and for a moment I actually wondered if I had caught
her in the act with her latest paramour. No, I decided. She was too
sick for that, especially with the runny nose and tonsillitis that always
accompanied her colds. Then she was back. “Okay. Come on over,
but drive slow. I...uh...had to go pick up Janette. We‟re on our way
back to my place now.”
“Oh. All right. I‟ve only got my bike, so it‟ll be slow going, any-
way. Cass? Is everything okay? With Janette and all that?”
A pause.
“Everything‟s fine. I‟m sorry, Dev.” It almost sounded like she
was about to cry. I told myself it was because she was sick, but after
she‟d disconnected I listened to the open line for a few seconds, feel-
ing worried and out of sorts.
By the time I made it to Cass‟s townhouse, my hand was numb
from clutching the container of soup and I couldn‟t wait to get inside
and put it down somewhere. Snap-tight lid or not, balancing soup
while riding a bike is no easy feat. Checking her usual parking space, I
spotted a dark mass in the shape of a car, and another one behind it.
Somebody was double parked, but I was sure Cass was in for the
night, anyway. It was dark and so was the car and I could barely make
out any details, but I thought I saw a movement in the backseat. I
stared hard for a while, then shook it off and moved on. It was none
of my business, anyway. Probably just somebody waiting for a friend. Let the
violators get away with it this time.
I rang the bell and waited for her familiar footfalls on the stairs. It
usually took her a while to navigate through the clutter of make-up
filled boxes that took up most of the space on the third floor which
also housed her tiny art studio, and I tried to be patient. There was a
stirring inside. The curtain parted, but it was only Botero, the huge
Maine Coon cat. Seeing him in the window like that, he reminded me
of one of her gargoyles. The gray and white monstrosity looked like
an overstuffed, hairy sausage with legs and a fluffy tail.
Cass finally appeared on the stairs. I noticed that her bare feet
didn‟t fly over the carpeted steps in their usual high-strung fashion.
She must really feel like crap, poor thing.
I bent double and held out a hand to block Botero as Cass opened
the door. It was a familiar routine, one that any true friend of Cass‟s
had to learn and perfect in quick order or face an evening of search
and rescue under every vehicle in the lot. The miniature mammoth
tried to make a run for it, but Cass held him back and I ducked in-
side. I handed over the soup, giving her a quick one-armed hug and
being careful not to get too close in the process. We had a history of
sharing everything, especially colds.
“Here‟re the meds, Darlin‟. I really hope it does the trick. Mrs.
Babcock said to eat it right away. If you wait too long it loses its po-
tency or some such mystical gibberish.” She gave me a weak smile
and I put a supportive hand on her back and pushed her upstairs to
204 Devon Pearse
the second floor and the kitchen, carefully avoiding Botero as he

scuttled around our ankles.
Upstairs the lights were off and Janette was curled up on the sofa.
She had a blanket over her legs and was clutching a pillow to her
chest like a life preserver. At first I thought she was asleep, but then I
noticed her eyes were open. She was staring off into a place I couldn‟t
see, and from the looks of her, I didn‟t want to. I turned my ques-
tioning eyes to Cass, but she ignored me and occupied herself by
searching for a bowl in the wrong cabinet. As curious as I was, a dis-
tant part of me was clairvoyant enough to realize that all would be
revealed in time and now was not that time. I would have to be pa-
tient, something that I‟m rarely good at, but I settled on the sofa next
to Janette, preparing to bide my time.
Cass finally located a bowl and a spoon and dutifully slurped the
lukewarm brew. Watching her closely, I saw her hand tremble as she
brought the spoon to her mouth, spilling some broth on the table.
She didn‟t seem to notice. Her eyes held the same vacant expression
as those of her niece and neither of them said a word while Cass ate.
Botero eventually tired of begging at Cass‟s feet and hopped up on
my lap, curling himself into a vibrating mass of fur. I welcomed the
warmth, and the company.
When I could stand the silence no longer, I said, “How‟s the
soup?” My companions jumped as though I‟d set off a landmine. I
heard the spoon rattle as Cass dropped it on the table and Janette
gasped. I felt like I‟d entered the Twilight Zone and emerged in a
parallel universe, one where no one was allowed to speak, of chicken
soup or anything else.
“Excuse me. I don‟t feel very well,” Janette said and suddenly
bolted for the bathroom. I took the opportunity to prod a little.
“Do you need a knife?” I questioned Cass.
“Huh? What for, the soup?”
“No. To cut through the tension in this room! Look, Cass, I know
you‟re sick and that might account for your odder-than-usual
behavior, but Janette is obviously upset about something. So, do you

want to tell me what it is or will I have to figure it out on my own?”
“There‟s nothing to figure out!” Cass nearly shouted at me as she
stood up abruptly from the table. She came very close to tipping her
chair over. I could have reached out to grab it, but I didn‟t feel like it.
Cass tossed the bowl into the sink with a clatter and shoved the re-
maining soup into the fridge, slamming the door. Wine coolers tin-
kled within, reminiscent of sleigh bells at Christmastime. Silence
enveloped us once more, broken only by the low rumble of content-
ed cat.
One moment before eternity, Cass finally sighed and trudged over
to the sofa. She plopped down next to me, radiating shame in my
general direction. I could have put a comforting arm around her and
coaxed her into opening up to me. I could have offered a shoulder to
cry on or any other number of things a good and caring friend should
do. As it was, I didn‟t particularly feel like doing any of those things. I
had biked several miles in the crisp October air holding a parcel of
chicken soup for my ailing friend, only to be shut out of her life. Nei-
ther Cass nor Janette seemed inclined to share their thoughts and I
was miffed and wanted to make it obvious. Quite frankly, I felt like
being a bitch.
I stood to leave, scooping up Botero and depositing him in the
indentation I‟d left on the sofa. He looked exactly as indignant as I
felt. Sorry, buddy. “I hope the chicken soup helps. Mrs. Babcock said it
should cure whatever ails you, so good luck with that.”
Cass looked up at me and smiled the saddest and eeriest smile I‟d
ever seen and said, “There are some things even chicken soup can‟t
cure.”
I left with a chill running through me that was not a byproduct of
the season. As much as I had been dying to know what was up with
Cass, I had to admit that maybe I was better off not getting involved
this time. Anything that could keep her from consuming more than
one bowl of soup and would send Janette running from the room
206 Devon Pearse
like that couldn‟t be good. Then again, maybe they were both just
down with the flu. I tried very hard to convince myself of that as the
wind tangled my hair and turned my ears to ice pops.
Later that night I drifted off to sleep on the sofa while watching
an old movie, covered in Fig Newton crumbs and drained of all emo-
tion. My mind wandered from dream to dream, trying to decide
which one to focus on, what random, withheld thoughts might be
worthy of my time. I saw myself walking down a dark, deserted
street, looking all around me at a collection of memories, a long hall-
way full of dream-doors. The doors were different colors, of course,
depending upon the memory they held inside. I paused and consid-
ered the one on my left, then moved along. I had no energy for the
next, and that lavender one was out of the question.
Indecision and upheaval were so prevalent in my life I couldn‟t
even decide what dream to have.
The dream-me sighed and turned around. I quite suddenly found
myself surrounded by gravestones in place of the many colored
doors. Fascinated, I studied each grave, reading the markings, the
sentiments, the dates of birth and death. Bernard Masters 1898-1973,
Jennifer Grace Brown - Beloved Daughter 1961-1987, Nina LaShay
Allen 1975-1992. I paused to touch the stone and saw my own tear
splash in slow-motion on the gray marble next to my finger. We miss
you, Nina. I moved to the next. Elise Mariana Wallace Tipton. The
date of birth was suddenly obscured by a bare foot with perfectly
pedicured nails. I looked up to see Aunt Tippy sitting on her own
gravestone, wearing a frilly summer dress circa 1920-something and
looking every inch the gracefully aged Flapper.
“No need for anyone to see that,” she said to me. “I never could
understand the importance of plastering dates all over these things.
Seems to me quite a rude thing to do. When I was alive, I certainly
didn‟t go around proclaiming my age to everyone I met. Now that
I‟m dead, it‟s supposed to be perfectly acceptable for any total
stranger who wanders by to be privy to that very personal detail? I
think not!” She threw back her head and laughed. I couldn‟t help but
laugh right along with her. The old gal‟s mood was always as infec-
tious as a weed patch after a summer rain.
“I miss you, Aunt Tippy,” I said with an ache that nearly drove
me into consciousness. She touched my face, holding me there with
her.
“I know, dear. But don‟t dwell on things too much. They‟ll keep
you from living, and that‟s exactly what you need to be doing while
you‟re still in the here and now, or the there and then, as the case may
be.”
I nodded my reluctant agreement. “But what if the here and now
isn‟t what I thought it would be back when I was looking forward to
it?”
“It never is, and never will be. You can bet on that.” She glanced
at Nina‟s grave. “But at least you‟ve had the chance to experience it,
for better or worse.” I cast my eyes downward, feeling terribly
ashamed. Aunt Tippy lifted my chin with a delicate finger until my
gaze met hers. “What would you change if given the chance?”
“So much! So very much. I would have gone with Drew. I would
have left all this pain behind me and gone away with him.”
“And now you would be happy?”
“Yes!”
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of...well, whatever it is I am now.”
Her eyes twinkled and I felt slightly annoyed, like a little girl who
wasn‟t being taken as seriously as she had planned. Thankfully, she
changed the subject. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor,
dear.”
“Um, all right.”
“There‟s a creeping vine growing over my headstone that‟s driving
me batty! Could you visit sometime soon and clean it up a bit? Not all
of it, mind you. Any foliage that obscures my date of birth can be left
to flourish as it pleases. Just make certain you come by in
208 Devon Pearse
the late afternoon. The lighting‟s always so pleasant that time of day.”
She closed her eyes, lifting her face to the descending sun, and
faded away into the light. I was drifting toward wakefulness, but I
heard her voice from afar. “Remember, dear, while you‟re out search-
ing for your happiness, to take your time. Regret can fade into ac-
ceptance, but there is no statute of limitations on love.”
Chapter 24

