Chapter One

Afternoon, early March 2020

The rain came down in sheets along the Gualala coast. It was late in the season for such storms, but given California’s desperate need for water, Allison welcomed the sight of it streaming down the windows, dripping off the Chinese pistache in the side yard and cascading off the patio toward the ocean below.

Her body ached—a dull, persistent reminder of the years of physical strain she’d endured. Every joint, every muscle, protested in unison, staging a rebellion against any hint of movement. Rainy days like this, though soothing to the soul, did little to ease her discomfort, and they dissuaded her from her daily hike. After years of pushing her body to the limits, hiking was one of Allison’s last bastions of deep physical exertion. But today, the trekking poles would remain untouched in the corner of the garage, the kinesiology tape for her hips and glutes unused, the knee brace snug in its drawer beside the bed.

Allison sighed, sinking into the rhythm of the downpour. Stretching exercises crossed her mind, but the invitation to rest felt far more tempting. Wrapped in the afghan her mother had crocheted—a comforting blend of forest green and earth brown—she gave in to the stillness, allowing herself to simply lie down.

From her bedroom window, she watched the rain-soaked Japanese magnolia tree in the yard. It looked bedraggled now, its pink blossoms beaten down by the storm, but it still held a special place in her heart. Nineteen years ago, when she’d first moved into this house with Tom, the tree had greeted her like an old friend. Though Tom had built the house long before their paths crossed, it always felt like he’d constructed it with her in mind.

Tom had left early that morning, slipping out before she’d awakened. These days, she worried about him constantly. The risks he and other doctors had started taking since February, out there among the infected, left her with gnawing concern over what once was a routine workday. And she couldn’t rely on swimming, golfing, and biking—the activities that used to occupy her days—as a distraction. The pandemic had shifted everything.

As Allison mulled over her thoughts, her gaze wandered out to the cliffs beyond the patio. Through the sheets of rain, she caught sight of a dark figure standing near the edge of the bluff. He stood still, a solitary silhouette against the churning ocean below. Though she couldn’t make out his face, she knew who it was. She turned away.

On the bedside table, a small transparent pillar caught her eye. Nestled at the top, encased in Lucite, was a globe slightly smaller than a golf ball. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. Its smooth exterior gave way to a mesmerizing interior—variegated shades of blue flecked with brown and white. It was an alternate world, a tiny universe she’d always loved getting lost in.

Returning the globe to its stand, she lay back down, closing her eyes. The afghan’s weight was reassuring, anchoring her against the swirl of thoughts in her mind. Her memory drifted back to another magnolia tree on another overcast day. It was a tree from her childhood, one she used to climb during hot Georgia summers. Beneath its sprawling branches, she’d inhale the lemony scent of its blooms. Sometimes, she’d sit at her second-story bedroom window, watching its leaves quiver in the breeze. Those were safer days, simpler days, at least for some.

Allison’s memories wandered through their vault . . .

In her mind, Allison was three again. Kneeling on an upholstered wing chair near the window of her childhood home, she watched the last few petals of the magnolia tree drift away on a November wind. The tree shuddered, as if reluctant to surrender to the approaching winter. She loved this room, especially on days like this, when she could gaze down at the world outside.

Her neighborhood in Sunflower, Georgia, wasn’t particularly lively. On warm days, neighbors lingered on lawns or porches, gossiping about minor scandals involving other people’s children or spouses. On colder days, once she’d wrapped herself in the green-and-brown afghan—the same one now draped across her—she’d watch as they retreated inside, their presence marked only by the occasional flicker of a curtain.

As a child, Allison would often watch the street below, imagining the lives of passersby. She especially loved the rituals before bedtime. After her bath, one of her parents would draw the shades and close the curtains. Dressed in homemade pajamas, she’d settle into the wing chair for a story before being tucked into bed.

One gloomy afternoon, the muffled hum of her mother’s vacuum cleaner blended with the faint rhythm of distant drums. Curious, Allison wandered down two flights of stairs to the recreation room in the basement. There, her mother stood motionless before the new color television, tears streaming down her face.

“Why are you crying, Mother?” Allison asked, her small voice breaking the silence.

Startled, her mother wiped her eyes and turned. “Oh, Allison. It’s the president’s funeral. They’re taking him to the cemetery.”

Allison’s eyes widened. “They killed him, didn’t they?”

Her mother nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to keep herself composed. It was the first time Allison understood the weight of loss, even if only through the emotions of the adults around her. That dark day became her earliest memory—a world shifted by tragedy, a loss too vast for her young mind to fully comprehend.

An unforgettable voice entered Allison’s mind next.

