Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Praise
Also by Christopher Brooks
A Note from the Author
March 15, 1997
Faces, and How They Look from Behind
NOTHING MAKES GOD LAUGH LIKE WHEN WE TELL HIM OUR PLANS FOR THE FUTURE
The Green Children
As the Deck Tilted into the Ocean
The Ghost of Travis Worley
Appearance, Disappearance, Levitation, Transformation, and the Divided Woman
The Telephone
Love Is a Chain, Hope Is a Weed
About the Author
ALSO BY KEVIN BROCKMEIER
Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to
Wednesday,
December 6, 1989.
Acclaim for Kevin Brockmeier’s
THE TRUTH ABOUT CELIA
“Fierce and tightly imagined. . . . The Truth About Celia has all the austere ache of a cello suite. . . . [Brockmeier] proves himself a master of compassionate reach.”
—The Boston Globe
“Affecting. . . . A dazzling fantasia on grief and time.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Each sentence is an elegy—a celebration of every heartbreaking detail that makes life beautiful and an exacting portrait of the bone-aching, irredeemable despair of loss. Every scene is a heart that throbs with both glorious, garrulous joy and profound, insurmountable sorrow. Like all of Kevin’s work, this book is exquisitely crafted and deeply evocative, and as a reader I am once again awed and moved to both desperation and delight.”
—Thisbe Nissen, author of The Good People of New York
“Lyrical, magical, achingly bittersweet. . . . The mesmerizing whisper of Brockmeier’s prose [turns] skeptical readers into believers. The gentle, rolling pulse of these sentences makes elegiac epiphanies out of Christopher’s grief-borne stream-of-consciousness. . . . For evoking this bleak estate with unflinching accuracy and honesty, Kevin Brockmeier deserves our praise.”
—Newsday
“A startlingly imaginative and empathetic work.”
—The Miami Herald
“Brilliant. . . . Beautifully written and relentlessly gripping. . . . The psychological devastation suffered by Janet and Christopher . . . is made excruciatingly tangible in [this] remarkable novel.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“A compelling and intricate study of loss and acceptance.”
—The Baltimore Sun
“Imagine I’m standing beside you in the bookstore. I’m putting this book in your hands. I loved The Truth About Celia: you should buy this book, take it home, and read it at once.”
—Kelly Link, author of Stranger Things Happen
“The gorgeous language and wealth of detail . . . elicit from readers overwhelming feelings that lead to a catharsis.”
—The Commercial Appeal (Memphis)
“Outstanding. . . . Eloquently describes the pain of losing a child and the search for meaning in resistant fact and more resilient imagination. I highly recommend this book.”
—John Hammond, San Antonio Express-News
“Wrenching. . . . You may never read a more beautifully written novel than this one.”
—Arkansas Times
“Some of the most moving writing in the English language. . . .The pleasure of Brockmeier’s novel—and it is a deep pleasure indeed—comes from an excruciatingly poignant exploration of the effect of the Brooks’ loss. . . . Fellow writers can only envy Brockmeier’s felicity with prose, his lyricism that aspires to great music. The Truth About Celia is modest in size but not in scope, and the magnificent prose lingers in memory long after the book is closed.”
—Arkansas Democrat Gazette
The author—the real one—would like to thank his editor, Jenny Minton; his agent, Kyung Cho; the National Endowment for the Arts for financial support; and Meg Rains, Erin Ergenbright, and Meghan O’Rourke for early readings. There is a brief paraphrase of The Book of the New Sun, by Gene Wolfe, in the final section of The Truth About Celia.
the truth about
Celia
Christopher Brooks
Also by Christopher Brooks
Metaphysical Puzzleland
The Golden Age of Jumping (stories)
The Empty Space
Songs for Coming Out the Other Side (stories)
The Gates of Horn and Ivory Trilogy:
The Mark of Abel
The Cult of Beautiful Pain
The Minutes
So many years were stolen,
So many years are gone.
And the vision of my Celia
Made dreams to dream upon.
Each hour is a day filled with memories.
Oh, when will Celia come to me?
PHIL OCHS, “Celia‘
A Note from the Author
The biographical note on the jacket of my last book reports that “Christopher Brooks is beginning work on a new novel, the projected sequel to his Gates of Horn and Ivory series.‘
This is not that book.
The stories in these pages were written after the disappearance of my daughter and after a long silence that, frankly, I did not expect to break. They are a mixture of fact and speculation, and of fact shading into speculation, and of speculation shading into fact. I think I believed that by writing them I could rescue or resurrect my daughter, that the fact might reconstruct her as she used to be and the speculation might call her back from wherever she is today. It is not the book I hoped it would be.
In any case, though I have drawn parts of it freely from my own imagination, many of the names, characters, settings, and events I employ are actual, and their resemblance to real events, places, and people, living or dead, is as exact as I could make it.
