Paula Treick DeBoard - The Fragile World

From the author of stunning debut The Mourning Hours comes a powerful new novel that explores every parent’s worst nightmare…

The Kaufmans have always considered themselves a normal, happy family. Curtis is a physics teacher at a local high school. His wife, Kathleen, restores furniture for upscale boutiques. Daniel is away at college on a prestigious music scholarship, and twelve-year-old Olivia is a happy-go-lucky kid whose biggest concern is passing her next math test.

And then comes the middle-of-the-night phone call that changes everything. Daniel has been killed in what the police are calling a “freak” road accident, and the remaining Kaufmans are left to flounder in their grief.

The anguish of Daniel’s death is isolating, and it’s not long before this once-perfect family finds itself falling apart. As time passes and the wound refuses to heal, Curtis becomes obsessed with the idea of revenge, a growing mania that leads him to pack up his life and his anxious teenage daughter and set out on a collision course to right a wrong.

An emotionally charged novel, The Fragile World is a journey through America’s heartland and a family’s brightest and darkest moments, exploring the devastating pain of losing a child and the beauty of finding the way back to hope.

Praise for the novels of Paula Treick DeBoard

“Emotionally powerful from beginning to end, Paula Treick DeBoard’s novel The Fragile World chronicles the heartbreaking dissolution of a family after tragic loss. Exquisitely told, this bold and moving story is a study in grief and the transforming power of love. Absolutely unforgettable.” —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence

“A heart-stopping series of events drives The Fragile World, as Paula Treick DeBoard skillfully alternates between a father and daughter dealing with tragic loss. The result is a gripping read, but one that delivers, by the book’s end, a beautiful reminder of the resilience of love.” —Karen Brown, author of The Longings of Wayward Girls

“A coming-of-age tale about a family in crisis expertly told by Ms. DeBoard. The Fragile World examines how profound loss changes all who are forced to come to terms with it. Touching and compelling, it will move you.” —Lesley Kagen, New York Times bestselling author of Whistling in the Dark and The Resurrection of Tess Blessing .

“Assured storytelling propels DeBoard’s first novel.… What most compels is the observant Kirsten’s account of how a small town and a family disintegrate under the weight of the tragedy.”

— Publishers Weekly on The Mourning Hours

“Rich and evocative…compelling.”

— RT Book Reviews on The Mourning Hours

The Fragile

World

Paula Treick DeBoard

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For my parents, who taught me that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single packed-to-the-gills station wagon.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

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Acknowledgments

The Fragile World Readers Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Paula Treick DeBoard

Extract

BPA

Copyright

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

—Franklin D. Roosevelt

Also, blenders.

—Olivia Kaufman

prologue

Olivia

In the beginning there was Daniel. He was the only child my parents ever needed, because he was perfect. His first word was magnet and, the story goes, he said it while looking at the refrigerator, where my mother had spelled out D-A-N-I-E-L in brightly colored letters. Other kids might have memorized the stories their parents read to them from the Little Golden Books, but my mother always swore that Daniel was actually reading, even though he wasn’t three years old yet. By the time he was five and still belted into a child seat in the back of Mom’s car, he was already reading every sign on the road: City Limit and Closing Sale and Fresh Donuts. His early teachers strongly suggested that he skip grades, and if my parents hadn’t worried about his size—smallish—and his sociability—shyish—he would probably have been one of those kids who make the news when they graduate from university at age twelve.

When he was six years old, Mom enrolled Daniel in piano lessons, since he had taken to singing road signs as they drove and later banging out the tunes on the kitchen table with his fork and spoon. Prompted by the sight of the golden arches, he would launch into “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese...” and he could produce, on demand, the exact jingle that matched every car dealership in the greater Sacramento area. When I was born—and just for a moment, let’s pause to consider why, exactly, my parents would want another child when surely they had everything a parent could want in Daniel—he was already on his way to becoming a musical prodigy.

Physically, our lives revolved around Daniel and his music. Our funky, turn-of-the-last-century house near downtown Sacramento was crammed full with musical instruments—the upright piano in the living room, the drum set at the top of the stairs, his guitar propped against one wall or another. I was convinced that he was the only person on earth who could make a recorder look cool.

When Daniel was in the seventh grade, Mom picked me up from kindergarten one afternoon and drove me across town to his middle school auditorium for the annual talent show. The other kids were truly kids—they performed bright, cheery dance routines in spangly costumes, they lip-synced to pop songs, they executed strange karate routines that involved a lot of posturing and choppy air kicks. Daniel was the last one to take the stage, no doubt because the organizers knew he was the best. He announced that he was playing “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov and the entire gym went quiet with the opening notes. His fingers flew confidently over the keys; if he was intimidated in any way by hundreds of eyes on him, it didn’t show. Mom had tried to convince him earlier that day to bring the sheet music as a backup, but Daniel had only tapped his head with one finger, meaning It’s all up here. It was the first time I realized that Daniel was really great, something special.

What a disappointment I must have been, must still be. I took three years of piano lessons and barely advanced beyond the “early learner books.” I remember one song, played with my right thumb on middle C and my right index finger on D. See the bear, on two feet, begging for a bite to eat. All I had to do was toggle my fingers between the two keys, and yet somehow I couldn’t help but hit adjacent keys or lose the simple beat, giving up in a frustrated squash of all my fingers against the keys at once. Inside, a voice was saying, regular as a metronome: Don’t mess up. Get it right. Play the notes. It didn’t seem hard—but somehow I couldn’t do it.