“Come in, dear,” Mrs. Maye said.

Everyone on Huguenot Street thought that Mrs. Maye was odd. She would wander the neighborhood in her nightgown and bathrobe and greet everyone she’d see. But she meant no harm. After all, she hadn’t always been odd. She’d only taken to her pajamaed strolls after Mr. Maye died, a few years before Allison was born. Until then, she’d been a normal third-grade teacher at Bedford Forest Elementary. And her barely dressed treks besides, she never left the house without washing her short, wavy white hair until it shone and applying her favorite lipstick, Certainly Red, as well as a little eyeliner and eyebrow pencil, as if she were going to school to teach her thirty students math, reading, social studies, and art.

Mrs. Maye once asked Allison’s mother, Emma, if she might invite her five-year-old daughter over once a week or so in the afternoons. Mrs. Maye’s grandchildren lived in Jacksonville and didn’t visit often. Later, once she was older, Allison figured her mom must have thought Mrs. Maye was starved for the companionship of children, which is why she agreed. After accompanying Allison to the house a few times, where Mrs. Maye would serve her milk and graham crackers, her mother said that it was fine if she went on her own.

Sometimes, Mrs. Maye would read poetry aloud; sometimes she asked Allison to read. Her favorite poet was Mary Oliver, and often, they read from a collection of her work called No Voyage and Other Poems. Allison liked this well enough, even if she didn’t always understand the poems, which at least weren’t very long.

“That’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Maye would say after gently quizzing her on what she thought a poem might mean. “Just enjoy the sound and rhythm of the words. Sometimes that can be quite enough.”

She also encouraged Allison to write her own poems, and Allison did.

What Allison really loved, however, was the World Book Encyclopedia in the little study off the dining room. Bound in forest green and ivory, with a mottled texture that felt good under her hands, she loved the shiny pages, as much for the aroma that rose off them as the pictures and sentences that she was just beginning to understand. When she asked Mrs. Maye about that smell, Mrs. Maye said, “That is the bouquet of a good book.”

Allison would pick a volume at random and look through it, always feeling a thrill of gratification when she came across the colored transparencies that illustrated complex systems like the human body or geological formations.

“What are we looking at today, Miss Blanchet?” Mrs. Maye would ask, setting a glass of milk and a plate of graham crackers on the coffee table.

“This.”

Mrs. Maye, who was no more than five feet two and at most weighed 105 pounds, looked over Allison’s shoulder.

“Japan. Try reading me a paragraph.”

Allison read the first paragraph, about Japan’s geographical location.

“Very good, especially for someone who’s five. I don’t know anyone else your age who can read as well as you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Allison’s attention was soon drawn to the photos of women in traditional Japanese dress.

“What’s this one?” she asked.

“Well, what does it say in the caption?”

Allison read it carefully. “A Japanese bride wears an uchikake.” She pronounced it “OO-chee-cake.”

“And then what does it say?”

“A formal wedding gown.” She studied the dress. Its shape reminded her of a picture of the Liberty Bell that her mother had shown her. It was black with sinuous silver stems flowing around it, and silver-and-gold flowers. The hem was bright red. “I want one!” she said.

“My dear, you’d have to marry a samurai. Have a graham cracker instead.”

Late one afternoon, as the shadows of the magnolias and black gum trees lengthened, Mrs. Maye brought Allison down a hall into a bedroom, the door to which had always been closed. When they entered, she was confronted by a room full of dolls. They sat on the bookshelves, the bureau, the rocking chair, and the armchair; they were propped up on the pillows against the headboard of the bed. They colonized every flat surface. Only the windowsills were empty, because they weren’t wide enough.

Allison stared. The dolls—all of them girls—stared back.

“Here are my other children!” Mrs. Maye laughed. “They want to meet you!”

But Allison did not want to meet them. She was unnerved by the sight.

She grimaced and ran from the room, out of Mrs. Maye’s house, and across the street to her own room, where she shut the door and grasped herself tightly in the safety of the upholstered wing chair. She determined never to go back to Mrs. Maye’s, even if it meant forgoing the World Book forever.

Try as she might, Allison’s mother could never convince her to visit with Mrs. Maye after that. Allison had made up her mind never to see all those doll eyes again, nor even return the old teacher’s hellos on the street. Eventually, after one too many friendly greetings went unanswered, Mrs. Maye ceased acknowledging the little girl who lived across the street.

And on and on the memories came, filtering through Allison’s mind like a movie as she lay safe and sound, wrapped in her afghan, imagining her own life just as she’d imagined the lives of strangers so long ago.