Waking from a coma, once cynical Eden sees the world in a new light and opens her heart to unfamiliar firsts, including love with Joe, a boy searching for answers to life’s big questions. But Then I Came Back is a must-read for fans of David Arnold (Mosquitoland), Gayle Forman (If I Stay), E. Lockhart (We Were Liars), and Nicola Yoon (Everything, Everything).
Gayle Forman meets Francesca Lia Block in this dazzling story about two coma girls and the boy who connects their lives. From the author of This Raging Light, a debut that New York Times bestselling author Morgan Matson calls “remarkable.”
“Something does exist. I saw. It’s a place. Like this but different.”
“Okay, so let’s say we do reach her, that something like that is even possible. Then what?”
“Then we ask her to come back.”
Eden: As far as coma patients go, Eden’s lucky. She woke up. But still, she can’t shake the feeling that she might have dragged something back from the near-afterlife.
Joe: Joe visits the hospital every day, hoping that Jaz, his lifelong friend, will wake up. More than anything, he wants to hear her voice again. But he’s not sure anyone can reach her.
Eden & Joe: Even though she knows it sounds crazy, Eden tells Joe that they might be able to talk to Jaz. Opening themselves up to the great unknown—and each other—Eden and Joe experience life: mysterious and scary, beautiful and bright.
YOU BLAME THE INTERNET FOR THE WHOLE THING.
Your mom made tequila-lime pie for dessert. You didn’t have any because dessert always tastes like too much, but you did pilfer the bottle of Patrón Silver she used and sneak it to the river. You needed it because you had to walk down the hill in the middle of the night and your leather jacket wasn’t warm enough for early November, but you were stubborn and stupid and wouldn’t wear a puffer coat because gross. You didn’t wear snow gear, either. Not even your combat boots, idiot. You wore flats. Flats in this weather, Eden. But you also took the tequila because, aside from an awkward exchange at Fred’s Restaurant where Lucille works, you hadn’t talked to her in six weeks and you figured, why not bring a little help for the both of you? Still, you don’t blame the tequila for what’s happening now.
You blame the Internet. It informed you, on a site it tricked you into, that there was going to be an epic once-in-five-years supermoon and that the universe was demanding you change your ways.
Move or be moved, it said. It was like a storm watch for the soul. You could practically hear the voice, see the guy standing in front of the monitor in some bad suit, waving his arms about in warning.
Fatepocalypse is coming in from the southwesterly direction at roughly eighty miles per hour, you imagine him saying in his uptight voice. Citizens should be on the lookout. It’s headed straight for all of us, but I’m especially talking to Eden Jones. Oh boy, oh buddy, this one is coming for you, girl. Safety Department recommends you cease carrying on like a human and stay indoors. Preferably forever.
If you were naive enough to believe in a universe that communicates with humans (which you are not), one that you might, in fact, be able to have a conversation with (which you cannot), you would demand to know why it speaks in staticky gibberish made up of planets and symbols and expects people to understand it.
At first you blew off the Internet’s warning because astrology is ridiculous nonsense, but then the whole week was such a suckfest, you began to wonder. It was so bad that you got paranoid about that moon, and ever more pissed off at the Internet, because brains are so powerful, just the fact that you read the warning could have made it true. But when Lucille texted you telling you she needed you, you thought maybe if you went, things would go back to their regularly scheduled pleasant level of suck instead of this extreme. Secretly, even secretly from yourself, you thought you might appease the nonexistent, confusing entity that was having its fun toying with you, by showing up for Lucille after, admittedly, being kind of a bitch to her when she needed you most.
You never meant to be horrible to her. You have long claimed that the only thing you really hate is mean girls, and you wouldn’t be one on purpose. But ever since Lucille decided your newly philandering, almost engaged twin brother is her soul mate, being around her has gotten really hard to do without violent impulses. Every time Digby moped all over you about her and loving her and Elaine, and his deep, angsty struggles between right and wrong, and what should he do, you wanted to shake Lucille by the shoulder until her head jiggled free of her neck socket.
