THE GOOD SON by Jacquelyn Mitchard - Spotlight & Excerpt & Q and A
From #1 New York Times bestselling author Jacquelyn Mitchard comes the gripping, emotionally charged novel of a mother who must help her son after he is convicted of a devastating crime.
What do you do when the person you love best becomes unrecognizable to you? For Thea Demetriou, the answer is both simple and agonizing: you keep loving him somehow.
Stefan was just seventeen when he went to prison for the drug-fueled murder of his girlfriend, Belinda. Three years later, he’s released to a world that refuses to let him move on. Belinda’s mother, once Thea’s good friend, galvanizes the community to rally against him to protest in her daughter’s memory. The media paints Stefan as a symbol of white privilege and indifferent justice. Neighbors, employers, even some members of Thea's own family turn away.
Meanwhile Thea struggles to understand her son. At times, he is still the sweet boy he has always been; at others, he is a young man tormented by guilt and almost broken by his time in prison. But as his efforts to make amends meet escalating resistance and threats, Thea suspects more forces are at play than just community outrage. And if there is so much she never knew about her own son, what other secrets has she yet to uncover—especially about the night Belinda died?
I was picking my son up at the prison gates when I spotted the mother of the girl he had murdered.
Two independent clauses, ten words each, joined by an adverb, made up entirely of words that would once have been unimaginable to think, much less say.
She pulled in—not next to me, but four spaces over—in the half circle of fifteen-minute spots directly in front of the main building. It was not where Stefan would walk out. That would be over at the gatehouse. She got out of her car, and for a moment I thought she would come toward me. I wanted to talk to her, to offer something, to reach out and hold her, for we had not even been able to attend Belinda’s funeral. But what would I say? What would she? This was an unwonted crease in an already unaccustomed day. I slid deep into my down coat, and wished I could lock the car doors, although I feared that the sound would crack the predawn darkness like a rifle shot. All that Jill McCormack did, however, was shove her hands into the pockets of her jacket and lean against the back bumper of her car. She wore the heavy maroon leather varsity jacket that her daughter Belinda, captain of the high school cheer team in senior year, had given to her, to Stefan, and to me, with our names embroidered in gold on the back, just like hers.
I hadn’t seen Jill McCormack up close for years, though she lived literally around the corner. Once, I used to stop there to sit on her porch, but now I avoided even driving past the place.
Jill seemed smaller, diminished, the tumult of ash-blond hair I remembered cropped short and seemingly mostly white, though I knew she was young when Belinda was born, and now couldn’t be much past forty. Yet, even just to stand in the watery, slow-rising light in front of a prison, she was tossed together fashionably, in gold-colored jeans and boots, with a black turtleneck, a look I would have had to plan for days. She looked right at my car, but gave no sign that she recognized it, though she’d been in it dozens of times years ago. Once she had even changed her clothes in my car. I remember how I stood outside it holding a blanket up over the windows as she peeled off a soaking-wet, floor-length, jonquil-yellow crystal-beaded evening gown that must, at that point, have weighed about thirty pounds, then slipped into a clean football warm-up kit. After she changed, we linked arms with my husband and we all went to a ball.
But I would not think of that now.
I had spent years assiduously not thinking of any of that.
A friendship, like a crime, is not one thing, or even two people. It’s two people and their shared environs and their histories, their common memories, their words, their weaknesses and fears, their virtues and vanities, and sometimes their shame.
Jill was not my closest friend. Some craven times, I blessed myself with that—at least I was spared that. There had always been Julie, since fifth grade my heart, my sharer. But Jill was my good friend. We had been soccer moms together, and walking buddies, although Jill’s swift, balanced walk was my jog. I once kept Belinda at my house while Jill went to the bedside of her beloved father who’d suffered a stroke, just as she kept Stefan at her house with Belinda when they were seven and both had chicken pox, which somehow neither I nor my husband, Jep, ever caught. And on the hot night of that fundraising ball for the zoo, so long ago, she had saved Stefan’s life.
