The Raising (48 page)
K
aress got lost somewhere south of Bad Axe, and by the time she found her way off the freeway she was exasperated and wondering why the hell she’d thought this was a good idea, and what it was she’d been hoping to find or lose by coming back to this godforsaken state after all these years away in search of a boy she’d barely known.
But somewhere inside herself she also knew, even as she threw her ruined map (coffee spilled on it, and wrinkled to shit) behind her into the backseat of her rental car, why:
Somewhere inside her Perry Edwards was still alive.
Of course, she didn’t think about him every day. That would have been crazy. It had been over a decade. A decade and a half. She’d dropped out the semester he got killed and finally finished up her degree at three different schools on the West Coast. She’d been married, divorced, and she liked her job. She was completely sane. She didn’t drink.
But she often found herself thinking, He was the one
.
“Of course the one that gets away is always
the one
,” her friends would say.
But Perry Edwards hadn’t gotten away.
He was everywhere after he died. He was in every guy who turned a corner, or drove by, or asked her to dance, or bought her a drink in a bar.
After he died, Perry Edwards was
the air
. He was everywhere.
“Maybe you should visit his grave,” her therapist had said. “It’ll give you a sense of closure.”
Okay, Karess had thought. I can do that.
Okay.
So here she was, pulling off the freeway, driving through the kind of town she didn’t think existed anymore. A church on every corner. Little houses with little porches. There was an actual dog tied to an actual tree in a front yard.
Jesus, Toto, I don’t think we’re in LA anymore.
It took two stops at two gas stations to get directions to the cemetery, and then she started to wonder how she’d ever thought she’d find his grave: there were four times as many people buried here than there could possibly be alive in this fucking town.
She parked. She got out.
It was a typical late September day. Karess remembered, vaguely, these kinds of September days from her freshman year in college in this state. The raggedy leaves. The spooky branches of the trees. The sense of things fading and dying, but springing up crazily one last time before they did—blazing, writhing.
Look at me!
Shit.
There were rows and rows and rows of Shepards. That must have been one big miserable family, stuck in Bad Axe for generations. And a little circle of Rushes. Mother, Father, Beloved Son. Karess wandered through the old part of the cemetery to the new part. He hadn’t been gone that long, after all. Some Owenses. Some Taylors. A crowd of German names. And then she decided maybe she should follow her gut. She’d close her eyes. She’d turn around. She’d let her instincts guide her.
It didn’t work.
She found herself under a tree. Like all the others, it was losing its leaves. They were falling all around her. Orange and red. She could smell the earth. The grass. That dampness. Moldy, like old clothes. Loamy. Cool.
She would, she decided, sit down. She would close her eyes for a little while and rest, and when she felt more energetic, she would go back to the entrance—those wrought-iron gates she’d passed through—and start over, and she would kneel down if she had to and brush the leaves off every fucking name, look at every single grave, even if it took her all day.
Even if it took her
days
.
T
here was a sad landmark on every block of that town:
The bench they’d sat on, watching the other students walk by—backpacks, short skirts, iPods. The tree they’d stood under in a downpour, laughing, kissing, chewing cinnamon gum. There was the bookstore where he’d bought the collection of poems by Pablo Neruda for her, and the awful college sports bar where they’d first held hands. It was called something else now, but from outside it looked the same. There were the pretend Greek columns that pretended to hold up the roof of the Llewellyn Roper Library, and Grimoire Gifts, where he’d bought the amber ring for her—set in silver, a globe of ancient sap with a little prehistoric fruit fly trapped in it forever.
And the Starbucks where they went to study night after night and never opened a book.
Craig’s father, beside him, said, “Son, slow down,” and Craig said, “Sorry, Dad.” His father had been blind for years now, and one of his worst fears was getting into an accident he couldn’t see coming.
Craig just wished his father could see it with him. The beauty of it was the strangeness, the familiarity. The girls in their short skirts. The guys with their weird hair.
“Y
ou won’t recognize the place,” Debbie had said. She still lived there, worked at the university hospital. She’d become a doctor, and over the years had remained Craig’s best cyber-friend. They emailed every week, although they’d seen each other only a handful of times in the last decade, when they’d met up in various places they happened to be flying through. Her husband was a doctor, too. Back in New Hampshire, Craig had a wife and two kids and a little house that backed up to a little mountain. He’d built his father a small, solid cabin on the property.
“Just stay away, Craig. I mean, I’d love to see you. But you have no idea. It’ll freak you out—not because you’ll remember it, but because you won’t.”
Craig had a family now. He’d written a book, published it. He’d traveled the world promoting the book, and had never come back here.
Now he was back.
And Debbie had been wrong.
He remembered it all. Not a thing had changed. He could have been blind like his father, or closed his eyes, and found his way to Godwin Honors Hall, or to the apartment he’d shared with Perry.
He’d open the door, and there Perry would be, book open on the table beside a sandwich. Perry wouldn’t bother to look up. “Hey, man,” he’d say. And Craig, older and astonished, would just stand in the doorway and stare, grateful and terrified at the same time to find Perry still there, still alive.
He drove more slowly now, rubbed his eyes, so he could look around. He was looking for Perry, Craig realized, but on every corner, it seemed, a girl was crossing the street with her arm hooked into a boy’s, and the sidewalks were shining and the sky was the same pale nothingness it had always been that time of year, and the old man who had become his father was coughing into a Kleenex, and Craig, forgetting that his father couldn’t see, said, “Look,” as yet another beauty crossed in front of their car, listening to something on her earphones, mouthing the words to herself.
The motor of the car hummed around them, and Craig’s father continued to cough—and there she was, that beauty, flipping her hair over her shoulder, glancing at Craig, making eye contact briefly, and then looking away.
For their brilliant editing advice and tireless support, I thank Lisa Bankoff and Katherine Nintzel and Bill Abernethy with all my heart.
For being my best friend in this world or any other, Antonya Nelson.
For the blessing of Lucy Abernethy, my beautiful, smart, strong stepdaughter.
For support above and beyond and over the years: Carrie Wilson, Eileen Pollack, Jill Elder, Nancy Gargano, Holly Abernethy, Andrea Beauchamp, Linda Gregerson, Pastor Doris Sparks, Laura Thomas, Debra Spark, Tony Hoagland, and Keith Taylor.
For trade secrets, fun talks, and being the best student ever, Sara Johnson-Cardona.
Thank you to the University of Michigan’s English Department and Residential College and my colleagues and students for generous support and inspiration of all sorts.
And for the perfect plot advice at the crucial moment, thanks to my extraordinary son and fellow writer, Jack Abernethy.
LAURA KASISCHKE
teaches at the University of Michigan in the MFA program and the Residential College. She has published seven collections of poetry and eight novels. Her writing has won numerous awards, and two of her novels have been made into films. She lives with her family in Chelsea, Michigan.
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Fiction
In a Perfect World
Feathered
Be Mine
Boy Heaven
The Life Before Her Eyes
White Bird in a Blizzard
Suspicious River
Poetry
Lilies Without
Gardening in the Dark
Dance and Disappear
What It Wasn’t
Fire & Flower
Housekeeping in a Dream
Wild Brides
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover photograph by Blasius Erlinger/Getty Images
Author photograph © Patrice Normand/Opale
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE RAISING
. Copyright © 2011 by Laura Kasischke. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition March 2011 ISBN: 9780062042385
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kasischke, Laura, 1961–
The raising : a novel / Laura Kasischke.—1st ed.
p.cm.
ISBN 978-0-06-200478-9
1. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A6993S88 2011
813'.54—dc22
2010021605
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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