The Mimic
I didn’t speak to Cass for a while following the chicken soup incident,
and I was still upset enough not to be bothered by her absence. I had
wanted to make my pilgrimage to Aunt Tippy‟s grave as she had
asked, but that weekend John offered to drive me up to see Myma.
Amy had emerged to claim her random, but court-approved, days
with Carly so it was to be just the two of us and the road. Although I
didn‟t want to talk to Cass, I was still plagued by curiosity and it was
nagging at the back of my brain while I waited at the window for
John. I was becoming hypnotized by the squirrels when I heard the
horn. The hunter green pickup was idling ferociously, impatient as its
owner. I grabbed a light jacket and stepped outside.
I was engulfed in a wave of perception. It was the same feeling
you get when you know, beyond a doubt, that someone is watching
you. It was the last thing I wanted to admit, to myself or anyone else,
but lately I‟d been having that feeling a lot. It was starting to become
a nuisance – an old, obligatory friend waiting outside my door, greet-
ing me obnoxiously each time I ventured out. It felt familiar, but un-
wanted. Silly, I told myself. Of course you‟re being watched, by John and the
210 Devon Pearse
squirrels, and probably Mrs. Babcock, as well. My argument was uncon-

vincing and I was uneasy until my apartment building was out of
sight.
“What‟s wrong?” John‟s brow was furrowed as he studied me.
“The light‟s green,” I said.
“And how long has that been a problem for you?”
I chuckled in spite of myself, realizing I was enormously glad of
his company. He was a true-blue friend, and I knew that if I managed
to quell my paranoia of ever giving anyone a reason to question my
sanity and told him I was edgy because I felt like someone was watch-
ing me he would completely understand. But I didn‟t feel like open-
ing up about that yet, so I told him instead of the weird episode with
Cass and Janette.
He listened, as usual, never interrupting and nodding in all the
appropriate places. I was surprised at how much irritation I had kept
bottled up inside as I heard it pouring out of me, unable to stop the
flow. When I was finally finished, I felt completely exhausted, but
much better for having shared the burden. “I don‟t know,” I said,
watching the greenery speed past. “Maybe I‟m making too much of
it.”
“Didn‟t sound that way to me. I think you‟re right to be bothered
by it. Seems like more than a simple hit to your pride and feeling
snubbed. You know when Cass is hiding something and it bothers
you when she won‟t share it with you, which is a perfectly natural way
to feel.”
“Maybe she was just sick.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I‟m Donald Duck. Look, Dev, trust your
instincts on this one. I know you‟re royally pissed at her right now,
but like it or not, she will always be your best friend. So give her a
little more time and space and then be there for her, like you always
are, when she finally comes crying to you for help with whatever
mess she‟s gotten herself into this time.”
I smiled for what felt like the first time in days. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Don‟t mention it. We‟ll discuss my fee later.”

We spent the rest of the ride talking about his new graphic design
gig, Carly‟s latest misadventures and the virtues of the road kill identi-
fication game. Sooner than I thought possible, Glen Harbor loomed
before us. I took a deep breath, as I always did before the great house
sucked me inside its venerable walls. “You belong here,” it whispered to
me in the all-encompassing voice of those who resided within.
“Not yet I don‟t.”
“What‟s that?”
I had forgotten John was beside me. I shrugged and coughed a
little. “I was just saying that I didn‟t have Cass‟s cold yet,” I lied and
he pretended to buy it.
Nurse Whitaker opened the door. “Devon!” She exclaimed, smil-
ing her usual illuminated smile and welcoming us. “And Mr. Pierce,
it‟s so nice to see you again. It‟s been quite some time, before last
Christmas, I believe?” John nodded, hating to be the subject of her
perusal. She led us inside while she told me, “Your mother is relaxing
by the pond today. I‟m sure she‟ll be happy to see you.” We walked
past two residents who seemed to be having a delightful game of air
ping pong in the empty hallways. Nurse Whitaker continued, “She
certainly has been popular this week, first your friend Cassandra and
now the two of you...”
“What?” I cut her off. “When? When was Cass here?”
Connie Whitaker, ever gracious, ignored my iron grip on her arm
and faced me evenly. “Well, I believe it was two...no, three days ago.
I‟ll check the sign-in sheet just to be sure.” I released her and she de-
toured to the desk and rifled through the pages of the giant book.
“Ah, yes. Here we are. C. Sloane, Wednesday morning, eight o‟clock
on the dot. Signed out at five past nine. Our first visitor of the day.
Pretty early visit for her, wasn‟t it?”
Noting my expression, which could only have been a mixture of
distress and confusion, she frowned and said, “If you‟ve changed
your mind, if you‟d rather she not visit anymore, I could certainly...”
212 Devon Pearse
“No! Oh, no, that‟s not the problem.” I softened my voice and
forced a smile. “It‟s just that, well, Cass was pretty sick when I saw
her the night before and I can‟t imagine why she‟d want to drive all
the way up here the next morning, especially that early.”
Nurse Whitaker frowned and nodded slightly. “Yes, now that you
mention it, I suppose she did seem a bit run-down. We usually chat
for a while, but I can‟t recall her even saying a word that day.”
“She always gets tonsillitis,” I mumbled and Nurse Whitaker
made an “Ah, that explains it.” expression. We rounded the corner
and I glanced into the sunroom. No sign of Libby. I felt myself relax.
Changing the subject, Nurse Whitaker said, “I‟m sure Cassandra
has told you how happy we are to have Olivia assisting us. She‟s been
working wonders with Libby. It‟s a shame she wasn‟t here with Cas-
sandra that day. We had a bit of an...incident with Libby a little while
later. She broke the bathroom mirror and cut her arm up a bit.” She
lowered her voice and I got the feeling she was telling me much more
than she should have.
“It‟s nothing to worry about, really,” she continued lightly. “She
didn‟t seem upset in any way and, although she wouldn‟t talk about it,
we feel it was just an accident. Still, she‟s always calmer when Olivia‟s
around. Doctor Keller is very impressed with her natural abilities with
the patients, and she truly loves to spend time here. Cassandra must
be very proud.”
“Yes, she must. I mean, she is.” I hoped I didn‟t sound too short,
but my mind was plagued with unanswered questions. Just when I
thought I had them all rounded up, another one appeared. They kept
popping up like little gophers scurrying willy-nilly around my brain. I
didn‟t know when or if I‟d ever have the answers to any of them, and
the constant strain of chasing them was starting to wear me down. I
decided to let them be for now. Whatever Cass was up to, it obvious-
ly didn‟t involve me. I was here to see Myma. The rest could wait till
later.
As we walked the endless hallways and finally emerged into the
back garden, the sense of being watched returned, familiar yet differ-
ent than before. I glanced back at the massive structure that housed
so many troubled souls, alive and presumably dead. A place that old
had to be haunted. Maybe that was it. Maybe I had picked up a ghost.
I lived in a city populated with at least twice as many dead as living
wandering the streets at any given time. Still looking over my shoul-
der, I swore I saw a curtain move in an upstairs window, but the sun
was in my eyes and I couldn‟t make out who, if anyone, was actually
watching us. In a state of intense concentration I tripped over a stone
and collided with John‟s back.
“Sorry.”
He shook his head, accustomed to my distracted nature, and we
continued along the path that led to the shallow pond, the brilliant
Koi fish and my mother. She was seated on the grass under a remark-
ably large live oak. Spanish moss hung from countless branches, near-
ly sweeping the ground. She looked serene and untroubled, as I
suppose she was most of the time. Her chosen realm was one of se-
curity and sameness, the rest of the world locked out. Nurse Whita-
ker patted my arm.
“Take your time. I‟ll be making my rounds now, but I‟m sure I‟ll
see you before you leave.” With another glowing smile, she left us
there beneath the tree with Myma – two abandoned children in a for-
est growing dark.
“Hello, Myma,” I forced myself to say. Beginning what was sure
to be a one-sided conversation was always difficult, but I found that
if I kept talking, it eventually got easier. It was like having a therapist
who never questioned, “And how does that make you feel?” but instead
was content to let you talk and work things out for yourself.
“Today feels yellow, doesn‟t it?” I asked, gently resting my head
on her shoulder as John strolled away to lean against a neighboring
tree, giving us our privacy in la-la land. I was never sure if her doctors
would approve of my attempts to communicate with her in her lan-
guage, but it was the only thing I felt we still shared on some level,
214 Devon Pearse
and if anyone should ever question it, I would politely tell them
where to store their opinions.
I talked to her for longer than I had intended, telling her of the
incident at the bookstore, thinking I saw Drew looking in the window
and how it had unnerved me, my current troubles with Cass and even
the still-present feeling of being watched. She was the only person I
would admit my true feelings to, the only one who could not judge
me.
“I‟m scared, Myma. I‟m terrified of ending up here, or somewhere
else. I love you, but I don‟t want to be like you. I‟m sorry. I can only
say these things because I know you understand and agree with me.”
I felt sudden, lonely tears sting my eyes as I said, “I miss you, Myma.
So much.” I felt a warm touch on my forehead and realized she had
pressed her cheek against me.
With the sun burning low behind the trees, I reluctantly pulled
myself away and walked back to the house with John. The nurses
were rounding up the patients for the night and they collected Myma
as well, ushering her inside with us. As usual, she followed without
protest. That‟s what terrifies me most, I realized. Giving up my identity, my
beloved free will.
“I‟d better pee before we leave,” I told John.
“Good idea. Meet you in front?”
I knew he couldn‟t wait to get outside again. The whole place
made him uneasy and I could totally understand his feelings.
“Sure. Be right there.”
Skirting the hustle of residents being herded into the dining room
for dinner, I jogged up the stairs to Myma‟s room and the private
bath. I used the facilities, as my father would say, and carefully avoid-
ed looking at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands in the basin-
style sink. I opened the sliding door to the shock of my life. At first I
thought I had gone mad and somehow turned completely around and
was staring into the mirror after all. A fraction of a second later I
came to realize I was instead face to face with Libby Reesor.
Instinctively, I raised my hands in front of me. She did the same,