Since Jill was a widow when we first met, recently arrived in the Midwest from her native North Carolina, I was always talking her into coming to events with Jep and me, introducing her to single guys who immediately turned out to be hopeless. That hot evening, along with the babysitter, the two kids raced toward the new pool, wildly decorated with flashing green lights, vines and temporary waterfalls for a “night jungle swim.” Suddenly, the sitter screamed. When Jill was growing up, she had been state champion in the 200-meter backstroke before her devout parents implored her to switch to the more modest sport of golf, and Belinda, at five, was already a proficient swimmer. My Stefan, on the other hand, sank to the bottom like a rock and never came up. Jill didn’t stop to ask questions. Kicking off her gold sandals, in she went, an elegant flat race dive that barely creased the surface; seconds later she hauled up a gasping Stefan. Stefan owed his life to her as surely as Belinda owed her death to Stefan.
In seconds, life reverses.
Jill and I once talked every week. It even seemed we once might have been machatunim, as they say in Yiddish, parents joined by the marriage of their son and daughter. Now, the circumstances under which we might ever exchange a single word seemed as distant as the bony hood of moon above us in the melting darkness.
What did she want here now? Would she leave once Stefan came through the gates? In fact, she left before that. She got back into her car, and, looking straight ahead, drove off.
I watched until her car was out of sight.
Just after dawn, a guard walked Stefan to the edge of the enclosure. I looked up at the razor wire. Then, opening the window slightly, I heard the guard say, “Do good, kid. I hope I never see you again.” Stefan stepped out, and then put his palm up to a sky that had just begun to spit snow. He was twenty, and he had served two years, nine months and three days of a five-year sentence, one year of which the judge had suspended, noting Stefan’s unblemished record. Still, it seemed like a week; it seemed like my entire life; it seemed like a length of time too paltry for the monstrous thing he had done. I could not help but reckon it this way: For each of the sixty or seventy years Belinda would have had left to live, Stefan spent only a week behind bars, not even a season. No matter how much he despaired, he could always see the end. Was I grateful? Was I ashamed? I was both. Yet relief rippled through me like the sweet breeze that stirs the curtains on a summer night.
I got out and walked over to my son. I reached up and put my hand on his head. I said, “My kid.”
Stefan placed his huge warm palm on the top of my head. “My mom,” he said. It was an old ritual, a thing I would not have dared to do in the prison visiting room. My eyes stung with curated tears. Then I glanced around me, furtively. Was I still permitted such tender old deeds? This new universe was not showing its hand. “I can stand here as long as I want,” he said, shivering in wonderment. Then he said, “Where’s Dad?”
“He told you about it. He had to see that kid in Louisville one more time,” I told him reluctantly. “The running back with the very protective grandmother. He couldn’t get out of it. But he cut it short and he’ll be home when we get back, if he beats the weather out of Kentucky this morning, that is.” Jep was in only his second season as football coach at the University of Wisconsin–Whitewater, a Division II team with significant chops and national esteem. We didn’t really think he would get the job, given our troubles, but the athletic director had watched Jep’s career and believed deeply in his integrity. Now he was never at rest: His postseason recruiting trips webbed the country. Yet it was also true that while Stefan’s father longed equally for his son to be free, if Jep had been able to summon the words to tell the people who mattered that he wanted to skip this trip altogether, he would have. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it’s a big day, our son’s getting out of prison.
Now, it seemed important to hurry Stefan to the car, to get out of there before this new universe recanted. We had a long drive back from Black Creek, where the ironically named Belle Colline Correctional Facility squatted not far from the campus of the University of Wisconsin–Black Creek. Stefan’s terrible journey had taken him from college to prison, a distance of just two miles as the crow flies. I felt like the guard: I never wanted to see the place again. I had no time to think about Jill or anything else except the weather. We’d hoped that the early-daylight release would keep protestors away from the prison gates, and that seemed to have worked: Prisoners usually didn’t walk out until just before midday. There was not a single reporter here, which surprised me as Jill was tireless in keeping her daughter Belinda’s death a national story, a symbol for young women in abusive relationships. Many of the half dozen or so stalwarts who still picketed in front of our house nearly every day were local college and high-school girls, passionate about Jill’s work. As Stefan’s release grew near, their numbers rose, even as the outdoor temperatures fell. A few news organizations put in appearances again lately as well. I knew they would be on alert today and was hoping we could beat some of the attention by getting back home early. In the meantime, a snowstorm was in the forecast: I never minded driving in snow, but the air smelled of water running over iron ore—a smell that always portended worse weather.
