Mo snored softly in my arms, and I smiled down at him, acknowledging that my battles weren’t of very much interest to him. He only liked boobs. I couldn’t blame him, but I hoped to be around long enough to help him discover a few other pleasures. I needed to show him how to throw a punch and how to take one too. I wanted to show him how to fall and how to come back when you were losing. In my life there weren’t many fights I hadn’t won. But the truth was, I didn’t know if I was going to win this one. I just didn’t know.
My story might not end in a miracle. But I’m not eager for an ending, so I’ll take the miracles along the way and avoid the ending all together. I’ve discovered I don’t have to see what’s in front of me to keep going. Millie taught me that.
Perks of loving a blind girl.
Moses
WE ALL DIE. Eventually, that is how the story ends for all of us. There is no variance. There is no exception. We all die. Young, old, strong, weak. We all go sooner or later. I’ve come to accept that, maybe even better than most, though I don’t think I’ll ever embrace it.
When the weather permits, I like to walk to the cemetery on the rise overlooking the valley south of Levan. There isn’t much to see—a few houses on the edge of town, fields, a highway, and distant hills. In fact, the view has hardly changed at all these past forty years. I had lots of family buried here. My great-grandmother was buried here. My mother too. My little son who I’d never known in life was buried here as well.
Eli’s grave was the one I visited most. I liked to leave things for him on his stone. Shiny rocks and arrowheads, a new paintbrush and a little plastic horse. As the years passed, the gifts never changed, because he never changed. In my mind he was always the little boy, the little boy who never aged and waited somewhere for me to join him. I knew he didn’t need the things I left. I knew he didn’t even want them. I left them because I needed to, because I needed him. Still. Even though I got along without him, and even though my life was filled with loved ones, nothing filled the space where he should have been.
I had other spaces like that—little scarred alcoves that never looked or felt the same. Inhospitable places that I couldn’t fill, where nothing would grow, where the walls echoed and silence reigned. And I could match each space to a stone in that cemetery.
The Levan cemetery had grown over the years. When I’d first come back to Levan as a young man, looking for Georgia, looking for my life, there had still been rows and rows of unused plots, stretches of green grass waiting for loved ones lost. But those rows were filled now, new rows had been added, and the cemetery wasn’t so little anymore.
Georgia’s parents had both passed away and she’d lost a brother a few years ago too. Axel was killed in an automobile accident five years after Millie and Tag were married. We’d all been devastated by his loss, and when his family in Sweden never came forward or responded to our repeated attempts to contact them, we brought him here, to Levan, and buried him among family, for that’s what he’d become. I’d seen him a time or two, as big and blond and brawny in death as he’d been in life. He always smiled and showed me things, memories of time in the gym, time with Tag and the team, and bits and pieces of things I didn’t always understand but never failed to paint. They were his precious things—his greats—and I didn’t have to understand them.
Life had not been easy on the team, but life isn’t easy on anyone. A few years back, Mikey’s wife had lost her fight with breast cancer and after that, Mikey had gone down-hill fast. Their kids were raised and Mikey was tired. He was a veteran, but he didn’t want a military send-off. He lost his leg in Iraq, but found a home in Tag Team. He expressed a desire to be buried here, next to his wife, and we buried them six months apart, not far from Axel.
When Cory’s youngest son died of leukemia a decade ago, they’d brought him here too, wanting him surrounded in death by people who would have loved him in life, had they lived, had he lived. His little monument was engraved with a tree, and we buried him close to Eli, though the spot right next to Eli was already taken with a stone that bore my name. Georgia’s name too, with the years of our births, a dash, and an empty space, a date that death would someday provide.
I had grandkids now, several of them. Georgia and I had welcomed two more daughters—no sons after Eli—and all our girls were married and gone, raising kids of their own. Tag’s boy Mo went into the marines and eventually got into politics. He looked just like his dad, big and green-eyed with his dimpled smile and a helluva chin. But he listened like his mother, worked like her too, and thanks to Henry had a brain like an encyclopedia when it came to the details. Senator David Moses Taggert was a force to be reckoned with, and people had started throwing his name around as a possible presidential candidate. I just shook my head at that and hoped nobody would come sniffing around Levan, trying to dig up dirt on his family and friends. I liked the quiet.
I breathed in deep, filling my lungs with the silence and the sweet air, and stooped to pull a weed, clearing the intruder from my precious cluster of stones. When I straightened, I caught movement from the corner of my eye and turned to find Tag striding toward me, his shoulders as broad as ever, his back as straight, his smile as wide. His name rose to my lips and my heart lifted in greeting, welcoming my old friend. It had been a while, and I had missed him.
I SAY THIS with every book, so it must be the truth. Each book is harder than the last. I never feel like the words flow and the characters take me away. I never feel confident, never feel sure of myself. I can never predict what someone is going to like or dislike. I never know if the book will be embraced by my loyal readers. I never, ever know. With that being said, I am proud of this book. I am proud of the sweat and the tears. I’m glad that it isn’t easy. If it were easy, than it wouldn’t be so rewarding to finish. The difficulty of a task makes the task mean something. And when I write, it means something to me. I hope it means something to you. This book is dedicated to the following people:
To Cody Clark, who passed away last January after a four year battle with cancer. You and I never met, but I was inspired by you anyway. Thank you for fighting so hard and for never failing to say I love you. I promise to keep an eye on your mom.
To Stephenie Thomas, your grace and strength are inspiring. Thank you for sharing your cancer journey with me so graciously. The world needs more women like you. May you never leave us.
To Nicole Rasmussen, a blind mother with four beautiful children and a devoted husband. Thank you for letting me learn from you, for sharing your life with me, and for being such an example of determination and grit.
To Richard Stowell and lovely Ann. Thank you for your goodness, your love for each other and for those you come in contact with. Thank you for reminding me that all storms pass.
Heartfelt thanks must also be given to:
My assistant, Tamara Debbaut, who is loyal, steadfast, smart and efficient, and who suffers with me. That is a true friend. To my children and husband, you make me better. Without you, I would never come up for air. You bless my life and remind me of the important things every day. Thank you for loving me. I want to extend the deepest gratitude to my parents and siblings who always let me know they love me and are proud of me. They are my biggest cheerleaders. To Tina Kleuker for sharing your talents with me, and Mandy Lawler for believing in my writing and helping me find my way through the publicity maze. To Karey White, author and editor extraordinaire, thank you for your good work and for your support. Hang Le – thank you for the beautiful cover! I am so grateful to have your genius on my projects. To Julie Titus of JT Formatting, you know I would be lost without you. To Adam Legas and Riven Athletics, thank you for answering my questions about the world of MMA. To the team at Dystel and Goderich, thank you for looking out for me. And finally, to the readers and bloggers who have supported me through thick and thin, and who believe in me and my stories—you make it all possible. I can’t name you all, as I will surely miss someone who deserves my thanks. But thank you. You
make me cry happy tears daily.
AMY HARMON IS a USA Today and New York Times Bestselling author. Amy knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do, and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Her books are now being published in seven countries, truly a dream come true for a little country girl from Levan, Utah. Amy Harmon has written eight novels - the USA Today Bestsellers, Making Faces and Running Barefoot, as well as The Law of Moses, Infinity + One, Slow Dance in Purgatory, Prom Night in Purgatory, and the New York Times Bestseller, A Different Blue.
Other Titles by Amy Harmon
Running Barefoot
Slow Dance in Purgatory
Prom Night in Purgatory
A Different Blue
Making Faces
Infinity + One
The Law of Moses
Amy Harmon, The Song of David
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