Because first of all, if a girl has any ambition, she shouldn’t be a pawn in someone else’s drama, much less be the cause of it. Second, cheating is sordid and cheap. And third, it is a conflict of interest that isn’t actually all that interesting but is all anybody can talk about. At first the entire seamy debacle (because it is a debacle) was something to watch, but after a while, it seemed to you that it was nothing but pathetic.
So the bad moon rising is how you found yourself on your rock tonight, the flat one at the river’s edge that you used to pretend into a throne when you were little. You still do, because you fancy yourself a queen and the river your queendom. This bend of the river, flanked by rocks and ancient trees and an old train car, is your private place. The willows are all stripped down this time of year, except for the sheen of icicle glass. You like willows best of all the trees, because they know how to bow to a lady, but also because if you cut them deep, they cry.
Lucille was crying, sitting under them looking like a giant snowball in her winter jacket and hat, and the ice in you was melting as she shifted around, chewing on her lip, her nails, her nail beds, crossing her legs then uncrossing them, moving, always moving, apologizing for her flaws with every twitch.
You were glad to have come so you could remind yourself all about your mad, passionate love for her, which had hurt so much to try to forget, but you were distracted, too. Your whirlpool mind wouldn’t stop circling the drain, whirring on and on about your stupid, average, small-town New Jersey mediocrity, that your future was now nothing but an endless, murky path. Your third cigarette in a row wasn’t doing any good either. It spilled through your lungs. They ached, and your head, your stomach too, and you knew you should—?but you couldn’t—?stop chain smoking.
“I’m really sorry about the ballet thing.” Lucille’s voice glued you to the rock just as you were about to stand, to tell her you were going home. “You should keep on,” she said.
“I will.” You tried not to think about the lady in New York with the deer bones bending toward you, whispering nightmares about your future low into your ear. “Just now I know it’s not going to do me any good. Denial is for losers.” You said this out loud, because Lucille needed to hear it as much as you did. “Face your crap and move on. Otherwise you’ll get old and depressed and turn into a scary pod person whose most pressing issue in life is when they get to trade in the can of Dr Pepper for the can of Bud. It’s true.” You took one last drag of your smoke. “Look around.”
Lucille tittered, but that easy-chair reality wasn’t funny. It was entirely possible. Probable, even. People settle down in front of the idiot box and never get up again because it requires too much effort. Sometimes, though you would never speak it, you think it would be a hell of a lot easier to want a simple life. You long for a recliner, and for a dull, compliant mind, instead of the one you got, which is a lot more flailing octopus than floating manatee.
You crushed your smoke and stood high on your toes. You stretched, reached your arms toward the sky, and asked the moon if it was satisfied now, if you had done enough to turn things around and avoid the storm by being here, by paying respects, by cleaning up your friendship with Lucille.
That was it . . . the moment it happened.
Your feet lost their grip like an answer.
You teetered on ice, tried to steady yourself. It was too fast.
You wanted to call out to ...
* "Rendered with insight and compassion, Eden's struggles to make peace with the human condition add up to a riveting coming-of-age story."
—Kirkus, starred review
"Laure creates an intriguing blend of realism and the unknowable in her sophomore novel. . . . Eden is simultaneously tough and fragile, and her struggle to figure out what her life should look like is compelling."
"The romantic and thoughtful story of Eden Jones, a 17-year-old dancer. . . . the appeal lies in Eden’s original, creative, and thought-provoking first-person (mostly) narrative. Fans of the first title will be happy to see Lucille through Eden’s eyes, but this companion novel stands solidly alone." —Booklist
"Hand this to readers who like angst, romance, and a touch of otherworldliness..." —VOYA
“But Then I Came Back is a hauntingly beautiful dreamscape of sense, memory, fate, magic, and love. If you love mystical stories with sumptuously lyrical writing and characters who take up residence in your heart, this book is for you. In prose that shimmers like sunlight on water and sings like a ballad, Estelle Laure weaves a devastatingly beautiful tale of memory, fate, friendship, and love. Fans of Jandy Nelson and A.S. King take note.”