crossing her arms at the wrists. I saw a bandage wrapped around her
right forearm. A result of the mirror cut, I surmised. Libby slowly
lowered her arms and I realized I had been slowly lowering mine. I
blinked. So did Libby. I must have raised my left eyebrow because
her right eyebrow arched upwards fleetingly. It gave me a misplaced
feeling of superiority to know that at least there was some tiny quirk
that she couldn‟t quite duplicate and I laughed unwittingly. She
paused for two beats, then laughed in the same way. It was very close
to a perfect imitation, and I bristled.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, perplexed by her behav-
ior.
“What do you want from me?” she echoed, pitch perfect.
I took a step back. She took a step forward. Great. Now I‟m trapped
in the bathroom with a lunatic who apparently wants to become me. If this was a
horror film, this would be the part where she tears off my head and devours my
soul.
But she did nothing of the sort. Instead she very slowly lifted her
hand, the one without the bandage, and reached for my neck. Com-
mon sense told me I should scream, push her away, make a run for it,
anything but stand there. Yet stand there I did, completely still, just as
I had in Dinah‟s backyard with Marcus bearing down on me. It would
have seemed that fear had frozen me, but in my mind I was com-
pletely unafraid. Instead I was fascinated and wanted to see what she
would do next.
Her fingers touched my skin, below my collarbone. I felt a tugging
on the back of my neck and realized she was lifting my necklace out
from under my shirt. Every part of me wanted to pry it out of her
hand, but I resisted, waiting, wondering, needing to see what would
happen next. I watched her turn the ring around between her fingers.
We were so close I could count the tiny pores on her face. She stayed
there, studying the ring for so long that I began to wonder if time was
standing still. Why hadn‟t John come looking for me?
216 Devon Pearse
Then she looked up at me, cocked her head to one side and said,
“If you loved him, why did you let him go? Why did you kill him with
your thoughts?”
It took me a minute to absorb what she‟d said and then another
one to convince myself that I‟d heard her correctly. She was either
very wise for her age, or she somehow knew the significance of the
ring I had worn around my neck for the past ten years. She couldn‟t
know. But could she really be that perceptive, at her age, no less?
“How...how could you know...?”
Sensing my questions, she continued, “I do know, Bitsy. I know all
about you. It‟s all written in the Book of Dreams. I know about Drew
and the boat and everything you said to him, how you pushed him
away. I know the truth that even your friend Cassandra doesn‟t know.
And I know all about her, too, even what she did the other night be-
fore she came here.” I was so focused on her taunting it would take
me until the next day to realize she had called me Bitsy. At the mo-
ment, all I heard was the unrighteous victory in her voice. My anger
and jealousy must have shown on my face because she smirked at me
in triumph, knowing she had hit a ragged nerve.
Backing away at last, she chanted in a childlike voice, “I know
something you don‟t know. I know something you don‟t know.”
Holy crap, she‟s out of her mind! Of course, I knew that no one here
was sane, save, one would hope, for the doctors and nurses, but the
intensity of her madness was a shock I wasn‟t prepared for. Brushing
past her, I made a bee-line for the door. She bolted in front of me,
blocking my exit.
“I know something you don‟t know,” she repeated again, grab-
bing the back of my head and pulling me toward her. She brought her
face so close to my ear I could feel her warm breath on my neck as
she whispered, “And I‟ll tell if you don‟t give me Myma!”
Chapter 25

Cemetery Days
“Bitsy.”
Wavering silence. Darkness in all the wrong places, obscuring all the
little corners I so desperately needed to see into.
“Drew? Where are you? I can‟t see...”
“I‟m here, Bitsy. I‟m right here.”
Someone banged on my door and my heart nearly leapt from my
chest. I scurried to the window, jumpier than usual. There was a car
parked in Cass‟s generally assumed spot on the lawn, but I didn‟t rec-
ognize the vehicle.
“Dev? Dev, it‟s me. Open up, will ya? I‟m freezing my ass off out
here!”
I located my prodigal slipper under the bed and pulled on my an-
cient flannel as I shuffled to the door, still debating whether or not I
was actually going to open it once I got there. One glimpse of Cass
through the peep hole convinced me that I must.
“What the hell happened to you?” She was thinner than I‟d seen
her in a long time – thinner than she should have gotten in the short
218 Devon Pearse
time since I‟d seen her last. Her trademark curves were hidden under
a baggy shirt and too-loose jeans that hung on her in a lifeless draping
of fabric. I recalled the shirt being a newer purchase that she‟d only
worn once before, the day we‟d met for lunch at Scarlett‟s, and it had
fit her like a glove.
She watched me take it all in, marking the flaws off on an internal
check list: the dark circles under her eyes, her too-frizzy hair, the
sudden weight loss, the chipped polish on her toenails. Most telling
of all was the fact that she had shown up empty-handed. It could be
pelting hail and forty below, but you could always count on Cass to
arrive with food. Something was very wrong. Something more than a
lingering flu-bug. She shrugged at me, her only offering of explana-
tion and apology for the moment, and I accepted it as both. I opened
wide the door and she stepped inside.
“I, um, haven‟t been getting much sleep lately,” she said. “Night-
mares. I was wondering if I could crash here for a while.” The Cass I
knew would never feel the need to ask.
“Sure. Mi casa es su casa, as they say, whoever the hell „they‟ are.”
“I don‟t care about your casa, it‟s your bed-o I need-o.” Ah, a
glimmer of the old Cass shining through. The shades were closed but
for the one I had opened to look out a moment before and I reached
to close it. “No! No. You can leave it open. I don‟t mind the light.”
“Okay. So you‟re not undead,” I teased as I tucked her in. She
grimaced. I pretended not to notice. “I‟ve got some writing to do, so
nap as long as you want.” As I started to leave the room, she reached
out desperately for my hand and clung to it.
“Stay with me?” She sounded like a scared little girl and her voice
sent a wave of terror through me.
I tried for a reassuring smile. “Wild horses,” I said, and patted her
hand. “I‟ll just bring my laptop in here, then, as long as you won‟t
mind the pitter-patter of little keys.”
She sighed with relief. “Of course I won‟t mind. Thanks, Babe.”
“Anytime,” I said, brushing her hair back from her face.
Cass slept the day away while I edited and fussed and finally
stretched and rubbed my eyes. Not wanting to disturb her, I re-
mained as motionless as possible. My mind began to wander and I
thought of all the weird things that Libby had said to me the day be-
fore. I hadn‟t had the time or inclination to process it all yet, and it
came back to me slowly, like a fog creeping in. I pondered all the
things that I did know: Cass had gone to visit Myma very early in the
morning, being uncharacteristically punctual. She‟d had a bad cold
and no business making the drive in the first place, let alone when
she was also upset over something. So, there must have been a pretty
ponderous reason behind it all. Plus, she never told me about any of
it, leading me to believe it involved someone other than herself.
Yet somehow Libby knew all about it, or at least enough to claim
to know it all. I doubted Cass would have shared anything with her,
but she might have talked to Myma and Libby could have been hid-
ing anywhere to listen in. But that still didn‟t explain how she knew to
call me „Bitsy‟, or anything about what had happened with Drew all
those years ago. She even knew I wore the ring on a chain around my
neck.
I looked out the window, glad that Cass had asked me to leave the
blinds open. The oak trees danced in the wind and elegant tendrils of
Spanish moss beckoned with long and delicate fingers, “Come away
with me. Come away.” Maybe I was losing my mind, after all. That
would certainly explain everything. I sighed, watching the shadows
grow long on the wall. Late afternoon.
“Criminy!” At my unwarranted exclamation, Cass jerked awake
and nearly fell off the bed. I grabbed her arm. “I‟m sorry. I was trying
so hard not to wake you.”
“Well, you didn‟t end up doing a very good job of it! Shit, Dev!
You nearly scared me to death!”
“I‟m sorry, really. I just remembered something important that
I‟ve been meaning to do for the past two weeks and I haven‟t had the
chance.”
220 Devon Pearse
Cass sighed and looked a little lost. “Go do it, then. I‟ve freeload-
ed long enough.” She slowly got up to leave, looking exhausted and
shaky. Her complexion was pale, though still darker than mine, and I
thought some sun might do her good.
“Hey, Cass. Why don‟t you come along with me? It won‟t take
very long and I think you could use some fresh air and a change of
scenery. Plus, you could drive me and save me lots of pedaling.
Please? It‟ll be fun, I promise.”
We drove in silence other than my occasional commands to turn
right here or left there, which Cass quietly obeyed. But as she maneu-
vered the long drive leading into the cemetery, her submissiveness
turned to apprehension and complete rebellion. “No way am I going
in there with you!”
“Why not, Cass? What have you done lately to really piss off the
dead?” She didn‟t answer but looked away from me instead. I sighed,
quickly tiring of this mysterious new person who had invaded the
body and mind of my best friend. “Look, I know you‟re not the big-
gest fan of cemeteries at night, you spook easily and like to remind
me how it‟s always the black chick who gets killed first. But it isn‟t
even dark out yet, and you‟re only half black, so your chances are
pretty good. And don‟t you remember how we used to skip school
and stalk around this place whenever the weather was cold and gray?”
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel, but she said nothing. I
nudged her arm. “You do remember that, right? What was it we used
to call days like that?”
“Cemetery days,” she murmured.
“Right. They always seemed so...eerily perfect. We‟d roam around
reading the headstones and pondering the lives of all the souls who
rested here, wondering who they were and what they dreamed of and
what finally did them in while this wonderful sense of foreboding
followed us everywhere. Something sinister and Poe-like lurked
around every corner, just waiting to scare the wits out of us. We
didn‟t know what it was, but we could feel it breathing, watching.”
She shuddered, pulling into a parking space and stopping the car.
I grabbed her shoulders, making her face me. “Cass, what on earth is
wrong with you? You‟ve been acting like a stranger for the past cou-
ple of weeks. I feel like I don‟t even know you anymore. I don‟t know
where you‟ve been, I don‟t know why you‟re upset...I don‟t even
know whose car we‟re sitting in right now!”
“It‟s Monique‟s.”
“Wow! Thank you! An actual answer, imagine that.”
“Dev...”
“Forget it. I‟m sorry. I guess you need space for whatever it is
you‟re going through and I don‟t mean to be bitching at you.”
“No, it‟s okay. You have every right to. I‟ve been a really sucky
friend lately and I‟m sorry.”
“It‟s fine.”
“No, it isn‟t.” She rubbed her temples in frustration. “I need to
tell you something, but you have to promise not to get mad at me.”
“Okay.”
“Promise, Dev.”
“I promise, Cass.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then turned to the window
as she said, “I played a bit of water polo. Two weeks ago. Without
you.”
“What day, exactly?”
She looked sheepish. “The night I was really sick. The night you
brought me the chicken soup.”
“Why, Cass? Couldn‟t it have waited until you felt a little better?
And poor Janette – I‟m assuming she was also involved and drove
you home in Monique‟s car – she didn‟t look any healthier than you
did.”
Cass was nodding, knowing what I was going to say before I said
it. “I know, I know. I feel really bad about the whole thing. But you
know how I get when I‟ve got a plan already formed and waiting in-
side my twisted brain.” She turned to look at me again. “I‟m sorry,
222 Devon Pearse
Dev. I should have taken your advice and let it go. And I‟m sorry I
didn‟t tell you sooner. I‟ve just been...busy.”
There was something else wrong. As much as I wanted to ques-
tion her further, I knew that she would tell me in her own time. I
rested my forehead on my window and gazed up into the trees. The
sunlight was beautiful and warm and I suddenly began to laugh.
“What?” Cass asked.
I shook my head. “Only you would apologize for not involving
me in a crime.”
She almost smiled. “And only you would be offended that I
hadn‟t.”
We looked at each other and everything was nearly normal again.
“Shall we?” I queried.
“Who are we here to see?”
“Aunt Tippy. But if I tell you why, you‟ll question my sanity.”
“I already do.” She reached for her door handle. “Come on. Let‟s
get this over with.”
We wound our way through the departed, sometimes stopping to
linger at a stone that caught our eye. Our recent edginess and aggra-
vation soon gave way to childhood reminiscences and I saw Cass
starting to relax, the company of the dead beneath us no longer at the
forefront of her mind.
I meandered with my thoughts, leading the way to Aunt Tippy‟s
grave, wondering if I would, indeed, find it infested with a creeping
vine as it had been in my dream. There was the giant oak tree and
the twin cabbage palms. So her grave would be just to the right...
I stopped short as all the color drained from my world and Cass
grabbed my arm, questioning, “What?”
My heart was pounding in my ears, nearly drowning out her voice.
The surrounding space had become a vacuum neither sound nor air
could penetrate. I could see her looking at me, concern apparent on
her face, but I couldn‟t focus on her. My gaze was fixed instead on
Aunt Tippy‟s grave and the figure who knelt beside it, tearing careful-
ly at a tangled mass of leaves that spread across the headstone. The

