Novels in verse are rare, but there’s also something truly magnificent about them particularly for those of us who love poetry. It’s like having your cake and eating it too. The best of both worlds.
I’ve always been attracted to writing that sounds pretty, that flows. Betty Culley‘s The Name She Gave me is just that, and it’s also a really emotional story that transcends. Verse might not feel like a normal way to tell a story like this one, but all you need is to give the book a chance and you’ll realize in this case …it might be not just the best way, but the only one.
So today, we’re bringing you a taste of the magic, with an exclusive excerpt from the book. But before we dive in, here’s the synopsis:
A heartbreakingly beautiful novel in verse about adoption, family, friendship, and love in all its many forms, perfect for fans of Robin Benway and Jandy Nelson, from the acclaimed author of Three Things I Know Are True.
Rynn was born with a hole in her heart—literally. Although it was fixed long ago, she still feels an emptiness there when she wonders about her birth family.
As her relationship with her adoptive mother fractures, Rynn finally decides she needs to know more about the rest of her family. Her search starts with a name, the only thing she has from her birth mother, and she quickly learns that she has a younger sister living in foster care in a nearby town. But if Rynn reconnects with her biological sister, it may drive her adoptive family apart for good.
This powerful story uncovers both beautiful and heartbreaking truths and explores how challenging, yet healing, family can be.
And here is the excerpt:
Part One
Rynn
NAMES
My birthmother was twenty
when I was born,
four years older
than I am now,
and she gave me a name.
Scheherazade
(Shuh-hair-ah-zod)
has three e’s,
two a’s
and twelve letters.
Mom and Dad changed my name to
Rynn—
four letters, one repeat,
and no vowels,
unless you count the (sometimes) y.
I don’t love the name
Scheherazade,
but my birthmother
gave it to me.
It’s the only thing
from her
I (don’t) have.
SCHEHERAZADE
My lost name is a clue,
like a message in a bottle
washed up on an empty shore.
In an old book,
a girl named Scheherazade
told a king stories
so he wouldn’t kill her.
Night after night,
she stopped her stories
in the middle,
like a soap opera
or a detective series,
and continued them
the next night.
It took 1,001 nights
and 1,000 stories
for the king to fall in love
with her.
Why she would want to marry
a man who killed women
is beyond me.
Or why she’d want
to be with someone
who took 1,001 nights
to figure out he loved her.
I’m wondering if my birthmother
wanted me to know
that in order to survive
without the truth
of who I am
and where I came from,
I would also have to make up stories
to get me through the night.
HOLES
I don’t know if I got
my gray eyes,
or my straight brown hair,
from my birthmother.
I don’t even know
her name.
At eighteen,
I can get my original birth certificate,
genetic and medical information.
Until then,
I can only guess
why she gave me up
and why I was born
with so many holes.
A hole in my throat,
A hole in my back,
A hole in my heart.
The hole in my throat,
a cleft palate,
took two surgeries to fix.
Before they closed it
I had to drink thickened milk
or I would choke.
The hole in my back—
a sacral dimple—
is not cute
the way you’d think
when you hear the word
dimple.
It’s a tiny tunnel
on my spine
that ends in darkness.
It goes nowhere
and doesn’t bother
anybody.
They only found
the hole in my heart—
an atrial septal defect—
when I was thirteen
and started being
out of breath.
That makes me wonder
what else is wrong with me,
what other defect
they haven’t found yet—
another missing piece,
or a part that stopped growing
before it was done.
Defect and perfect are so close,
only two letters apart.
If you say them fast,
defect perfect defect perfect,
they almost sound the same.
I can’t help it—
I want everything back.
I want my lost name.
I want all my vowels.
I’ll even take the hole
that they closed
in my throat—
round and perfect
as a little ring.
I wish I still had
my heart defect, too,
so I could tell people
how I feel
all the time,
There’s a hole in my heart.
SECRET
For nine months
I was inside my birthmother—
then I wasn’t.
My baby brain
might remember her voice
or her heartbeat,
but I don’t.
Then I was in a foster home
for six weeks
before I got adopted.
I don’t remember that, either.
I never told anyone,
but when I was in elementary school
I always looked around
for my birthmother.
I thought she could be
anywhere.
If a bus driver I didn’t know
waved at me,
or a woman clapped really loud
at the end of my school play,
I guessed it might be her.
For a while I thought
the school secretary
was my birthmother,
because she acted extra nice.
I thought maybe she’d gotten the job
just to be near me.
Sometimes I pretended
my birthmother
was like God—
she knew all about me,
but was waiting
for the right moment
to appear.
I was pretty sure she’d come
on my tenth birthday—
double digits and all.
Or when I had my first period.
Or when my heart got fixed.
Even though I knew
my adoption was closed—
that no one could tell her
where I was—
it took a long time
for the truth
to sink in.
This year I definitely knew better,
but the day I turned sixteen
I was still disappointed
there was no mystery present
stuffed in the mailbox.
That’s when I knew
it would have to be me
searching for her.
That maybe all these years
she’d been waiting
just like me—
to be found.
I did think how I’d feel
if she had a great new life
and didn’t want
to hear from me,
but I figured it would hurt
just as much
to learn that now
as later.
So I started asking
why my adoption was closed,
like a locked door
with no key
to open it,
and why I had to wait
two more years
until I’m eighteen
to find out about
my birthmother.
Mom did not like hearing
the word birthmother,
but there was no other way
to ask.
Finally, a secret shot out
one sentence
after the other,
like a fire catching hold,
as Mom finally told
what they kept from me
for nine years.
This birthmother
you keep asking about
kept a baby she gave birth to
seven years after you were born.
A half sister
from a different father.
The agency called us
during the pregnancy
to see if we wanted her.
We said yes,
we’d take your sister,
but then your birthmother
changed her mind.
Now the fire
burns in me
that I spent all those years
not knowing about my sister,
the one who was
good enough
to keep.
SISTER
She’d be nine now.
Maybe she’s called
Jacqueline or Antoinette
or Evangeline—
all names
with five vowels too.
I don’t hold it against her,
being the one who got to stay.
If we met,
would it be like
looking in a mirror?
My face, her face.
People might say to us,
I can tell you’re sisters.
Although I can’t show her
the hole in my heart,
I’d let her listen
to the whoosh of blood
going past the place
they patched it up.
We also have one last present, we’re giving away a copy of the book! US/Canada only entries on this one, sorry. Enter below:
a Rafflecopter giveawayThe Name She Gave Me by Betty Culley is available now wherever books are sold.
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looks interesting