I call in the evening after thinking about her all day. She picks up, but her voice is quiet. Tired.
“Hey,” I say, “I thought I’d read a tricky paragraph to you. See if I’m understanding it correctly.”
There’s a pause, soft as breath. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s hear it.”
I laugh. “Actually, the book hasn’t arrived yet. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just sort of fried,” she admits. “Esme didn’t sleep well last night, which means I didn’t sleep well. And to top it off, today, a fire sprinkler went off for some unknown reason at the library. We lost hundreds of books to water damage.”
“That’s a total bummer.” I say, immediately going into problem-solving mode.
“It’s a silly thing, I guess,” she says, “but letting go of books is truly painful for me.”
Thinking I can make this right, I offer to fund the replacements, maybe even a more robust collection than what was lost.
“That’s not it,” she says with an edge in her voice..
“Insurance will cover it—but that’s not the point. It’s not about the cost,” she explains. “It’s just that... I think of books as... living things.”
I regret rushing in with the checkbook like a magic wand. “I’m sorry.” I say sincerely. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
And then, I tell her a story, hoping to lighten the mood.
“So, today I heard from this old baker—Henri—in the village near the rehab center I stayed at. Gruff as hell. The first time we met, he told me Americans have no soul because we microwave everything and live in front of the television.”
She offers a forced laugh.
“But after he realized I was a reader and a terrible cyclist, he started saving my favorite croissant in the corner of the case each day, so it would still be there when I returned from rehab.”
I wish I’d not started this story.
“We talked about politics and Hemingway and the meaning of life. Anyway, the point is, he’s learned he’s ill and is retiring. Said they’re throwing him a little fête in the square and asked if I’d come. I can’t. But it meant something, you know? That he remembered.”
“You made an impression on him,” she says. But her voice sounds far away. Fading into something wistful.
“You’ll get there one day,” I tell her. “When the stars align.”
“I guess so. First, my mom. Then, Esme. Good reasons to stay. Good reasons for a change in plans, but still… when I hear you talk about it…”
A pause. More silence.
“Maybe someday those stars will align.”
And the way she saysmaybe,makes me want to rearrange the entire universe.
DAY6
I send a pale gray cashmere wrap. It’s not extravagant, but it’s elegant. It’s something that says:You deserve softness. You deserve warmth.
I send a handwritten note:
Thought you could use a hug.
DAY8
I send croissants to the library. Dozens.
