A few months ago I did a review of John Shors’ historical novel Beside the Burning Sea.
Next month he’s releasing his fourth book a contemporary novel The Wishing Trees. I haven’t read it but John did send me some info and an excerpt. John has a neat habit of giving to a particular charity connected to his books. Through the proceeds of Dragon House and direct donations from readers, he raised enough money to buy sets of school books for 900 street children in Vietnam. Who will benefit from sales of The Wishing Trees? The Arbor Day Foundation, of course. John’s goal is to raise enough money to plant several thousand trees.
Check out his website for more on his books, signings, twitter, Facebook and all the other jazz!
Take it away John…
America
Two as One
“When one door closes, another one opens.” —American saying
Ian watched Mattie sleep, her body curved as if still pressed against his, her arms resting on a pillow that he had carefully positioned alongside her torso. The pillow acted as his body double on many nights, comforting her in his absence, offering her warmth and the remnants of his scent. The king-sized bed made his ten-year-old daughter seem so small. She looked too fragile and lonely, as if she might come unbound without him beside her.
As it often did, the sight of Mattie sleeping brought tears to Ian’s eyes, since in most every way she was an image of her deceased mother. Several years earlier, Mattie had compared herself to what she saw in a nearby park. Her hair, she said, was the color of an oak tree’s bark. At some point the sky must have dripped into her eyes, she was certain, because they were the same hue as what she saw above. Her mother had then asked Mattie where her freckles came from, and Mattie paused, glancing around the park. She finally replied that her freckles were tiny pieces of leaves that had fallen onto her face while she napped.
Ian reflected on how Mattie and Kate had often spoken like that—as if they shared the same mind and view of the world. Mattie didn’t try to copy her mother, to make her mother’s characteristics her own. Rather, Mattie just seemed to be a miniature Kate, as if Kate’s DNA had been neatly sorted and stacked into Mattie’s mannerisms and thoughts. Like her mother, Mattie was artistic and curious. Her heart was filled with her mother’s love and laughter. Most everywhere the three of them had gone together, Mattie and Kate held hands—even when Mattie’s friends became too old for such public displays of affection.
Ian lowered himself to the edge of the bed nearest Mattie. This had been Kate’s side, and he ran his fingers over the sheets that had once warmed her. Even though ten months had passed since he’d last touched her skin, the ache of her loss was as intense as if she had died the day before. He still felt empty and incomplete, as if his soul had tried to travel with hers but had been tethered to the world of stone and dirt. His soul remained trapped within him now, bereft of the magic that was once so sustaining. Through his will, and his love for Mattie, he had managed to repair parts of this trapped soul—fitting its pieces together as he might patch up a broken vase. But this element of him, he feared, would never soar again. At least not the way it once had. An injured bird might relearn how to fly, but never with the same sense of unbridled freedom. Whatever had brought the bird down would always loom in the distance.
Mattie stirred in her sleep, dislodging the sheet and blanket that Ian had pulled to her neck. He carefully repeated the process, then bent to kiss a freckle on her forehead. Glancing to make sure that both night lights were on, he stood up and stepped toward the doorway. He reached an antique mirror that Kate had hung opposite their bed, and paused. His reflection had changed so much over the past year. His six-foot frame was now slightly stooped. His hair, recently the shade of shadows, had patches of gray near his temples, a color that was slowly spreading over him, as if it were ice subjugating a pond. He had lost twenty pounds, his body now more like a college student’s than a middle-aged man’s. Even his eyes had changed—still brown, but the flesh beneath them appearing bruised.
Ian shook his head, disliking his reflection. He left the bedroom. The rest of their brownstone was almost exactly the way Kate had arranged it. Every nook and open space rekindled memories, and he wondered if their real estate agent had fielded any calls that day. He couldn’t stay inside these walls much longer. And he didn’t think that Mattie could either. Their home, Ian felt, had been murdered. Nothing remained but a skeleton.
His office gave him little comfort—only some of Mattie’s colorful sketches provided solace. He glanced at Kate’s photo, but for once his eyes didn’t linger on hers. Instead he opened his closet and picked up a neatly wrapped present, which Kate had given him ten months earlier, just three days before she died. She had asked him to promise not to open it until his birthday. And he’d kept his promise, despite many temptations.
Ian sat on a chair and placed the package on his lap. He smelled the wrapping paper, hoping that a trace of Kate might remain. He imagined her tying the bow and he kissed the neat little knot of fabric. A tear raced down his face, dropping next to the bow. Maybe her tears fell in the same spot, he thought, wishing that he could kiss her damp cheek once again.
The box carried no card, which he had thought about often over the past ten months. It wasn’t like Kate to forget something like that, as she had always loved letters. She’d detested e-mail and text messages, refusing to write to him in such a manner unless it was absolutely necessary. Her notes had come to him via pen and paper.
After taking a deep and measured breath, Ian moved his fingers to an edge of the wrapping paper. His heartbeat quickened. The back of his neck tingled. His right thumb edged back and forth as if it were on the dial of his BlackBerry. He was afraid that Kate’s gift, through no fault of her own, would wound him. And he didn’t have the strength to withstand being wounded again.
The wrapping paper resisted him. The paper was like a flag draped over a coffin, and he treated it with respect. Kate had been careful with it, and he needed to be as well. “What’s in here, my luv?” he asked softly, his thick Australian accent at odds with the sounds of Manhattan seeping through a nearby window.