—Jeff Zentner, author of The Serpent King
“But Then I Came Back is magical and illuminating, lovely and lyrical. Laure's examination of loss and longing, of saying goodbye to the past so you can say hello to the future, is a story you don't want to miss.”
—Kathleen Glasgow, New York Times bestselling author of Girl in Pieces
“Much like Laure’s writing, Eden’s story is haunting and raw. You will root for her as she struggles through her new reality and fall with her as she finds love.”
—Goldy Moldavsky, author of Kill the Boy Band
Praise for This Raging Light:
Winter 2015-2016 Kids’ Indie Next Pick!
“Her first-person narration is lyrical, akin to that of a Francesca Lia Block character, but there's an undercurrent of roughness in her voice… heartbreakingly hopeful, lyrically told..." —Kirkus
"Estelle Laure’s prose is utterly gorgeous, even as it lays out the story of a girl dealing with the failings of her parents, death, and her own insecurities." —BookRiot
“Estelle Laure’s This Raging Light might be YA, but it’s got plenty of grown-up appeal.” —entertainmentweekly.com
"Laure’s debut stands out for her keen understanding of the spectrum of human emotions, and her ability to put tough feelings into beautiful prose."
“In an assured debut, Laure gives Lucille a fierce stubbornness that keeps her going. . . The characters are well drawn, and Laure effectively depicts the adrenaline rush of love.” —Publishers Weekly
“This Raging Light is a funny, heartwrenching, and soulful read as Lucille develops her own personal family, bloodline or not. It's not one you'll soon forget.” —Bustle
“Lucille's fresh, first-person voice spills over with metaphor, poetically capturing her emotional landscape with force and fury, frantic love and absolute exhaustion.” —Shelf Awareness
“Laure’s debut is brilliant and not to be missed.” —RT Book Reviews
“Lucille may not take down a beast or assassinate any super bads, but she’s what heroines look like and love like in real life.” —Justine magazine
“[a] poetic, heartbreaking read that will resonate with teens.” —BookPage online
“The narrative rings authentic, especially as Lucille wrestles with romantic pangs. Thankfully, there’s enough wry humor to balance the worry and poignancy. Above all, you’ll love steadfast Lucille and keep caring about what comes next.” —Atlanta Journal Constitution
“Lucille is a steel-strong, deeply human heroine fighting against impossible odds.” —BNTEENblog
“Readers will be seduced by the love affair budding between Digby and Lucille as much as she is. The characters are believably flawed, but eminently likeable, leaving the reader with hope for humanity.” —Montana Public Radio
"Laure’s debut stands out for her keen understanding of the spectrum of human emotions, and her ability to put tough feelings into beautiful prose." —Horn Book
"Bursting with feeling, like a seventies pop song, Estelle Laure’s This Raging Light should be read at a feverish clip and then passed on to your favorite friend." —Campus Circle
“I loved this book. I was torn between wanting to devour it in one breathless read and needing to stop and savor each gorgeous turn of phrase. This is a remarkable debut." —Morgan Matson, author of Amy & Roger’s Epic Detour and Since You’ve Been Gone
"This Raging Light is a funny, poetic, big-hearted reminder that life can—and will—take us all by surprise sometimes." —Jennifer E. Smith, author of The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight and The Geography of You and Me
“Estelle Laure writes with power and lyricism—but more than that, she writes honestly from the heart. Definitely a writer to watch!” —A.M. Jenkins, Printz Honor winning author of Repossessed
"With This Raging Light, Estelle Laure establishes herself as a literary heavyweight. Laure’s characters mimic her writing, at once visceral and brave, unafraid to confront love in its every facet—surprising, surpassing, flawed. This book is a thick quilt in a cold room, and I want to wrap myself in it." —David Arnold, author of Mosquitoland
“[Laure] has a raw, authentic voice and a passion for storytelling.” —Matt de la Peña, Pura Belprée honoree and award-winning YA novelist of The Living and Mexican WhiteBoy
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