A sweeping and turbulent drama about the anxieties of postwar Britain, where one strong and inspirational young woman looks to find her place, no matter the cost.
Sometimes, the truth lies in fiction
It's hard to be an American girl in 1957. Especially when your dad's job means you have to move four thousand miles from home. Especially if you'd rather play baseball than wear a dress. Especially if you see your mom fraying a little more from anxiety each day. And especially if being five minutes older means you have to protect your fragile twin brother.
Still, Hedy Delaney loves her family, and she's trying to make the best of her new life on a U.S. airbase in England. After all, her dad's a war hero, her mother's a beauty, and her brother's a brainiac who writes moving stories about space travel.
Then one tragic day, the unforeseen occurs and all three are ripped away, leaving Hedy alone with countless questions. What really happened on the airbase? What went on behind military closed doors? What were the secrets that could never be told? And how could any of it have led to her family's destruction?
In her search for the truth, Hedy turns to a story her brother began months before he died. Deciding to finish what her brother started, Hedy begins to piece together what happened to her family. But whether she's ready for what she'll discover is another matter entirely.
A sweeping and turbulent family drama, The Wonderful asks whether writing fiction can uncover fact, and if it's ever better to let the truth remain hidden.
Sometimes, it's safer not to finish what you've started.
Release date:
December 10, 2019
Publisher:
Flatiron Books
Print pages:
376
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THIS IS HEDY DELANEY’S first stay in a hotel. She was hoping for bellboys in swanky uniforms serving lobster from little trolleys covered in white cloths. She’s never eaten lobster and, to be truthful, she’s not sure she likes the idea; it’s what it stands for that counts: the exotic and unknown. Instead, she’s sitting on a bed with a view of an air-conditioning box, cooped up with the rest of her family. She wants to let out her frustration in a good long howl from the pit of her belly. But you can’t scream in New York City, not unless you’re getting mugged. The cops would come and beat down the door. Her parents might even be hauled off to jail. Instead, she channels her agitation into picking at the sticky Band-Aids on the backs of her arms, peeling them away with the edges of her nails.
She’s twelve, the age at which most girls in her class are getting training bras and joining Future Homemakers of America. Hedy’s lanky frame gives no hint that she’ll develop curves that will need constraining, and she lacks any desire to learn to hem curtains or make meat loaf. The fact that she’s named after Hedy Lamarr by her father is a small cruelty that only Hedy’s mother dwells on. Hedy hasn’t any use for film stars. Baseball players are more her thing. The Yankees are her favorite team. On this particular evening, she guesses she’s within batting distance of their stadium, although she’ll never get to see Yogi Berra catch, or Joe Collins chase down a ball, because she’s trapped in this room, and tomorrow she’ll be leaving the United States to go to a place where nobody’s heard of baseball.
Hedy cranes around further to examine the back of her swollen arms, the difficulty of it making her squint as she tears away a second Band-Aid, darkened with a smear of blood. Her parents are huddled in the corner, locked into a whispered discussion. They never once glance in Hedy’s direction. Everyone is ignoring her. Even Chris. He hasn’t stopped scribbling in his notebook since they left home. Anyone would think his made-up words were more important than whatever his sister might have to say. Now he’s burrowed under a blanket on the cot, asleep. How can he sleep with this ache in his arm?
She picks up his notebook and flicks through to the last pages. But he hasn’t been writing another of his stories. Her brother has drawn himself. She touches the pencil sketch and frowns. It’s a good likeness. He’s included every detail of the Milwaukee Brace he has to wear for twenty-three hours out of each day for his severe scoliosis. The brace is supposed to correct his crooked spine, force his poor twisted bones back into the right places. Mom says that Chris will be cured by it, so keeping him strapped into the contraption is actually being cruel to be kind. When Mom says words like “actually,” Hedy remembers that her mother is English.
Hedy stares at her brother’s self-portrait. He’s depicted the buckles and straps on the heavy leather corset that encases him from the tops of his thighs up to his waist. For extra discomfort it has a two-inch-wide upright metal bar running from the corset up the middle of his chest, where it joins a metal collar that is fixed around his throat. Two more bars press at his back, either side of his spine. Then there is the chin pad, held up by a thin metal bar attached to the collar. The chin pad forces his head upward so that, like a frightened horse, he must always have his head raised, his eyes rolling with the effort of seeing anything beneath his eyeline.
She turns the page. Here is another drawing. This time Chris has drawn a boy smiling inside a big puffy space suit. His head is enclosed inside a glass bubble; through it, he looks out at stars twinkling around him. His body floats through space, free falling across planets, higher than the moon. The sketch doesn’t surprise Hedy; her brother is passionate about outer space, science-fiction stories, and especially the idea of aliens. This is who he wants to be, a space explorer, not the kid in the brace with the weird spine. She sighs and shuts the notebook. She goes along with his fantasies of creatures from other planets and space travel because she knows his imagination lets him escape real life, helps him forget his pain.
