{"product_id":"before-everything-isbn-9780735222595","title":"Before Everything","description":"\u003cb\u003eA group of lifetime friends gather together to confront life, love, and now mortality\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Everything you want a novel about life, death, and friendship to be—smart, moving, sweeping, poetic, stinging, just beautiful. I loved these women (and their men) and this elegy to their long-reaching bonds.”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Dani Shapiro, author of \u003ci\u003eHourglass: Time, Memory, Marriage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eBefore Everything\u003c\/i\u003e is a celebration of friendship and love between a group of women who have known each another since they were girls. They’ve faced everything together, from youthful sprees and scrapes to mid-life turning points. Now, as Anna, the group’s trailblazer and brightest spark, enters hospice, they gather to do what they’ve always done—talk and laugh and help each other make choices and plans, this time in Anna’s rural Massachusetts home. Helen, Anna’s best friend and a celebrated painter, is about to remarry. The others face their own challenges—Caroline with her sister’s mental health crisis; Molly with a teenage daughter’s rebellion; Ming with her law practice—dilemmas with kids and work and love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBefore Everything\u003c\/i\u003e is as funny as it is bittersweet, as the friends revel in the hilarious mistakes they’ve seen one another through, the secrets kept, and adventures shared. But now all sense of time has shifted, and the pattern of their lives together takes on new meaning. The novel offers a brilliant, emotionally charged portrait, deftly conveying the sweep of time over everyday lives, and showing how even in difficult endings, gifts can unfold. Above all it is an ode to friendship, and to how one person shapes the journeys of those around her.“A gentle, rich tale of friendship and loss . . . \u003ci\u003eBefore Everything \u003c\/i\u003ecreates a tight, vivid world.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the most powerful tales of complex ever-evolving female friendship there is. . . . Everything Redel writes is brilliant but this is my favorite work by her.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Porochista Khakpour, LitHub\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Redel’s novel about longtime friends who come together to care for one of their own—and relive a lifetime of memories—proves why ‘before everything’ is where we ought to place friendship on the roster of the most soul-satisfying things.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Redbook\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Redel has always been a fantastic prose writer, someone whose books I go to as much for the sentences as for her excellent stories. \u003ci\u003eBefore Everything\u003c\/i\u003e is not just beautifully written but also intensely moving.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Matt Bell, Vulture\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The architecture of Redel’s often lyrical prose soars beyond ambition and signals the arrival of a true master. . . . A quiet yet revolutionary statement is at work in the warmth and depth of Redel’s pages about the not-so-subtle strength demanded of womanhood. The book lifts the veil on the power dynamics of female relationships—investigating the lasting power of allegiances of the heart. . . . We don’t simply look to fiction as a place to escape, but a place to admire, to learn. Here, we are afforded the pleasure of all three.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Annie DeWitt, \u003ci\u003eGuernica\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Brilliant, multilayered . . . Redel does character so convincingly, with so much joy, you can’t help but be reminded: ah, so this is why we read and write novels!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eProvincetown Arts\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Brings to mind Virginia Woolf’s \u003ci\u003eThe Waves\u003c\/i\u003e, with its chorus of distinctive voices sharing private perceptions along with their sustained collective experience. . . . In lyrical prose, Redel interweaves Anna’s final days with echoes of the past.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Jane Ciabattari, BBC\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Redel has crafted a lyrical ode to female friendship, proving that bonds can somehow be made of iron and elastic, sometimes strong and sometimes frail. She fleshes out the five main characters admirably for such a short book, linking each of their most vulnerable memories to their shared crisis. Fans of Anne Tyler and Jennifer Close will adore this warmhearted and clear-eyed novel.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A touching story of friendship and loss . . . richly realized. The result is an unflinching and affecting look at how one woman’s final days change the lives of those around her.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gorgeous, a heartbreaker, a non-stop dazzler, a major achievement. Thank you, Victoria Redel.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Michael Cunningham, Pulitzer Prize winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Hours\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Victoria Redel bears witness to a remarkable group of women, effortlessly weaving back and forth through time, each thread revealing the cracks and secrets of their complex lives, while also drawing them closer. . . . Redel proves that female friendship is the quiet, steady engine that truly runs the world.