Maybe that’s what he really wanted, deep down. A family. So in his own twisted way, he cobbled one together from the broken girls he found along his path.
The girl reached her hand across the table, and Pearl surprised herself by taking it in her own. The world didn’t always give you the things you wanted. You couldn’t choose your family, your circumstances, the unfolding of life. Often, things you loved were cruelly wrested away. But Pop was a master of creating a reality, for himself, for others. And he’d given that gift to Pearl.
Pearl and Gracie.
They would stay in the house that Pop promised her was home. And they would be sisters, just as Pop had wanted. Pearl would teach Gracie everything she knew about the game. And they’d play it together. Best of all, Gracie was malleable. She would do what Pearl told her to do. And Pearl liked that about her new sister. It would come in handy in all sorts of ways.
“Okay, Gracie. If that’s what you want,” said Pearl.
The girl nodded. Her posture softened a bit, shoulders relaxing, arms unwrapping from her middle.
“But Pop doesn’t want me to call myself that anymore.”
Present tense. Maybe he’d always be alive for each of them. A voice in their heads. A shadow, a trick of light.
“What does he want to call you?” Pearl asked.
“He wants to call me Gennie,” she said. “Short for Geneva.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Selena
Selena drove too fast, taking the winding back roads toward home.
A glance at her phone. No answer from Pearl. Selena’s text hung on the screen. The stranger on the train. A woman shadowing her life for who knows how long. Someone who might have been a friend, an ally, was a destroyer wanting to do damage. But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Selena reached for something that kept slipping away—a feeling, a thought.
“What do you want, Pearl?” she asked the empty car.
Her shoulders felt like they were cast from concrete, she was so tense, leaning forward toward the wheel as if that might get her there faster.
Her father’s voice, the things he told her, kept echoing back. She felt a twist of sadness, of compassion for Pearl, for the things she’d endured. Abandoned by her father, her mother murdered. No wonder she was a pain giver.
Selena pushed the pedal down. The night was thick and moonless, no streetlights. Selena knew that a deer could bound out of the darkness at any second. But she pressed her foot down harder still. The speed, the sound of the engine, the squeal of the tires as she took the turns; it felt good. What if I die on this road tonight? she thought. A spectacular crash, a blaze of glory. How would the headlines read? Jilted Wife Dies in Fiery Crash. Something about it appealed, like an escape hatch from the ugly mess of her life. Better than: Jilted Wife Struggles to Start Over as a Single Mom after her Husband Goes to Prison for Murdering his Mistress.
It was easier to die than to live, wasn’t it?
But no. Her boys. She couldn’t stand the thought of them alone in the world, broken by the reckless, terrible actions of their parents. She slowed her speed, drew in a breath.
Pull yourself together, Selena, she chided. Fix this. End this. Write a better headline.
Her headlights split the night, the world black around the unfurling ribbon of road. As her speed slowed, so did the racing of her heart, the adrenaline pulse. In the quiet, she wondered how much of her marriage—of any marriage—was built on a foundation of pretty stories, a narrative that you stitched together based on delusion and hope and wishful thinking.
Little lies like the curated, filtered posts on social media that make your life together look so wonderful, just after you’ve had a big fight, the months of marriage counseling not doing much good. Faked orgasms—guilty. Sometimes, really, she just wanted to get it over with. After parenthood, sleep was the new sex.
Little things like telling him she liked his cooking. She didn’t.
It’s just nice that he cooks at all, said Beth, when Selena dared to complain.
God, women’s standards were so fucking low. But Selena bought in, always praised Graham’s efforts in the kitchen. Because, yeah, it was better than nothing. In her lifetime, she never saw her father prepare a single meal, run the dishwasher, sweep a floor.
So, sure, she praised Graham because he was present in the home—good with