I was always better in science than I was in math, thank goodness. Maybe that’s what drew me to investigate what people do with their extra frozen embryos. Maybe that’s what led me uncover that Greer’s embryos had been deemed abandoned.
The day in eighth grade I told Parker Thaysden I’d copied off his paper, I didn’t know what was going to happen. In fact, I had stayed up half the night worried and wondering. Would he tell the teacher? The principal? Would I get expelled? None of that happened. He said, “Who cares, Amelia? I had the answer, and you didn’t.”
That rings true now, as I hold this beautiful pair of babies in my arms. My ladybug and four-leaf clover. That’s what Greer had nicknamed them; that was what they looked like under a microscope. Who knew they would turn out to be my lucky charms? Who knew that what I didn’t have, Greer would end up giving me?
I would eventually pay Parker Thaysden back by writing a biology essay for him. On mitosis, in fact. The cell division that results in two child cells having the same number and kind of chromosome as the parent.
No, these babies don’t have the exact number and kind of chromosome as Parker. Only half. Half-Parker, half-Greer. But when they kicked inside of me, when the doctor laid their warm, tiny bodies on my chest, they became mine, too.
I never expected to fall in love with the boy next door, with the one whose paper I’d cheated off of. I never expected to get pregnant with his babies. And I never, ever imagined that doing each of those things would heal what was broken inside of me, what had been broken, in fact, since that day I sat on a cold doctor’s office table in a thin gown, receiving the hardest news of my life. I never expected that thirteen pounds, eight ounces of babies could connect Parker and me to his late wife in such an inextricable way, while also giving us both permission to truly release her.
But maybe Parker did. In fact, his childhood voice rings in my ears now, as I place my babies side by side in their crib overlooking a mesmerizing stretch of sound that is always the same and yet never the same. I had the answer, and you didn’t.
It isn’t math; it most certainly is science. And, at first, I thought that, surely, it was modern love.
Generations of Saxtons and Thaysdens have welcomed their children home to this tiny peninsula, this singular spot in one of the world’s most beautiful forgotten corners. I watched the way my babies turned toward each other, by instinct, the way they fussed and then, their eyes fixing on me, their mother, settled. And I finally realized that, this love? It wasn’t as modern as I once believed. Quite the opposite, in fact.
This was a love as old as time.
In a lot of ways, the day this column published was the same as the day the last one did. Tears were shed. Indelible memories were made. But, this time, the life I had carefully cultivated didn’t fall apart. In fact, I’m proud to say, my life isn’t cultivated in the least. It’s messy. It’s busy. It’s happy. It’s exhausting. And, most of all, it’s real.
I went upstairs, saying I had to check on the babies. But instead of turning right toward the nursery, I turned left toward my childhood bedroom. I pulled that tiny pink-and-purple notebook out from underneath my mattress and sat down on the bed, looking out the window. I flipped through until I found the entry from that fateful day. Pen in hand, I put a big check mark next to Become editor in chief of a magazine.
Then I read Find a man that loves me and doesn’t care that I can’t have children. I crossed it out and rewrote, Find a man that loves me for exactly who I am. Because that had been what I was asking for, really, hadn’t it? Now, with time and a grown-up dose of rationality, I realized it wasn’t having those gorgeous, perfect babies that healed me. It was realizing that no matter how my life played out, I was who I was born to be. I was enough.
I thought of Parker, downstairs, and I smiled. I picked up the pen again. Find a man who loves me for exactly who I am. Check.
Life, I have realized, ebbs and flows like the tide outside my old bedroom window. Some days the wind is too strong, and sometimes you are carried along on a gentle breeze. The hurricanes come; the landscapes change. Any expert seaman will tell you that, in the roughest seas, it’s best not to fight the tide. It’s better to let it lead you where it wants to, to let it lead you where, maybe, you were supposed to be all along.
All those years I was planning and plotting my course, controlling my every move, I wasn’t controlling anything at all. Now I’ve given in to the pull of the moon, to the song of the sea, to the magical divinity that exists under the Southern sky. It will fill up your heart and never let you go, I realized as I walked down the hall to the nursery, to gaze over my sleeping babies. It will never stop its quest to bring you back where you belong.
And somehow, if you’re really lucky, you’ll do what I did: you’ll find your way back home.
Acknowledgments
IT IS FITTING IN SOME ways that Under the Southern Sky is a story of feeling untethered, of life getting in the way and having plans vastly different from our own. It was written in rental houses, condos, and apartments during the fifteen months our family was displaced after Hurricane Florence ripped through our beloved town and home, and edited during a pandemic that has felt straight out of a dystopian novel. But in Under the Southern Sky—as in life—miracles are born from adversity. Relationships are created in the void of lost love and dashed hopes. New life springs from the ashes.
For me, one of the greatest gifts—besides this book—to come from a challenging time was a weekly Facebook Live show, Friends & Fiction, with my dear writer pals, Mary Kay Andrews, Kristin Harmel, Patti Callahan Henry, and Mary Alice Monroe. Thank you, lovely friends, for creating a spectacular way for us to connect with our readers even when we couldn’t be on the road. And thank you to the tens of thousands of readers who have joined us on a literary journey of hope and connection. (Shameless plug: If you aren’t watching Friends & Fiction, join us on Facebook Wednesday nights at 7 p.m.!) Big love also to Meg Walker and Shaun Hettinger for being such an invaluable part of this journey. Michelle Marcus and Brenda Gardner, all the thank-yous for taking on the task of organizing our Friends & Fiction book club. We are all so grateful!
On that note, Friends & Fiction began with the mission of supporting independent bookstores—and I would not be here without the indies who have hand sold my books, hosted events and cheered me on since the beginning. This past year more than ever when in-person events were canceled and pivoting on a dime was necessary, you all stood by my side and sent Feels Like Falling into the world with aplomb despite the challenges. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support.
To my incredible, amazing, brilliant team, I can’t possibly thank you enough for all you do to bring my stories to life. Kate Dresser, you “got” this book right away and traveled this path with me until it was the best story it could be. Molly Gregory, I am always grateful for your positivity and willingness to go above and beyond. Elisabeth Weed and Olivia Blaustein, agents extraordinaire, I wouldn’t be here without either of you. Kathie Bennett, thank you for rolling with the punches, for rising to every challenge imaginable, and, most important, for being almost as invested in these books as I am. Michelle Podberezniak, you amaze me every single day with your fresh ideas—and organization. Jen Bergstrom and Jen Long, I am so grateful for all your expertise and insight and for being on this road with me year after year. Bianca Salvant, thanks for your marketing prowess. Gabrielle Audet and Sarah Lieberman from Simon & Schuster Audio, y’all are total rock stars. I’m in awe of your creativity and so thankful for all your help getting my audiobooks into the world. Tamara Welch, as you well know, I couldn’t do what I do without you. You have been such an important part of this journey, and I am most grateful for you!