Horrid

Three little girls all eating things they weren’t supposed to eat. Three little girls all eating things in order to fill their bodies with something other than the anger, the rage, that would otherwise consume them.

I think the important thing to realize, to try and remember, is that grief doesn't have a rule book. You're allowed to feel every emotion under the sun. You're even allowed to invent new ones. I think I've done that a few times

The combined smell of coffee and used books felt like the intersection of all things good and necessary.

There was a little girl Who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good, She was very, very good, But when she was bad, she was horrid

She ripped a corner from the page and put it into her mouth. The house creaked again. She imagined the paper re-forming in her belly. She imagined the words dissolving off the paper and sinking into her bloodstream. She imagined her body fill with words. Made up of them. Words instead of blood, words instead of organs.

No, she couldn't remember the first book she'd eaten, but she could remember the first book she'd eaten purposefully. And that was maybe more important.

He always said the same thing, no matter what book they were reading. He always opened it and brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply and said, “Ugh. I love this book.” “You say that about every book,” Jane would say, giggling. “Because I love every book! Don’t you just love books, Janie? I love books so much I could eat them.

It isn't always easy. Returning to the past.

Would a house like this ever be fully settled? Or would it ache and moan until the end of time, until all the newer, shodier houses had fallen to ruins around it?

Her head was on fire, pounding. She felt like she was on a boat like the bed was gently rocking back and forth, tossed among huge rolling waves.

Hours later, days later, years later, she opened her eyes.

She felt like she always felt with Ruth - like she came so close to understanding something about her mother, but at the last moment, it was taken away from her, snatched out of her fingers before she could get a good look at it... The only Ruth who Jane knew was the Ruth she'd grown up with: a secretive, quiet mother who'd always been there for her but at the same time had never been fully, completely emotionally available. There but not fully there. Always a tiny but checked-out. Always with something sad, something heavy around her eyes. Like a darkness that circled her irises.

She was aware that her emotions were confused, that she should be feeling sad, not angry, not resentful, not hateful, but there wasn't anything she could do about it; she felt the way she felt, and she couldn't do anything to stop it, to correct it.

You are not calling the police because you heard a creak in a house filled with creaks.

Too many carbs, not enough vegetables. Too much coffee and not enough water. Too much time sitting, feeling shaky and off whenever she had to walk somewhere.

Something had happened in this house. She wasn't sure where the thought came from, when exactly it had been born, but it arrived now like a force, like a storm.

I think the important thing to realize

In Bells Hollow. These old towns all have histories. Some of them are darker than others.

The combined smell of coffee and used books felt like the intersection of all things good and necessary, as far as Jane was concerned.

... her ears were overcome by the sound of her own blood sloshing angrily through her veins, the sound of crashing waves, persistent and loud.

And so they'd made the entire trip, sometimes listening to podcasts, sometimes to the radio, sometimes to books on tape, sometimes to nothing at all, because something would end and neither Jane nor Ruth would realize it was over because neither Jane nor Ruth has really been listening to it anyway.

... and for a moment she felt washed in anger, a sticky, red-hot anger that threatened to explode out of her like a scream. But she couldn't lose it now. She had to keep it together now, for her mother's sake.

Most flowers are not edible, Jane,” Will said. “Now I’m a little worried you’re going to make me an oleander latte.

I just turned eleven. I like eleven more than ten. Ten felt very IMPORTANT. (She underlined the word important three times.) Eleven feels more manageable.

She couldn't remember the first book she had eaten.

She couldn't remember the first book she'd eaten.

You can't eat books," Jane would reply, still giggling, not knowing then that there would be a day when Greer was gone, when all she would want in the world was one last story from him, because when Greer was reading her a story, she felt truly safe, truly brave, truly okay. Like the words were sinking into her very body, becoming a part of her, making her better that she actually was.

If her father were here, he would have found the tape and taken the book from Jane to mend it. He would have said there was nothing sad about a book with a few dings in it. That was how you knew it had been enjoyed.

I don't know anything about plants, Janie. I'm sorry. And Jane knew the I'm sorry meant two specific things: I'm sorry I don't know anything about plants. and I'm sorry for whatever's going on between us.