ache started in my chest, then radiated through the rest of me, leaving
me breathless, shaking and numb. This can‟t be happening. Not now, not
here.
“But it can be happening,” said a voice inside my head. “It can be, and
it is. The lie has run its course. Now face the truth. You owe him that much.”
Engulfed in murky twilight, I watched the last rays of sunlight
reaching out to touch his hair, as I had longed to do when I was
young. He wore a deep blue sweater, like the one he wore the day I
kissed him for the first time. My feet moved me forward, against the
will of my foggy mind. Cass still clung to me, but I couldn‟t feel her
hand. Nothing else existed. Nothing mattered anymore. A few more
steps and he would see me. A little further and there‟d be no turning
back.
He looked up and I stopped. I was shaking so violently I could
hardly stand, but I knew I had to keep Cass from seeing him. I turned
to face her, blocking her view and forcing her backwards. “We can‟t
stay here, Cass. We have to go. Now.”
“What? Why, Dev?” She strained to see around me. “Isn‟t that
Aunt Tippy‟s grave right over there? Where that man is…” Her
words fell into the wind and I watched the recognition fall across her
face like a curtain. I heard her sharp intake of breath and felt her fin-
gers tighten on my arm. “Devon? Devon, this can‟t be happening.”
She was pulling me with her, stumbling backwards, never taking her
eyes off of Drew. She was utterly terrified, and it was all my fault.
“Calm down, Cass, please. Stop. Just stop and listen to me. Drew
isn‟t dead. He never was. I‟m so sorry. I never meant for you to find
out like this.” I glanced over my shoulder. He was looking at us, I
was sure of it, but he‟d made no attempt to approach us. “Cass, I‟ll
explain everything, I promise. Let‟s just get to the car, okay?” She
nodded mutely, her eyes still fixed on Drew.
I chose to drive and Cass was silent for a long while. I knew I was
the one who should be doing the talking, but I couldn‟t find the
224 Devon Pearse
words. Finally, she whispered, “How could you lie to me like that,
Dev? Why would you keep something like that from me all these
years? I would never...” She stopped short and tears filled her eyes.
“I know, Cass. I‟m sorry.” I sighed and started from what I de-
termined to be the beginning. “When I broke up with Drew, you and
I weren‟t speaking. Aunt Tippy had died, Myma was at Glen Harbor
and I had no one else to turn to. I forced myself to be glad of it. I
decided to pretend – oh, God, this sounds so silly saying it out loud –
to pretend I was Aunt Tippy and that the love of my life had died. It
seemed easier that way. It was the only way I could deal with the pain
of having let him go. When you came back into my life, I was so
caught up in my fantasy, I let you believe he was dead, too, so I
wouldn‟t have to explain anything or deal with you trying to convince
me to go after him.”
I glanced over at her. She was staring out her window, expression-
less. “I know it was a stupid thing to do, Cass, and if I had it to do
over again, I‟d tell you everything from the start, I swear. I always
meant to tell you the truth someday, but time got away from me and
then it didn‟t seem to matter anymore. Can you forgive me? I‟m such
an idiot.”
She was silent for another moment, then shook her head. “Don‟t
worry about it. I forgive you. You had your reasons.” Far from easing
my guilt, Cass‟s simple acceptance of my flat out lie made me worry
even more. In order for her to be so quick to forgive, she must be
holding something back from me that would make my lie look like a
Sunday hallelujah. “So you haven‟t seen him or spoken to him in all
these years? You just let him walk away from you while you stayed
here and missed him?” I had nothing to say in my defense. “Wow.
You really are an idiot.”
“Thanks.”
She sighed. “So, what are you going to do now?”
Although that very same question had been running through my
mind since the day I was convinced I‟d seen Drew at the bookstore, I
was no closer to having an answer at that moment than I had been

several weeks before. Why did everything always have to happen at
once? Couldn‟t difficult times ever spread themselves out a bit thin-
ner, over a longer period of time? I‟d waited all these years, secretly
hoping Drew would return, but never allowing myself to believe in
the dream completely. Now that he was back, actually here, I didn‟t
feel prepared.
And the worst part of it was, I realized, I‟d been set up by Aunt
Tippy.
Chapter 26

Drinking Buddies
The place had what you’d call a drinking atmosphere. Smoky air, a rau-
cous crowd, live music coming from behind the other side of the bar,
and barely enough light filtering through to see your glass by. But
then, it only mattered if you still cared to see what you were drinking.
Judging by the bits and pieces of slurred conversation I could some-
times hear floating around me, most of the souls who lingered at
Scarlett O‟Hara‟s past the midnight hour were way beyond that point.
I waited at the bar for Cass and John. There had been no available
tables when I‟d first arrived, but the place was starting to clear out a
bit. After the day I‟d had, I needed to escape the four walls of my
apartment and be absorbed into a crowd. My eyes scanned the interi-
or, taking in the hunters and the hunted. The walls were dark and
adorned with portraits of the lady herself, Katie Scarlett. A staircase
led to the second floor and the “Ghost Bar” haunted by the man
who‟d built the place, and another set of restrooms that saw their fair
share of patrons.
It felt good to go unnoticed at the far corner of the bar and let my
mind drift wherever it pleased. I didn‟t dress to attract attention and
made it a point to never make eye contact. That was all the invitation
a male on the prowl would need and I wasn‟t in the mood for aimless
flirting. Sometimes a dash of cynical banter could keep me enter-
tained, but not tonight. Tonight was for pondering and clearing my
mind of pesky details.
“Come here often?”
You‟ve got to be kidding me. Do guys actually still use that line? I reluc-
tantly turned to the voice in my ear and a smile crept up from my
heart and tugged at the corners of my mouth. It was Drew, but how
he had found me here in a darkened corner of Scarlett‟s in the middle
of the night I couldn‟t fathom. He said something else, but it was so
hard to hear with the band in full swing and the lady next to me yell-
ing her salacious intentions to her male companion.
After several attempts, which were all met with an apologetic
shrug and shake of my head, Drew held up a finger and grabbed a
salt shaker from the nearest empty table. Smirking and obviously
pleased with himself, he unscrewed the top and carefully poured the
salt onto the bar, smoothing it into a square with the palm of his
hand. I glanced at Erin behind the bar, waiting for a reprimand, but
she gave me an, “Oh, don‟t worry – I‟ve seen worse” look and went
back to the tap. I watched as Drew traced a lone question mark in the
salt.
“Where the Boys Are!” I mouthed to him. He smiled and pointed at
the expectant punctuation. “Devon,” I said. He pointed again.
“Pearse,” I added, and he smoothed over the first question mark and
made another. “St. Augustine, born and raised.” A third took its
place. “Barely legal,” I teased and he shook his head sadly until I
laughed.
The couple next to us decided to take it outside, or possibly to a
room, and Drew took ownership of the abandoned stool, pulling it
up as close to mine as he could. The band lightened up on the bass
and we found we could have a methodical conversation if we listened
carefully, enunciated and threw in a bit of lip reading here and there.
228 Devon Pearse
In this manner I was able to glean information on some of the