Thinking of how it must feel to be stuck in the brace makes her itch with claustrophobia. She tugs at the neckline of her shirt. There’s no air in here; the window is sealed. Their bags and suitcases are piled around them. The rest of their possessions, nailed into boxes like dead bodies, have been sent ahead on a boat. She smells the hot dogs they had for supper, bought from a sidewalk vendor, ketchup and mustard dripping over their fingers as they perched on the bed to eat, Mom fussing about the mess, reminding them to use the napkins she’d handed out and not drop crumbs on the sheets. The hot dogs had been a treat. Like the earlier hurried trip up the Empire State Building. But now the memory of fried onion and rubbery pink makes her queasy. She thinks of home, their yard with the Stars and Stripes flying out front. She wonders if their stuff is floating somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, or maybe it’s already on dry land, at the new house, waiting for them. She wonders what it will be like. She hopes it has a bedroom each for her and Chris, a winding staircase leading to a spooky attic, and a big garden with plenty of room to throw a fastball. She glances at her parents. They still have their faces close, talking quietly. Dad’s got mustard on his shirt.
When Dad broke the news, months ago, Hedy jumped on and off the sofa and hung on to his arms, both her and Chris asking him questions. Would they eat fish-and-chips out of newspaper? Really? Would the British people understand their accent, would they have to go to school, would they take the Buick? “Sure we’ll take her, Princess.” Dad laughed, swinging Hedy from his biceps. “No way I’d leave her behind. You guys will love England. The base even has its own movie house.” And would he be flying bombers again? He shook his head. “My flying days are over. Your dad’s been promoted, kids. There’s important work on the ground.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Got to keep those Reds at bay.” At dinner, he let them sip from his beer and laughed when a stream of froth shot out of Chris’s nostrils. Dad kept laughing while Chris spat the rest on his plate. Hedy waited for Mom to leap up and start cleaning the mess. But she sat chewing her lip, blind to it all. “Come on, Ruby, you’re like Death at a wedding feast,” Dad said. “You’re spoiling the fun.”
Normally, Dad can get Mom to laugh with a kiss or a joke, or he’ll grab her in a tango embrace and dip her backward until her head nearly touches the floor, and after he sets her upright she’ll slap his arms, pink-cheeked and giggling, and tell him off for making her dizzy. Not this time. After Hedy and Chris were in bed, it started.
“What about Christopher?” Mom asked.
“What about him?” Dad. Low and tired sounding. “There are doctors in England.”
“They won’t be as good as here. Nothing’s as good as America. Going back to England means giving up so much. The kids don’t understand. They think it’ll be fun.”
A long sigh from Dad. “You knew we’d get posted again, baby. We don’t get to pick, like some holiday. We’ll be staying on an American base. It’ll have all the amenities you’re used to here. And besides, this is a promotion for me—it could lead to something big, for all of us.”
Hedy, her ear pressed against the door, was puzzled. Why wouldn’t Mom want to go back? She must have gotten to like Iowa better than her childhood home. She hardly talked about Grandpa, or her brother, or the life she had before she married Dad. England was tiny, hardly bigger than a single state, so although Hedy was hazy as to exactly where her unknown relatives lived, it didn’t matter, because wherever it was, Hedy realized she’d meet them at last. Maybe there would be an aunt too, she thought, cousins even.
From outside, the city of New York shoves itself up against the glass, full of show-off noise and flashing lights and too many walls. It makes Hedy’s neck ache from looking up. There’s no room for the sky. She maneuvers her arm carefully. It throbs as if she’d stuck it inside a hornet’s nest. Nobody said anything about having to have vaccinations. Chris twitches under the blanket. He’s not asleep after all. He’s crying.
She climbs in next to him, lying on her good side. He is stuck on his back like a beetle. She rubs his shoulder in consoling circles. “Do you want me to read to you? I’ve got David Starr, Space Ranger in my bag.”
“No,” he whispers, his voice choked with tears. “Not now.”
“Least we won’t catch diphtheria or polio,” she says. “Think about nice things. Like ice cream. Tomorrow, we’re going on an airplane.”
Hedy is ten minutes older than her brother. He needs looking after. Not that he’s stupid or anything. He’s the cleverest person she knows. His main problem—apart from the obvious one—is that he seems to lack an instinct for self-preservation, always leaving himself open to teasing and disappointment.
Hedy puts her head on the pillow. She slips her arm around his waist, avoiding the leather girdle of his hips, trying to hug the rigid line of his body, pressing her nose into the curve of his neck. She begins to hum, blocking out Mom and Dad’s angry whispers. Chris wipes his nose, sniffs, and wriggles. “You’re making me hot.”
“Keep still, doodlebug. Scoot over. This bed’s too small.”
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