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Hannah Tinti, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBefore Everything \u003c\/i\u003eis a riveting, timely story that explores the unsettlingly beautiful, emotionally charged landscape that is revealed when old friends embrace what they have never before admitted: the limits of mortality and the boundlessness of friendship.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Ruth Ozeki, author of \u003ci\u003eA Tale for the Time Being\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBefore Everything\u003c\/i\u003e turns on the grand themes, love and death. Redel’s elegant narration unfolds not in linear time but in the time of memory, moving among the friends to reveal their shifting connections, needs, and circumstances. At once tough and tender, funny and sad, this beautifully written novel articulates the dynamic realities of those wondrous friendships that last a lifetime.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Siri Hustvedt, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Blazing World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I admire Victoria Redel’s work for so many reasons—for its fearlessness, its complexity, its beauty—and \u003ci\u003eBefore Everything\u003c\/i\u003e is one of the most brilliant, radiant, and heartbreaking books I’ve read in years. Redel’s characters—fierce and funny, loyal and compassionate—feel as real and beloved as the people we hold dearest in our own lives. An extraordinary novel by one of the best writers we have.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Molly Antopol, author of \u003ci\u003eThe UnAmericans\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eVictoria Redel is the critically acclaimed author of five works of fiction and three collections of poetry. Her debut novel, \u003ci\u003eLoverboy\u003c\/i\u003e, was named one of the best books of the year by the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e and won the Sister Mariella Gable Prize from Graywolf Press and the Forward Silver Literary Fiction Prize. She has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts and has contributed to the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eElle, O, the Oprah Magazine, Granta, One Story\u003c\/i\u003e, and the \u003ci\u003eHarvard Review\u003c\/i\u003e. She received her MFA in poetry from Columbia University and teaches at Sarah Lawrence College.\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e Simply Said\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On a late March day when you could taste spring's muddy tang, Anna      was given results from the new scans. Anna, who had done it      well—actually managed a couple get-well miracles—simply said, \"No      more.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eStarfish\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anna didn't remember having come out to the living room, but here      she was on the couch, and they are here—Helen, Ming, Caroline,      Molly—her oldest friends. When had they arrived? Who'd told them?      She'd let Helen's daily calls go to voice mail. But no, of course,      she'd picked up thinking it was one of her kids. Instead it was      Ming. She'd told Ming the whole shebang—from new recurrence to      hospice. Didn't give any room for questions. \"You'll tell the      others for me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Don't.\" She'd shuddered when Ming said, \"I'm coming. Of course,      all of us are coming.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now they were here, her gang since childhood, and it felt good to      have them gathered in her vaulted living room. Caroline, telling a      story about her older sister, Elise, who always has all the      trouble. Caroline, describing another of Elise's episodes, but in      her usual way, funny, a bit resigned but not sarcastic, never      ironic with Caroline, instead always reserved hilarity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How had they done all this getting here? Anna knew they'd      driven—Great Barrington, Manhattan, Arlington, Larchmont—but all      that moving seemed impossible. Leaving the house felt impossible.      And then the skein of highways, tolls, turnoffs for gas, fishing      out wallets from pocketbooks gaped open on the passenger seat.      More than even the effort, it seemed the world with its      unstoppable movement was an undoable tangle or an extinct language      she'd once understood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Speak louder,\" Ming called. Ming was in the kitchen making soup.      \"I don't want to miss anything.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anna followed the story. Or mostly she did. She laughed along.      Helen laughing her big, optimistic whoop. Molly's eyes tearing up      the way they do and her silent, gulpy laugh. And there was      Caroline's hilarious way of gesticulating with flexible eyebrows      as much as with hands that swooped and sliced the air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They have done so much laughing, these five, they'd managed to      laugh their way through even the unlaughable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Funny, how even now it was the girl, not the woman, Anna saw,      hearing Ming's three-trilled laugh in the kitchen—seeing Ming's      compact teenage body, not the rounder, squat shape of middle age.      And she still pictured Ming's hair as a gleaming, waist-length,      dark curtain, not the professional salt-and-pepper layers trimmed      every six weeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is this too much, Anna?