We don’t really talk much about her father. I tell her that without him, she wouldn’t be here. Sometimes I think I should explain it to her better, and other times I know there is no way to explain. And I don’t really need to because, in her own way, she has already made sense of it. Being with her reminds me that things are in the right place.

She is spelling a lot less now. I know because I don’t see the letters flying randomly and angrily from her lips. Her face is softer and, when she speaks, her voice is shinier. We eat breakfast together some mornings at Leah’s house. We sit in her kitchen, which is now painted a buttery yellow and makes Franny’s face glow like the sun. Leah always leaves us alone and I pretend that we are the only two left in the entire world. I wonder what Leah has told her about why she gave her away. When she talks about Leah, she smiles and I wonder if forgiveness can be that easy—if it is, I envy her. I also know there is a sadness for which she hasn’t yet found the words. Doesn’t matter, though, because I will be here for when they come.

Today when we finish eating, she asks me to take her to a park. Simply because she asks, I agree. It’s a sunny day and we stand beneath the trees, hidden from view, almost like we don’t belong, which . . . maybe we don’t.

“We don’t need this anymore,” Franny says and hands me a book.

It is purple and bound by a rubber band so stretched it snaps at my touch. Inside are my notes to her. I pull one out and read through my promises and my despair and my brokenness. She has used a pen to trace over my letters so that now my words belong to us both. Words that remind us of who we were before becoming who we were meant to be.

She is looking at me, waiting for a response, and I nod my head. She hands me a box of matches and I take one and strike it. Nothing much happens except for the quick way it ignites. As the pages crackle and shrivel, a burning smell fills the air around us that reminds me of roasted peanuts.

We stand and watch as it rages and then quiets and when it is finished, we walk away, leaving what is left behind. We walk holding hands. We walk away and Franny doesn’t turn back, but I do. I look up into the trees and see a twisted thread of smoke winding its way up above our heads, which then disappears into the cool blue air as if it was never even there in the first place.

Acknowledgments