Threads of Us: A Novel

PROLOGUE

GRACIE

OCTOBER 2014

Aregular person does not run from the last terrible bit of her father’s funeral. Only someone who has lost basic coping skills or gone a touch mad would do such a thing. A regular person would, at the very least, maintain the most primitive ability to just hold her chin up for twenty more minutes. But as it turns out, I am not a regular person.

The day had begun with a small gathering of family at Chicago’s Lakeside Funeral Home followed by a lovely service at the church. My body had been squeezed by distant relatives, my face clasped by countless pairs of hands, and by the time Aunt Flora and I stepped out of the black town car in front of the cemetery, my shield of emotional composure was deteriorating. I watched in a daze as cars parked one by one in the synchronized choreography of a funeral procession, and when I saw a cousin who had flown all the way from London bobbling toward me from across the parking lot, I ducked my head and followed a stream of black clothing into the gravesite chapel.

My mouth was dry from hours without so much as a stick of gum. I didn’t remember being quite so parched when Grandmama Marie died or dear Aunt Hazel. Funerals are strangely dehydrating, but I had handled those sad occasions far more heroically than this one. I found a large peppermint candy rolling around in the bottom of my handbag—miraculously still in its plastic wrapper—and had just popped it into my mouth when I saw Mrs. Dearborn approach.

You look wonderful, dear, she said, patting my arm with faint affection. The spitting image of your father. We both hailed from Surrey in the UK but had not seen each other in years.

I lodged the oversized mint into one cheek, then the other, and offered a nearly incomprehensible Thank you.

That’s when Mr. Dearborn charged over to join our conversation. I’m sorry. Your father was a great man, he said. You gave a strong eulogy today. In fact, you remind me of him.

Exactly what I was just saying, Mrs. Dearborn echoed. Such poise.

I smiled politely and fiddled with my necklace, the string of pearls that had once been my mother’s, thinking that might be the end of our exchange. It was not.

The news must have come as quite a shock, Mrs. Dearborn went on. She kindly extended her thoughts on the difficulty of sudden deaths while I tried to assess whether I might be able to chew the mint without breaking a tooth. I had a talent for humiliating myself in unconventional ways, but certainly I should’ve been able to conceal this power on such a vulnerable occasion.

Reaching into my bag, I searched for the tissue I’d used earlier to blot my mascara. When I’d scraped every corner and found nothing that could relieve me of the enormous candy, Mr. Dearborn pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gallantly held it out to me.

I had managed to keep a level head all afternoon, but this was the moment I thought I might cry. I forced a smile and accepted the awkward gift, then tried to disguise the transfer of the mint to the handkerchief. After a minute of panic wondering if I should give it back—absolutely not—I was free to resume holding my head high. I would let the Dearborns see the likeness of their late friend, all the while wishing that I could just disappear. I would let them see poise, not the twenty-six-year-old woman who was desperate for a glass of water—parched from treading through grief as if it were an Olympic sport, albeit far less dazzling than synchronized swimming or water polo.

Had you seen him recently? Mrs. Dearborn asked.

I was supposed to see him just the next morning, I heard myself say. There was something he wanted to talk to me about.

Such a shame.

It was a shame. A shame of the highest order. I had lost my father very unexpectedly. It could also be said that I had lost him many years before when I lost myself. Our relationship had been impaired ever since. Now I was left to wonder what he meant to say to me and what I was to make of the things he’d left behind.

The reverend made a move to still the murmuring crowd. Now, be in touch if you need anything, Mr. Dearborn said. I hope you keep that chin up.

But of course, you will, Mrs. Dearborn said. You are your father’s daughter, after all. A fine young lady.

Fine young lady. The words pounded in my head, and the beads of sweat that had trimmed my hairline for hours fell into a trickle of skin-born tears. I swiped my forehead with the back of my hand, not wanting anyone to notice that I was coming undone. But suddenly, my whole body felt heavy with clarity. I was not a fine young lady. I was a bloody mess, an imposter modeling a look of bravery when inside I felt as though I was going down in battle.

To the Dearborns, I said, Thank you very much.

To myself I muttered, you’re not fine.

