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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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FOR MY SOFT-IN-THE-MIDDLE,
COOKIE-BAKING GRANDMAS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to offer my thanks to the following people:
Jess Regel, who set all this in motion and who has been there every step of
the way.
Liberty Greenwood and Robert Ozier, for wrecking my house, putting it back
together, walking the dogs, and rescuing me on a regular basis.
Gary Clift, Doc Fedder, and Ben Nyberg, who first suggested that writing
books wasn’t the worst thing I could do with my life.
All the wonderful people at St. Martin’s Press and Thomas Dunne Books:
Laurie Chittenden, Melanie Fried, Tom Dunne, Pete Wolverton, Laura Clark,
Katie Bassel, Lauren Friedlander, Anna Gorovoy, Olga Grlic, Jeremy Pink, and
Joy Gannon.
This book’s early readers and cheerleaders: Renee Perelmutter, Jessica
Brockmole, Lisa Brackmann, Dana Fredsti, G. J. Berger, Sarah W., Norma
Johnson, Laura Anglin, Erica Greenwood, Kari Stewart, Sue Laybourn, Teri
Kanefield, Shveta Thakrar, Jenna Nelson, Michelle Muto, Jan O’Hara, Jennifer
Donahue, Stacy Testa, Susan Ginsburg, and Gretchen McNeil, BAMF.
Sarah Kanning and Leslie Soden, in whose guest rooms I wrote the first draft.
All of my writing friends: Purgatorians, Lurkers, Pitizens, and the
indomitable YNots.
My beloved Vox peeps: Amy Heisler, LeendaDLL, Terry Snyder, Laurie
Channer, Lurkertype, Lauri Schooltz, Katrine, RobbieDobbie, madtante, Jaypo,
Ms. Pants, and many more.
Clovia Shaw, for her limitless curiosity, her righteous Google-fu, and her
24/7 free consultations.
PART ONE
1
AMY
March 1975
My mother always started the story by saying, “Well, she was born in the
backseat of a stranger’s car,” as though that explained why Wavy wasn’t normal.
It seemed to me that could happen to anybody. Maybe on the way to the
hospital, your parents’ respectable, middle-class car broke down. That was not
what happened to Wavy. She was born in the backseat of a stranger’s car,
because Uncle Liam and Aunt Val were homeless, driving through Texas when
their old beat-up van broke down. Nine months pregnant, Aunt Val hitchhiked to
the next town for help. If you ever consider playing Good Samaritan to a
pregnant woman, think about cleaning that up.
I learned all this from eavesdropping on Mom’s Tuesday night book club.
Sometimes they talked about books, but mostly they gossiped. That was where
Mom first started polishing The Tragic and Edifying Story of Wavonna Quinn.
After Wavy was born, Mom didn’t hear from Aunt Val for almost five years.
The first news she had was that Uncle Liam had been arrested for dealing drugs,
and Aunt Val needed money. Then Aunt Val got arrested for something Mom
wouldn’t say, leaving no one to take care of Wavy.
The day after that second phone call, Grandma visited, and argued with Mom
behind closed doors about “reaping what you sow,” and “blood is thicker than
water.” Grandma, my soft-in-the-middle, cookie-baking grandma shouted,
“She’s family! If you won’t take her, I will!”
We took her. Mom promised Leslie and me new toys, but we were so excited
about meeting our cousin that we didn’t care. Wavy was our only cousin,
because according to Mom, Dad’s brother was gay. Leslie and I, at nine and
going on seven, made up stories about Wavy that were pure Grimm’s Fairy
Tales. Starved, kept in a cage, living in the wilderness with wolves.
The day Wavy arrived, the weather suited our gloomy theories: dark and
rainy, with gusting wind. Of course, it would have been more fitting if Wavy had
arrived in a black limo or a horse-drawn carriage instead of the social worker’s
beige sedan.
Sue Enaldo was a plump woman in a blue pantsuit, but for me she was Santa
Claus, bringing me a marvelous present. Before Sue could get a rain bonnet over
her elaborate Dolly Parton hair, Wavy hopped out of the backseat, dangling a
plastic grocery bag in one hand. She was delicate, and soaked to the skin by the
time she reached the front door.
Leslie’s face fell when she saw our cousin, but I wasn’t disappointed. As soon
as my mother opened the door, Wavy stepped in and surveyed her new home
with a bottomless look I would grow to love, but that would eventually drive my
mother to despair. Her eyes were dark, but not brown. Grey? Green? Blue? You
couldn’t really tell. Just dark and full of a long view of the world. Her eyelashes
and eyebrows were translucent, to match her hair. Silver-blond, it clung to her
head and ran trails of water off her shoulders onto the entryway tile.
“Wavonna, sweetie, I’m your Aunt Brenda.” It was a mother I didn’t
recognize, the way she pitched her voice high, falsely bright, and gave Sue an
anxious look. “Is she—is she okay?”
“As okay as she ever is. She didn’t say a word to me on the drive over. The
foster family she’s been with this week, they said she was quiet as a mouse.”
“Has she been to see a doctor?”
“She went, but she wouldn’t let anyone touch her. She kicked two nurses and
punched the doctor.”
My mother’s eyes went wide and Leslie took a step back.
“Okay, then,” Mom cooed. “Do you have some clothes in your bag there,
