Just a week after we had settled in Spokane, I got a job as a pizza delivery guy at Caruso’s Sandwich & Pizza Co. I made good money in tips and they were pretty easy about feeding us, so that was a big benefit. I’d usually bring home whatever unclaimed pizzas were left at the end of my shift, which Tyson would happily demolish by himself for a midnight snack.
As summer came to an end, I enrolled at Gonzaga University in their creative writing program. I got a grant and good grades. I liked the college life. It wasn’t the college life you see on TV, with wild, beer-chugging fraternity parties and such. Mine was a pretty solitary deal, but it worked for me. I spent a lot of time in the library and I wrote a dozen or so short stories, several of which were published in The Reflection, the school’s journal of art and literature. I also picked up a little side money writing for the school newspaper, The Bulletin.
For the first time in my life I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a writer. My ultimate dream was to write books and be a published author. One of my professors was a published author. He wasn’t exactly famous, but he had a following. I couldn’t imagine that life could be any better than that.
I graduated with a BA in literature at the age of twenty-three. During my final year of school, I got an internship with a Spokane company—Deaconess Healthcare—writing their weekly newsletter and online articles. I was hired full-time upon my graduation.
Financially, things were going the best they ever had in my life. That’s when I finally moved out of Tyson and Candace’s place. They never asked me to leave—in fact, they seemed a little upset that I was leaving—but after all they had done for me, I just didn’t ever want to put them in a situation where they had to ask. Also, after years of trying, Candace was finally pregnant, and I figured that it was time they had their own life.
I moved into a small basement apartment just a half mile from where they lived. We still had dinner together at least once a week. And every now and then I’d bring Tyson a midnight pizza.
I dated a few girls, but nothing took. There was one benefit to my loneliness. Without a significant other in my life, I had most of my nights free. A year after my graduation I started writing my first book, a twisted tale about a broken family. I never showed it to anyone. I started my second book at the age of twenty-six. It was better than my first, but still nothing to brag about. I began wondering if I really had what it took to be a novelist.
Fortunately, my passion was stronger than my doubt. A year later I wrote my first real novel. I call it my first “real” novel because it was my first book that I felt was decent enough to let someone else read. It was called The Long Way Home. It was a story about a young man trying to find his mother. It wouldn’t take Freud to connect the dots about where I drew my inspiration from.
After finishing the book, I made a few copies and began sharing it with people at work. One of my colleagues, Beth, had a cousin, Laurie, who was the co-owner of a literary agency in New York. After reading my book, and without my knowing it, Beth sent the manuscript I’d given her to Laurie. It was like the time Ms. Diamond had entered my writing into the district competition without telling me.
I’ll never forget the day Laurie called me. Our conversation went like this:
Laurie: Mr. Churcher, this is Laurie Lord of Sterling Lord Literistic. How are you?
Me: Who is this?
Laurie: My name is Laurie Lord. I’m with the Sterling Lord literary agency in New York. You wrote The Long Way Home?
Me: Yes.
Laurie: It’s a really beautiful book, Jacob. May I call you Jacob?
Me: Yes. How did you get my book?
Laurie: My cousin Beth sent it to me. Apparently you work with her.
Me: Beth Chamberlain?
Laurie: Yes. She didn’t tell you that she was sending me your book?
Me: No . . .
Laurie: Well, she did. And it’s terrific. I’d like to take it to publishers. I currently represent thirty-two authors, seven of whom are international bestselling authors. I’d like to make you number eight. If you’re interested, I’d love to fly out to Spokane to meet you.
Me: Uh . . . sure.
Three days later I met Laurie Lord, the woman to whom I would soon be professionally married. I signed a contract with her firm and she went to work, distributing the manuscript to big-name publishers. Six publishers wanted the book and it went to auction, selling for a quarter-million-dollar advance, which, needless to say, is a ridiculously high amount for the first book from an unknown author.
Within a month, the film rights were picked up by a major production studio. It was an exciting time. It was also a major paradigm shift for me. My life suddenly seemed charmed.
Literary lightning struck. My book was both a commercial and literary success. The reviewer from the New York Times gave my book a stellar review. It also received a starred review in Publishers Weekly, and even the notoriously snarky reviewer at Kirkus gave it a nod.
My publisher contracted me for another three novels and I quit my job at Deaconess to write full time. My writing career was now what a million would-be writers dreamt of. Every now and then I’d wonder if my mother had read my book.
My next contract was for more than four million dollars. My life changed after that. A year earlier, Candace had given birth to an eleven-pound three-ounce baby boy. (Yikes.) That Christmas, to show my gratitude for all Tyson and Candace had done, I paid off their home and bought Tyson the Harley-Davidson Fat Boy he coveted. It was great to be giving to them for a change. Candace kissed me, while Tyson tried—unsuccessfully—to hide his tears.
“It’s too much, man,” he said.
I hugged him. “No, it’s not. You saved my life.”
