Arlene told her that trauma doesn’t mean you’re broken, doesn’t mean that things will never get better again. That it becomes a part of you, and if you can face it and shake hands with it and find a way to move on together, you’ll always be better off than people who shove theirs down or, weirdly, people who’ve never had trauma at all.
“Your trauma is part of what makes you a survivor,” Arlene told her one morning. “It wired your brain to always be ready, always be thinking, and when you needed to act to stay alive and protect yourself, you were ready to do it. You didn’t hesitate. You’re a survivor. And you’re not alone. Everyone here is a survivor, too. Even Harlan. Even me.”
That helped. Ella had always imagined that she was the only person at school who didn’t have a perfect home life, the only one who cried herself to sleep at night with a chair wedged under the door. Turns out she was never alone, but everyone else was hiding their pain, too. She hates that she feels better now that her dad is dead, but…she’s just glad she feels better.
And today? Well, she expects to feel pretty great today.
As the caravan crawls across Florida, she can’t help checking the clock on her phone. When she’s about to burst, her mom calls back from the driver’s seat, “Smella, what’s your plan for today after homeschool?”
She fights a huge grin as she looks up. “Gosh, Mom. I don’t really have anything to do until the show tomorrow. Do you know something we could do?”
She can hear Mom struggling not to laugh. “Hmm. I don’t know. I mean, we’re in Orlando. But what is there to do in Orlando?”
Brooklyn looks up from her handwriting workbook, sunlight limning her golden hair as she bends over the kitchen table, pencil in hand.
There are benefits to the fact that six-year-olds never pay attention to state maps.
“We’re in Orlando?” she squeaks.
“Yeah, but I hear it’s pretty boring,” Ella says. “Big yawn. Nothing to do here.”
“But Disney World is here!” Brooklyn shrieks. “Oh my gosh, Mommy, can we go? Please? I have ten dollars from my birthday, and I’ll pay for everything, and—”
“Did someone say they were paying?”
Nana pokes her head in from the back bedroom, grinning knowingly.
Brooklyn nods enthusiastically. “Yes! Nana, we’re going to Disney World!”
“Well, now, we never agreed to that—” Mom starts, trying to prolong this glorious moment for as long as she can.
“Pleeeeease?” Ella says.
“Please?” Brooklyn shrieks.
“Pretty please with sugar on top?” Nana adds.
“Well, okay, I guess it’s all right, then.”
Brookie jumps up from her workbook and does a fantastically chaotic dance merging ballet with jumping around like a fool, and Ella jumps up and takes her hands and joins her, and when Brooklyn holds out a hand, even Nana joins them, briefly shaking her hips and doing some old-fashioned disco moves.
This moment—Ella wants to distill it so she can take a sip whenever the darkness creeps in, whenever her heart hurts, whenever she wakes up in the night from an unknowable nightmare, eyes hot and tingling, unable to breathe. Everything that happened led to this.
They survived for this. They fought for this. They killed for this.
And maybe it’s not perfect, because nothing is ever perfect. But they’re exactly where they should be.
To the survivors.
I used to blame myself for not doing more.
For not leaving earlier. For not pushing back. For not fighting him.
Now I am kinder to the younger version of me.
Now I believe that survival is enough.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my editor, Sarah Peed, for championing The Violence.
To my other editor, Tricia Narwani, for passing it on to her.
To my agent, Stacia Decker, for seeing the promise of this story and selling the hell out of it.
To David Moench, Alex Davis, Alex Larned, Keith Clayton, Nancy Delia, Liz Carbonell, and everyone at Del Rey who made this book happen.
To my husband, Craig, for spending the last twenty-four years as my unofficial therapist. I’m so grateful that when I say, “I’m broken; please fix me,” my partner and best friend is happy to talk about my feelings.
To Rhys, for the healing laughter, and to Rex, for the healing hugs.
To Betsy the therapist, who told me it wasn’t my fault.
To Ms. Wolfe, Dr. Huntley, and Jan Gibbons, who helped me navigate high school life while I hid the fact that I was a complete mess from my peers.
To Dr. Bryan Heit, for helping me figure out how the Violence works. If I got anything about the disease and vaccine right, it’s thanks to him. If I got anything wrong, it’s completely on me.
To the friends who got me through the pandemic: Kevin and Chuck, bringers of Friday Cocktail Chat, and Cathy, bringer of Oops, Now I Love Mountain Biking.
And to my mom, who got us both out of there alive. Living well is the best revenge.