That’s when the panic ignited like fire in my belly and rose into a flush on my face. My breath became shallow as if a two-ton weight had been placed on my chest. Adrenaline fizzed through me in a rush of heat and made my muscles feel as though they were swelling against my bones. My heart pounded, my blood sugar dropped, and as I struggled for oxygenation, I debated my options. Would I stand there and fight against my body’s distress, cling to the low likelihood of shattering into pieces? Or would I run, flee the whole unbearable scene?

I glanced around the room. Did I even know these people? I tried to look away from the sea of strange faces; still, I felt every sympathetic gaze. Everyone could see that David Wilder’s daughter was nothing short of a disaster—a one-hundred-and-eight-pound weakling unraveling before their eyes. I forced air into my lungs, then out again, and when the reverend had successfully captured the attention of the room, I made my exit. I slipped out the chapel door and stepped onto the lawn that laced the paved road to the gravesite.

It was autumn in Chicago. The air was infused with an earthy aroma, and a mist hung high in the sky. I wobbled on the damp sod in heeled shoes, trying to catch my breath, and lifted my face to the sun. I imagined it would refract the light in my watery eyes and transform them from hazel-gray into brilliant emerald. The irrepressible green of sadness, my father once said after I’d been crying. I’m not sure if anyone else had ever seen my eyes change in color. Such details have a way of vanishing before anyone can understand the story.

I knew a few things about vanishing acts. My father had perpetually moved around the globe, leaving one city for the next. As a result, there was very little evidence of my childhood. Even if there had been a steady landscape where I could have planted a time capsule, I’m not sure what I would have put inside it. My first pair of dance shoes perhaps, old mix tapes, or the photograph my father took outside Highclere Castle when I was five. The photo had sat in a sterling frame for a time, fostering a memory. It was a portrait of me striding across a gravel footpath with a toy sword in one outstretched hand. Rogue twists of hair framed fierce delight on my face, as if I were prepared to protect earth, body, or soul with nothing more than a five-dollar gift shop item and a sparkle in my eye.

For some reason, this is the image that came to me as I tried to collect myself outside the chapel. I wondered where the photo in the sterling frame had gone and wished I had found a way to bury mementos instead of memories.

Wrenching one heel from the lawn and then the other, I stumbled toward the road in my tailored skirt. I pulled my cell phone from my bag and lifted it this way and that, hoping for a signal, for a ride—an escape route of any kind.

Gracie, came a deep voice. Startled, I turned. Beau Griffin, my father’s building contractor, stood on the grass behind me. I’m so sorry for your loss, he said with a rare genuineness. I don’t mean to disturb. I saw you step out, and I just wanted to see if you were okay. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked up to where I still held my phone to the sky. What are we doing out here?

Though he was only slightly older than me, in that desperate moment, Beau Griffin reminded me of one of the mature oak trees clustered there on the lawn. Tall, rugged, gentle—a strength into which I could perhaps lean without too much bother. I lowered my phone. I’m trying to get a signal. To order a car. Do you have a signal?

Well, I have a car. Do you need a ride?

I nodded vigorously.

No problem. He glanced over his shoulder. But do you want to go back in there first?

I imagined all those people stopping to look at me, David Wilder’s resilient daughter, and the ground swayed below me. He extended a steady hand, but I shifted away. If you don’t mind, I’d just like to go.

We started in the direction of the parking lot. He had to hurry to keep pace. It was a nice service, he said. Never seen that many carnations before.

Aunt Flora thought that was better than going for the roses.

I think carnations are totally underrated.

I squinted up at him, doubtful, but his face was sincere. I always thought funerals were supposed to reflect the person who died. One last celebration in their honor before getting them on to their final resting place. But I’m not sure there has been much of my dad in this day. There should have been roses. There should have been a soprano singing Puccini at the church. And Aunt Flora is serving chocolate cake at the luncheon. He didn’t even like chocolate cake.

Too rich.

Exactly. He stopped walking, prompting me to do the same. I peered up at Beau Griffin and into a halo of sunlight. His ashes shouldn’t even be here, I said. They should be buried in Surrey with my mum.

One corner of his mouth curled up tentatively. "You know, Gracie, I think funerals are for getting the people who are grieving wherever it is they need to go."

