Love and Biology at the Center of the Universe
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Synopsis:
Written with keen insightand wit, Jennie Shortridge’s fiction is “rich, funny, sad, sensual, andhopeful.” Now comes a bittersweet novel that asks: how does a good girl knowwhen to finally let herself be bad?<!--break-->
Mira Serafino can see the headlines now: Girl-Scout-Leading, Homeless-FeedingScience Teacher of the Year Goes on Wild Rampage of Sex, Drinking, and Drugs. Well, let her small town of Pacifica, Oregon, thinkwhat it will. Forty-five-year-old Mira, the obedient daughter, the supermom,the loyal wife, has left the building…
When she learns that her college-sweetheart husband has beenseeing another woman, Mira’s perfect world is shattered and she wants no one,least of all her big Italian family, to know. She heads north—with nodestination and little money—stopping only when her car breaks down in Seattle.She takes a job at the offbeat Coffee Shop at the Center of the Universe, whereshe’ll experience a scary but invigorating freedom, and meet someone she’llcome to love: the new Mira…
Published by NAL/Penguin May 2008
Book Excerpt:
Read the prologue and Chapter 1…
Prologue
Herfather looked like the man on television, the handsome Italian they watchedsing on Saturday nights, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. He stoodshaving at the sink in his undershirt, thick black hair combed back in waves,suspenders dangling from uniform pants.
Four-year-old Mira sat on the edgeof the tub watching him scrape lather from his cheeks, marveling at hismovie-star good looks, then at the fog forming on the mirror. Did he create itwith the largeness of his breath, the way she could make circles on the windowwhen she peered out into the rain? Yes, she guessed. Alfonso Serafino, Sr.could probably do anything.
Mira had already learned to dependmore on her father than her mother, who was quiet and always tired, even moreso now that she’d had the baby. Alfonso Junior cried too much, her mother slepttoo much, and it was only Al Senior who brought any joy into the house. Now,for instance, he was singing along with the radio, blaming it on the bossanova, the dance of love, and waggling his behind. When Mira laughed, he stoppedshaving and smiled in the mirror.
“You’redaddy’s good girl, aren’t you, Mirabella?” The name he usually called hermother.
Warmthflushed through her, and she nodded and stood, began to dance as Al Seniorcontinued to sing.
Thatafternoon in the quiet house, Mira grew lonely. She dragged the stool she usedto brush her teeth to the bathroom sink, soaped her face, and picked up herfather’s razor. It was heavier than she’d expected, the metal cool and smoothin her hand. She waggled her behind and scraped the razor down her left cheek,surprised when a thin red line appeared there and began to drip with blood. Sheran to her parents’ room and stood crying at the foot of the bed where Mrs.Mira Serafino lay sleeping with baby Fonso.
Hermother startled awake, eyes widening as she disentangled from the baby. Shescrambled across the bed and took Mira into her arms. “Oh, cara, I just needed you to be good for a little while.What have you done?”
“Ididn’t do it,” Mira wailed as her mother carried her to the bathroom. The razorlay in the bottom of the sink next to two tiny droplets of blood.
“Well,then, who did it, young lady?” her mother said, angry now, but even this effortseemed to exhaust her. She gripped the sink edge to steady herself. From theother room, the baby began to whimper, and the woman’s face, already pale,drained of any remaining color.
“Theother Mira,” the girl cried, “Mirabella,” picturing another four-year-old in ablue dress instead of brown, shiny black hair crackling with excitement. ThatMira had taken her leave, a sly look upon her face.
Shereached for her mother’s embrace. “I’m good Mira,” she insisted, knowing fromthat moment on she would do anything to make it so.
Chapter 1
Onthe Friday morning before Christmas break, twisting south on Highway 101 andengrossed in the soaring voice of k.d. lang singing perhaps the saddest lovesong Leonard Cohen ever wrote, Mira Serafino found herself thinking about theropy hip muscles of a young man she’d slept with in college, shuddering in away she hadn’t in years.
Jesus, she thought, where did that come from?