I bought a home in Coeur d’Alene, a peaceful resort town a half hour east of Spokane. The home was on the lake and beautiful but, as in all wealthy neighborhoods, isolated. More and more I felt the loneliness.
Before she overdosed, Janis Joplin said, “Onstage I make love to twenty-five thousand people; and then go home alone.” More times than not, I felt that way. Not that I hadn’t had offers. I remember the first city I flew into, I was met by a beautiful media escort. When she checked me into the hotel, the clerk behind the counter asked, “How many keys do you need?”
“Just one,” she said. “He’s alone.” Then she turned to me. “Unless you’d like me to spend the night.”
I pretended that I hadn’t heard her. “One key is good,” I said.
That was my life. A million fans. One key. And all the while, somewhere in my heart, was this woman who still haunted my dreams. A woman as elusive as an angel. I once tried to catch her in my writing but she eluded me even there. The story wouldn’t come. I felt like I was fictionalizing a nonfiction story.
My life fell into a routine as predictable as a Tokyo subway car. I wrote a book a year and traveled around the country with a first-class ticket for one, meeting readers, signing books, and talking to reporters.
Then one day, almost three weeks before Christmas, I got a phone call that changed everything.
CHAPTER
Two
December 7
I was in the car on the way to O’Hare when my agent, Laurie, called. “Churcher, you still in Chicago?”
“I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Lucky you. I know how you love to fly. How did your interview go with USA Today?”
“No idea.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It was.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, so I’m just going to let it go. So, I have the Times list.”
“And?”
“Congratulations. You’re number three.”
“Who’s one and two?”
Laurie groaned. “Man, you’re hard to please. It’s Christmas and you’re running with the big dogs, Churcher. King, Sparks, Patterson, Roberts, and Grisham all have books out. Be happy with three. Your sales are up again; it’s good. Yo
u’re only competing against yourself.”
“Tell that to the other authors.”
“Good-bye,” she said, not hiding her annoyance. “Have a good flight. And congratulations, whether you’ll take it or not. Call me when you’re in a better mood. Wait, wait,” she suddenly said. “One more thing. I know you don’t like to fly, but—”
“No, I don’t like brussels sprouts. I abhor flying.”
“Unfortunately you live on the wrong side of the country. We need to plan your trip to New York. Your publisher wants to know what day we’re meeting.”
“I don’t know. I’ll call back after my anxiety meds kick in. Bye.”
“Ciao. Call me later.”
I was about to set down my phone when it rang again. I looked at the caller ID. It was an unknown number with an 801 area code, something I remembered from my childhood. Utah. Even after all these years, just seeing the area code raised my blood pressure.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Jacob Churcher?” It was an unfamiliar voice.
“Who is this?” I asked curtly.
“Mr. Churcher, my name is Brad Campbell. I’m an attorney at Strang and Copeland in Salt Lake City.”
I groaned. “Who’s suing me now?”
“No one that I’m aware of. I’m calling because I’m the executor of your mother’s will.”
It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. “My mother’s will?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My mother’s dead?”
Now there was hesitation on his line. “I’m sorry. You didn’t know?”
“Not until now.”
“She passed two weeks ago. I’m really sorry, I assumed you knew.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Is there anything you want to know about her death?”
“Not especially. She had a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“What was that like?”
“It was small.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Like I said, the reason I called is because I’m the executor of your mother’s will and she left you everything. The house, some money, everything.”
I didn’t speak for a moment, and the man asked, “Are you still there?”
“Sorry. This is just . . . unexpected.” Entirely unexpected. Like catching a taxi after a Broadway show on a rainy night unexpected. It’s not that I didn’t expect that she would die someday. Rather, I had so completely blocked her from my mind that having her suddenly barge back into my life was an interruption of my regularly scheduled programming and as jarring as an ice bucket challenge.
“Sir?”
I exhaled. “Sorry. I guess I’ll probably need to come down to Salt Lake.”
“It would be a good idea to see the property for yourself. You live in Idaho, correct?”
“Yes, Coeur d’Alene. I’ll need a key to the house.”
“My office isn’t far from your mother’s home. If you like, I can meet you and bring a few documents for you to sign. When are you planning on coming down?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll call in the next week and let you know.”
“All right. On a personal note, I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not the Jacob Churcher? The author?”
“Yes.”
“My wife’s a big fan. Would you mind autographing a few books when I meet with you?”
“No problem.”
“Thank you. It will mean the world to her. I look forward to meeting you.”
I hung up the phone. My mother was dead. I had no idea how to process that. How was I supposed to feel? It’s hard to admit it, but the very first thought that came to my head, unbidden, was this: Ding Dong, the Witch is dead. I know it makes me sound unsympathetic, if not outright crazy, but that’s what I thought. Because even though I hadn’t seen her for almost twenty years, the world suddenly felt safer.
I called Laurie back. “I need to delay New York.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to go to Utah.”
“The Utah?”
“Is there more than one Utah?”
“What’s in Utah? Besides your mother and a head of bad memories.”
