Celeste Ascending: A Novel - Softcover

Jones, Kaylie

3.61

134 ratings by Goodreads

9780060931346: Celeste Ascending: A Novel

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0060931345 ISBN 13: 9780060931346

Publisher: Harper Perennial, 2001

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In this splendid novel, Celeste finds herself engaged to Alex, a wealthy man whose standards are as exacting as her own -- or so she thought. As she begins to question their relationship and herself, Celeste is haunted by painful memories: of her past in well-heeled, blue-blooded Connecticut; of the friends and family who seem to have disappeared from her life; and of Nathan, for whom Celeste still carries a lingering passion. At last coming to terms with the lies and illusions that have propelled her forward for years, Celeste must take responsibility for the choices she has made. She decides to be true to herself -- and so challenges her fianc�, her family, and the very society in which she's steeped.

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About the Author:

Kaylie Jones is the author of Celeste Ascending, As Soon as It Rains, and A Soldier's Daughter Never Cries, which was made into a film starring Kris Kristofferson and Barbara Hershey.

Chapter One

I had a friend in high school named Sally Newlyn who explained what had gone wrong with God's plan for the world. During one of her schizophrenic episodes, she told me that God had given mankind a finite number of souls. He set them free in the sky where they orbited silently until they were needed for the newly conceived. He intended for the souls to be reincarnated so that humanity would grow more generous and wise with each generation. But God had underestimated man's propensity to go forth and multiply, and so, on our planet today, millions of bodies were roaming the earth searching in vain for a soul.

We were sitting cross-legged in an abandoned shed we'd discovered in the woods, passing back and forth a thermos of rum and Coke. I listened to her with rapt attention, because she often spoke important truths when she stopped taking her medication. Salty's eyes were on fire, and I reached out and felt her pale forehead, but it was cool to the touch.

"That's what's wrong with me, Celeste," she said close to my ear in her small, urgent voice as tears fell from her eyes. I didn't get a soul."

"Oh, Sally," I said, pulling her into my arms and holding her tightly, as if that could keep her demons away.

When I was a sophomore in college, she killed herself.

I learned of Sally's suicide on a December morning when an old friend called me on the hall phone in the dormitory. Afterwards, I sat alone for a long time in the communal kitchen, listening to the midweek silence. I tried to get on with the day but I couldn't move. I remembered what Sally had told me several years before about God's plan, and I could not shake the thought from my mind.

I began to look into people's faces, searching their eyes for a glimmer of their souls. It became a compulsion; I pictured the inside of their heads as a room-something like the set in Beckett's Endgame--with no doors, only two windows looking out onto the world. If I could furnish the room, or at least see the view from the windows, a little corner of their soul was revealed.

I remembered Sally's eyes, and in them I could still see a warm and sunny greenhouse crowded with rare and rich-smelling plants, fragile and in constant need of care. But as she grew ill, the light in her eyes slowly dimmed, and in the greenhouse of my memory the plants shriveled up and died.

I lost my mother when I was ten, and although I remembered her well, I could not recall the event with any certainty. Trying to spare me pain, my father had filled my child's mind with reassuring stories that tenaciously lodged themselves in my imagination, leaving little room for the truth. In my mother's eyes I imagined an exotic French boudoir, with a mauve chaise longue, silk tapestries of naked demoiselles covering the windows, risque lingerie peeking out from a closet, old clothbound books strewn everywhere, and in a corner, a bar for the many guests she might have had in real life, but never did.

At twenty-eight, I found myself in a small, dark apartment in New York City, quite alone. Having lost almost every person who had ever meant anything to me, I confronted my own soul-room for the first time. In mirrors, my blank eyes stared back at me. The walls and floor were bare. The windows looked out onto a dirty airshaft, a brick wall.

And then I met Alex, at a Fourth of July party on a chartered yacht, the way people meet in movies.

During the past six months, I had managed to get to my teaching job at Columbia University; to the public school in Harlem where I taught creative writing to eighth graders; and to the Korean deli: familiar places and preplanned destinations.

When summer finally came and I was relieved of my teaching obligations, I locked myself in my apartment, and began putting together my first collection of short stories.

Sometimes, in the evening, I went down the hall to visit my neighbor Lucia. She was in the throes of a love affair with a rock and roll roadie called Soarin' Sammy. Lucia had met him on the set of one of her music videos.

They had never been outside of her apartment together. It had been going on--off and on, but mostly on--for over three years. I always knew when he was visiting because she would stop answering her phone, and the music would start pounding so that her door would hum with the vibration.

For long stretches there would be no mention of him, then she would begin to expect him again. "Soarin' Sammy should be coming by," she'd say in her heavy voice.

That summer we holed up, waiting for a storm to pass, like two commuters who'd forgotten their umbrellas. We watched old movies on her VCR and drank wine or brandy into the late hours. Around the corner there was a bar I liked, a small, dark place. Sitting in there one night, after we'd both had a number of cognacs, she made me promise I'd accompany her to this upcoming Fourth of July party. The Slimbrand company had rented a private yacht that sailed around lower Manhattan. Lucia who had produced several commercials for them, had received a gilded invitation in the mail. It was a black tie affair. Last year, she told me, there had been music and film stars, a Top Forty band, and rivers of champagne.

I promised, and forgot about it. But on July...

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