There is this moment, prior to publication, that always feels like the deep breath before the plunge. That’s where I am right now: drawing a long, nervous breath. My next novel—The Frozen River—will be published in five weeks. I gutted myself for this book. I left nothing on the table. I’m so proud of it. But I’m also scared. I want you to love Martha Ballard the way I do. I want you to know her name and be moved by her story. I want you to tell your friends. I hope that you too are astonished by her life. I want the world to remember that small acts, done in love, matter every bit as much as the ones that make the newspaper and the history books. On December 5th, Martha Ballard’s story will belong to you, the reader. It will no longer be mine. Until then, I can only give you a glimpse at the book. For the last several months I’ve been sharing cut scenes—little bits of the story that didn’t make the final draft. (For many reasons that I’ll discuss in my Writing Series at a later date). You can read the first cut scene here, the second here, and the third here. I hope you enjoy meeting this anonymous character. She plays a significant role in Martha’s story so you’ll be seeing her again. Happy reading!
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The woman lifts a rabbit from where it lies in a small, square basket beside the hearth. Made from woven strips of palest ash, each corner represents one of the four tribes of the Wabanaki: Maliset, Mik’mac, Passamaquoddy, and Penobscot. It was given to her by members of the local tribe, by friends, and of all the household items within these four walls, it is the only one she would grab in a fire. The rest could burn for all she cares.
It is silly, perhaps even superstitious—she is Protestant after all—but the woman believes that the rabbit will heal faster in this little nest of ash, lined with linen, than anywhere else. It was made with love and intention, gifted in respect, and that has to count for something in this cruel and brutal world. And besides, this little bit of hope hurts nothing.
It is dark outside, overcast, the moon hidden by heavy black-bottomed heavy clouds that do not let any light through the window. The woman’s eyes were not built for the darkness, but still, she can see the rabbit in her arms clear enough. Brown and fat and quivering, with a white tail and pink nose. It is the only one left and she has brought it to live inside with her family. Nursed it back to health. Earned its loyalty with kindness and gentle hands. It has been a month and she thinks it is time to remove the bandage.
The woman grunts as she lowers herself to the chair. Maneuvers the ball of linen and fur around her swollen belly until it rests upon her knees. There is no rush. She rocks and hums, keeping one hand upon the rabbit’s back. Letting it settle. Feeling the frantic little heart slow.
The tiny thing shakes beneath her fingers as she glides them along its haunches, down its leg. The woman begins to hum. A soft tune. It is the same song that she sings to her children when she rocks them to sleep. A lullaby in some language to which she does not know the actual words. It was sung by her mother. And her mother before that. Passed along from heart to heart to heart over generations of immigrant women wandering this world, looking for a place to call their own. Its origins have been lost, but its calming effects remain.
The rabbit stills.
Looks at her with adoring brown eyes.
Shakes its tail so fast that its entire body vibrates in her lap.
And the woman laughs. The sound startles both of them. The rabbit freezes, as does the woman. She hasn’t laughed in six months. It is a gift. A miracle. A thing she thought would never happen again. And she laughs at the sound of her own laughter. Happy tears prick her eyes.
The woman tugs gently at the bindings until they fall away to reveal a stump covered with soft, thin, pink skin. The wound is healed but the rabbit will need more time with the protective covering so she wraps it again with tender fingers. Ties the knot. Pulls the animal to her face and rubs her nose across the impossibly soft fur.
It is a singular moment of happiness.
Until…
The woman sits up straight, as though she has been pinched at the nape of her neck. She lowers the rabbit to the floor, lets it wander, then moves one hand to the round lump beneath her ribs.
Tap, tap, tap.
A tiny prodding. Proof of life.
Whereas laughter had startled her not a moment earlier, it is the sound of her own weeping that breaks the silence now.
It is one thing to know it, to see it.
Another thing entirely to feel it.
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If you enjoyed this cut scene and plan to read The Frozen River, would you consider pre-ordering your copy? As you may know, pre-orders go a long way to determining the success of a novel. They help publishers anticipate demand, they help bookstores know how many copies to order, and they help authors continue to publish. The Frozen River will be available everywhere that books are sold. But you can help indie bookstores in general by ordering from Bookshop.org and my indie bookstore in particular by ordering from Parnassus Books in Nashville. (I would be thrilled to sign these for you).
Local friends: I will be at Parnassus for the launch of The Frozen River on Tuesday December 5th. I would LOVE to see you! It’s free to attend, but the store is asking that people register online.
Love this so much...