You do?

He moved toward one of the parked cars. We had passed a row of silent sedans, coupes, and SUVs in every shade of gray, but he unlocked the passenger door to a brilliant blue classic convertible. I’m not a car person, but it was glorious.

Is this yours? I asked.

It’s a Ford Falcon, he said, more self-conscious than proud of the unlikely getaway car. You ready?

I hoped he wouldn’t notice my eyes turning emerald as I slid into the refuge of the passenger seat, trying not to choke on emotion.

The Falcon’s white canvas top was secured in place, but the windows were down when we pulled out onto the pavement. Waves of dark hair lifted from my face while I watched the cemetery disappear in the side mirror. I was a thousand miles away from accepting that this—running and numbing and avoiding—does not, in fact, work. The burden of heartache cannot be lifted on a fleeting autumn breeze and left behind in a pile of oak leaves. And answers do not materialize on the horizon simply because one wishes them to appear.

But answers do come. Not scripted in longhand or printed tidily in black ink, but they come. Understanding arises like a memory or photograph unfolding from where it was long ago tucked away. It arises when the warrior child recalls that she’s not made of poise and pearls; when she decides she’s had quite enough of running and bravely strides back out into the fray, knowing she can feel everything and not fall to pieces.

I just wasn’t ready yet.

1

GRACIE

EIGHT DAYS EARLIER

Hold your breath and you’ll nosedive, my copilot yelled into his headset, seemingly unfazed as the plane pulled sideways. This happens with a single-engine aircraft; propellers spin clockwise, and we roll left. I adjusted my control inputs, but the torque of the plane intensified, throwing us into a spin. We were falling headfirst, with a deep length of blue the only thing in sight. Shit! my copilot yelled, this time in a far more pressing tone. That’s not sky, Gracie, that’s Lake Michigan! Come on. Do something. Pull up! I grabbed hard on the yoke but could not get the nose of the plane to pitch upward. Our momentum only increased. I could not take in air. Then there was darkness.

I was damp with sweat when I awoke.

This was the day I was to revive my career with a singular act—like a trapeze artist midair, hoping to catch a singular bar. So I suppose it was fitting to start the morning by tumbling through the sky. A parachute would have been nice, though. Free-falling into oblivion was not the subtext I’d envisioned for this critical moment. Certainly, it was not going to help my fear of flying. I reasoned that my dream was nothing more than classic anxiety—perfectly ordinary. Although, as I pulled myself from a tangle of sheets and put my feet on solid ground, I did find it peculiar that my copilot had my father’s face.

I had recently taken a fall of a different sort when I was dismissed from my position with Boden Contemporary Dance. Thankfully, one of my former teachers from Juilliard had invited me to dance in the Contemporary Choreographer’s Showcase, an event hosted by Garza Dance Company. Olivia Garza, my idol since I was a girl, had danced with New York City Ballet before returning to her roots in Chicago and starting a company of her own. Now she was recruiting new dancers. I had rehearsed for weeks, and like that audacious acrobat, placed my hopes and dreams on a single catch—today’s performance.

I fumbled around in the dark for a warm pullover and made a dash for the thermostat in the living room. The front window and its yawning metal frame were to blame for the chill in the air, but they were also responsible for the splendid peek-a-boo view of Lake Michigan. This morning the water was rough, and the trees that lined the city street below bent west with gusts of wind. A marathon of gold and crimson leaves blew by the window, letting fate carry them, as I imagine we all must. I stretched my arms above my head until I heard my back crack, then went to get ready.

I was sitting on the yellow tile countertop in the kitchen finishing a bowl of bran flakes when my flatmate’s curvy figure appeared in the doorframe. Ana’s dark hair was piled neatly on top of her head, and she already had her bag slung over one arm. Today’s the big day, she sang as she went for the coffeepot.

I shut my eyes against the thought. It’s colossal. Wait until you see the choreography. Hardest I’ve been given in years.

Please, you’re like a prodigy, she said while filling a travel mug with smells of hazelnut and cream. And I’ve never seen you prepare more for a performance. You’re ready.

In the seven years I’d known Ana, she’d never been anything but honest. Still, I had self-doubts. You really think so?

