Entering Normal
Table of Contents
A Conversation with Anne LeClaire
Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion
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PROLOGUE
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CHAPTER 1 - 1992
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in memory of sandra lee
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Just give me one thing that
I can hold on to
To believe in
This living is a hard way to go
JOHN PRINE “Angels from Montgomery”
Acknowledgments
Many people helped me write this book, and I am indebted to them for their encouragement and guidance.
I owe a special thank-you to:
The Virginia Center for Creative Arts for multiple residencies that provided me with the time and space to write major portions of this book.
My agent Deborah Schneider, who, besides being wonderfully supportive and a person of great integrity, wields a magic wand.
At Ballantine, Maureen O'Neal and Gina Centrello and Kim Hovey. No author ever found herself in better hands. Their enthusiasm and commitment made all the difference.
Jacquelyn Mitchard, who insisted on the title, supported me when I was discouraged, and never once wavered in her belief. Marilyn Kallet for her kind words and skillful eyes. Margaret Moore for asking the right questions and holding me steady. Jebba Handley, Ginny Reiser, Ann Stevens, and Lorraine Brown for listening to excerpts early on and never waning in their enthusiasm. Mauny Plum, for opening her heart so that I would “get it right.” Diane Bliss of Luscious Louie's for keeping me in cookies.
The following gave generously of their time and expertise: Judge Robert A. Scandurra; Kathleen Snow, Esq.; Pamela B. Marsh, Esq.; Dr. James Kawalski; Gretchen Kolb at the Rocking Unicorn; Captain Billy Flynn and Firefighter Joel Goucher at the Harwich Fire Department; Dave Coomber; Kyle Shiver; Rob Zapple; Pat Vreeland at Chatham High School; and Mimi Gulacsi, R.N. at the Cape Cod Hospital.
Andâas alwaysâlove and thanks to Hillary, Hope, and Chris. For everything.
More praise for
Entering
Normal
“Exquisite . . . A beauty . . . If you love the feel of Anne Tyler's novels, then this has your name all over it.”
â
Daily Mirror
(London)
“It's an ancient truth, the axiom that tells us that what life does not offer us in the way of pain, we'll provide for ourselves. Anne LeClaire's fine, deceptively gentle new book,
Entering Normal,
takes that truth, shakes it, cradles it, and turns it on end. . . . This story of a life-changing friendship between generations is so full of risk and wisdom, I'm jealous that I didn't write it myself.”
âJACQUELYN MITCHARD
“In rich and limpid prose, LeClaire shifts the point of view . . . focusing on the small acts that get us through the day, or the night, or not. A woman's book in the best possible sense, this will leave readers warmed and satisfied.”
âBooklist
“
Entering Normal
is anything
but
normal. It is a masterpiece in story weaving and easily becomes a guilt-free addiction as soon as the first page is turned.”
âHarwich Oracle
“Moving and sensuous . . . It will linger in the minds of its readers for months, even years, because it is about profoundly human and mythic themes. . . .
Entering Normal
is in the grand tradition of the English novel where all effort is exerted in the creation of characters who live completely within their own skins. . . . A story of great tragedy, loss, and transformation.”
â
CapeWomen
magazine
“A heartbreakingâand breathtakingâstory . . . This book is endearing and enduring. . . . As the story unfolds, it's hard to put down, just from the sheer weight of emotion it evokes. Good writing is in the details, and this book is filled with those subtle touches that speak to every mother's heart. . . .
Entering Normal
is a story of a family, a novel about courage, loss, risk, and betrayal. It is a story that goes to the heart of what mothers call unconditional love.”
â
Martha's Vineyard Times
(MA)
PROLOGUE
THE SUN HAS BEEN IN AND OUT ALL DAY. NOW IT FINDS cracks in the clouds and threads through in ribbons, what Gram Gates used to call fingers of God.
Opal welcomes the fingers. They constitute a celestial hand beckoning her forward, and even though she will be the first to tell you she does not believe in any god and most certainly not the Presbyterian god of her grandma, she will gratefully take them as a sign of astral endorsement.
Opal lives by signs. She counts on them the way other people put their faith in heaven or weathermen or the possibility of everlasting love. She believes in them absolutely and holds tight to her conviction despite the number of people who offer the opinion that there is no sign by which one can foretell the future, no omen to warn of the disasters entire lives are hell-spent avoidingâor pursuing.
In two days she has covered stretches of six states and is now on the central section of the Massachusetts turnpike, nerves high-wired from too many Hershey bars and too much drive-thru coffee in thin paper cups. Her eyelids sting from lack of sleep.