—CHRISTOPHER BROOKS
March 15, 1997
Here is Celia, running like a rabbit through the sunlight, on a day so perfectly pitched between winter and spring that she can feel streamers of warm air in the wind. The grass looks willowy and tender, and she very much wants to take off her shoes and flatten it beneath her feet, but her mom told her that if she went pounding around barefoot outside she might catch something. She is afraid of catching something. When she was six she caught the flu, and when she was five she caught the chicken pox. She stops by the pond and looks into the water, creased by the breeze. There is a cluster of minnows swimming just beneath the surface, and when she tries to touch one they scatter away in a spray of silver V’s. Suddenly she thinks of a new jingle: Little silver minnows with their little silver finnows. It is a good day.
She has three favorite toys: her dollhouse, her ring collection, and her stuffed giraffe, Franklin, but they are all in her bedroom. Here in the yard there is only her scooter and the top half of a Barbie doll. The bottom half of the Barbie doll was washed away last week during a thunderstorm, when she and her parents had to walk through the house lighting tall white candles with matches as long as magicians’ wands. It has been five days since it rained (one, two, three, four, five—she can count as high as one hundred), but the ground is still spongy in places. She leaves a deliberate curve of footprints across the backyard, stretching from the deck to the maple trees. She has known ever since she woke up this morning that something important was going to happen—something enormous—and though she does not yet know what it is, she can feel herself slowly falling toward it. It is like the dreamlike fall of a diver from a high board. Her fingers and toes are tingling. She does not need her toys.
She can see her dad through the kitchen window, escorting a man and woman past the pantry and the staircase and the wood-burning stove. I am her dad,
and when I pass into the living room, she loses sight of me. In the pocket of her dress she finds a red rubber ball that she bought from the gum machine at the grocery store. Once a week her mom gives her a quarter to load into the gum machine, and though she always hopes for a plastic ring to add to her ring collection, usually she ends up cranking out a bracelet or a toy watch or something. She throws the ball as high as she can and it lands on the roof, drumming back down with a wonderful resiny thumping noise. Then she chases it across the grass and throws it once more, this time so high that it almost hits the chimney. She could listen to the sound it makes again and again, a hundred or a thousand times, but the fifth time she throws it, the ball lodges clunkily in the metal gutter. A great boat of a cloud drifts by. A dog barks across the street.
In one of the elm trees behind the house is a cocoon she has been watching all winter long, and though she has only touched it once or twice, as gently as she could, and with her littlest finger, when she looks for it she discovers that it has already split open. She is afraid to look inside. She can almost picture the body of the butterfly, motionless, folded into a papery kink. But the cocoon, it turns out, is empty, stuffed with a sticky gray floss that comes off on her fingers.
This means that the butterfly has flown away. Either that or been eaten.
She hasn’t seen any butterflies swaying through the flowers yet this year, but she believes just the same, or decides to believe, that it has flown away.
Soon she is climbing onto the fragment of stone wall in the side yard of the house. The wall is almost as high as her waist, and she boosts herself onto it effortlessly. She can remember when she was little and had to scrabble to the top using both her hands and all her muscles. Her dad walks by the living room window and winks at her. She is tightrope-walking along the wall, her arms outstretched like wings, and just before he turns away, her hair is caught in the brilliance of the sunlight. He can see every individual thread. In less than a minute, now, the enormous thing she has been expecting all morning will carry her off like a wave. She watches a maple leaf, the last of the winter, go spinning delicately to the ground. She hears a car driving down the road, knuckles of asphalt popping in its wheel wells.
In her head she feels a rising sensation, like a halo of electricity traveling up a ring of conductors.
Three. Two. One.
It is the same day, two hours earlier, and I am looking through the closets and drawers in the house, weeding out items for our annual yard sale. A turtleneck sweater with a rippled weave. A letter opener in the shape of a sword. The yard sale is scheduled for next Saturday, the fourth weekend in March, as it was last year and the year before. We will, as it happens, postpone it this year and never reschedule it, and much later, after everything has changed, I will find a box labeled YARD SALE 1997 in the storage room, filled with all these forgotten objects, but I do not yet know this.
We have just come from the living room into the kitchen when Celia asks, “You’re not going to give away the vegetable plates, are you?” She has been following me around the house all morning.
The vegetable plates are a set of eight plastic dishes with drawings of different vegetables on them—potatoes and carrots and the like. They all wear smiles on their faces, and Celia has an odd affection for them, as if they were pets. She has never explained it to me. “Not if you want us to keep them,” I tell her. “And we’re not giving anything away. We’re selling things. It’s a yard sale. Like the time we got Franklin, remember?”
And with that she’s off, dancing around the room and waving her fingers like a baton: Frank-lin. Meet my Frank-lin. He’s a gira fe like you’ve never seen. She has been doing this ever since she woke up—inventing jingles, one after the other.
“Honey, why don’t you go look through your stuff? See if there’s anything up there you want to get rid of.”
“I looked yesterday and there wasn’t any. But okay, Dad.” She races upstairs, singing a new song, and when she rounds the corner, her voice dissolves away.