pieces of Drew‟s life that had been previously unavailable to me and I
was transfixed. Following our break-up, he had wandered for a short
time before deciding to try to patch things up with his father and fin-
ish law school. This endeavor was short lived, however, and he soon
found himself studying Oceanography instead, which led him eventu-
ally to his current life of scientific research on various water-related
topics that I pretended to understand. I realized midway through our
conversation how he must have felt when I gushed about the use of
soliloquy, meter and alliteration. He had found something he loved as
much as I loved writing, and I was truly happy for him.
But I couldn‟t help wondering if he still missed me, and I wished
that he would tell me if he did. Was that why he was here now? Had
he finally reached a point in his life where he wanted to settle down
again? What if he had? What if the whole purpose of his coming back
here was to give us both a second chance?
He was staring at me in anticipation of the answer to a question
that I hadn‟t heard him ask. I mumbled, “Um, sorry. Didn‟t catch
that last part.”
“I said, what about you? What have you been up to all this time?”
Good question. “Well, I went to Flagler for a while, studied all sorts
of interesting things, mostly literature-related. I tried to be a good
little student, but came to the obvious conclusion that conformity is
the enemy of self-expression and decided to take my act on the road,
so to speak. I did a stint in the newsroom of The St. Augustine Sun for
about a month, came up with some great ideas, had them stolen by a
slightly more seasoned intern by the name of Jefferson Todd – I still
have my suspicions his given name is Todd Jefferson, but I never
could prove it – and basically decided then and there I wasn‟t de-
signed for the cut-throat world of the intrepid news reporter.” I be-
gan to play with the salt shaker. “Right now I‟m whoring myself out
to any publisher who will take me, literarily speaking, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And I‟m working on a novel.” I rolled my eyes at myself. “I
know, isn‟t everyone? I‟m still writing poetry and the occasional nev-
er-to-be-heard-by-anyone-other-than-me lyrical masterpiece. Nothing
too interesting. Just the usual life of the desperate freelancer.”
There was something about being forced to bare your life before
someone whose opinion you really cared about that could make you
feel so embarrassingly insignificant. And yet Drew was sitting there in
front of me with this look of unabashed admiration on his face that
made my heart turn somersaults. Did he really love me that much?
Had he always? Could he actually look at me and think, “You‟ll never
change,” but mean it as a good thing?
I was sitting, chin in hand, staring right at him as though he were
the most fascinating thing in the world. The way I‟ve always wished
someone would stare at me. The way he used to, so long ago. And,
oh-so-wonderfully, he didn‟t look away.
Finally he questioned, “What?” with the most adorable hint of a
wondering smile.
“Uh, just pondering something.”
He shrugged, raising his hands. “I‟m an open book.”
“How long have you been here?” It wasn‟t the question that I
wanted to ask, but it would do for now.
“A couple weeks, I guess. I kind of lost track for a while.” Misin-
terpreting my silence, he added, “I‟m sorry it took me so long to get
around to seeing you.”
“Actually, you didn‟t get around to seeing me. I happened upon
you first, and that was nearly complete coincidence. But that wasn‟t
what was bothering me.”
“What was, then?”
“Did you stop by my father‟s bookstore around Halloween, by
any chance?” Still not the right question, but a different one that
needed answering, if only for my peace of mind.
“Ah. I thought I saw you in there being cornered by old Vanders-
230 Devon Pearse
noot.” He grinned and gifted me a conspiratorial wink. “Should I

have come to your rescue?”
“No. I‟m glad you didn‟t. Although you had me convinced I was
imagining things for a while.”
“Sorry about that. I was walking by and saw that old copy of Sa-
lem‟s Lot in the window and I just had to see if it was our copy.”
“It was...is...was.” I looked quite purposefully at the rows of bot-
tles behind the bar.
“How‟s Myma?”
His question took me by surprise, but I was touched that he
would ask. “She‟s...good,” I replied. “She‟s started playing her cello
again.”
“Really? That‟s great!”
“Yeah.”
“But...”
I smiled at him, wondering how he could still be so in tune with
my emotions after all these years. “It‟s nothing,” I told him. “Just my
petty, jealous side peeking through. You know, that part of me who
always wants to be the only one who can help her, who thinks the
world can‟t go on if I leave it all alone.”
“Hmm.”
I winced, realizing that was the same part of me that had once
held me back from marrying him, and he knew it. I felt very quaint
and inadequate beside him. He had gone on with his life, made his
own way in the world, and now come back to find me in almost ex-
actly the same position in which he had left me. I had thrown so
much away and accomplished nothing. And it irked me that he still
didn‟t know the selfless side of me, the part that had made the final
decision to let him go so that he could have the very life he was now
leading, unfettered, uncomplicated and away from me.
Aunt Tippy had said in my dream that there was no statute of lim-
itations on love. But what about mistakes that you thought you could
set right? Could there be a point when too much time had
gone by for it to matter? When the root had dried up and turned to
dust? Then what? Try to dig it up, or just start over?
“Drew...” I started, but he spoke at the same time, drowning me
out.
“Bits, I hope you know that I don‟t blame you for anything.” Was
I that transparent, or was he just that good at reading my mind? “You
needed to be able to have your own life – without me, without My-
ma, without anyone else telling you who and what you were supposed
to be. I put too much pressure on you too soon. That was my fault
and I apologize.” I stared at him, unable to trust myself to speak.
“I‟m so glad that you‟ve made such a good life for yourself, even
without me. You seem happy. I always wanted that for you.”
I seem happy? Really? Go figure!
“Drew, why are you here?” I blurted the question that had been
lurking on the tip of my tongue all along. His eyes turned dark and I
saw a veil fall over them. I continued carefully, “I seem to recall the
last time we…spoke, you indicated you had no intention of coming
back here, ever. So, why did you?” I wanted to say more, but I
stopped and held my breath.
He took my hands in his, sending shivers up my arms. “I came
back to see you. You were too big a part of my life to ever let go of
completely. I owe so much to you.”
God, his eyes are endless. It had been so long since I‟d seen him, but
he still looked exactly the same, still felt the same. Still smelled of the
sea, was still my wanderer, my love, my Drew. He bent his head and
my heart raced. I closed my eyes and felt his breath on my face. His
lips touched my cheek, igniting little tingly sensations all around. I
opened my eyes, barely breathing, trying to read everything in his ex-
pression. I must be dreaming. Ask me to leave with you, Drew. Ask me again
and I promise I‟ll go this time. No turning back. Just the two of us and our eter-
nity of sunsets.
He pulled back a little, saying, “Bits, there‟s something I have to
tell you. And I really don‟t think it should wait. I came back to…”
232 Devon Pearse
“Hey, Babe. Am I interrupting something?” Cass appeared out of