\" Helen asked, massaging her feet and      legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looked down the length of her body to Helen's thick fingers on      her calf. Not a muscle left on her athletic legs. She'd always      teased that Helen had the hands of a dockworker, not a painter.      Georgia O'Keeffe's elegantly tapered fingers, those were a      painter's hands. Still, Helen's hands felt good. It felt good to      be touched. She wouldn't have guessed that she'd want to be      touched but she did, and when Helen slowed, she stretched the      other leg into Helen's lap, nudging it under Helen's hands. \u003ci\u003eI'm      going to take care of you\u003c\/i\u003e, Helen mouthed. Helen, who needed always      to make things better. Helen, who'd promised more than forty years      ago to be Anna's best friend and had never faltered. She stretched      to touch Helen's hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Molly tensed forward, rested her elbows on her knees. This was how      Molly listened. Muscularly. Her whole body attentive. And, just as      Anna knew she would, Molly cocked her head and lifted her dimpled      chin toward Caroline's voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anna hadn't been out here in the living room for days. There was      almost too much to look at. Every wall covered with art she'd      bought or been given. There, on the table, in a blue glass bowl,      hundreds of tiny starfish collected at Point Reyes. There, mounted      on the wall, the scrap-metal sculpture she'd bought in      Provincetown. Clustered on a shelf, mason jars of cardinal      feathers. Hours she'd spent selecting and arranging. All the      tableaux of pretty—how had she ever done all that? All that going      and doing. All that caring for beauty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anna closed her eyes. Listened. So entirely familiar the dips and      lilts of her friends' voices. Even Caroline's pauses to find a      more exact word were familiar. She couldn't explain it, the ease      she felt. She wouldn't have imagined this. Part of the easiness      was that she no longer had to try.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eThe Old Friends\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e End of sixth grade, they made it their official name. It was a      joke one afternoon, but they liked the way it sounded. Permanent.      \u003ci\u003eThe Old Friends\u003c\/i\u003e. A declaration that anyone who came into their      lives, maybe next year in seventh grade or later in high school,      anyone else might be new and exciting, even counted as a friend      for life, but not part of \u003ci\u003eThe Old Friends\u003c\/i\u003e. Not like they're      running to stencil T-shirts or roll out an official announcement      and cheer. But they love the way it sounds. Like a rock band. Or a      mystery series. This way, the five girls agree, it's just a fact.      And ours forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eSecret\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Days earlier the eldest boy was alone in the room with her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Momma.\" He held her hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded her head to show she was awake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mom, I have a secret to tell you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled. He was her first child. Now a grown man. Oh, those      years she'd spent unnecessarily worrying about Julian. Shy boy,      the one to play at the corner of the school yard where the      pavement yielded to weedy scrub, a boy poking sticks into dirt,      serious and happy and unworried about kids whizzing past him. \"Got      you!\" they screamed, tagging a shoulder, not his. At pickup she'd      ached watching him happy alone. She'd wanted him to be in the      center of the playing field calling teams, the one named captain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now here he was, a gentle man, still quiet, with a boy's stuttery      laugh, still happiest in the woods foraging for black morels and      ramps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mom,\" Julian said again, \"I have a secret.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Can you open your eyes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She'd do anything for him. Her eyes were so heavy, nickel-lidded,      heavier even than the given doses, heavy with some thickness she      could feel weighted in her bones, in her blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She opened her eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beautiful. It was his father's face he wore, that halo of curly      dark hair. The light was behind him. She saw the lace of the      curtains and, through the curtains, the trees of the yard. Her      lace, her window with her crystal hanging on filament and the yard      where her three children had played. So slightly hers, any of it,      anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, baby.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He said, \"We're having a baby.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a rush. Happiness left for the having. Even in these      last days, she'd felt happiness, momentary, sometimes sharp almost      like pain. Here, though, was the apex.