Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It’s late fall again when Dad’s health takes a turn for the worst. I’m in the kitchen with Mom when the hospice nurse arrives for his first day of work, a job that will only end when Dad is no longer here.
I don’t know how they do it, how they come into a job that will end in death every single time.
Mom keeps herself busy, filling the tea kettle and scrubbing the same spot on the counter. With his old nurse, there were things she could help with. Food she could prepare. Now, we’re just waiting for the end. Keeping him comfortable, though it’s likely he’s no longer aware of any comfort.
Mom comes back to the table and places my mug of hibiscus tea in front of me. “How’s the article coming?”
I close out of the article I’m reading about signs of death and return to the article she actually means. The one I’m meant to be writing.
“Oh. I’m…” I stare at the blinking cursor. My new job, working as a staff writer for an online newspaper, has been the thing to bring me back from the depths. But right now, working isn’t possible. I can’t even think.
Mom nods, seeming to understand my silence for an answer. “Me too.”
I reach across the table and take her hand, squeezing it gently, then return my focus to my screen.
The article I’m supposed to be writing is about a corrupt CEO, one who has been taking advantage of his employees for years.
It’s similar to the last four months of reporting I’ve done, taking down one horrible person after the next.
It’s not a bestselling novel, but it’s something to keep my thirst for justice at bay. Either way, today it’ll have to wait.
My phone buzzes on the tabletop, interrupting my thoughts, and I reach out to grab it.
There’s a notification from the website, which is still going strong, still being used to bring people to justice—though, admittedly, it’s also the target of the occasional spam post that my team and I have to monitor.
Below it, there’s an email I must’ve missed.
From Black Elm Press.
The subject line blazes like a beacon:
Publishing Proposal — CTRL+C: A Life of Academic Deceit.
My heart races as I open the email, reading over the message from an editor at the publishing imprint. She asks for my number so she can give me a call.
“What is it?” Mom asks, moving around to see what I’m looking at without waiting.
She reads the email over my shoulder, and when I look up, I can’t read the expression on her face. I haven’t worked on anything literary since I left Havenport. This isn’t a proposal I ever submitted.
I’m trembling when the call comes in twenty minutes later.
“Hello, Lila? I’ve got Claire Cade for you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
A warm, confident voice fills the line seconds later. “Lila, hi! I’m Claire Cade, senior editor at Black Elm Press. How are you?”
“I’m…well. Thank you. How are you?”
“Doing well. Look, the reason I’m calling is that we’ve been following your journey the past year.
The websites, the stories. The podcasts.
And now your journalism career. I love your voice.
And the reason behind it. So, I’ve just got to be honest with you.
If you’re at all interested, I would love to publish your memoir. ”
I stare across the table at my mom, the phone on speaker. I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “I…I don’t have a memoir.”
“Well, we need to fix that, don’t we? Your voice is exactly what the world needs right now.
Raw. Unfiltered. Real. We want to help you tell the truth—whatever that truth is.
And we want to make sure the world hears it.
You’ve done an excellent job of spreading your story, but I think we can help take it further.
” She talks more about shaking up the academic world, about giving survivors the platform they deserve.
At least, I think that’s what she says. At some point, my brain sort of short-circuits, and it mostly sounds like white noise.
Either way, her passion feels genuine. Almost disarming.
Mom’s scribbling something on a notepad I didn’t notice her grabbing. She turns it around to me.
Ask for time
I nod, my thoughts returning to my head. “Wow. Thank you so much. This is…really unexpected.”
“We’ve published several names you’d recognize. Cara Mulaney. Isabelle Martin. Ayo DeMarcus. We truly believe we’re the right team to help you bring this story to market, and I know I’d love to be your partner in telling it.”
I swallow. “Wow. Thank you. That’s… This is really kind. Um…could I have some time to think about it?”
“Oh, of course. Take all the time you need. In the meantime, I’ll send you some additional details for the proposal—the official offer, as well as some early marketing plans I’ve been working on.
When you’re ready—should you decide to let us in on the journey—we can discuss details of what we’d like to see from the memoir.
Of course, it’s your story, but I just have a few ideas I know I’d be interested in hearing more about.
Things I think audiences would really gravitate toward. ”
We end the call, and Mom and I stare at each other. My heart flutters with disbelief. It’s not a novel, but it’s something. It’s a real, actual book deal.
“Did that just happen?”
Her smile widens. “So, you’re happy?”
“I’m…” I scoff. Happy isn’t the right word. “I’m shocked, I guess. Confused. I never imagined…”
“You have a story worth telling,” she says gently. “They’d be fools not to want to work with you.”
I lick my lips, thinking. “So, I should do it?”
She puts a hand to her chest. “Is that what you want?”
And then, all at once, reality hits me. This is real. Not in the way I imagined, but real nonetheless. I’m going to be published. My book will be on shelves, in my hand.
And, maybe best of all, I’ll get to tell my dad about it before he’s gone.
Black Elm sends the offer details a week later. The advance isn’t huge, but it’s around what I’ll make in a year writing articles for the paper. Mom and I look it over while we eat the pizza I brought, drinking the bottle of champagne she picked up during her weekly grocery run.
It’s real—in black and white—and it’s happening.
I cry a lot, still in shock, as she tells me how proud Dad would be of me. How proud she is of me. I take the contract into his room, and his nurse, Norm, steps out to give us a moment of privacy.
His legs are swollen now, his skin a strange gray color. He has sores, despite the fact that Norm makes sure to roll him over on a schedule to keep them from forming.
This is not at all how I imagined this day would go, and yet it’s here.
And yet it is.
I climb into bed with him and try to ignore the way the room smells. Even as often as he’s bathed, the smell of urine and death permeates the air. Tears find my eyes as I curl up next to him, holding tight.
“I did it, Dad.” I can’t say any more, and so I don’t.
I let the tears fall, for myself, for him, and for everything that’s happened.
This is the first step to getting my life on track, and the fact that I’ll have to do it without him, that she took this from me too—took any chance I had to make it happen while he was healthy enough to celebrate with me—will always sting.
Before I sign the contract, I send it to an entertainment attorney Nora recommended. During the wait, I reach out to a few of the authors who have been published under Black Elm, explaining that I’ve been offered a contract and just want to hear their thoughts on the publisher.
The first response comes from Isabelle Martin, one of the authors Claire bragged about on our call.
Lila—
So great to hear from you! Congrats on your offer from BE.
I’ve heard your name a few times but just took a minute to look you up, and WOW, I’m impressed by your story.
I’d love to discuss my experiences with Black Elm, and strangely enough I’ll actually be in Nashville next week for the LitFest on the Cumberland writing festival.
Will you be in town (or better yet, at the conference)?
If yes to either, I’d love to chat in person.
I’ll be attending with fellow BE veterans, so you can ask us anything, and we’ll help you get a full picture of our experiences.
If not, let me know, and we’ll figure something else out.
Talk soon!
Is