A burst of sunlight slashed throughthe forest and into her eyes. She lowered the visor, but the sun was lower.Fumbling for sunglasses in the Subaru’s console, she took her eyes from theroad for what seemed a second. Beneath her, the tires vibrated over theasphalt’s raised lane markings as k.d. sang hallelujah, hallelujah, and Mirasensed rather than saw the thicket of blackberry brambles flattening as thepassenger side slammed to a halt against a towering Western red cedar.
Herfirst thought was, “Thea!” although it had been years since her daughter rodewith her to school in the mornings. Her left hand gripped the wheel and herright arm barricaded the empty passenger seat. An acidic taste filled hermouth, tin and bile. Adrenaline, shethought, noting her rapid heartbeat, the tingling in her hands and feet. Herbody had involuntarily reacted by inducing the fight or flight response, somethingthat always amazed her, even after so many years explaining it to students.
The car was still running—how couldthat be?—and k.d. moved on to a waltz, equally as sad. “Oh god,” Mira said, “ohgod, oh god,” bringing her cold hands to her face as if to check that her headwas still there. Out of habit, she traced the thin scar down her cheek with herforefinger, feeling where the tiny ridge bumped out from a bad stitch, thenreceded and disappeared.
Slowly, she twisted herhead from side to side, wondering if there was such a thing as side whiplash.“Holy Jesus,” she said, though not in prayer. How had she let this happen? Butshe knew the answer. In the past year or so her mind had become foggier thanthe Oregon coast in December and no matter how many ginkgo and fish oil andblack cohosh pills she swallowed, no matter how many crossword puzzles shecompleted, no matter how sternly she berated herself, she could no longersummon sharpness or clarity or speed when she needed to. Where once she’d had control,chaos now reigned. She was moody and unpredictable. How her husband, herco-workers tolerated her she had no idea. Her hormones were deserting her. Itwas either that or a brain tumor, and she could never decide which would beworse—losing your mind or losing your sex.
The sun disappeared as quickly asit had emerged, which meant it would soon resume raining. Mira switched off thecar and the world fell silent. She pushed the door open and stepped to theforest floor to inspect the damage. Squeezing through damp brush to get to theother side, moisture seeped into her chinos and the Christmas tree socks insideher chunky red clogs.
There’d been no sound. How was thatpossible? The smashed side mirror dangled from its moorings, useless now. Fromfront fender to rear passenger door, long metallic grooves striped the huntergreen paint right up to and no doubt behind the girth of the tree. Exhaustfumes hovered in the mist over flattened flora and the mossy rock outcroppingsshe’d miraculously avoided. Mira’s legs quivered and she decided to get backinside the car.
Fumblingthe buttons on the phone keypad, she had to hit speed-dial three times beforegetting the sequence right. Her husband didn’t answer his cell phone or thelandline at his coffee shop, Cyber Buzz.
She considered calling her father,then pictured him telling the story to all the other Elks, Moose, and Sons ofItaly in Tillamook County, and so, their spouses, children, friends, andco-workers, until everyone knew, including her grandmother, aunts and unclesand countless cousins who spread and multiplied up and down the Oregon coastand inland, propagating the Serafino seed like dandelions. She winced at thegrandeur with which Big Al would tell it; his recent retirement from the sheriff’sdepartment had left him with fewer stories to embellish, fewer chances to beathis chest and play silverback in their small community. There was no way shewas going to be the butt of that joke every time she went to work, to themarket, to the gynecologist, for Christ’s sake. Life in Pacifica was lovelyuntil you slipped up and gave people a reason to look at you differently, towonder and gossip and speculate, especially dangerous for a schoolteacher incharge of shaping so many young minds.
Mira tried to think of someone elseshe could call: which uncle wouldn’t be too busy? What cousin? She shook herhead. She was forty-five years old. She’d taken shop in eighth grade instead ofhome ec. She had a Triple-A card. Surely she could handle this herself.