“My mother died.”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry. How do you feel about that?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m still letting it sink in.”
“You’re going for the funeral?”
“No. That was last week. She died two weeks ago. I need to go down to settle the estate.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Is what a good idea?”
“Going back. I hate the idea of you stirring those ashes. You never know what kind of fire it might ignite.”
“I’m not planning on making any fires. Unless it’s to burn the place down. I think I’ll leave Friday morning.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Not sure. Probably a few days. Maybe three.”
“Flying?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” she repeated. “That would be too quick and easy.”
“I’ll need my car.”
“There are such things as rental cars.”
“I like my car.”
“I know you like your car. Do you need me to come out?”
“No. Thank you, but I’m okay.”
She sighed. “All right. I’m sorry. I hope everything turns out all right.”
“It will be fine. I’m just going back to settle a few things.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
CHAPTER
Three
December 9
COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO
Laurie was right. As I prepared to leave for Utah, I wasn’t sure if going home really was such a good idea. I wasn’t even sure why, after so many years, I had so hastily offered to go back. It must have been something deeply subconscious because, in my conscious mind, I couldn’t make sense of it. Then, after I committed, it just came together. I think that at least half the things I do are done out of inertia. Maybe that’s true for everyone.
The last time I’d driven the route from Coeur d’Alene to Salt Lake was fifteen years ago coming the opposite direction with Tyson and Candace. That trip had taken us almost fourteen hours, but I was pretty sure I could do it in ten. For one thing, I had a bigger bladder than Candace did. And second, Tyson, pulling a U-Haul trailer in his old truck, pretty much did the speed limit the whole way. This time I drove a turbo Porsche Cayenne, which is basically a rocket disguised as an SUV. I can’t remember the last time I’d driven the speed limit.
I made myself toast and coffee, then left my home at around nine in the morning. I drove southeast through Butte, Montana, down I-15 to Idaho Falls and Pocatello, across the barren, snow-covered landscape of the Utah border, then two more hours down to Salt Lake City, arriving a little after dark. I had made the trip in a little over ten hours, with only a lunch stop in Butte and a gas stop in Pocatello, Idaho.
The city was decorated for the holidays and the trees in front of the Grand America Hotel were strung with twinkling white and gold lights. The roads were clear of snow but there were three- to four-foot-high snowbanks on both sides of the streets. The city’s skyline was larger than I remembered. Salt Lake had grown in my absence, and living in the smaller towns of Spokane and Coeur d’Alene had changed my perspective. The traffic was surprisingly heavy for that time of night. I guessed that there was a basketball game.
I avoided the hotel’s massive porte cochere and uniformed valets by parking my car beneath the hotel. I rarely used valet parking. I hated asking for my car when I needed it.
The Grand America was every bit as grand as the name boasted. The lobby was spacious, with marble floors and hung with brightly colored Murano glass chandeliers. The interior of the hotel was also dressed for the holidays with lush garlands,
wreaths, and lights.
As soon as I got to my room I called the attorney. Campbell. He answered on the first ring. We agreed to meet the next morning at ten at my mother’s house.
I ordered dinner—a beet and strawberry salad and some salmon—and lay back on the luxurious bed. The hotel was as opulent as anywhere I’d stayed in my travels. I’d come a long way since the last time I’d been in Salt Lake, when I slept on a mattress in an unfinished basement.
I still wasn’t sure what it was that had brought me back. It wasn’t the will. I didn’t need or want anything from my mother. I suppose it was because there was still something dark inside me—something painful, like a glass sliver working its way deeper and deeper into my soul. Something I instinctively knew wouldn’t just go away if I ignored it.
No matter the reason, something told me that I needed to go back.
I didn’t sleep well. I had bizarre dreams. One of them was of my mother in a wedding dress. I came out dressed as the groom. I woke soaked in sweat and had to lay a towel down on my bed, since I wasn’t about to call housekeeping to change my sheets at two in the morning.
CHAPTER
Four
December 10
I woke well after sunrise. I went down to the hotel’s fitness center and worked out, then came back to my room, showered, and dressed. There was a text message on my phone from Laurie.
Good luck today.
I’m going to need it, I thought.
I skipped breakfast and headed down to my car. Today my Porsche was less car than time machine, transporting me back to a place that existed more in memory than reality.
I had a plethora of feelings as I neared the old house. Driving down the old streets was like listening to an old vinyl record on a phonograph, with all the scratches and crackles, the surface noise as much a part of the music as the songs.
I hadn’t been back to the house since I’d left Utah. In fact, I hadn’t even been back to Utah. It’s not that I hadn’t had the opportunity, but I didn’t claim it. The local papers, the Deseret News and its nemesis, the Salt Lake Tribune, had both written articles on me calling me out as a son of Utah—a title I had, at the time, no interest in claiming. I had refused interviews with both papers and turned down book signing requests and lucrative appearance and speaking fees simply because the venue was in Utah.