I Love You More: A Novel (37 page)

After the movie was over, he asked me if I understood about consequences. As usual, Detective Kennedy didn’t wait for me to answer before he added, “Just because there aren’t consequences in the legal sense, that doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways to make amends.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Sacrifice,” he said. “Think about it this way. When people do something wrong in the eyes of the law, they go to jail, and when they go to jail, what do they give up?”

“Their freedom,” I said.

“And freedom isn’t a minor sacrifice. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said. And I did.

“But just remember,” Detective Kennedy added, “everybody makes mistakes. The challenge is not to let them define you. You need to define them.”

I considered what Detective Kennedy said, especially that last part, for a long time. I thought about all sorts of things I could sacrifice, mostly stuff that I didn’t want anymore. I even thought about giving up spelling, but if I did that, who would win for my school? Then it came to me: my dictionaries.

A few days later, Detective Kennedy drove me to an orphanage in Charlotte so I could give my dictionaries to kids who didn’t have even one parent, like I almost didn’t.

“Is that all of them?” he asked after we finished unloading.

I was in a pickle because even though I’d told Detective Kennedy I would sacrifice every last one of my dictionaries, my favorite dictionary, the one Daddy had gotten me for my tenth birthday, the one that had essentially made me understand the value and meaning of words, the one that had helped me win all those spelling bees and therefore not only gave me purpose but made me a valuable contributor to my school and its success, the one I’d used to randomly zero in on words during those months Mama, Jewels, and Bert were plotting Daddy’s murder, the one that all this time had safely hidden the money Daddy brought to the beach house, the one I could never ever imagine parting with, was still back home safely hidden beneath my bed. I weighed my options. I could either let my name define me, or I could define it. Just as I was about to answer Detective Kennedy’s question, the woman who took the books from us came running out.

“Mr. Kennedy, you left this envelope in one of the books?” she asked more than said. “There’s more than three thousand dollars in it.”

Detective Kennedy looked at me; I swore I saw pride in his eyes. “Picasso?”

“I thought the kids could use some extra money,” I said.

Last week Detective Kennedy suggested we spend Independence Day on Cooper’s Island, and Mama agreed. We hadn’t been to the Outer Banks since Daddy died. We’re staying in the house where Detective Kennedy grew up, which isn’t right on the beach but isn’t far either. We’ve gone to the beach every day, and Mama’s been swimming again, something she hadn’t done since Daddy died. This morning Detective Kennedy asked me if I wanted to build a sand castle, and even though thirteen seems a little old to be doing that, I said sure. After a while we got to talking about Daddy.

“Do you miss him?” Detective Kennedy asked.

“Sometimes,” I said.

“What do you miss the most?” he asked.

“That’s easy,” I said. “I miss our secrets.”

He cocked his head. “Secrets?”

“You know, just everyday secrets, like don’t tell Mama stuff.”

“That makes sense,” he said.

I don’t know what made me want to tell Detective Kennedy this, maybe it was because Daddy was dead and I figured his secrets died with him, or maybe it was because Daddy never told me this secret, I figured it out myself, or maybe, plain and simple, I felt like I owed him something since he didn’t send me to jail, but I said, “Oliver Lane wasn’t Daddy’s real name.”

Detective Kennedy sat back, wiped his sandy hands on his swim trunks, and stared at me in disbelief. “What?”

“He kept this shoe box,” I said. “There were all these important papers, letters, and pictures in it. Pictures of Daddy, but he had a different name.”

“Do you remember the name?”

“Peter Ares,” I said.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Where is this shoe box now?”

“Under my bed.” Then I smiled, coyly, and said, “I’ll have to show you sometime.”

The thing is, folks probably think that if you kill someone your entire life should be plagued by debilitating guilt, but in all honesty, it’s not like that. There are definitely times I think about it, and when I do, I wish with all my might that none of it would’ve ever happened and, just like I did with the gun, that I could bury all those memories in the sand castle moat, and the salt water would wash them far out to sea where the sharks or the whales would swallow them. But the truth is, there’s something about this whole ordeal that’s slowed me down, made me see things more clearly, made me realize what’s important and what’s not, like, for instance, wasting my time tying to make Ryan Anderson or any other boy like me, worrying over the All That Girls, or planning mean get-backs. Besides, wallowing in my own self-imposed island of grief doesn’t do me, or the world, much good. Instead, I need to concentrate on the future, how I can be the best person I can possibly be, how I can live my love for Mama and Detective Kennedy, how I won’t tell rumors or lies, unless the lies are for art or altruistic reasons, and how I should never ever tell anyone that I love them more than life itself unless I
absolutely
(with no qualification, restriction, or limitation; totally) mean it.

Because even I must admit, without truth behind them, words are just a bunch of letters.

I am forever grateful to the novelist Ann Hood for her unwavering support, mentorship, and especially her encouragement. Fifty pages of this novel were initially workshopped in November of 2011 at Spannocchia, a sustainable farm in Tuscany, Italy, where Ann holds an amazing writing conference, and it was she who encouraged me to complete it. Thanks to the Wildacres Writing Workshop and the Tin House Summer Writers Workshop. Special thanks to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference for its continual dedication to giving established and aspiring writers alike the time, space, and context in which to live their passions and dreams, and to the University of Washington’s MFA in creative writing program for not only being stellar, but also for sticking with me while I juggled my educational requirements with the completion of this novel. I am grateful to all the professors and workshop leaders I’ve worked with over the years, including David Bosworth, Stacey D’Erasmo, Lynn Freed, Jane Hamilton, Ursula Hegi, Anne LeClaire, Joyce Maynard, Whitney Otto, Ron Rash, Helen Schulman, Karen Shepard, David Shields, Maya Sonenberg, Helena Maria Viramontes, and Shawn Wong. So many people had a hand in the development of this novel. Initial input from the members of my small, but so large, North Carolina
writing group—Kristin Sherman, Toccoa Switzer, and Ann Tsoa—was invaluable, as were the late-night “craft” talks with them and conference roomies Ari Gonzalez Asendorf and Margaret Burton, and the healing and manifestation powers of my dear friend Roma Gutierrez. Thanks to my fellow MFA candidates Tina Cachules, Mickie Centrone, Morgayne O’Neill, Matt Perez, Tyler Scowcroft, Rachel Shields, and Dave Thomas for their input on portions of this novel during workshop. I owe so much to my husband, David. I can’t imagine any partner being more supportive, understanding, and loving of another during the many “absent” hours associated with the writing process. Thanks also to my daughter, Madi, for continually bringing love and light into my life. As a single mom for many years, it often felt like it was just she and I against the world. And heartfelt thanks to my publicist, William Heus; my marketer, Judy Jacoby; my agent, Mitchell Waters, my biggest cheerleader and by far
the
best agent in the entire world; and my editor, Jenny Jackson, not only for her editorial wisdom and tireless commitment to making this book the best it could be but also for her seeming innate ability to make the editorial process engaging, enriching, and enjoyable.

Jennifer Murphy received her master of fine arts in creative writing from the University of Washington. She is the recipient of the 2013 Loren D. Milliman Scholarship for creative writing and was a general contributor at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference from 2008 through 2012. She has lived and studied in North Carolina, Colorado, and Michigan, and now resides in Seattle, Washington.