nowhere and threw her arm around me, nearly knocking me off the
barstool. “Hi, Drew,” she said with a significant gaze. “John just got
here, too. I saw him parking the truck as I walked in. Wanna get a
table? Malibu Bay Breeze, please, Erin!” She glanced distastefully at
my bottle of Guinness. “Ugh. I don‟t know how you can drink that
stuff!”
“Mother‟s milk,” said Drew and I simultaneously.
I looked at Drew, wondering how he‟d feel about hanging out. He
seemed uncomfortable and ready to leave and my heart sank. “You‟re
welcome to join us, really,” I said, hoping my desire for him to stay
wasn‟t as obvious as it felt.
“Sure!” said Cass, “Every table has four chairs, after all.” She
looked toward the door and waved. “Oh, here comes John.”
Drew stood and angled his way past Cass, saying, “Thank you for
offering, but I‟ve had a long day and I should probably go back to the
boat and get some sleep.”
Cass grabbed her drink from Erin and joined John at a table. They
were both looking at us and whispering and I felt like I was back in
high school. At least Cass seemed like Cass again. I hoped it wasn‟t
just the promise of a buzz. She‟d only been here a few minutes, but
she could get drunk off of fumes.
“Do you really have to go?” I asked Drew.
“Yeah. But I‟ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay. Good night, then.”
“Good night, Bitsy. I enjoyed catching up.”
I nodded and he made his way through the crowd and out the
door. John joined me at the bar and Erin handed him his usual Coro-
na with a lime. “So, that was the famous Drew Westcott, was it?”
“Yes, it was. See, he does exist,” I said, reaching for my Guinness.
“After the impossible stories I‟d heard from Cass, I was beginning
to wonder. Looks pretty good for a corpse.”
I punched his arm. “Very funny. I‟ll tell him you said so.”
He held up his hands. “No, no. Wouldn‟t want him to get the
wrong impression. Not very friendly, though, is he? He certainly
high-tailed it out of here when we showed up. Probably couldn‟t
stand the competition,” he said, polishing his nails on his shirt and
blowing off the dust.
Rolling my eyes, I grabbed his arm and dragged him to the table,
where I was met with further inquiries from Cass.
“So, what did you two talk about before we so rudely interrupt-
ed?”
“Nothing. We were just catching up a bit.” I glanced up and
caught a glimpse of Drew watching us through the window. Seeing
me, he gave a half smile and a little wave and walked away.
“Yeah. I‟m sure you can kind of lose touch when you‟re dead for
ten plus years,” John said and Cass coughed, choking on her drink.
Her cell phone rang and she cleared her throat to answer it, still
laughing.
“Yeah, Janette.” She listened and her mood changed abruptly, like
someone had flipped a switch and shut off all thoughts of joviality.
“She is? So soon? No! Tell her not to do that! I don‟t know, just
think of something! Okay, I‟m sorry. Stay calm. I‟ll be right there.”
She looked up to find us both staring at her. “Uh, I have to go. Sor-
ry.” She got up to leave, but I grabbed her arm.
“Cass, what‟s going on? What‟s wrong with Janette?”
Cass dropped her phone while trying to put it back into her purse,
then spilled her drink when she attempted to pick up the phone.
“Nothing! Nothing‟s wrong. It‟s just that Monique came home
early and, well, you know how she can be. I have to get her car back
to her before she pitches a fit.”
I looked at John. Neither one of us believed her. “Well, do you
need a ride back?” I asked Cass.
She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. I noticed it
was shaking. “Uh, yeah, I guess I do. You don‟t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. Just give me a ride to Da‟s to get the Caddy.”
234 Devon Pearse
“Yeah. Okay.”
She was halfway to the door before she turned back and called a
distracted goodbye to John.
“You want me to come, too?” he asked, as concerned as I was.
“No. You stay here and flirt with Erin. Lord knows somebody
should!” I gave him a wink, tossed a twenty on the table and headed
after Cass.
Chapter 27

Some Nasty Side Effects of Water Polo
Once outside, Cass was calmer, but it didn’t seem to come naturally. She
fished around in her purse for her car keys, mumbling, “Word to the
wise, never do away with your old car until you can afford a new
one.”
“What about the insurance money?” I asked. “When do you think
you‟ll see the fruits of your labor?”
“About the twelfth of never, I suppose.” She sighed and forced a
tight-lipped smile at some passing tourists. “I never filed a claim,” she
said through clenched teeth.
“Why the hell not? I thought that was the whole point!”
“It was, and it seemed like a brilliant idea when we talked about it.
But once it was done, oh, I don‟t know. The thought of some insur-
ance investigator showing up and poking around became a little more
real and I guess I chickened out.”
I cackled, enjoying my “I told you so” moment. “Leave it to you
to submerge your transportation for no reason. And by the way, lots
of ideas seem brilliant when you talk about them. That doesn‟t mean
you should test their brilliance without further consideration and
236 Devon Pearse
substantial debate, preferably with your best friend who sometimes

knows what she‟s talking about.”
“Okay, okay! Enough, already! I‟m at your mercy, so I‟m trying to
be contrite, but you‟re really pushing it.”
“Sorry.”
“So, what did you two love birds talk about?” she asked me, com-
pletely changing the subject.
“Cass! We‟re not kids anymore, for Pete‟s sake.”
“Did you actually just say, „For Pete‟s sake?‟”
“Yes,” I said, laughing, “I did. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No. I‟m just saying, if you don‟t want me to ask you questions
that make you feel like a teenager in love, then stop acting like one.
Those stars in your eyes are outshining the ones in the heavens.”
I rolled my eyes at her, but couldn‟t help blushing at the accuracy
of her words. “We had a nice conversation, and that‟s all I‟m saying
for now.”
“Okay. I won‟t push. But, Dev? Be careful, okay? I don‟t want to
see you get hurt again. You gave that boy your heart and he took it
with him when he left. Don‟t jump right back in too quick. That‟s all
I‟m saying.”
“Good advice,” I said, trying to seem grateful as her well-meant
words bored a whole in my stomach.
We picked up the Caddy and twenty minutes later I followed
Monique‟s car through the dingy streets of Mullens Crossing. I hadn‟t
been here for a while. Cass was right – it had definitely been deterio-
rating. When we pulled up in front of Monique‟s house, we were met
by the flashing lights of two squad cars. Not an unusual sight for the
neighborhood, but disconcerting when they were parked in front of a
loved one‟s home. I angled the behemoth beside Monique‟s car and
walked around to join Cass. She got out and leaned on the car door,
pale and nervous, and I heard her whisper to herself, “Not now.
Please not right now.”
Before I could question her, the front door of the house flew
open and Janette rushed toward us in tears. “Aunt Cass! I‟m so glad
you‟re here!” she sobbed, throwing herself onto Cass and clinging like
a vine. “I told her I just got here. I told her I‟d been staying at
Grandma‟s and I didn‟t know anything. I told them, too, but they
keep asking me questions and I‟m so confused! Momma won‟t be-
lieve me, Aunt Cass. She says she hates me and she knows that
Averey did it. Make them leave me alone! I don‟t know what to say
anymore!” She cried like a child, holding to Cass as her lifeline.
The front door opened again, and an officer stepped out. I could
hear Monique screaming inside and was struck by the way Cass
seemed completely unmoved, as if in a trance. It was as though none
of this came as a surprise to her, just at an inconvenient time.
The officer, a young black man, approached us, his face breaking
into a besotted smile as he neared Cass.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sloane,” he said to her, giving a polite nod
to me.
“Hello, Gabriel. How‟s your brother Michael doing? That torn
ligament of his healing okay?”
“He‟s fine, thank you. It‟s awfully nice of you to ask.”
“Well, Michael and I go way back. When we were younger, he was
almost like a brother to me, too. That being the case, don‟t you think
it‟s about time you started calling me Cassandra?”
He grinned as though he‟d been knighted by the queen herself.
“All right, then...Cassandra.”
“Any news on my car, Gabriel? I haven‟t heard anything yet.”
“No, miss, but we‟re still looking. We‟ll be sure and let you know
as soon as we find it, if there‟s anything left to find.”
“Thank you, Gabriel. I certainly appreciate all your efforts.”
I expected him to say, “Aw, shucks, ma‟am. ‟Tweren‟t nothin‟.”
But he only nodded and puffed out his chest a bit.
“I‟ll take it from here, Gabe.” The detective was so cat-like in his
approach, I didn‟t even notice him until he stood next to Officer
Archangel.
238 Devon Pearse
“Yes, Sir.” Gabriel nodded to us once more and headed back to

work.
Janette had calmed down considerably and stood silently next to
Cass. I watched the events unfold before me, categorizing everything
in my mind and trying to make some sense of it all. It was odd, to say
the least, that Cass hadn‟t asked what was going on with Monique
and Janette that would have warranted police involvement and I
hoped the detective hadn‟t been snooping around long enough to
pick up on that.
He was tall and fit, I guessed him to be in his early to mid forties,
with dark brown hair slightly graying at the temples and a spattering
of salt and pepper in his full, though neatly trimmed, beard. He
smiled politely, but not comfortably, and I could sense Cass‟s fore-
boding. I didn‟t know what it was, but she was obviously involved in
something more than just water polo and I was finally glad that she‟d
left me out of it.
My protective instincts were strong, however, and kicked in as the
detective narrowed his gaze at Cass.
“We meet again, Miss Sloane.”
She looked taken aback momentarily, but recovered. “You were
here the night Marcus was shot. How…nice of you to remember
me.”
“How could I forget? I believe your first comment upon your
arrival that night was,” he cupped his hand over his chin, “ah, yes, „Is
the fucker dead?‟, am I correct?” I cringed inwardly. Cass was silent,
but lifted her chin in defiance. “And, as I recall, you also reported
your car stolen from this same address about six weeks after the
shooting.”
“I‟m sure cars get stolen around here all the time, Detective. What
made you remember my car in particular?”
He smiled again, the serpent in the garden. “You never know
when one small crime could be connected to something much bigger.
So, I make it a point to notice everything I can. For instance, you
don‟t seem very surprised to see us here, and I find that a bit unusu-
al.”
“If you‟d done your research on the drug-dealing slimeball my
sister lives with, you wouldn‟t find it quite so unusual.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And when was the last time you happened
to see this aforementioned slimeball?”
“Nearly two months ago. When he was in the hospital.”
“And you haven‟t seen him since?”
“No.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then said, “Miss Sloane, if
you don‟t mind, I‟d like to ask you to come down to the station, very
briefly, to answer a few more questions. We‟re speaking with anyone
who knows Mr. Jamieson and trying to find out everything we can,
and anything at all could be helpful. I promise it won‟t take long.”
“I, um, would have to ask my friend to come with me. I was just
returning my sister‟s car...”
“It‟s fine, Cass. I‟ll take you. I don‟t think this should wait.” I was
certain Cass would have preferred me to make up some excuse, but I
had the feeling that wouldn‟t be to her benefit in the long run.
“I‟ll see you there in half an hour.” Detective Lake returned to the
house and Cass started breathing again. Janette looked ready to lose it
and Cass took her firmly by the shoulders.
“Janette, I need you to hold it together, okay? Everything will be
fine.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “I hate to intrude, but could somebody
please tell me what the hell is going on here? Janette? What‟s up with
Marcus and your mother?”
“Marcus is...gone, Aunt Devon. He‟s missing and nobody knows
where he is. Momma‟s upset ‟cause she thinks Averey kil...did some-
thing to him, but he didn‟t, Aunt Devon!”
Cass tried to brush it aside. “Oh, Marcus is always running off
with one ho or another. I don‟t know what the big deal is this time...”
“Aunt Cass...I can‟t find my locket,” she whispered desperately.
240 Devon Pearse
“Don‟t worry about it, Janette,” I said, “I can get you another
one.” It felt like a silly thing to say with her overreacting the way she
was, but I meant it. She smiled at me as if she felt bad that I was so
out of touch.
To Cass, she said, “They found blood...under the sofa cushion,
and they‟re marking something on the front steps, like droplets.” She
spoke the words in such a horrible whisper I actually shivered. Cass
went pale and released Janette to grab hold of the car door.
“It‟s okay,” she said. “We‟ll look for your locket later. Just go back
inside for now and don‟t say anything else.”
Janette nodded and took a step, then turned back to Cass. “It
should have been me that night,” she said, her eyes vacant and haunt-
ed. “I never should have gone to stay with you.”
“Don‟t talk like that!” Cass hissed. “What‟s done is done and you
can‟t blame yourself for it. Now go!” Janette obeyed, walking slowly
back to the house.
We drove in silence to the police station, both equally afraid of
the questions that were spinning through my mind. I felt a coward
for not asking them aloud, but I couldn‟t bring myself to want to
know the answers. Especially when we were about to be questioned
and every little thing I knew would make it that much worse for me.
“Cass, should I call an attorney?” I finally worked up the nerve to
ask.
“Why?” She was chewing on her nails, something she never did.
“I don‟t know. Just in case, I guess.”
“No,” she said, with a firm shake of her head. “That always makes
you look guilty, right?”
I quietly wished she hadn‟t said that, but went along with her
wishes. “Just be careful what you say, okay? And remember, you
don‟t have to answer any of his questions if you don‟t want to.”
“You were the one who insisted we go!”
“I know, and I‟m still not saying we shouldn‟t. Just try not to act
so nervous. And for God‟s sake, don‟t say anything suspicious.”
I parked the Caddy at a meter and we walked inside as eagerly as

