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240 pages, Hardcover
First published June 28, 2022
You do not get to keep what is sweetest to you; you only get to remember it from the vantage point of having lost it.
That night as we ladled stew into bowls, brushed the tiny pearl teeth of children, walked dogs down damp streets, we felt the stranger's presence; it seemed we did these things for her, as if, while our town's population had increased by a single person, we had also doubled, become both ourselves and the sight of ourselves, now that we had a stranger to see us.
She could only see the horror of it. She couldn't see what we saw: Something happened here that happened no place else. We didn't know why it happened, or how. We didn't demand answers from it because our affliction itself had taught us that you cannot wrest answers from a mystery. We submitted to it. We bore it, carried it, so that there would be a place on this earth where people lived as we did and knew the things we knew. We did this not only for ourselves but also for them, for her, even if she could not appreciate it. We were necessary.
A girl became a mother who stayed or a mother who went, an outcome that surprised us, or didn't. Impossible to predict, what motherhood would bring out of a woman, what it would show her about herself, the end to which it would carry her.
She couldn't comprehend that a mother's going belonged to all of us, or that loss was the smallest part of it, because in losing her, we received everything else. Our affliction opened us to pain, yes, but also to heights of beauty, and of love, that people elsewhere would never know because they did not know what it was to love in the shadow of our affliction, our love deepened and made wild by the threat that hovered over it. Our affliction was terrible, but it was not as terrible as living without it.
...he knew that the mother had not died, but he could not grasp what had happened to her instead, nor find any way to feel about it except this simple sadness and a wishing against it, no different than if the mother had caught a fever or fallen from a great height. He couldn't access what it meant to us, and if he couldn't, it was unreasonable to expect Ruth, who had known us only weeks, to grasp it even half as well.
A mother was a chance to hate someone as much as you loved them, caring and wounding, a push and pull that only tightened the knot that bound you. While I envied the other girls their mothers, it felt right to me that I didn't have mine. Difficult, but comforting, the way I suppose one's life always feels.
He didn't understand that a mother and daughter cannot be protected from one another, that the harms that pass between them cannot be mitigated because they are also expressions of love.
Peter tried to gather her in his arms, but she broke free of him and ran sobbing across the yard and up the porch steps to me. She climbed into my lap and I told her soon, soon, the pain would fade. I looked across the yard at Peter. I could see the hurt in his eyes, and I wanted to wish that Iris had let him soothe her, but I couldn't make myself wish it. I wanted to wish she were not in pain, but I couldn't do that either, because the pleasure of soothing it went so deep.
I thought that I should want what Peter and Iris had, a simpler, less turbulent love, parent and child instead of the two-bodied creature Iris and I became together. But I could not make myself want it. I couldn't get enough of our push and pull, the spell we cast upon each other, our love like a secret chamber we shared, and always, no matter where we were or what we were doing, we were also in that chamber together. I loved to love her this way, even as I worried that this love might not be what a child needs, that it might also be a kind of harm.