For fifteen years, Nobie has eaten her kibble on top of the dining room sideboard, cocking her head to one side as she chews as if listening for the food to speak. But today, Nobie only paws at her food.

Odd, Peter thinks. Why doesn’t Nobie eat? Why doesn’t she drink?

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You shouldn't lie about eagles, Agnes thinks. "So admit it was the hawk," she says. "The red-tailed hawk high in the crook of the dead oak tree. Come on, now. Isn't that what you saw?" Agnes leans forward in her chair, speaking toward her son's ear as if she were pouring a thin stream of water between him and her. Just say it was the hawk, and you'll be free, she wishes.

The emptiness of the stage surprises Sheila. One small bed in the center. One small mullioned window (no curtains) on the far left wall. One wooden door on the right. Other than that, nothing. No broad-shaded lamp to cast warm light over puffed-up pillows. No stuffed chair to cozy into. No carpet. No hearth for a fire. Just the wooden post bed, a small braided throw rug on the pine floor, and Sheila notices only now—a man kneeling utterly still, his head bowed over a girl lying comatose on the bed.

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First he gave her a T-shirt. Red with bucking broncos and a large gold horseshoe tilted up. "For good luck," he said. Then a bottle of scotch. Glenlivet. Her favorite. "It's not a matter of finding someone who's available," he said, slinging his heavy arm over her shoulders. "It's a matter of becoming available."

From the moment Peggy tries it on, she loves the T-shirt. The three gray dancers, stick-figures, leaping across the white front. The high cut sleeves accentuating her muscular arms. The swooped neck curving right under the ridge of her collarbone. She can’t help but admire herself as she strands in front of her bedroom mirror. “I’ll take it,” she says as if someone were watching her try on clothes from the pile her teen daughters don’t want anymore. Hand-me-ups, she calls them.

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An hour before the hurricane hits, Dad calls me on the phone. “Tape the windows,” he says almost before he says hello. “Make a big X. With masking tape. Don’t use duct tape. Whatever you do, don’t use duct tape.”

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The first time I see Annabel jump from Simmons Bridge, she looks like a sliver in the air, a splinter of falling light. It isn't just her long legs outstretched, locked at the ankles, toes pointed toward the water that make her look sharp and invincible, or the evening sun that lights up the whole side of her body, but her bony arms pressed skyward as if in prayer. Not that she wants us to think she's asking for something. Not Annabel. Never ask. Merely proceed.

When I walk under Darrell and Tabby’s wooden archway leading into their flower garden and koi pond, I hope I’m not intruding. From the rural road we all live on, I waved hello and Darrell waved back. Not exactly an invitation, but the same happened a week ago, and they seemed happy to see me. Not that I came in that first day as far as their archway.

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It all seemed so simple. An ad in the paper. Someone to take him away.

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The first thing Sheila did when she arrived at the island house was unscrew the dining room table legs and put them in the fireplace. Then she carried the table top sections down to the beach and threw them in the water. "Why isn't the kitchen table adequate?" she would say to Matthew when he came out on the noon boat. "Why so much stuff?"

Jody Lisberger's provocatively titled story collection will make readers wonder just how and when they should 'remember love.' As trauma, as what persists, as what confines, as what liberates, as what disappoints, as what we live for? And what shapes do our loves assume in all their infinite variety? Not only the human content but the aesthetic of these accomplished stories makes them worthy of profound attention. --Sena Jeter Naslund, Editor Fleur-de-Lis Press

In this wonderful collection, Jody Lisberger gives us love stories for grown-ups—sharply written tales that reveal the emotional trapdoors, unexpected complexities, humor, cruelty, and resiliency of mature love. Nothing is simple in this fictional universe. In one story, a husband and wife, on the crucible of divorce, watch their daughter act in a play that depicts the themes of transgression and forgiveness in their own marriage. In another, parents interrogate their son about his mysterious participation in what may or may not be a criminal act. “It isn’t each other they want,” a character in another story painfully realizes, “but want itself.” And, in the brilliant title story, Lisberger hauntingly resolves, with a penitent touch, a plot that combines middle-aged romance, a magician’s tricks, the threat of Alzheimer’s, and a treacherous winter mountain climb.  Remember Love is an artful, uncompromising, and moving exploration of human desire. 

                            Kenny. L. Cook, author of The Girl from Charnelle and Last Call

Like the best of Anne Tyler, Jody Lisberger’s stories mine the complicated private truths of seemingly comfortable American families with compassion, insight and, above all, fearless honesty. Husbands and wives, parents and children, friends and lovers: they are all here in these pages, rendered with precision and loving care. Graceful and seductive, spare in their telling yet unstintingly powerful in their impact, these stories will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page.

Joan Leegant, author of An Hour in Paradise and winner of the 2004 Winship/PEN New England Book Award

These stories get a grip on you and don’t let go. You may be bruised, but you’ll want to read more.  Lisberger’s imagination is dark and penetrating, fiercely balanced. Her characters often have been beaten down but refuse to give up the things that make them, finally, who they really are:  They will not let the bastards grind them down, to paraphrase one of these stories. But these people are not merely survivors. Their quiet, grim, and private triumphs are what Lisberger understands, and celebrates.

Brad Watson, author of The Heaven of Mercury and Last Days of the Dog-Men

The day I caught my twin sister Eliza kissing Danny Quinn, I never stopped to think they had a secret. Is that how the kiss felt to her? Like she already knew they were both gay?

On that warm afternoon near the end of third grade, as the three of us kicked stones from the school bus stop to Danny’s house, I wasn’t thinking about whether Eliza and I would lose something I’d never get back. As I kicked my stone and tried not to stare at the scratches running down Danny’s face, I was thinking only about my own secret.

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Alone in the parking lot, the cold clogging my nose and scraping against my newly shaved face, I listen to the cars speeding by, their snow tires slapping heavy and useless against the pavement. The low December sun glares from behind the clouds, casting an icy sheen over the tree tops and deserted Detroit factories. At my feet, dried leaves skitter across the lot until they buck up against the back fence of the yellow cinderblock 7-Eleven. “Roast Beef, $3.29/lb. Get it here—QUICK!” the sign says. “You need it—we got it.”

I finger the envelope in my pocket. Check the number on the door. This is the place.

Could have fooled me.

I watch another car turn into the lot. A ’71 red Buick Skylark. Prize of a car. Lady with her hair done up in a twist is driving. My breath catches in my chest. No. Not Cora, though it could be one of her customers. One last time, I take out the invitation. My hands tremble. The letters shine like tar.

https://mrbullbull.com/newbull/fiction/so-much-for-love/