I’m telling you, honey. Just go out there today and do what you know how to do. And don’t fuck up.

Ha! No pressure. I hopped off the counter, my Converse low-tops squeaking against the floor.

Hang on, she said, taking a step closer to me. You’ve been pulling at your eyebrows again.

Damn. I know. I stooped to catch my reflection in the chrome toaster. I don’t know why I do that. There’s nothing left but scraggly bits.

Hold still. She fished a brow pencil from her bag and went to work skillfully filling them in. That should do it, but keep this, she said, handing me the pencil. I’ve got to go.

Thanks, Ana. I’ll walk out with you.

Where are you headed? she asked as I followed her across the floral rug in the living room to the front door.

I’m meeting Mark for an early coffee.

He’s coming to the show, right?

I think so.

You think so? She turned to face me, her naturally thick brows lifting suspiciously. Does Mark know how important today is to you?

Yes. He’s been really supportive. Just busy with work, I said, opening the door to the building corridor.

She tilted her head, her eyes softening. I don’t know, G. I’m not sure I see it.

See what? I scooted her into the hall so I could lock up.

This thing with Mark. I mean, is he the person you tell all your stories to?

I don’t know. Is that the relationship measuring stick now?

She tapped the elevator button with a knuckle. It’s a part of intimacy.

Right, but that can evolve over time. It’s not like we have to dive all the way in from the start to know if we’re a good match.

She hit the button a second time. The building was old and the elevator, slow. You’ve been together for nine months.

And you and Tess for almost a year, and it’s not like you’re talking about long-term plans.

That’s not— She stopped herself.

What? Not true?

We should take the stairs.

Ana, what are you not telling me? I asked as we began our descent down the four flights, my voice echoing in the lofty stairwell.

It’s your big day, she reminded me. We should be talking about the showcase.

But once we were on the pale travertine floor of the lobby, she turned to me and conceded with a sigh. Tess asked me to move in with her. Before the first of the month. I’m so sorry, G. I’ve been wanting to tell you, but with everything you have going on—

This is great! I said, my voice possibly raising an octave too high.

Yeah? Her big brown eyes searched my face as I tried to hide my disappointment. It’s not that I thought she’d be my flatmate forever. I just hadn’t allowed myself to imagine her ever leaving.

Of course, I said. It’s exciting!

I don’t want to bail on you with the rent and everything, honey. But Tess is the one. I mean, I’ve never been so happy.

Yes! You should move in with Tess.

She pulled me in for a hug that can only be described as an affectionate mugging. After what felt like several minutes, she set me in front of her. Okay, time for your big day.

I lifted my chin with a plucky can-do spirit. I got this.

Hell yeah, you do. And I’ve got my tickets right here. She pulled them from her bag and slid them into her cleavage for safekeeping. Fifth row center, baby! she added before shimmying out the door.

Ana headed south for the Magnificent Mile where she would take the early shift waiting tables at an upscale bistro, and after attending my performance that afternoon, she would finish her day playing upright bass in a local jazz club until two a.m. I headed east, wishing I had thought to bring an umbrella.

It had been a balmy start to October. One might have confused it for spring if it hadn’t been for the orange foliage and the absence of bees in the park. Now temperatures had dropped, and clouds were threatening rain. People left apartment buildings in groups the size of elevator cars and tangled with the winds as they scattered up the street. By the time I could see the spot where I was to meet Mark, winds were blowing up skirts all over town. I pulled a red scarf from my bag and fixed it on my head as drops of rain started pelting the pavement. Some weather, a woman said to me as we forged into the crosswalk. I readily agreed and followed the wind into the Dollop coffee shop.

The room buzzed with caffeine-infused activity. I pulled my scarf down around my shoulders and looked for a seat. A man with loads of teeth nodded at me and then at the empty chair at his table. I smiled timidly and instead chose one of the two empty stools by the window—prime coffee-shop real estate and a fine spot to wait for Mark.

In the time that Mark and I had been together, he’d passed the bar exam and become an associate at Stetson and Lawrey. His schedule was demanding, and though I didn’t mind the nonchalance of a quick morning coffee, I’d pinned my hopes on him being able to attend my performance that afternoon.