Afterbuckling back in, she tried the key and the engine purred to life. Mira crossedherself (a habit she thought she’d put behind her) and eased the car intoreverse. The brambles tugged momentarily at the car’s under workings, thenreleased with a snap, and this time she heard the ugly grating of metal againstwood. She checked for traffic, then backed over the white painted bumps thatdelineated the road from, well, obviously from what had happened—from theunexpected danger and damage that lurk just outside the safety zone. Mira hadcrossed it and was still shaking from the experience. It wasn’t that the carwould be expensive to fix, or that Parker would be angry (he wouldn’t), or eventhat she might have hit the tree head on and been seriously hurt.
It was that she’d taken her eyesfrom the road in the first place.
* * *
At Pacifica K-12, Mira parked inher teacher-of-the-year spot to the side of the handicap spaces and shouldereda book bag heavy with graded papers. Her pants and socks clung to her legs,never her best feature and now showcased in the equivalent of wet T-shirtbravado.
As she walked toward the building,she turned and grimaced at the damaged car. Inside her purse, her phone played“You Light Up My Life,” the joke ring tone Parker had programmed so she’d knowwhen he was calling.
“SorryI couldn’t get the phone earlier,” he said. “Everybody’s late this morning, asusual. What’s up?”
She relaxed at the sound of hisvoice. Her husband never worried, never expected anything bad to happen. Evenlying together all those late nights when Thea was a teenager and out beyondher curfew, Parker hadn’t shared her grim anxieties about carloads of kidsveering off cliffs, juvenile delinquents influencing their daughter to tryecstasy or crack, or whatever the drug of choice was in those days. At timesMira wondered if she’d manifested Thea’s rebellious behavior by worrying somuch, but then again there was her bloodline: Fonso. He’d been far worse thanThea at that age.
“Ihad an accident on the way to school this morning. Parker, I… I hit a tree. Thecar’s pretty messed up.”
“Butyou’re okay?”
“Yeah,I’m fine. A little freaked out. I can’t believe I just drove right off the roadlike that.”
“Youdrove off the road?”
“No.I mean… I don’t know, really. The sun blinded me, and I was about to put on mysunglasses, then all of a sudden I was smashed up against this huge freakingtree.” She paused—would she have crashed if she hadn’t been distracted by themental image of a young man’s privates? She sighed. “It scraped all down theright side, honey. It’s going to be expensive.”
“Butyou’re okay.”
“I’mfine.”
“Whereare you? Do you need someone to come get you?”
Shefelt a rush of something—gratitude, relief—until she realized that he probably meantone of the computer techs from his consulting business, or baristas from thecoffee shop, should they ever show up. Young people who made coffee for aliving seemed to be the most unreliable people on the planet.
“No, I’m at school already. Thecar’s drivable. I’ll just see you at home tonight.”
“Nottill late. Town council tonight. Then Lester and I are going for a beer. Talkabout SPED.” He’d been trying for months to get the mayor-elect on board withPacifica’s Strategic Plan for Economic Development—the latest in a long line offailed plans to save the former fishing town from extinction.
“Yeah,the rest of the town sees you more than I do.”
“Ifyou want me to come home, Mira, I will. I have to go to the council meeting,but—“
“No,no, I’m okay. It’s no big deal.”
“It’sjust that Lester is so hard to pin down. I’ve been trying for—”
“It’sfine, Parker.”
“Sure?”
“I’mabout to go into the school, so I’ll just see you whenever I see you.” Sheclimbed the four concrete steps, stopped in front of the glass doors,considering as she gazed at her soggy reflection that maybe those five extrapounds did show. “Are you sure you’reall right?”
“Me?”He laughed. “What do you mean?”
“Idon’t know. You just sound… different.” She forced a smile at her reflection.If people asked about the car, she’d say it had been sideswiped on the beachroad.
“Youdid just have an accident, Mira.”
“God.I still can’t believe I did that.” Mira shifted the bag of papers to her othershoulder. “Well, I’m late. I’d better go. Love you.”
“Iknow,” he said, and she smiled. Their old game. The signal that all was okay.
“Butthead.” She clicked off thephone and headed into the smell of musty books and damp child, and a freneticday that would clear her mind of anything else.
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Original Publish Date:
May 6, 2008
Formats and associated ISBNs:
978-0451223883
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Trade paper original
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