two mutineers to the plank. Somehow Detective Lake had beaten us
there and was already seated behind his desk. He was wearing a dog-
eared pretense of composure, but I didn‟t buy it. It was like watching
the calm waters of a bottomless lake. Serene from afar, but once
drawn in, you could sink forever.
Various awards for bravery and the like were framed on the wall
behind him. His desk was organized to the point of absurdity and a
sickly looking plant sat on one corner next to his desktop calendar. A
complete set of Sherlock Holmes mysteries rested atop his filing cabi-
net. I noted the absence of family pictures and the third finger of his
left hand was glaringly unadorned.
He stood as we entered, shaking Cass‟s hand again and then shak-
ing mine and finally asking my name. With the introductions out of
the way, he offered us the two chairs before his desk as he sank into
his own. Once situated, he got right down to the business at hand.
“I‟ve asked you to come down here because Marcus Jamieson has
been reported missing and we have reason to believe that there may
have been foul play involved. Please don‟t be intimidated by the sur-
roundings. This is a very informal interview as a way to gather infor-
mation that might help us to locate him. I want to make it very clear
that you are not under arrest, you do not have to answer any ques-
tions that you do not feel comfortable answering and you may ask for
an attorney at any time. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Cass said, and he jumped right in.
“Miss Sloane, as I said before, I am aware that you reported your
car stolen from Mr. Jamieson‟s residence last month, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Cass answered dryly.
“And on that night, you claim that you did not see Mr. Jamieson,
is that also correct?”
“Yes. No, I did not see him.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone that night?”
“No. Marcus liked to get around, if you know what I mean.”
242 Devon Pearse
“I do, but I wonder why you said „liked‟ in the past tense. Any
particular reason for that?”
“I only meant that he got around a bit more before he
was...injured. If you‟d prefer I use a different tense, I‟ll describe him
as a player. Was, is and always shall be, world without end, amen.”
“Speaking of getting around, Miss Sloane, that‟s the funny thing.
Mr. Jamieson has been in a wheelchair since leaving the hospital and
getting around anywhere would have been quite difficult for him.”
“What about his brother? He was supposed to come and pick
Marcus up when Monique went out of town.”
“We‟ve spoken with Norman Jamieson and he told us that when
he went to pick his brother up, no one was home. He assumed Mar-
cus had decided to go with your sister. But you see, Miss Sloane,
Marcus Jamieson did not, in fact, go with your sister. He never
planned to. She tells us he had every intention of waiting right there
at home for his brother.”
He was speaking very quietly now, leaning toward us across his
desk, urging us to lean in to hear him better. What a brilliant storyteller.
I couldn‟t help but be impressed with his technique. Cass was the
snake and Detective Lake the charmer.
“Did you know,” he practically whispered, “that we believe Mar-
cus Jamieson went missing on the very same night your car was sto-
len?”
Cass swallowed, but didn‟t blink. “That‟s very interesting. Maybe
the same hoodlums who stole my car did something to Marcus. That
would be...just awful.”
Detective Lake smiled and suddenly sat back in his chair, chang-
ing tactics completely. “Miss Sloane, why did you go to your sister‟s
house that night?”
“I went to pick up my niece. She called me because she was afraid
to be alone with Marcus while my sister was out of town.”
“And was Mr. Jamieson at home when she made that call to you?”
“I have no idea. She called from a friend‟s house and said she‟d
meet me at Monique‟s in an hour or so.”
“So why the sudden urgency to get your niece out of the house?
She obviously had friends she could stay with for a while. And why
even bother if his brother was picking him up later that day?”
“She was only at her friend‟s for a few hours after school. She had
no desire to be alone with Marcus for even a minute. And she was
nervous to stay in the house alone.”
“And was Mr. Jamieson home when she arrived to wait for you?”
“I have no idea, and neither does she. Neither one of us bothered
to go inside.”
“And why is that, may I ask?”
“Because we didn‟t want to see him. Is that really so difficult to
understand?”
“But she didn‟t know where Mr. Jamieson was?”
“It isn‟t her responsibility to know where the jackass is every se-
cond of the day, now is it?”
Lake graced her with a textbook sardonic expression for her out-
burst. “No, Miss Sloane, I suppose it isn‟t. And you believe your car
was stolen at some point that night, yet you didn‟t report it stolen
until late the next day, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And why is that?”
“When I got to the house, I noticed I was low on gas. I was a little
under the weather and I didn‟t feel like dealing with it at the moment,
so I left my car there and took Monique‟s instead. We both have
spare keys to each other‟s cars. Janette and I drove back later the next
day to get my car and that‟s when we saw the broken glass and real-
ized my car had been stolen.”
“What time did you arrive at your sister‟s house the night your car
was presumably stolen?”
“I‟m not sure exactly, but it was starting to get dark.”
“Did you consider getting gas at the gas station down the street?
244 Devon Pearse
Surely it wouldn‟t have taken long and it would have saved you con-
siderable trouble the next day.”
“Are you familiar with Mullens Crossing, Detective?”
“Of course.”
“Then you should realize what a stupid question that is.”
“Point taken. How long did you stay at the house?”
“Not long. Just long enough to get Janette.”
“Did you see or hear anything suspicious that night?”
“No. Nothing more than the usual suspicious activity.”
“When you returned the next day and still did not see Mr. Ja-
mieson, why did you not report him missing at that time?”
“We assumed his brother had picked him up.”
“And did you notice anything out of place when you went inside
the house?”
“No. We didn‟t go inside at all.”
“How did you make the call to the police to report your car sto-
len?”
“I used my cell phone.”
“And where did you and your niece wait for the police to arrive?”
“We waited in the car...Monique‟s car.”
“Why not wait inside the house? Surely that would have been
more comfortable, and probably safer.”
“I don‟t know. We just didn‟t feel like it.”
“You just didn‟t feel like it.” The detective looked nonplused.
“And what about tonight? Was there any specific reason you didn‟t
go inside this evening, to see your sister, who was obviously upset
and I‟m sure could have used your support?”
Cass unfolded her arms, which had been entwined protectively
across her chest, and I noted the impressions her fingernails had left
in her skin.
“I didn‟t see the need to go inside. My niece came out and told me
what had happened. I know my sister very well, Detective. Better
than you do, I‟m sure. Trust me, she didn‟t need me, or anyone else,
to comfort her. She was just looking for someone to blame, and I
didn‟t want to be that person.”
“Looking for someone to blame for what, exactly?”
“For whatever fucked-up mess Marcus has gotten himself into
this time. Look, Detective, since you seem to know so much about
me and the report I filed the night my car was stolen, then you
should also know that I included in that report some information
regarding a gang symbol that had been painted on Monique‟s house
the month before. In fact, you can still have a look at it if you like.
Most of it‟s still visible under the paint. Marcus had really pissed off a
local gang, and I certainly wouldn‟t put it past them to have taken the
opportunity to...do something to him.” She looked around the sta-
tion. “I don‟t notice any plausible gang members in here. I assume
you‟ve already questioned them?”
Detective Lake stared hard at Cass for several long seconds and
finally turned his attention toward me.
“Miss Pearse.”
“Please, call me Devon. Miss Pearse is my mother.” He didn‟t
crack a smile. Not that I was expecting him to. “Sorry. Couldn‟t re-
sist. I‟ve always wanted to say that.”
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, as well? The
same rules apply to you as to Miss Sloane.”
“Then I‟m sure you‟ll make me feel at ease, as well. Knock your-
self out.”
“Thank you. How do you know Mr. Jamieson, if you know him?”
“He‟s hooked up with Cass‟s sister Monique. I met him for the
first time when he paid a somewhat less than congenial visit to their
mother‟s house last summer. I have to tell you, Detective, he didn‟t
make a very good first impression.”
“How‟s that?” he asked.
“Believe me when I tell you, I wouldn‟t know where to begin.”
He rifled through some papers on his desk. I got the impression
he really didn‟t need to, but felt it would add to the suspense.
246 Devon Pearse
After a moment of shuffling, he looked up at me again and asked,