She hopes she is heading directly north, but she can't shake the feeling that she took a wrong turn somewhere back in New York. If Billy were along, sure thing he'd have picked up a road map somewhere along the line, but Opal can't be bothered. This is one way they differ along gender lines. He's a man but willing to be dependent; she's a girl and scorns it. If she has misjudged direction, it won't be the first time in her life. By twenty she has made more than her share of wrong turns, and yet, for a fact, she does not regret a one. Certainly she doesn't regret the misstep that brought her Zack. Billy, now there was a big mistake. But not Zack. Never Zack. And so, perhaps in some sense, not even Billy.
She glances in the rearview mirror, checks the backseat, lets her eyes rest too long for caution on her five-year-old son. Tucked in between the cartons that hold her doll makings and as many of their belongings as she'd dared pack, he's out cold, his pomegranate mouth slightly open, chocolate smudges on his chin. Even in sleep, he keeps a tight hold on his stuffed tiger. Watching him she feels a familiar jolt in her stomach, the sharp, sweet terror of motherhood.
She returns her attention to the road, catches sight in the mirror of a car bearing down from the rear. She eases up on the accelerator, eyes the speedometer. She's below the legal limit; still her breath doesn't come right until the vehicle is close enough to see it's neither a cop nor Billy's black Ram pickup. While she slows for the car to pass, she thinks again that there will be hell to pay when her parents hear what she's done.
“You've told them you're going?” Billy asked the night before she left.
“Yes.”
“And they know where you're heading?”
Again she lied, said yes. Of course she hadn't said a word to them about her plans. Particularly to her mama. Melva's projected response comes to her with depressing predictability: the sniffy self-righteous rant about how once again they are
so
disappointed in her, how once more Opal has been reckless, acted irresponsibly, let them down. The echo of Melva's voice presses against her, cold and hollow as fog. She opens the window an inch or two to bring in fresh air, to breathe.
The story she came up with for Billy is that she needs some time away to think. She's just taking Zack to Ohio to visit an aunt on her daddy's side.
Actually, she hasn't a clue as to her destination.
If she were alone, without the responsibility of Zack, she would have just taken off and driven until she had a sign that said plain,
This
here is the place.
But with Zack along, she knew she would need a concrete plan. And so the night before they left, she rolled one of the dice from Billy's Monopoly game. It came up a three. A good sign. Six would be too many for Zack; one was nowhere near enough for her. So the plan is to head out and keep going until she has used up three tanks of gasâexactly three tanks, no cheating, not even if she comes upon a place that looks promising after she has gone through two and a half. She brought the die along for good luck, and now it sits on the dash, keeping company with a half dozen Happy Meal figures, an empty coffee cup, a yellow plastic rose she plucked from her grandma's hall arrangement, and an amethyst crystal in the shape of a pyramid that the lady said contained a chip of real opal.
She checks the fuel gauge. The needle edges toward empty, the final gallon of her third tank. She tries to collect her mind to see an exit or some other sign that will reveal to her what her next step should be. If her faith is to be repaid, she will catch sight of one soon.
Opal's belief in signs riles Billy. He thinks it's stupid and is fixed on conveying that opinion to her. “Raylee,” he said to her just before Zack was born, back before she changed her name. “Raylee, you can't go living your life looking for signs. It's just about the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“It's not dumb at all,” she said. “You hear me, Billy Steele. Not dumb at all. You'll come to my way of thinking. You just wait and see.”
“How am I going to see if I don't believe in what I'm seeing?”
“Well, that's exactly what I mean. You won't be
prepared
.”
In the past six years they have had that conversation more often than she can bear to remember. While she has given up trying to convince him that there are signs everywhere if you'll just open your eyes and look, signs holding important information, her own belief remains resolute. When you come right down to it, what else is there?
The clouds have lifted now, and the sun beats on the Buick's hood. She cranks the window down another notch, checks the backseat again. She needs music, something upbeat yet mellow. Taj Mahal would go a long way toward steadying her caffeine-stoked nerves, but she hesitates, worried the tape will wake Zack. Then, just as the needle on the gas gauge trembles into the red, just when she is praying she'll reach the next exit before she runs dry, just at that moment she sees the sign: ENTERING NORMAL. She laughs right out loud and the tiny nugget that has been caught in her chest ever since she buckled the seat belt around Zack and left New Zion, that hard little pea just melts away. As she flicks the right turn signal and veers into the exit lane, she feels the gambler's high, the wallop that comes when you've bet your stake against house odds and won. For two and a half days she's been thinking about the consequences of her actions, and now, as the old Buick rolls down the ramp toward a new life in a town named Normal, she doesn't care what Billy or her parents will say.
“Well now, haven't I just done it,” Opal says aloud. “I've done it and screw all consequences.”
She is going toward something, and even though she doesn't know exactly what it is, she trusts it. The weight of the past six years shifts, then lifts, and although she can't recall the last time she experienced the pure and simple sensation, she feels beneath her breastbone a combination of happiness and heartburn that might very well be hope.