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We don't want anyone to know. Not yet. But we want you to know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The baby of her first baby. She had loved the shape of him unborn      inside of her so much that when she came to full term, she hoped      for a long birth, wanting, she said, for each moment to be      exceptional, hers to savor, and then the joke for years with      friends was that after eighteen hours into her labor, curled into      some jagged harbor of agony, she had begged for drugs. But at the      end there was this child, perfect lips, hands, feet, and she was      forever changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sat up in the bed and kissed her son. \"You'll be a wonderful      father,\" she whispered. She kept a hand at his shoulder and looked      at him, working to make her face clear and direct. She wanted him      to have this. His mother beholding the father he was becoming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was wind through the window, spring air, a last, best      secret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled. \"I won't tell a soul.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eForever\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'd be lying if I didn't say you've looked better.\" Helen thumbed      into Anna's arch. \"But we'll find our way through this one, too.\"      She pressed her paint-stained fingers up the long, ropy thread of      Anna's shin. No muscle left to squeeze. Her stubby hands pawed      wide, overlapping Anna's leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There's only one way through this time, Heli,\" Anna said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's not true,\" Helen said quickly. \"But we have all day to      figure this out.\" Anna had been down to bone before, slow walks      around the squared antiseptic hallways of hospital units, Anna      pitched on a walker saying, \"Really, Helen, this is some serious      shit.\" Helen always had a comeback. \"Toots, you should have seen      your sorry ass a month ago.\" The Truth—\u003ci\u003ecapital T\u003c\/i\u003e—they'd promised      it to each other as children. Easy in the best-friend flush at      seven or the high romance of twelve. A challenge as they got older      and truth felt more wobbly, when encouragement was sometimes more      essential. Helen thought of the buzz and whir of ICUs, mornings      she'd pleat open the curtain, stand by Anna, intubated, sleeping.      \"Hey, beautiful,\" Helen would say. \"You're missing a lot of cool      stuff. So get better already.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But forget truth or encouragement, vigilance mattered. And Helen      had messed up. Big-time. For years they'd called each other every      day. Even phone messages deemed contact. These last couple years,      with Helen's painting shows in Dubai, Hong Kong, Miami,      Paris—she'd called from crazy time zones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm talking to you from tomorrow,\" Helen marveled when she was in      Sydney.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So you're still the art world's it girl!\" Anna allowed Helen no      modesty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Helen asked what was new, Anna breathed into the phone, \"I'm      not inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yet, if that's      what you're wondering.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well, hurry up, sweetheart. We're not going to live forever.\" And      they laughed to ward off disaster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But this time Helen had slacked off and the situation was going to      be hard to unmess. She'd called every day, but traveling made it      rough to keep up, and it had been two weeks before she realized      Anna wasn't returning any messages. \"Hey, love ain't a one-way      street.\" Helen crooned a new message country style while looking      out a hotel window in Prague.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then, a week ago, at a dinner in Rome, she picked up and heard      Ming's dredged voice. \"You've got to come now, Helen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eDog\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Zeus growled. Zeus, the teacup poodle, tangle-haired,      bur-stuck—like a tossed-off slipper on the floor below Anna—Zeus      out of nowhere, as Helen sat on the blue love seat with Anna, Zeus      baring his tiny teeth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eDone\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     1.    Done with IVs. Not ever even one more IV.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     2.    Done having another round of those thank-God-I'm-alive      days—crust-breaking snowshoe walks up the backyard trail to the      cliff view or weekend nights swaying close to the microphone,      pulsing in rhythms while her band swung up into the last verse of      \"The Harder They Come\"—before a shortness in her chest begins      again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     3.    Done secretly managing, till she's stopping on the walk      from the car to the front door to catch her breath, thinking, \u003ci\u003eThis      is a just a cold. Everyone in the Valley has this late-winter      cold—\u003c\/i\u003euntil the cold spins into pneumonia and Reuben finds her      bundled under blankets and the doctor's ordering a full PET scan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     4.    Done with scans.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     5.    Done asking Bobby, the lanky, ponytailed technician,      what he sees and him saying, \"I'm a technician, Anna. You know I      don't read these,\" and Anna saying, \"Cut the shit, Bobby. We've      been at this for too many years, so please just tell me what you      see.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     6.    