I showed Caleb the story, since he was the only person I knew who might be able to put this in context.
“So who exactly is God in this scenario?” I asked. “Me? My sister? Iona? Or maybe it was Dr. Medina, for setting the whole thing in motion.”
We were lying in bed in his apartment, naked in a beam of late-summer sun, the damp sheets abandoned on the floor. He slowly ran his palm over my bare head, back and forth across the growing stubble, until my scalp was so exquisitely sensitive that I had to grab his hand to stop it. He was a good lover, it turned out—attentive and gentle, as if he’d broken people before by mistake but now knew better.
“None of those things, and all of them,” he said. “You’re still missing the point. As I see it, God isn’t necessarily the force that makes things happen. It’s the force that keeps you going despite those things. It’s just another word for hope.”
Hope. Funny how, despite what had happened over the last year, that word didn’t sound like something from a foreign language anymore. I couldn’t say why I was suddenly feeling it again, hadn’t yet found a name for the reason that kept me pushing forward against the forces that would push me back. It wasn’t God, or a belief system, or an organization or movement to which I subscribed. It wasn’t a person, not Elli or Caleb, although they were both excellent reasons to wake up in the morning and face the bullshit of the day.
Maybe it was just that I’d finally caught a glimpse of something new inside myself, a seed that had the potential to grow. I was curious what it might become.
I turned and kissed Caleb. “Well, I hope that the parents are too busy thanking the Lord who brought their little girl back to spend a lot of time worrying about where she’s been.”
“I hope so, too,” he said soberly, and kissed me back.
* * *
—
But of course the parents were going to worry; how could they not? And the truth was, even now—almost five months later—Elli and I still lived in a constant state of fear. Every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, I would watch my sister turn ghostly white. And I would know exactly what she was thinking, because I would be thinking it, too: Was this finally it? Had the authorities figured out who kidnapped Emma? Maybe someone had finally dug up security camera footage that had led them to my sister’s door. Maybe there was incriminating evidence that we’d left behind on the blanket with Emma: dead skin cells that they’d scraped out from under her fingernails, a stray eyelash that had come from my head, a tire tread, a footprint in the desert sand, the label on her fancy French footie PJs. Something would be the clue that would solve the case and land my sister—and, most likely, me—in jail.
But days passed, and then weeks, and then months; and no one had come. Maybe they never would. Still, we lived with this low buzz of anxiety, a new normal that Elli and I never actually discussed, just like we’d never discussed the fact that I’d moved into her house to help her get back on her feet, or that I was becoming the de facto partner in the florist business that I’d helped her resuscitate. Because what was there to say that we didn’t already know? She needed me there, and I needed her, and that was just something we both understood.
We were doing that more often, now: knowing each other’s minds. It was like picking up a rusty flute that you haven’t played since you were young, lifting it to your lips, and seeing if you still remember how to blow. And maybe you do, at least a little, though a lot of the time you still get the notes all wrong.
She was her, and I was me; each utterly distinct. But there were still places where we blended together, where the boundaries got a little fuzzy. I liked it that way. It meant that I could be myself, fully individual, and yet still be part of an us. It meant that I would never be alone.
* * *
—
I put the newspaper in the recycling bin and took it out to the curb to join the others just as the recycling truck rumbled up the block. Outside, the winds were blowing in from the drought-parched hills, making the bougainvillea shudder and the neighborhood wind chimes peal out their alarm. There was fire in the air, a dusting of ash on the drive, the threat of unseen dangers just over the horizon. But we lived deep inside the city, insulated by miles of houses that would burn long before ours. We were, for now, safe. Whether or not we deserved to be.
I looked down the hill toward the sea, where the Santa Ana winds were blowing the breaking waves into perfect curls. A clutch of surfers bobbed patiently in the water: Someone else’s disaster was proving their windfall.
The fires meant that the evening sunset would be brilliant, I realized. And maybe I should have felt more guilty about that—the balance of existence, shifting in my favor—but mostly I felt a strange peace, newly born and gossamer. Elli and I would watch the day end together; and together we would wait for the next to begin.
For Jodi
This one’s for you, sis.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WROTE THIS BOOK PRIMARILY during the pandemic, a period that reminded me how much we need connection, friendship, and a sense of belonging. I owe so much to the people who helped keep me sane during this long, strange trip. I’m still in shock that I emerged on the other side with a novel in hand.
To Susan Golomb, a superlative agent and valued friend: I wouldn’t be where I am without you. Raising a champagne toast to you.
To my amazing editor, Andrea Walker, whose discerning taste helped me elevate my prose, and whose sense of humor kept me from having a nervous breakdown in the process; and to the rest of my incredible team at Random House, including Avideh Bashirrad, Andy Ward, Michelle Jasmine, Barbara Fillon, Emma Caruso, Madison Dettlinger, and the indefatigable sales and design teams: I’m so happy to have found my literary home with you.
To the authors in my writing group, Angie Kim, Tim Weed, Chris Bohjalian, and Danielle Trussoni: Your sharp insights and virtual company are invaluable to me.
To Jen Koziol and Jeremy Berg, Maureen Meyer and Nat Pastor, and Craig and Abbey DiGregorio: I would never have found the time to finish this book (nor would I have been cheerful enough to do it) without our pod. Thank God for you all.
To my Los Angeles fiction writers community, including Rufi Thorpe, Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney, Jade Chang, Stephanie Danler, Edan Lepucki, Liska Jacobs, and Sara Sligar: Thank you for all the sage advice and strong cocktails.
To everyone at Suite 8: Our writing space was a haven during Covid; thank you for helping keep it alive. I promise I’ll bring in more chocolate and LaCroix soon.
To Brooke Ehrlich, I am so fortunate to have you as my champion in Hollywood; as well as Alex Kohner, undoubtedly the best lawyer in town.
This book feels like it owes a huge debt to friendship, so I especially want to thank my girlfriends, whose presence in my life I value more than ever: Laura Millersmith. Colette Sandstedt. Dawn MacKeen. The Spa Queenz, whose prolific texts helped me survive 2020—Erica Rothschild, Carina Chocano, Lisa Daly, Scarlett Lacey, Rachel Samuels, Danielle Parsons, and Miranda Thompson. The (former) TT crew—Amy Davila, Myndy Christ, Rosie Johnston, Natasha Silver, Jen Koziol, and Cleo Murnane. Lena Wells. Miwa Okumura. Daniela Bleichmar, Nichola Walker, and Darby Saxbe, thanks for all those sourdough recipes. Keshni Kashyap. Rachel Neupert. Kristin Levy. Tula Jeng. Danielle Renfrew-Behrens. Guin Doner. Courtney Phillips. And a special mention to all the Ivanhoe moms whose company and commiseration were invaluable this last year. I’m lucky my bench runs so deep.