“Would you by any chance be referring to an altercation which took
place on the evening of June sixteenth? The police responded to a
domestic disturbance call from Dinah Sloane‟s house.”
“I believe that would be the night, yes.”
“The neighbors told us it was quite an evening. According to the
report, several threats were overheard and blows were exchanged.”
“The only thing I hurled that night, as I recall, was an insult. And,
if memory serves, Marcus is a big boy. I‟m sure he can take care of
himself.”
“Can you think of anyone who would have reason to harm Mr.
Jamieson?”
I guffawed, surprising him. “Honestly, I would have more trouble
coming up with anyone who wouldn‟t.”
“I see. And what is your relationship to Miss Sloane?” He nodded
at Cass.
“We‟ve been friends since the dawn of time.”
“And were you together or did you speak to one another at any
time on the night in question?”
I laughed lightly. “We‟ve been together or spoken on the phone
almost every day for the past twenty years, but I can see this is im-
portant to you, so I‟ll try to remember the specifics. Cass was sick
that night, and my neighbor, Mrs. Babcock, made some chicken soup,
which I delivered to Cass‟s place.”
Cass nodded and glanced at Lake, who asked me, “What time did
you arrive at Miss Sloane‟s home with the chicken soup?”
I chewed on my thumbnail. “Well, let‟s see. Mrs. Babcock likes to
get to bed early, so she must have finished the soup no later than
seven and she sent me immediately on my way with it. It takes me
about twenty minutes to bike to Cass‟s – I don‟t own a car; the one
I‟m driving now belongs to my father – but the soup slowed me
down a little, so figure seven thirty.”
“And what exactly did you do when you got there?”
“I kicked a dog, smoked a joint and set the whole damn place on
fire. After the raping and pillaging, of course.”
“Of course. Let me rephrase that. Was Miss Sloane present when
you arrived?”
“Yes, she was.”
“And how did she appear to you?”
“She appeared sick, Detective. In fact, I stayed with her for quite
some time that evening, playing Florence Nightingale. Um, that‟s not
as kinky as it sounds.”
“Was Miss Sloane‟s niece, Janette Fulton, also present?”
“Present and accounted for.”
“Approximately what time did you leave Miss Sloane‟s home?”
“I‟m really not sure, but I know it was pretty late. I had the Bridge
of Lions all to myself.”
“And what was Miss Sloane doing when you left her that night?”
“Snoring like a freight train,” I lied, but suffered no guilt.
“So, she was asleep when you left?”
“No, she always snores when she‟s wide awake.”
“Did anything seem…out of place to you that evening? Anything
at all?”
You mean like the way Cass sounded on the phone and how freaked out she
and Janette were acting, not to mention how out of sorts she‟s been ever since?
“Wow, you sure do pick some toughies, don‟t you, Detective?”
Lake smiled, the humor somehow missing his eyes, and said,
“Yeah. That‟s why they pay me the big bucks.”
I laughed as jovially as he smiled. “Somewhere inside that chiseled
exterior lurks a rampant but repressed sense of humor struggling to
get out.” Wanting desperately to turn the tables and sensing it was
now or never, I studied him for a moment before leaning forward
and resting my forearms on his desk. “Look, Detective, I‟ll be straight
with you, which is very difficult for me, I can assure you, so I hope
you appreciate it.”
“I‟ll certainly try.”
248 Devon Pearse
“Thanks. I know all you‟re really trying to find out is whether or

not there‟s a chance in Hell that Cassandra had something to do with
the disappearance of the missing bastard in question, am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay. Now we‟re getting somewhere. See how much time can be
saved if we‟re up front with one another? Now, to answer your ques-
tion, no, I do not think for one second that Cass had anything to do
with this crime, if there even is one. Furthermore, since I‟m already
giving you my opinion, here‟s a little bonus for you. If you‟re really
interested in finding out what happened to that despicable excuse for
a man, maybe you should focus your attentions elsewhere, say on the
rival dealers in the area, the ones who have been threatening him, or,
better yet, offer a reward to the person who did him in, if that‟s actu-
ally what happened, and then give them a medal. But either way, un-
less you can come up with some sort of evidence that would give you
any reason to suspect her above anyone else, keep your theories to
yourself and leave my friend alone.”
I stood up, shaking, but in control, and took Cass‟s arm. “So, are
we through here, Detective, or should I rent the cell next to Cassan-
dra‟s for the evening?”
Lake arose, a hint of unexpected admiration in his eyes which I
found quite satisfying. “No need to check in, Miss...Devon. You and
Miss Sloane are free to go. For now.”
“Thank you, Detective. Oh, and by the way, you might want to
give that plant a few used tea bags around the roots and pour some
water over them. It‟s a little trick I learned from Mrs. Babcock. It‟s
worked wonders for Ophelia.”
I turned, walking steadily away and taking Cass with me, resisting
the urge to bolt with all my might. I was well aware of the fact that I
had just lied through my teeth to a pretty astute and cunning detec-
tive and I couldn‟t wait to get the hell out of that place. It wasn‟t
right, but it had to be okay. After all, Cass would have done the same
for me. And it wasn‟t like she had anything to do with Marcus‟s dis-
appearance. She‟d done away with an over-priced lemon of a car, and

that was that. She‟d filed a false police report, sure, but that was the
extent of it. Somewhere in the Great Beyond, I was certain we had
Karma on our side. And there was absolutely no way Detective Lake
would ever know that I was fibbing about staying with Cass that
night. So why was I so nervous? I felt his eyes on my back as we
walked and I kept my gaze on the exit sign. Don‟t turn around. Whoever
turns back looks guilty.
As we were almost to the door, Cass glanced back over her shoul-
der. It was only for a moment, but it was enough.
Buy
A Lighter Shade of Gray
From Amazon.com or
ALighterShadeofGray.com
Today

A LIGHTER SHADE OF GRAY Excerpt

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

A LIGHTER SHADE OF GRAY Excerpt

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Neverland Publishing Company

Copyright © 2010 by Devon Pearse

The poem “Abandoned House”, © 2009 by Virginia Goebel, is used by permission.

Cover Design by John Pierce

Printed in the United States of America

BUY FULL VERSION of

Insistent rays of Sunday piercing through the numbing haze of sleep. I

somehow transform me into an entirely different person just because

pletely logical. To Cass it was an outrage. “Nonsense! You‟re never

“You may all take your seats now.”

works at 7-11.” I always wanted to protest that if I‟d gone to Heaven

“No. Averey picked her up earlier. His grandma wanted to see

giant foil-covered casserole which Monique hurried to rescue. I as-

“Tell her the middle name,” Monique gasped, still enraptured by a

day cake as we all gathered to sing the inescapable anthem. As Janette

“You gonna do what, pussy?” Marcus asked, laughing and giving

The silence which followed was slowly encroached upon by some

I awakened to the aroma of frying steak. There was a damp spot on my

“Yeah? Well at least I‟m not a drooling writer.”

“Try to keep up.”

Over dinner we discussed my squirrel problem, which led to rem-

The poor woman looked so crushed I was tempted to take it all

on your own for this one.” She looked at me forlornly. My con-

rence to our all-important celebration. It was a day of reflection, a day

“Hmm?” he replied, leaning back against a tree, his ancient fishing

She played sweet music while I danced

room where my mother played and the stranger-girl danced so happi-

hate Libby more, somehow give me one startling piece of evidence I

again five years ago without either of us actually having to claim or

I‟m sure of it.” She touched my shoulder and looked at me hopefully.

“God, kids can be so cruel.” She looked at me pleadingly. “Please

my mother with her cello. A beautiful sepia masterpiece, the portrait

tifully descriptive story-telling abilities. Prose rolled off her tongue

had happened to be my grandmother‟s brother, was killed in World

and personal way, like he was giving that name to me to make me

had been a friend of my father‟s ever since I could remember, had an

beneath the surface, planning on staying there until my drowning

I didn‟t know where to put my hands, overwhelmingly aware of

be quite informative. But there were also the not-so-rare occasions

magical kissing twig, waiting to be smooched. He would turn the

feeble sprig over my shoulder, full of phony Christmas cheer.

But it‟s so beautiful. Even in the nothingness. Because of the silence.

was a good compound question. I supposed I was here simply be-

“Don’t let go!”

very and I was consumed with thoughts of Drew. I wondered if Nina

With these thoughts a whirlwind in my mind, I languished

around my neck. I shivered as his hands brushed my shoulders, as he

Life sucks! Here’s your proof. Read it if you dare, but

look for no answers, foolish mortal, for I sure as hell

have none to give.

I didn’t go to work today. I couldn’t. My alarm went

off, I got up and got dressed and even walked to the

er asked if I was okay. I don’t remember what I said,

if I said anything at all, but she finally closed the

door and drove away. I went home and got my bike. I

didn’t know where I was going, or if I even wanted to

go anywhere. I just rode around all afternoon. It felt

strange being so alone, without my Dev, without Nina.

Only me and the wind in my face.

Remember when we used to sit at the back booth in

Pizza Town and listen to music on the jukebox? We’d

bring a stack of quarters and play We Belong by Pat

Benatar over and over again. It seems like so long ago

now. A different life. A forgotten, screwed up childhood.