The Beautiful Lost Read online

  “I’m glad you finally wrote back to me,” he said.

  It had taken a while. The first two weeks I’d been so crazed with the agony of believing that he’d given up on me in Canada, turned me over to my father, that I couldn’t even read his letters. But eventually I thawed enough to open them, along with the box he’d sent with the last one, and read his words:

  I’m sending you a sand dollar. It’s not the original one we found, but it means the same thing. Don’t think we broke our promise, Maia. The truth is we didn’t go back—not to where we were, anyway. I came to a different place—to my family, a home with my grandfather.

  We were never going back without each other. You’re at Turner now and you’ll be home in Crawford soon and I’ll be living in Stonington. But we can be apart and still together. Can’t we?

  Could we?

  Dr. Hendricks had told me to be careful with absolutes, with the idea of forever. She was very wise and knew so much, and she wanted me to proceed with caution. I glanced across the seat at Billy, and at the same second he looked over at me. The sight of his green eyes made me feel shy. Weird, after all we’d been through. Maybe this was how it would be.

  It seemed impossible that I wouldn’t be seeing him in class every day. I wouldn’t be able to look up at the Stansfield Home and see his light burning on the second floor, in the far-right window.

  “You seem far away,” Billy said. “Tell me where you are.”

  “Right here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Stonington is far from Crawford,” I said.

  “That’s what the red truck is for,” he said, shooting me a glance. “The rest of this summer and weekends once school starts.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  “Nothing ever is, Maia. You know that more than anyone.” Change didn’t have to be sad, Dr. Hendricks said. It might pierce your heart at first, but if you let go, it could carry you to a better place.

  “I’m going to visit my father in prison,” Billy said after a while.

  “Really?” I asked, shocked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “His lawyer’s putting my name on the visitors list.”

  “What does your grandfather think?”

  “He told me I’m my own person, not just my father’s son. He understands I need to look my dad in the eye.”

  “But why?” I asked.

  “Because of you,” Billy said. “You did it with your mother. Nothing could have been harder, Maia. You were really brave.”

  No, I’m not, I wanted to say. But I could see that he believed it, and that made me think. Traveling so far to see my mother had been brave, a little. Leaving her at the end had been, a lot. Seeing her as she was, really was, and not as I’d dreamed her to be had taken more courage than I’d thought I had.

  “You helped me be brave,” I said.

  “No, it was in you the whole time. I was just there, in awe of you.”

  I laughed, because awe was such an un-me word. As in, nothing about me would inspire it. In one of Gen’s letters, she’d said she was in awe of Tiler Peck, principal dancer of the New York City Ballet. Gen said that she, Clarissa, and I should go to New York to see Tiler in The Nutcracker. I thought about inviting Simone and having a worlds-collide moment. That could be nice.

  But right now my only world was this truck and Billy. I glanced over at him. What would it have been like if we’d just kept going? Why did missing someone have to include so much hurt? Had he been thinking about Helen, maybe even talked to her?

  “Are there other people?” I asked.

  “In the world?” he asked, smiling. “Yes.”

  “I mean in your life. New ones, who you have met? And old ones?” I couldn’t bring myself to say her name.

  “Helen?” he asked.

  My stomach dropped. How would he have known if he hadn’t been thinking of her?

  “No. Not now, not ever. Another thing this trip did for me … it let me put the old things behind me.”

  “She’s an old thing?” I asked.

  “The oldest. I haven’t thought of her since …”

  “Since?”

  “You.”

  We drove along in silence at that, goose bumps on my arms because what he’d said was true for me, too. For me, there was only Billy.

  Just then we passed the turnoff for Crawford, the way to my house.

  “Did you forget the way?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then where are we going?” I asked.

  “Do you have the book?” he asked.

  I knew exactly what he meant: Beluga and Humpback Whales of Saguenay Fjord.

  “The green book,” I said. “I do.”

  “Then I think you know.”

  I didn’t even answer, but I felt the start of a smile. Instead of taking the highway, the most direct route, Billy drove us along back roads. This was our territory. We stopped at a gas station, and he filled the tank. He had plenty of money this time, because he’d spent the last six weeks lobster fishing with his grandfather.

  Of course we stopped at the mini-mart and bought snacks—gummy bears and orange cheese crackers. Munching as we drove along, I tuned the radio to one of our stations at the low end of the dial. We picked up WBRU, crackling over the air from Brown University, and I remembered our walk on Thayer Street. The road wound through eastern Connecticut’s woods and fields. We flew along. The music kept playing.

  “Is it?” Billy asked, when the song came on.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said.

  I felt shooting stars in my chest, remembering the last time we’d heard the Old Crow Medicine Show blast into “Wagon Wheel.” And here it came again.

  Billy pulled the truck over to the roadside, and stopped right in front of an old lichen-covered stone wall surrounding a sprawling farm. Rows of corn grew tall, bright green stalks reaching into the blue sky. A red barn stood in the distance, and a herd of black-and-white cows headed home to be milked.

