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Sneak Peek Excerpt:
Magdalena
once told me she knew how to cure sadness. She read on that little phone of
hers that we all need fifteen minutes of sun every day and without it,
depression could set in. Those of us here on the peninsula barely get fifteen
minutes a week. The fog comes in over the cliffs in the morning, creeping
through town, shrouding all neighborhoods with a thick graveyard effect. We
don’t have an actual graveyard, but the landslide all those years ago took
enough lives and left enough ghosts behind to bring on that kind of fog. If it
does lift around midmorning, a heavy cloud cover still stays most of the day,
keeping things gray. I’d always thought my sadness came from the unfortunate
things that happened in my life, but according to Magdalena, my gloom might
simply be a lack of vitamin D.
From
the day she got the phone, she stared into it constantly, seeking answers to
all of her questions and even finding new questions she would have never
thought of on her own. She fed on its information like meat.
“Mushrooms,”
Magdalena said. “We need to eat mushrooms.” The girl was my only visitor. When
she spoke, I hung onto her every word. “If we eat enough of them, we’ll get the
vitamin D we’re missing from the sun.”
I
didn’t question her. For weeks, I based all my meals around mushrooms. I made
mushroom casseroles, salads, risotto, soups, but I’m not sure it changed me.
I’m not sure it changed her. How many mushrooms would it take to replace the
sun? I wish I could ask the girl, but she’s gone. Three weeks ago, I lost her
for good.
I
pull up my sleeves and roll up my pants. My arms and legs are so pale in this
light. They look like white maps with long blue roads leading to nowhere. The
lighting in my house is soft enough to disguise my pallor, but here in the rest
home, the deficiency is glaring. I quickly lower my sleeves and pants again.
“Focus,
Dottie.” My command is quiet.
I
swallow down one of the tiny white pills and sit up straight in my chair. Pen
in hand, I look around the dismal room I currently share with Mario. It is a
holding cell for the dying. We aren’t dying like the old people in this nursing
home. But our town is small. They had nowhere else to put my husband after the
accident a decade ago. And they had nowhere else to put me after the
devastating incident at my house last week. So now we live together again in
room eleven with the beige walls, the brown and yellow floral comforters on our
beds, and the slim, dark wood secretary desk beside the bathroom door. The old
desk is where I currently sit as I tap my pen on the blank page, trying to
gather my thoughts.
Now
the cold distracts me. I pull a blanket from the bed and wrap it around me. The
air conditioner is dreadfully high. They say it’s to keep germs down, but I
sometimes wonder if they’re trying to weed out the weakest of us.
“Focus,
Dottie, focus,” I say a little louder, closing my eyes.
“What
do you need to focus on?” someone asks.
Startled,
I tighten the blanket around me and turn toward the voice. There is a
white-haired lady in a wheelchair at my door. Her face is all wrinkled up like
fingertips after a long bath, and her lips seem to be growing inward around her
teeth. Thick bifocals, wrapped around her head like goggles, magnify her wet
and cloudy eyes. There are some really old people here, but she has to be the
oldest.
“I
didn’t mean to frighten you,” she says, her ancient voice slowly rattling out
the words. “I heard you from the hall.”
I
wasn’t trying to be heard. I place my hand over my mouth to show her I’ve no
interest in a conversation. I’m hoping my hand gesture will make her leave, but
it doesn’t. Instead, she wheels through the small space between the two beds
and parks next to me at the desk. Her nightgown is purple and far too big on
her. She smells like leftover broccoli.
“I’m
curious. What do you need to focus on?” she asks again.
It’s
going to take some time getting used to this place. I’m not in the habit of
answering to anyone, having lived alone for so long. “A letter,” I finally say.
She’s so close now, there’s no escaping her. “I’m writing a letter. A story
really. The rumors are terrible and—” I catch myself before it all comes
flooding back. Their ugly words. All the lies. “I need to tell my story. It’s
the only way to get the truth out.”
Her
face lights up. “You must be Dottie,” she whispers. I nod. “I should have
known.” Her eyes travel the length of me. “I heard about you, the young woman
living in the old people’s home.” It sounds strange out loud but worse things
have been said about me. “How old are you, dear?”
“Forty-three.”
“So
young.” She shakes her head. “It’s just awful what happened to you. How long
will you be staying with us?”
