Read an Excerpt from The Name She Gave Me By Betty Culley

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 giveaway

The Name She Gave Me by Betty Culley is available now wherever books are sold.

More Book News

Lissete Lanuza Sáenz

Lawyer. Writer. Columnist. Geek. Eternal optimist. Fangirl since the dawn of time. Hates the color yellow, olives and cigarettes. Has a recurring nightmare where she’s forced to choose between sports and books. Falls in love with fictional characters.