  To the sound of exuberant fiddles, Billy grabbed my hand and pulled me into the field. We started to dance. He twirled me around, and just as we’d done seven weeks ago, in the wilds of Canada, we held each other close, moving to the music. He sang the chorus, his mouth against my ear:

  “So rock me mama like a wagon wheel …”

  “I will,” I said.

  “And I’ll rock you back,” he said, laughing.

  When the song ended, we kept dancing. The music changed, and so had we, but we couldn’t stop singing “Wagon Wheel.” Far away from the barn, we heard the cows lowing. Summer clouds floated through the azure sky. We held each other, and for the first time since Canada, we kissed.

  Then it was time to go.

  Leaving the field, I spotted a flat rock that had tumbled from the granite wall. I crouched beside it. Billy collected a handful of stones. We piled them on top of each other, one at a time, until we had a perfect cairn. Then we got into our rusty red truck and set off again.

  There were many miles to Mystic. We had something important, earth-shatteringly crucial, to do. I wondered if the little library would be unlocked. If it wasn’t, I hoped Charlie the security guard would let us in. I thought he probably would.

  Tell me where you are, Billy had asked. I was right here beside him. We had changed but we were also the same, we were living in different towns but we were still together, we had traveled hundreds of miles and we had come home. In spite of everything, that turned out to be okay.

  And now it was time to return the little green book. Afterward, maybe we’d go to the beach. We could walk the tide line. We could stand with our feet in the waves of Long Island Sound, our native waters, and listen to the lobsters. We could remember the whales of Tadoussac.

  And then Billy would drive me home.

  I wanted to write about a teen girl with depression because I know so well what it’s like. I’m not sure exactly how old I was when it first started. I do know that beginning in fourth gr
ade I used to miss about half the school year because I “didn’t feel good.” It was hard to figure out just where I didn’t feel good—it wasn’t exactly a sore throat, or a stomachache, but it was both of them and more besides. (My throat hurt because I was holding back tears and words. I couldn’t seem to tell anyone that I was sad and worried all the time.)

  There were reasons. My dad drank and often didn’t come home at night. I would wait up for him, sometimes until dawn, and I’d be too tired to go to school. I was shy and felt different from other kids. I thought if they knew the truth of my family that everything would fall apart. In spite of family pain, I loved my parents and sisters and felt very protective of them.

  Writing helped me survive. I wrote short stories and poems. They were always about people who loved one another, who stayed together no matter what, whose lives were happy. I was the opposite of Sylvia Plath: While Sylvia wrote poems ripped straight from her heart, about feeling depressed and self-destructive, I kept those feelings locked deep inside and wrote from dreams of a different reality from the one I was living in, from desperate yearning for everything to be okay. I wanted so badly for my family to be like the happy “normal” people I wrote about.

  In high school I got very lucky. My homeroom teacher noticed my absences (nowadays schools would investigate, but back then many psychological and behavioral issues were totally considered to be family problems) and suggested I see a counselor. My parents said okay, as long as I didn’t talk about our home life. Crazy, right, when that was the source of my feeling so bad? But my counselor was wise and creative, and she helped me express my anguish by having me draw pictures. In that way, although I didn’t literally “talk” about anything, it was a huge relief to have someone care and understand.

  Things got better, then worse, and then better again.

  Like Maia, I spent time as an inpatient at a psychiatric hospital, and I found a wonderful therapist. It took a while to find the right medication, but eventually I did. All this has helped me so much. Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s an illness and can be treated, talked about, and dealt with. I have to be careful and make sure I take care of myself. The times I haven’t, it has come back. But as long as I remember there’s help, and reach out for it, life gets so good.

  If anyone reading this feels very sad, as if something is wrong, or as if you want to hurt yourself, please tell someone you trust. It could be your parents, or siblings, or best friend, or favorite teacher, but whatever you do, don’t keep it to yourself. So many people care about you, including me.

  XXOO

  Luanne

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

  This toll-free, twenty-four-hour, confidential hotline will connect you to a trained counselor at the nearest suicide crisis center.

  The Trevor Project:

  1-866-488-7386, www.TheTrevorProject.org

  The Trevor Helpline is a suicide prevention helpline specifically for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and questioning (LGBTQ) teens, but anyone who needs help can call—all young people, but also parents, family members, and friends.

  The Jed Foundation: www.jedfoundation.org

  The Jed Foundation works toward mental and emotional health in college students, and also to reduce the stigma some might feel about having emotional issues or seeking treatment.

  McLean Hospital Adolescent Acute Residential Treatment Program (ART): www.mcleanhospital.org/programs/adolescent-art

  McLean’s ART is an inpatient program in Belmont, Massachusetts (near Boston), for teens and young adults affected by illnesses such as depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. They also offer help for young people suffering from a co-occurring substance disorder.

  For bringing The Beautiful Lost into the world, I thank everyone at Scholastic: my brilliant and sensitive editor Aimee Friedman, Ellie Berger, David Levithan, Jennifer Abbots, Tracy van Straaten, Rachel Feld, Lauren Festa, Betsy Politi, Sue Flynn, Nikki Mutch, Anna Swenson, Elizabeth Parisi, Kerianne Okie, Olivia Valcarce, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, and many more.

