From the Publisher
“As raindrops become mighty rivers, Susan Meissner’s words seem simple in the beginning, but one thought builds naturally upon another, phrases and sentences flow together with effortless fluidity, and before you know it, you are totally engrossed by the powerful undercurrents of her story. To read Ms. Meissner is to put yourself into the hands of that rarest kind of author: an artist working in the medium of words.”
–Athol Dickson, Christy Award-winning author of The Cure and Winter Haven
“I loved The Shape of Mercy from beginning to end. Ms. Meissner’s prose sings, and her characters captured my interest from the start. As the story unfolded, those same characters captured my heart. I won’t soon forget Mercy, Lauren, or Abigail.”
–Robin Lee Hatcher, award-winning author of Wagered Heart and When Love Blooms
“The Shape of Mercy is vintage Susan Meissner: tender storytelling that keeps you hooked; living, breathing characters that capture your heart and madden you, too; and a message of redemption that sticks with you. Meissner deftly weaves the stories of three women of vastly different generations, connecting them perfectly and crafting a winsome, interesting, powerful read.”
–Mary E. DeMuth, author of Watching the Tree Limbs and Daisy Chain
“A compelling tale that will resonate long after you turn the last page. A haunting story, deftly woven, full of layers and textures that will quickly pull you out of the present and into the long forgotten past. Meissner recalls a tale that must not be forgotten, about the tragedies and senseless cruelties which happen when we abandon grace and turn our backs on mercy.”
–Siri Mitchell, author of A Constant Heart
“The Shape of Mercy is a truly lovely story, one to savor again and again. In a fantastic blend of old and new, this modern-day novel has the scope and feel of a historical. The characters and their journeys will touch your heart.”
—Mindy Starns Clark, author of Whispers of the Bayou
“A bit of mystery, fascinating history, and the biggest question of all: What would you do for love? I can't stop thinking about The Shape of Mercy.”
–Roxanne Henke, author of After Anne and Learning to Fly
“With a deft hand, Meissner blends an intriguing storyline, artful writing, and memorable characters for a truly delicious read. This one’s a keeper!”
–Denise Hunter, author of The Convenient Groom
Read an Excerpt
I’ve heard the story countless times, how I grasped the delivering doctor’s scrubs as he guided me into the Durough family universe of opportunity and duty. My father likes to say I came out of my mother’s body insistent on being taken seriously, declaring to the doctor who held my slippery limbs that I was no helpless female unable to forge her way through the world of men.
I’ve seen the video. My father had the camcorder rolling when my mother pushed me into waiting hands. Dad’s aim was discreet, thank goodness, because he’ll sometimes show that video when he tells the story. He’s even downloaded it onto his iPod. I’ve seen my open, squalling mouth, heard my mother’s throaty cries and a nearby nurse’s words: “It’s a girl.” My infant body is a glistening, angry shade of pink, and I am indeed grappling for the doctor’s clothes as if prepared to wrestle him to the floor. My father loves that.
Whispered conversations over the years–which I wasn’t meant to hear–have suggested my father enjoys retelling this story because he needs to reassure himself it’s not the end of the world that God didn’t bless him with a son. Neither was I supposed to hear that my clutching at the doctor’s clothes could just as easily have been a cry of, “Help! I’m falling!” rather than, “Stand aside! I’ve arrived!”
I’ve long wondered if the whispering people are right. About both.
Imagine you are six, and you’re hiding under the dining room table, hidden by the damask cloth that covers it, and all you can see are the shiny, pointed toes of women in stilettos, clicking their way from room to room. Their skirts swish. Their porcelain coffee cups make delicate scraping sounds as they lift and lower them onto saucers. They’ve just heard Bryant Durough tell the story of how his daughter, Lauren, was born.
His only daughter. His only child.
Born grappling for power.
One of them titters. “So like a man to see it that way.”
“I heard Bryant and Julia have tried everything to have another child,” another says.
“Oh, that’s so sad. They’re such wonderful parents.”
“In vitro, too?”
“Yes. They tried in vitro three times. Three times it didn’t take.”
“Think they’ll adopt?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“I imagine it’s hard for Bryant to be unable to pass along his side of the Durough name.”
“There have always been sons born to Duroughs. He’s the first not to have one.”
“And to think his brother has four sons. Four!”
“Bryant puts up a good front, but I bet it drives him nuts.”
“Well, at least they have Lauren.”
“Mmm. But you know, for a man like Bryant Durough, it’s not the same.”
You hear this, and you haven’t a clue what in vitro means, and you don’t know who didn’t take what they should have taken and why that is so oh-dear sad.
You do know who Bryant and Julia are.
And you know what the words “have another child” mean.
And the words “at least they have Lauren.”
You crawl away unseen and ponder the idea of another child, another child, another child for hours.
You wonder if having another child means someone wants to buy a new one. You wonder what happens with the old one.
What do they do with the old one?
Throughout the day you consider this, but you don’t say anything. You just let it tumble around in your six-year-old head. You stare at the picture in your bedroom of Jesus watching over a boy and a girl as they walk a dark forest path, and you wonder if the boy and girl are brother and sister and if Jesus loves them both the same.
When your mother tucks you in later that night and she leans down to kiss you and the scent of sweet apples is all around her, you look into her face and see nothing there but loveliness. The worry begins to fall away into the darkness and you reach out your hand to touch her tummy, the place where babies grow. It is flat and smooth. She looks down at your hand and then back up. Her eyes are wide.
You pull your hand away.
She stays a moment longer, caressing you on the forehead where a damp curl rests, and whispers, “Sweet dreams.”
She moves away from the canopied bed with its matching French provincial armoire and dresser. A seashell night-light glows at her ankles as she stands at your half-open door and blows you one last kiss.
It will be another six months before you hear again the story of how you were born.
It will be years before you find out what in vitro means.
And you will never be sure why you grabbed the doctor’s clothes.
When I met Abigail Boyles, the woman who hired me to transcribe the diary of a girl who died too young, she said to me, “You’re an only child, aren’t you?”
I asked her how she knew.
She said, “I’m one too.”
As if that were answer enough.