The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,36

an ounce, and have all your major organs in place. (Way to go, Peaches! Keep up the good work!) You are also the size of a plum.

I considered calling you “Plummy” but only briefly. It sounded too British, a name for some not particularly popular school chum who wears tweed and rides to hounds. Next week, you’ll be lemon-sized, but that didn’t bode well as a name either. At week fourteen, you’ll be the size of a peach, a sweeter and far more adorable fruit, so I decided to go with that. But Peaches is just a nickname, something I’ll use for now. I don’t think it’s fair for parents to pick out names before they’ve even laid eyes on the baby. How many times do you meet someone whose name just doesn’t fit them?

That’s a rhetorical question; you haven’t met anybody yet but, trust me, it happens. I had a friend in college named Tiffany who was studying astrophysics. She was absolutely brilliant but nobody would take her seriously. And I once met a Rupert who belonged to a biker gang and cooked meth in his garage. Names matter, Peaches, so I don’t want to choose yours until we’ve had a chance to get to know each other.

Speaking of getting to know each other, you’re probably wondering why I’m writing to you. Though you might suppose it was a professional hazard, I’m not actually in the habit of handing out unsolicited advice. I prefer to wait until asked. But when it comes to you, Peaches, things are different. I can’t stop thinking about what I might say to warn you or guide you. It’s weird, Peaches, and not really like me.

It makes me wonder; am I already becoming a mother?

Will I trade thongs and leggings for granny panties and high-waisted jeans? Will I begin pulling to the side of the road to read historical markers aloud? When the car comes to a sudden and screeching halt, will I start flinging my arm across the person in the adjoining seat? Will I start saying “tee-tee” and “poopy” without feeling skeeved out? Will I give up reasoned argument in favor of “Because I said so” and “Don’t make me come up there!” Is my downward spiral into utter uncoolness inevitable?

Maybe. But I don’t care.

I keep thinking about things I want to tell you in hopes of saving you from making the same mistakes I’ve made. How many times in my life have I thought, “If I only knew then what I know now . . .”?

But if someone had told me then what I know now, would I have listened? Will you? Are you the sort of kid who will be willing to read the book and absorb the lesson? Or are you the type who has to take the field trip to find out for herself? Most people fall into the second category. I know I do. You probably will too.

Even though I haven’t met you and there’s only a thirty-something percent chance I ever will, I already love you. I want to protect you but I also want to know you, good and bad, strengths and weaknesses, inside and out. I want you to know me too. Because at the end of the day, that’s what love truly is: knowing and being known. That’s what we long for more than anything, to be known and loved for who we truly are.

If we . . .

My pen stopped in mid-sentence, interrupted by the image of myself standing in front of St. Philip’s, longing and afraid of being recognized, then walking away quickly, hurrying past the churchyard with downcast eyes.

I crossed out the two words of the paragraph I’d started and began again, more honestly.

Advice and counsel aren’t the only reason that I want to write, perhaps that I need to write, this journal. Yes, it’s about you, Peaches. But I think it’s about me too.

For fifteen years, I’ve been playing a part, avoiding the past, averting my eyes, refusing to dig through the garbage or ask the hard questions. Only a child believes that covering her eyes makes the thing she’s afraid to see disappear.

How can I ever hope to be known by you, by anyone, if I don’t know myself?

Chapter Twelve

The desk clerk, a handsome, twenty-fiveish man wearing the ubiquitous blue blazer favored by desk clerks everywhere, smiled when I gave my name and room number.

“Good morning, Miss Fairchild. I see you’re checking out this morning. I hope you