“Well.”
I look over at Mario in his bed. His eyes are open, but there’s no telling what
he’s thinking as he stares at the ceiling tiles. “The Sisters say I can stay
with my husband as long as I need. I’ve nowhere else to go.” She leans over the
side of her chair to get a closer look at him.
“Does
he even remember who you are?” “I haven’t let a day go by without coming to see
him.” “But with what happened to him, do you think he can remember?”
“Oh,
he remembers me.” I won’t let anyone convince me otherwise.
“That’s
nice.” Her smile is kind. “Sometimes I think I remember too much,” she says.
“Some things I wish I could forget, but the pictures are there in my mind,
clear as day.” She sets her bony hands in her lap, and the veins bulge like
soft worms. She smiles. Her demeanor is pleasant; it’s just the broccoli smell
that’s bothersome.
I
notice a pin on her nightgown. It’s gold with blue letters spelling out
centenarian. I point to it. “You’re a hundred?”
“A
hundred and two.”
“That’s
incredible,” I say, feeling a new respect for her. She’s not just an old
lady—she’s National Geographic material.
“It’s
a curse, old age. The lucky ones die young. Freed from these bodies, they can
move on. Or, of course, they can stick around.” She raises the few hairs left
of her eyebrows, as if I know something about this. I feel her words in my
stomach. I don’t respond. She whispers, “The ghosts of Sam’s Town are persistent,
aren’t they, Dottie?”
“If
you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my letter.”
“But
we haven’t talked about what happened to the girl yet.” She laces her fingers
together under her chin. “We need to talk about what really happened to
Magdalena.”
Hearing
her name almost makes me lose my breath. I close my eyes and indiscriminate
memories resurface—her blue nail polish, those stolen sunglasses on her head,
lemon juice dripping from her fingers, her blood on the linoleum.
“Do
you know what happened?” the old woman asks. “I mean what really happened to
her?” She’s staring at me, waiting for an answer. I reach for my pen, gripping
it like a weapon. “Until I write it all down, I’m not talking about it to
anyone.”
“You
can trust me, Dottie.” She wheels closer.
“I
don’t even know you,” I say.
She
smiles. It’s a sad smile. “Then let’s get to know one another.” She glances
toward my husband before leaning forward. The smell is strong, her voice is
soft. “Is it true that the man,” she asks, “who started it all was your lover?”
I
close my eyes again, to escape her question, but now there he is behind my
eyelids—Benjamin. His hand creeps under my dress and he’s massaging my leg. I
squeeze my eyes tighter.
“Go
away!” I shout. “Go away!” I am talking to Benjamin, but when I open my eyes,
the old lady in the wheelchair is hunched over, wheeling away as fast as her
bony arms will take her. I should explain that I was not yelling at her. But I
don’t. I stay quiet.
While
I feel a bit guilty, I’m relieved to see her go. The poor woman looks so frail
heading for the door, like her arms might snap. That’s the other effect of
vitamin D deficiency—frail bones. This town is killing all of us.
Excerpted from Magdalena by Candi
Sary © 2023 by Candi Sary, used with permission from Regal House
Publishing.
“I was transfixed by this novel set in a town suffused with ghosts figurative and literal, and moved deeply to witness an eccentric woman’s grief transmuted into a gripping testament to the power of the individual imagination.” –Antoine Wilson, author of Mouth to Mouth
“Beautifully written and satisfyingly creepy, this is one of the most poignant and original ghost stories I've ever read.” – Mark Haskell Smith, author of Blown
"Sary’s tale of love, loss and maternal devotion pulls hard at the heartstrings and is impossible to -put down.” –Diane Haeger, best-selling author of Courtesan
About the Author and Where to Find them:
Candi Sary is an award-winning writer and graduate from the University of California, Irvine. Her writing has won Reader Views Literary Award, a Chanticleer International Book Award, and was First Runner-Up in the Eric Hoffer Book Award. A mother of two adult children, Sary lives in Southern California with her husband, a dog, a cat and several ducks. She can often be found surfing and paddling boarding in the waters of Newport Beach. She is a proud steward of a Little Free Library.
Author website:https://www.candisary.com/
Author IG https://www.instagram.com/candi.sary/
Author Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100083735882581
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/62997448
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