A box was soon revealed—a red shoe box that he had seen her use on other occasions. He removed the lid, moving faster, and saw an envelope first. Below it were about a dozen black film canisters. Ian pursed his lips, opening the envelope, which contained a letter. The sight of her elegant handwriting made him cry. She had always written in cursive, and even facing death, and in substantial pain, her hand had been steady and unrushed.
Ian,
Did you know that you take your love with you, when you die? I am so certain of this, because during the last few months, as I’ve lain here and deteriorated, my love for you and Mattie has been growing. Nothing, these days, grows within me except my love for you two. And that love rises like a tropical grass, overshadowing everything beneath it, reaching for light and warmth. A year ago I didn’t think that I could love either of you more. But I was wrong. I was looking at a tree in front of me, a gorgeous tree for sure, but not as lovely as the forest that surrounded it. I love you. I love you. I love you.
I feel so blessed to have stumbled upon you, though surely fate brought us together. Why else would we have both decided to teach English in Japan? Me, a girl from Manhattan. You, a boy from rural Australia. The heavens must have conspired for us to meet. That was the beginning of our story. The end will never be written. The middle saw us travel the world together, create a loving daughter together.
Do you recall when we were at the Taj Mahal and our guide told us about the emperor and his wife? He loved her so much. And as she lay dying, he wondered if she needed anything. She asked him for one wish—to build her something beautiful and to visit that place on their anniversary and light a candle. That dying woman’s wish became the Taj Mahal.
Well, I have a last request, too. It may be simpler than what she asked for, but it won’t necessarily be easier. You see, I want you and Mattie to be happy. That is my last wish. I want you both to be happy after you’ve mourned me. I can’t rest in peace if either of you is miserable, so please do this for me. Be happy. Learn to laugh again. To joke. To wrestle together like you once did. Learn to be free again.
Remember how, before I got sick, we were planning to retrace our steps around Asia? To celebrate our fifteenth anniversary? Only this time, Mattie would be by our side. We were all so excited, so full of life, of joy.
I want you, my love, to take her on that same trip. See what we were all so eager to see, feel what we wanted to feel. Will you do that for me? Please? Please visit the places you and I so adored, walk the paths that we planned to walk again. Let me hear you laugh. Let me see you smile. Teach each other how to experience joy once more. Please go sometime soon, and open these film canisters when you arrive in the country that I’ve marked on the front of each canister. There are six canisters for you and six for Mattie, representing the countries on our original itinerary. Please don’t open any of them until you arrive at the proper destination.
Take my life insurance money and use it for this trip. You’ve already sold your company, and I hope that you haven’t started another one yet. There will always be time for work.
Please go on this journey. Please. I wish I could travel with you. I’m sorry I had to leave. I tried so hard to stay. I fought until I began to become a different person, until rage tainted my thoughts. Only then did I give up the fight.
Do you remember, my love, how we used to write each other poems? When you’re overseas, step outside, look at the stars, and think about those poems. I was bound to you when you wrote your first poem for me. You didn’t know it then, but you bound me to you and we can never be unbound.
Please grant me my final wish. It won’t be easy, I know. But take this trip for me, for Mattie, for yourself. Leave your footprints in foreign lands, and cherish each other along the way. You both used to joke and laugh and smile so much. One of the greatest joys of my life was watching you two laugh together. And you need to laugh again. You will laugh again.
I love you, Ian. Remember what I wrote—that we are bound together and nothing can unbind us. Not time. Not distance. Not physical separation. The love I feel for you both can’t be pulled apart, because that love is like an ocean, and you’re both the salt and the water of that ocean.
I will love you and Mattie forever.
Your Kate
Ian put his head in his hands and began to weep.
Only much later was he able to trace her words with his forefinger and think about them. He didn’t want to travel to Asia without Kate. In so many respects, such a journey would be hollow, bereft of color. And yet, their little girl seemed so lost, such a shadow of her former self. He’d tried in countless ways in countless moments to shine a light on her, to purge her of this shadow. And though sometimes his light settled on her face, these moments were as fleeting as the flight of falling leaves.
Ian reread the letter again and again until exhaustion rendered him nearly incapable of thought or emotion. Lying down beside Mattie, he pulled her close, kissing her, closing his eyes, letting darkness come to his rescue
Firday, as part of the 
Did I let you know about Therese Walsh’s
What has always annoyed me are the pink tools. You’ve probably seen them in catalogs—an adorable little tool kit with screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, level and measuring tape all in bright pink. I don’t know about all you ladies out there but I would feel embarrassed to use those tools.
Have you ever heard any idea that in theory sounds great…but in reality you have no idea how to pull it off? So many things fall into this category for me—including a mother-daughter book club. Hudson’s book covers everything I could think of from club size to club selections to extra activities to the problems that inevitably crop up with any group. What I like most about Hudson’s book, aside from the step by step instructions, is the openness of her plans. There is no “this is the right way to do it” directive. Instead Hudson allows readers to design their own group telling readers the advantages and disadvantages of each decision.
scary. Pytak keeps you off balance wondering if Reeves is sane, crazy, or a little bit of both. Of course that goes for all the characters! I envy Pytak for his ability to create characters you come to care about with so few words. And while we’re on the subject of few words, one character does not speak—at all—for the entire book. Yet somehow you get a glimpse at his personality and reasoning.
