“No, I don’t.” What is this, a book club?
“Well. In advance of this interview, I was lucky enough to receive an early copy.” Someone has just handed Reena the book. She leans forward, handing it to me.
I look at the book in my lap, run my fingers across the raised letters of the title:The Book of Mary.
“It’s your daughter’s memoir,” Reena says. “It will be released this week. By preorders alone, it’s expected to be a bestseller. Did you know that?”
“No,” I say softly. “Well—yes.” My lawyers mentioned something, but I never thought it was—I didn’t think it could—
Suddenly I am acutely aware of my own body: the coat of sweat on my hands, the heat of the production lamp on my face and neck.
This house is not my house.
“Open it,” Reena says. “See what it says.”
I open the cover, and then flip past a few blank pages. Finally, my eyes rest upon the first printed words:
For my mother
I look up at Reena.
This kitchen is not my kitchen. These children are not my children. This life is not my—
“I was wondering if you’d read the prologue today.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Right now.”
“You read it,” I say. Then I think of my lawyers, who always tell me to be polite, and my mother, who always told me to be kind, and so I add quickly, “Please!”
Once upon a time, a little girl lived out in the mountains, in a small cabin on a hillside, surrounded by woods. There was no town nearby. There were no other families. But the girl was never lonely, for she had her mama and her papa and her sister and brothers, not to mention their beloved cow and their coop full of chickens and their trusty quarter horse.
It was a quiet, simple life. The little girl never wanted for anything. In the mornings, she went out to the chicken coop and got eggs for breakfast. During the day, she did all the chores a little girl is fit to do. And at night, she sat with her family by the fire, listening to stories about faraway lands. The only food they ate was the food they caught or grew. The only stories the little girl heard were the ones her parents told her, about wolves and cowboys and Indians, about the great battles of good versus evil that were being waged out there beyond the woods, a very far ways away. Sometimes the little girl would have strange dreams, dreams that almost felt like memories. When she woke up screaming, her papa and mama would remind her that none of the nightmares were real. She was safe, they insisted. Safe and warm and hidden in the world they’d built just for her. They would never let the wolves inside.
Then the little girl grew up and realized her mama was sick. When she was old enough to understand, Pa told the little girl that her mama was filled with evil spirits. He said it was her job now to take care of the house and her siblings. He told her she needed to become a mother for her own mama. And so she did.
Years passed. Soon the little girl was no longer a girl at all, but a young woman. And one fine day, she was walking in the woods, looking for saffron, when she saw an angel standing in the trees.
A woman, standing still as a blade of grass, wearing clothes so bright it looked like she was glowing. At first, the girl thought it was her mama, restored to health. Then the angel spoke.
She told the little girl a terrifying story, too horrible for her to ever believe. The angel said the little girl’s parents were not parents at all but wolves.If you want a better life,the angel said,then you and your siblings must come with me.
But the girl didn’t want a better life. She didn’t even know what that could possibly mean. She began to think this woman was no angel, and so she ran back into the house and vowed never to return to the woods again.
Then one day, not long after the first time they met, the angel reappeared in the kitchen of the girl’s house. The request was now a demand:It’s time for you to come with me.And so she did.
The little girl in the woods was me. Mary Heller Mills.
It’s been five years since I left Yesteryear Ranch. I live in Santa Monica now, in a small apartment with my older sister, Clementine, and my little sister, Maeve, and my brothers, Noah and Abel. It was Clementine’s idea to move here. She always wanted to live by the ocean but had refused to move away from town until she found a way to save us from our parents. The day we left Yesteryear, she broke her apartment lease. It was time, she said, to begin again.
In the last five years, my life has changed completely. One of the police officers I met the day we left the ranch gave me a journal and said I should write everything down, that so many things were going to happen, and so quickly, that I’d be happy to have a record of this time period. He felt really guilty after I told him I only knew how to write my family members’ names. Then he gave me an audio recorder instead. One day, he said, Iwouldbe able to write it all down, but for now, if I couldn’t write, I could speak.
I’m glad he told me that. If I hadn’t had that audio recorder, then I might never have been able to write this book.
The story you are about to read is in many ways a very sad one, so I would like to give you my ending up front: I’m okay. I survived. I have my real family with me: my sisters and my brothers, a grandmother I never knew I had, an aunt who calls me weekly. I take reading and writing classes at the local community center. Most of my classmates are people who want to learn how to speak English. They’re all very patient with me, even though I’m definitely the furthest behind in class.
On Saturdays, I work as a grocery bagger at the Whole Foodsdown the street, and on Sundays, we all go to a church in Ocean Park. During service, our pastor talks about a God who is so very different from the God my parents taught me to know. I am starting to think that church might just be another word for people. After service, if it’s sunny, Clementine buys us donuts and then we walk to the beach. We’ve been living here for years, and still, she can’t see the Pacific without crying.