Done with remission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     7.    Done with recurrence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     8.    Done with the medical team encouraging a new protocol.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     9.    Done with the truckloads of medicine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     10.    Done with that fourth remission, hauling herself back      to full gear so that, yes, hello world! here she was—back in the      glorious thick of life, everything a peak experience—again back at      school running the math center, again out meeting up with friends,      again out gigging on Saturday night with her cover band, again her      grown kids calling breathy with good possibilities—a job, a      romance, all the regular stuff they called to tell Anna when they      weren't starting with a hesitant \"How are you feeling today, Mom?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eAll the Hungers\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can eat a little.\" Anna was, surprisingly, a little hungry. She      immediately regretted that she'd said it. Too much eagerness on      her friends' faces. All that commotion to bring her more food.      Impossibly active. And hopeful. Helen propped the beige velvet      pillows behind Anna so that she was upright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Too much,\" she said when Ming put the bowl on the cobbler's      table. Molly followed, placing a wood board with bread and salmon      next to the soup. They looked all too ready to feed her like a      child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just eat what you want,\" Ming bubbled triumphant, when Anna      sipped from the spoon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It made Ming so happy to watch her spoon the cream of spinach and      mushroom soup into her mouth. Her full cheeks blushing in      anticipation. Anna forced the spoon to her lips again. So that,      too—Anna wasn't entirely beyond wanting to make someone happy.      Especially Ming. Anna knew she couldn't have managed what Ming had      managed—her daughter Lily's seizures. The everyday terror of the      grand mal, ambulances, and deadening medications. Then that      cutting-edge brain operation. A success, but still a lifetime of      children's taunts and all the constant special accommodations—no,      Anna thought, it would have broken her to have a child so      compromised.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The creamy, warm spread of soup tasted good. There was this, too.      Food had been a pleasure. Another kind of beauty. She'd never      understood the desire for eating in company. Food was pleasure for      the mouth. Talking was also pleasure. But together, less.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The conversation veered newsy. That was a screen. They were always      watching, measuring how much she ate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She cut a small piece of salmon and let it melt against her      palate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Molly worried to the others about a baggie of weed she'd found in      Tessa's desk drawer. How much was her daughter smoking? She was so      uncommunicative most days. There have been terrible fights. Molly      raked her fingers through her cropped hair. \"She's not a girl      you'd at all recognize.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anna thought it would help to remind Molly how when they were in      eleventh grade they'd snuck out every afternoon that spring to      smoke pot behind the woods near school. There'd been no shortage      of baggies and film canisters of pot. There'd been no shortage of      battles with parents.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it took such effort to bring the spoon to her mouth, to      swallow the soup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was enough to think, \u003ci\u003eMolly, it will be fine\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Molly and Serena. Their two children. Once, all of that had been      radical—a woman, a mixed-race couple, children—these had been the      battles Molly had fought. Eighteen years later they'd all danced      at the wedding. Molly had a house in the Boston suburbs just miles      from where they'd all grown up. A thriving therapy practice. Now      Molly's golden mane of hair was silver, cut in her mother's short,      blunt cut. Serena was talking about retiring from her surgery      team.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe were children. Give it enough time\u003c\/i\u003e, Anna thought, \u003ci\u003eand the old friends actually become old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then she remembered what her son had told her. His beautiful secret. The beginning of his fatherhood. Was it just yesterday he’d come to her to her room to tell her the secret? These were her dear friends. She should boast to them. They’d share her ecstasy. They had been children together and then they were mothers together. They would know what this meant to her. But she would not tell. These women who could hold secrets. Not even Helen, her ultimate secret sharer. She could barely look at Helen. Still, she would say nothing. She had nothing left to give her son except her word.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302726095077,"sku":"NP9780735222595","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735222595.jpg?v=1767722363","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/before-everything-isbn-9780735222595","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}