Rain beat against the glass pane as he came pushing through the door. What a jam to get out this morning, he said, shaking out his coat and draping it over the stool beside me. The office called while I was trying to leave, and then everyone in the whole damn city decided to get on the El. He leaned over, his face softening into a kiss. Hi, gorgeous.

I palmed his cheeks to dry the rain. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends.

I don’t do anything halfway. He paused. Are you wearing a cape?

I touched the red fabric loosely knotted around my neck and gave him a winning smile. It’s a rain cape. All the fashion this season.

Sexy, he said, clearly amused. I’ll put in an order. The usual?

Yes, thank you. I watched Mark step away to order a cup of tea for me and a large coffee, extra hot, for him. He looked smart in his navy suit and tie. There was something about his stature then that reminded me of a marble column. It might have been the gleaming fabric of his suit or his confident posture. Whatever it was, I now wondered if I looked as tousled as I felt. I returned my scarf to my bag and fidgeted with my burgundy cardigan, but the cotton weave resisted tidying.

Mark strode back over, a cup in each hand and a cluster of white square napkins wedged between two fingers. Did you get my message? He took a sip of his drink and then plunked his cup down hard, grimacing with the burn of hot coffee. He certainly didn’t do anything by halves.

When did you call?

This morning. But your phone went straight to voicemail. Is it off?

I pulled my phone from my bag and saw that the battery was dead. Shit. I must have forgotten to charge it last night. With everything on my mind, I didn’t even think to check.

Busy day? he asked. And I knew that he’d forgotten. How had he forgotten?

Oh, just the showcase, I said with mild sarcasm.

His surprise was earnest. My God, that’s today? Shit! I have to be in court at eleven and again at two. I don’t know how I’d get down there in time.

This all hit a little hard. Less so the not-going part; more so the forgetting part. I understood that Mark had a lot on his mind, but it seemed I hadn’t made the cut. I was off the mind, so to speak. I tend to be cheerful in undesirable circumstances. When waiting forty minutes in the cold for a bus that doesn’t come, or saddling up for that mammogram my doctor ordered to be sure the lump was nothing more than a pocket of fluid, I push on with a smile. Genuine positivity in the face of discomfort—a coping mechanism, I expect. Survival by the cheeriest. But that morning in the café, my goodwill toward objectionable situations was in short supply. I might have even given Mark a salty look when he said, My God, that’s today? I didn’t mean to lay on a guilt trip or anything; I was simply hoping for a different outcome.

Do you have to attend both appointments? I asked. Maybe one of the other associates—

But he was quick in his defense, pithy as ever. It has to be me, Gracie. I can’t just step away midday. You’ve seen how hard I’m working. It was true. We’d both been working hard. He sighed loudly. The couple sitting beside us might have glanced over. You know I’d be there if I could. I feel terrible that you’re disappointed.

Weirdly, now I felt guilty. For feeling disappointed, I suppose. It’s okay, I assured him.

After a resolving moment, Mark said, How about I take you to that little patisserie that you love later tonight? We can gorge ourselves on chocolate croissants, get post-performance fat and happy, and you can tell me every perfect detail.

I smiled at the suggestion and gave his arm a squeeze in a show of forgiveness. I have dinner plans with my father, but I can meet you afterward.

Mark inclined his head, perhaps recalling this detail, which I was sure I’d already shared. My father’s career was in the global marketplace. He traveled thirty-five weeks of the year to New York, Singapore, London, or Hong Kong. He’d spent most of this year doing business in Madrid, but today, I was his destination.

You nervous? Mark asked. Performing in front of Olivia Garza? His eyes widened with excitement.

Yes! Exhaustion has been the closest I’ve come to relaxing for weeks.

I’m with you there. His phone buzzed from inside his pocket. He pulled it out and asked if I’d mind excusing him for just a minute. I raised my cup in a salute as he took leave briefly, stepping outside under the shallow shelter of the marquee.

I passed the time the way I always did, by people-watching. A dozen customers were casually queuing up, waiting for mochas and lattes. I jiggled my foot to the tune of idle chatter, the espresso machine sputtering