  For his knowledge regarding the Innu, I would like to make special mention of Lee Francis IV.

  I am so fortunate to have been with my agent, Andrea Cirillo, since the beginning of my career, and I’m thankful to her and all the extraordinary people at the Jane Rotrosen Agency: Jane Berkey, Meg Ruley, Annelise Robey, Christina Hogrebe, Amy Tannenbaum, Rebecca Scherer, Jess Errera, Chris Prestia, Julianne Tinari, Michael Conroy, Donald W. Cleary, Jill Krupnik, Danielle Sickles, Peggy Boulos Smith, Ellen Tischler, and Sabrina Prestia. And of course, Don Cleary Sr.

  My love of whales goes very far back, but my curiosity and learning about them grew even more during my time aboard the schooner Westward, researching humpbacks and their songs. I am grateful to the Sea Education Association of Woods Hole, Massachusetts, for that opportunity.

  I send love and hope to everyone who is or has ever been depressed or suffered other forms of mental illness, and deep thanks to the people who care, treat, and try to understand all that they are going through.

  Luanne Rice is the New York Times bestselling author of 32 novels, which have been translated into 24 languages. The author of Dream Country, Beach Girls, The Secret Language of Sisters, and others, Rice often writes about love, family, nature, and the sea. She received the 2014 Connecticut Governor’s Arts Award for excellence and lifetime achievement in the Literary Arts category. Several of Rice’s novels have been adapted for television, including Crazy in Love for TNT, Blue Moon for CBS, Follow the Stars Home and Silver Bells for the Hallmark Hall of Fame, and Beach Girls for Lifetime. Rice is an avid environmentalist and advocate for families affected by domestic violence. She divides her time between New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut. Visit her online at www.luannerice.net.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Luanne Rice’s The Secret Language of Sisters!

  “Okay, I’m going to tell you something about the day of your accident. Two things, actually. One thing is good. Lucan, that’s the dog, is fine.”

  My mother had told me that early on, but I hadn’t heard a word about the dog since. I had been worried that she might have been lying to me, or maybe he had taken a turn for the worse. In any case, the news distracted me, momentarily, from my obsession to get Tilly to see that I was in here. I knew Tilly wouldn’t lie to me about this, and I felt a sense of relief, an unbelievable, momentary blip of semi-lifting of worry and stress.

  “He has a broken leg, but it’s healing well. I saw him. He limps, but he’s going to be fine. Okay.” A deep breath. “The rest isn’t so great. I wish you could hear me. I wish you could just blink and let me know you know what I’m saying.”

  I can’t blink, but I know what you’re saying! I wanted to shout. The stress was back, stronger than before. I needed her to get this; I didn’t have it in me to go on much longer. I can’t move my eyelids at all. Can you ask me something else? Can you look into my eyes and see I’m here?

  “Can you please just,” she began, and I must have been exasperated, because all I could do was look up at the ceiling, a heaven-help-me moment. My eyeball flicked up and down. Tilly stopped mid-sentence, mouth dropping open. And then …

  “Roo?”

  I’m here!

  “Oh, God,” she said. “Did you just look up? Did you just move your left eyeball? If you did, and you hear me, do it again.”

  I did it again.

  “You hear me?”

  My left eye flicked up, then down. I had a very narrow field of vision: Tilly and the ceiling.

  “Roo, is this real?”

  I looked up.

  “You know who I am?”

  Duh, Tilly. I looked up.

  “You understand what I’m saying?”

  I looked up.

  She grabbed my other hand, she was holding both my hands now, and she did a happy, screaming dance. We were doing a jig, only I was in my hospital bed. Still, I was doing it in my mind, and it
felt real. A few moments passed while she hooted and danced like crazy and discharged energy for both of us.

  Then she settled down, and I saw that Newton was there, too, summoned by her shrieks.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Newton,” Tilly said. “She hears me. She’s in there! Roo!”

  I looked up.

  “See that?” she asked.

  “What? See what?”

  “She moved her eyeball!”

  I did it again.

  “Roo?” Newton said.

  I looked up.

  Tilly plopped down on the chair, heavily and with new gravity in her eyes, and peered at me more closely, as if she were trying to read tarot cards in my pupils.

  “Okay,” she said. “I might be losing my mind, and I want to make sure. You can’t speak, and you can’t blink, but you understand everything I am saying?”

  I looked up.

  “Bear with me. Don’t look up until I say a true statement. I’m starting now. We live in France.”

  I didn’t look up.

  “My name is Henrietta and I hate owls.”

  I didn’t look up.

  “We do NOT love the beach.”

  I didn’t look up.

  “We are sisters.”

  I looked up.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” she said, taking my hands and starting to dance again. I wished I could smile because, for the first time since I got here, I would actually grin. I wished I could dance because I would whirl Tilly around. Newton was frozen in place. I wanted to grab his hands and have him hold me and kiss me and dance me all the way to the stars.

  “You can move your eye,” he said. “You can move your left eye!”

  Yes, I can.

  “If you can move that much,” Tilly said, “why not more? That must mean you’re going to be okay, the stroke was bad, but you’re going to get better!”