Page 25 of Across the Universe

Vicki gives her a look. "Sure, then yes." She pulls two plates from a cabinet and hands one to Jeanie. "Skip the salad, dish up your pasta, and slap some butter on your bread, princess. I'm grabbing the wine, and we'll eat out on the balcony, okay?"

Jeanie takes the plate. "Sounds good to me. And Vicki?"

Vicki stops in the doorway with the bottle of wine in hand. She turns back to look at Jeanie.

"Thanks for being like my mom when I need one. Actually, you're like my mom, but you're cooler."

At this, Vicki gives a throaty laugh and tips her head back, lifting one bare foot off the floor behind her theatrically. "Baby," she says with a wink. "I'm the coolest."

CHAPTER9

Jo

The late Februaryevening is cool and pleasant, and Jo has the sliding door to the backyard and the kitchen window open to let in a breeze. She's sitting at the kitchen table with her typewriter out, her thin robe tied around her waist and her feet encased in pink house slippers. Bill and the kids have been asleep for a couple of hours already, and she's sipping a cup of decaf coffee with a splash of cream.

The sun was just starting to rise. No one had slept for days in the Malcolm house, particularly Iris, whose eyes were red-rimmed and raw from her tears.

"Mommy?"

Iris turned around quickly, spotting her little girl standing in the bedroom's doorway. "Oh, baby," she said, holding her arms open wide for her four-year-old to climb into. "Why are you awake?"

"I want Daddy."

These simple words ripped at Iris's heart. They shredded her insides and left her feeling whipped and beaten.

“I know, baby,” she said, rocking her daughter back and forth in her arms. “I wish he could be here, too.”

Jo pauses, staring at the words she’s just typed onto the paper. The hum of her electric typewriter is the only sound she can hear, aside from the rumble of the pool filter through the open door and the sound of night creatures rustling and slithering in the dark Florida night. With a loud sigh, she stands and crosses the kitchen, her slippers pitter-pattering across the floors as she walks to the fridge.

The feel of warm weather and the sounds of the different bugs and animals in this wild place had taken some time to get used to, but now, nearly three years into their time in a state with orange groves, red tides, and hurricanes, Jo is accustomed to what once felt exotic.

With the door of the refrigerator open, she chooses a glass bottle of orange juice and then pours some into a tumbler, taking it back to the kitchen table. She’s still stuck on what to write, and what she has so far feels remarkably like she’s about to write the story of Maxine Trager. A young widow, small daughter in her arms, longing for her husband to come home again—which he never will.

She knows that this is wrong; writing yet again about the space program, or anything that’s even slightly related to real life, is going to get her into even more trouble with Bill. But the things that pull at her heart and her fingertips are all things she knows. Things she’s observed and experienced.

Jo stands next to the typewriter, and without overthinking it, she yanks the page from the machine and crumples it into a ball, tossing it across the room like she’s pitching a baseball. She needs something new—something fresh. Jo cannot use her writing solely to work out her fears, her anger, her frustrations, or her worries about Bill dying or leaving her for another woman. Her one job here is to write something that will appeal to her readers and will ignite a fire inside of her thatmakesher want to lose hours of valuable sleep each night in order to get the words on paper while her family slumbers down the hall.

Rehashing the things that have happened in her daily life won’t cut it, and she’s got to get something fresh on the page. She has to.

Jo sits, places her glass of juice on the table, and puts a fresh page into the machine. She sets her fingertips on the keys and takes a deep breath.New story, she tells herself.New characters, nothing familiar, nothing real.

With her eyes closed, a brand-new scenario forms in her mind, and without thinking, Jo begins to write.

Adeline woke up on a pile of hay. The sunlight poked through cracks in the wood around her, and she blinked at the hazy dust motes that floated on a beam of light above her.

“Where am I?” she said aloud, partially hoping that her husband’s voice would come through loud and clear, letting her know she was in her own bed, and that she simply had one foot still firmly placed in dreamland.

Instead, a blurry figure appeared before her, and an unfamiliar voice, deep and strong, responded to her question. “In my barn,” the man said.

Adeline blinked a few more times to clear her eyes, but it didn’t work. All she could see was the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man, and a wash of sunlight that formed a halo around his entire body.

“I think these are yours,” he said, stepping closer. Adeline sat up, hoping that the man would be friend and not foe. “Here.” He reached for her hand, putting something cold and delicate in her palm. “These must be your spectacles.”

Adeline realized quickly that she was, in fact, holding a pair of eyeglasses, and she clumsily unfolded them and slid them on, bringing the world into view.

She nearly gasped aloud when her eyes focused on the man standing before her: he was indeed tall and broad, but also dark-haired, full-lipped, and possessed of the sharpest jaw and cheekbones she’d ever seen.

“But I…” she said, letting her words trail off. She looked around: this was definitely a barn. The wooden floors were covered with hay, and bales of the stuff sat stacked to one side. Several stalls lined the structure, and from them, she could hear the repetitive sounds of cows chewing.

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