I have been Daddy to Celia for more than six years. It was her second word, right after Mommy and right before meatball (mee-bah), and it is only in the last few months that she has taken to calling me Dad. One syllable. Quick as a breath. She says it earnestly, almost primly, with a note of perfect self-command in her voice, and I can see that she is proud to be seven years old. There is never the same sloppy devotion in Dad that there was in Daddy, the same landslide of joy or sadness, but hearing it can still send me skipping forward through the rest of my day. And sometimes—this is my secret, and I keep it even from her— when I lay my hand on her forehead to test for a fever, or when I wake her from one of her cavernous midday naps, I will become Daddy again, for only a few minutes, until she takes possession of herself again.
Soon I hear her running back downstairs, leaping the last three steps.
“I like all my stuff,” she says. “I don’t have to give anything away, do I?”
“You don’t have to, no,” I say, “but I think you could do without—oh, say, your dollhouse.”
“My dollhouse!” Her mouth opens in a circle—if a bee were to fly out, she could not look more surprised.
“That or your ring collection,” I say. “You hardly ever play with those anymore.”
She realizes I must be kidding, and she tests a smile. She begins another song, Rings and things the mailman brings, but stops short when she sees Janet.
Janet is my wife, her mother. She stands in the kitchen doorway gathering the tails of her wool muffler into her coat. “I’m off, kids,” she says, tucking her clarinet case beneath her arm. On Saturdays she has Community Orchestra rehearsal, and she doesn’t come back until two o’clock.
“It doesn’t look that cold outside. Are you sure you want to wrap yourself up like that?”
“It’ll be freezing in the Assembly Hall. Trust me. The priest over there likes to run the air conditioner even in January.”
“All right,” I say. “It’s your sauna,” and I kiss her goodbye.
She slips her hand into Celia’s hair, making a spidery motion with her fingers. “You two take care of each other,” she says. And I say, “We always do.”
After she leaves, Celia and I return to our inventory of the kitchen, piling our yard-sale items into the same cardboard box I will one day find powdered with gray dust in the corner of the storage room. A Crock-Pot with a handle that has come unpinned on one side. A green ceramic saltcellar. An apron reading PLEASE DON’T FEED THE ANIMALS. Celia runs off to see what cartoons are on television, but comes back less than a minute later with the remote control in her hand. “Nothing but superheroes,” she says. “I hate superheroes.” Then she sings: They can fly, through the sky, like a big pizza pie.
I have finished sifting through the kitchen cabinets and ask her if she is ready for a break. “An ice cream break?” she says.
“We’re out of ice cream, I think, but . . .”
When I open the freezer door, the cold comes sliding out in a single white sheet. You could almost imagine it dropping to the floor and shattering. I take a twin-pop from the popsicle box and line it up along the edge of the kitchen counter by the crease, knocking it into two halves with the heel of my palm. I give one half to Celia, and she shaves a curl of ice from it with her front teeth. The ice loses color as it lifts from the mass of the popsicle. This is something she likes to do: scrape popsicles down to the stick with her two front teeth. She takes a bite and asks, “So what room’s next?”
I can feel the first throbs of a headache coming on, an edge-less few seconds of pain that vanishes almost as soon as it appears. Goddamn. I still have the library, the morning room, and the guest room to look through. “Next we go upstairs,” I tell her. “We’ll probably try the library first, and then—”
She belts out another jingle: Oh, it’s the books, books, books, books, books—and my head gives a second twinge. A feather of plaster, as white as a snowflake, falls from the ceiling onto he
r shoulder. I brush it away.
“Tell you what, honey,” I say. “Why don’t you go play outside for a while?”
This time it happens differently. In my imagination it is always the same day—the sky is clear, the wind is fresh, and it happens again—but the details are never quite the same. Celia is running through the yard, chasing a speck of something that is glittering like a cinder in the sunlight. She can’t quite see what it is—a housefly? A dandelion seed? All at once, it rises vertically in the wind and floats away over the roof of the house. She quits the chase. She wants to kick off her shoes and let the grass thread through her toes, feel the thin flexible edges bite ever so softly into her skin, but she does not. Instead she plays with the top half of her Barbie doll (the other half is missing) and throws her ball into the air and pokes at the minnows in the pond.
When she hears the sound of barking in the street, she thinks that it is Todd Paul Taulbee walking his two Irish setters. Todd Paul Taulbee is a friend of her dad’s. He likes to fish in the pond behind their house, and he always lets her toss sticks to his dogs, who leap into the air and barrel after them, returning them to her in their slobbery black lips. She hurries into the front yard to pet the dogs and say hello, but as she rounds the corner she sees that it is not Todd Paul Taulbee after all. It is a tall, flat-haired man who stands in the street holding a sausage-shaped dog by the leash and staring at the house next door. His white-brown coat bulges enormously over his thin legs, which makes him look something like a mushroom.
Celia is not supposed to cross the street by herself, so she stops at the curb, calling, “What are you looking at?”
The man swings his head around, and his eyes run slowly down her face. It feels as though someone has cracked an egg over her head. “I’m friends with the girl who lives in that house,” he says, pointing. “Do you know if she’s home today?”
“You must be thinking of Beth Doyle. She moved away last year with her mom and dad.”