Excerpted from The Good Son by Jacquelyn Mitchard. Copyright © 2022 by Jacquelyn Mitchard. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
WE ASKED JACQUELYN SOME QUESTIONS
What is your elevator pitch for the book?
When Thea’s college-age son is released from prison after serving time for killing his girlfriend, Thea
must battle not only a community that hates him, but also her son’s despair. And then, she soon learns
that the night of the girlfriend’s death is much more mysterious, and much more shocking, than she
could ever have imagined.
· What inspired the book?
Years before I ever wrote this story, I was in a coffee line at a big hotel where I was speaking at a
writer’s conference. The woman in front of me dropped her book; I picked it up and asked if she was
attending the conference. No, she said. She told me stayed at this hotel every weekend to visit her
son, who was in prison and would be in prison for at least twenty more years. He was just nineteen
years old. Oh no, I thought, oh no, don’t tell me why … but she did: Her son had murdered the only
girl he ever loved, while so strung out on drugs that he didn’t even remember the death. She went on
to say that one day, she was in their hometown cemetery bringing roses to the girl’s grave, when the
girl’s mother appeared. The boy’s mother was terrified: What would happen? Would the woman shout
at her, hit her? Instead, the two, who’d once been good friends, fell sobbing into each other’s arms. The
mother of the lost girl then said the most heart-wrenching thing. “At least,” she told the boy’s mother,
“You can still touch him.” When my agent heard the story, he said that it was impossible for me to make
those characters sympathetic – but he now admits he was wrong.
· Who is your favorite character in the book?
It’s Stefan, the boy who went to prison for murder. It was very hard to write about someone convicted of
murder but he also was so filled with grief and remorse and, at 20, had no way to imagine any future at
all.
· Which character was the hardest to write? Easiest?
It was honestly hardest to create the main character, Thea, because to be effective at making a
character come to life, you have to let yourself inhabit her emotions as fully as is possible – and I really
didn’t want to imagine standing in her shoes. I once saw a speech by Sue Klebold, the mother of Dylan
Klebold, one of the Columbine shooters. She said, of course, she still loved her son. And I knew there
were people in that audience thinking, how could she? But I could not stop crying because I felt such
pity for her and also admired her enormous courage.
· Who are some of your favorite authors?
Oh my goodness! That’s like asking, what’s your favorite song? Jhumpa Lahiri, Elizabeth Strout, Ann
Patchett, Charles Finch, Hilary Mantel, Stephen King, Curtis Sittenfield, Kazuo Ishiguro, John le Carre,
Celeste Ng, Dennis LeHane, Hilary St. John Mandel, Julia Phillips, Charles Portis, Betty Smith, Shirley
Jackson, Julia Phillips, Colson Whitehead … I could do this all day.
· What is the best part of writing for you?
It’s that rare time when I find a way to let the reader really see what I see and hear what I hear – not
necessarily believe what I believe but … to find a way to bring the reader onto the same emotional
wavelength
· What is the hardest part of writing for you?
Every single thing about it is hard for me. Coming up with the idea … fleshing out the idea …
sustaining the narrative through all its peaks and valleys, writing the beginning, writing the end. Writing
the ending is probably not quite so hard as the rest.
· What is your writing set-up like? Do you have a designated writing space?
It’s my bed, on a lap desk. I burn through about one $25 lap desk a year, the kind with the flax seed or
plastic bean bottom that fits over your legs. I once had an office but I just wandered around it, looking
at the shelves.
· Do you have a guilty music and/or entertainment pleasure?
Oh, I am a transfixed, unrepentant and abashed fan of true crime podcasts, true crime narratives,
true crime anything, The Sopranos, Dexter, The Wire..
while being truly terrified of being the victim of a crime of any kind.
Jacquelyn Mitchard is the New York Times bestselling author of 22 novels for adults and teenagers, and the recipient of Great Britain’s Talkabout prize, The Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson awards, and named to the short list for the Women’s Prize for Fiction.
Her first novel, The Deep End of the Ocean, was the inaugural selection of the Oprah Winfrey Book Club, with more than 3 million copies in print in 34 languages. Mitchard’s essays also have been published in magazines worldwide, widely anthologized, and incorporated into school curricula.
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