They agreed.
Enter Eve Durham (my mother), the firecracker from Across the Pond. Shortly after they were married, Eve informed Barry that she was pregnant, to which Barry informed her that should the baby be a girl, her name would be Isabel, to which Eve informed Barry that she hated the name Isabel. Barry pushed. Eve pushed harder. In the end, he gave in, on the one condition that they use his mother’s name—Mary. Mom said, fine, but she wanted some kind of flower in the name.
BARRY MALONE’S FACE
(Upon Hearing the News That His Wife Wanted a Fucking Flower in Their Daughter’s Name)
And so I was born, the improbable Mary Iris Malone, kaleidoscopic anomaly from the word go.
Mim was a quick nickname. Only occasionally has Dad called me Mary, and then, only by accident. But I can’t blame him. My name—my existence—is a constant reminder of his broken promise to his mother.
That’s where you come in, Isabel. You get to make Dad whole. Through you, he gets redemption. He gets to keep his promise. In fact, I make a prediction: Dad will never call you anything other than Isabel. You will have no nicknames.
God, I envy you.
Anyway . . .
I’m with your mom now, riding back to Mississippi. Mosquitoland. That’s what I’ve been calling it. It’s catty, I know, but how else does one kick an entire state in the balls? I’ve chosen mockery.
The truth is, Mississippi doesn’t feel like home. Not yet. Until yesterday, I thought home was in Cleveland with my mom, but God, did I have that wrong.
Home is hard.
Harder than Reasons.
It’s more than a storage unit for your life and its collections. It’s more than an address, or even the house you grew up in. People say home is where the heart is, but I think maybe home is the heart. Not a place or a time, but an organ, pumping life into my life. There may be more mosquitos and stepmothers than I imagined, but it’s still my heart. My home.
A real kaleidoscopic New Pangaea.
My hope for you, Isabel, is that your home will be easy. Obvious. Desirable. My guess is it will be none of these things. My guess is you’ll have your own Mosquitoland to deal with. Good effing luck.
I haven’t decided whether I’ll continue writing to you after you’re born, or if my Book of Reasons is more of a prenatal correspondence log. Part of me thinks it would be a great way to offer up a lifetime of advice, and tell my stories as they come, rather than wait for you to grow up to hear them. By then, you probably won’t care anyway. Or I might forget them all, because I’ll be old. Or dead. That’s the thing about life—you don’t know how long you have until you’re dead, and by then, you don’t know much of anything at all.
Maybe I will. Keep writing, I mean. It does make me feel okay. And feeling okay is at a premium these days.
Anyway, I suppose you’d like to hear my ninth and final Reason. The thing of Things, the gemstone talisman, the last layer in my Giant Onion of Reasons. Are you ready? Here it is:
Isabel Sherone-Malone, you are Reason #9.
And if I’m honest with myself, you were the only Reason that ever really mattered. My dad wanted to divorce my mom? Fine. He wanted to marry another woman? Fine. He wanted the three of us to move way the hell away from my mom, my life, my world? Fucking fine. But he and the new wife were having a kid together?
Peace out.
And then yesterday happened. Sunrise Mountain happened. I walked into a room, and my life changed. (You should be ready for this. Sometimes you walk into a room one person, and when you come out the other side, you’re someone else altogether.) My Objective, once achieved, turned out to be something else entirely. Your mother was a big part of this. She pulled back a dusty curtain to reveal oh-so-many truths. Someday we’ll talk about it more. I’ll give these letters to you and fill in the gaps as best I can. You’ll probably have questions, and that’s fine. I will provide honest answers. Because even though honesty is hard, you really have to murder people with it if you expect to be a person of any value at all. Remember that, Iz. Be a kid of honesty. Wave it like a banner for all to see. Also, while I’m thinking about it—be a kid who loves surprises. Squeal with delight over puppies and cupcakes and birthday parties. Be curious, but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you’re making waffles. Don’t settle for the first guy (or girl) unless he’s the right guy (or girl). Live your effing life. Do so with gusto, because my God, there’s nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence. Know yourself. Love yourself. Be a good friend. Be a kid of hope and substance. Be a kid of appetite, Iz. You know what I mean, don’t you? (Of course you do. You’re a Malone.)
Okay, that’s all for now. Catch you on the flip side.
Blimey, get ready.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Your Big Sister
41
Behind the Curtain
AS I WALK into room 22, Mom’s silhouette commands my attention, as it did that fateful Labor Day, one year ago exactly. She’s sitting in an easy chair with her back to me, facing the window. Outside, the sun is setting. Its gentle glow casts my mother in an ominous light, made even more so as it seems to affect nothing else in the room. Next to her, a CD player sits on a coffee table. As the song comes to an end, the CD whizzes and hums, and the song begins again.
Elvis on repeat.
Shit.
It’s bad.
“What are you doing here?” she asks without turning around. Her voice sounds beyond repair. I don’t have to try hard to remember the last time I saw her. The night she sat next to Dad. The night of the one-line speech. My mouth freezes, my forehead melts, my hands tighten; I am 110 percent unprepared for this. My only response is so elementary, even I wince.