I throw open the bathroom door to find a stream pouring from the cabinet beneath the sink, pooling on the floor and running into the hallway. With a slew of incoherent curses, I set my mug roughly on the counter and run outside to shut off the water to the house. On the way back in, I grab an armful of towels from the dryer, tossing them over the puddle in the hallway as I make my way to the bathroom.
“Dammit. Really?” I groan when I find Knocks ears-deep in my abandoned mug.
He prances away, tail whipping sassily as I yank off my wet socks, almost falling on my ass in the process. Thankfully, the water has stopped flowing, so I spread the rest of the towels across the bathroom floor, then lean against the door to catch my breath. I’m staring at the damp towels in the hallway when I suddenly realize the water is reaching all the way under the spare bedroom door.
My knees go weak. With a soft cry, I open the door and cross the threshold into the room. The entire space is flooded with about half an inch of water, but as I maneuver around Gramps’s boxes, it gets even deeper. The house must be more unlevel than I thought, because it’s already seeping into the drywall in the back corner of the room.
Pulse skyrocketing, I turn to the left and scan the nearby boxes. BOOKS is written across each one, in Millie’s handwriting. There are five stacks, three or four boxes high, and every bottom one is soaked on the edges, cardboard swollen with water.
Panic races through me.Not the books. Anything but the books.
“Please, no,” I cry out, reaching for a box at the top of the nearest stack. My throat tightens as I traipse through the water to take it to the dry living room, my tailbone aching the whole way.
The towels in the hallway are soaked, so I hurry upstairs (carefully avoiding the broken steps) and grab everything I can find in the upstairs bathroom. It’s still not nearly enough, but hopefully it’ll make the path safer while I move boxes.
One at a time, I heave them into the living room, lining the wall. I’ll never judge Gramps for his love of books. He gave me the same obsession—right down to my name, which he recommended to my parents. Iwas fated from birth to love stories. But as my arms start to feel wobbly from exertion, I at least wish I had an assistant. Knocks sure isn’t helping as he leaps from box to box like I’m building him a playground.
Every time I reach a bottom box, I lift it onto Gramps’s table in the spare room and move to the next stack, until I have all five damp boxes safe from the water. With a steak knife from the kitchen, I cut the tape on the first one and open it.
Armful by armful, I pull out the dry books and carry them to the living room. The first box has swollen woodworking magazines at the bottom, which in the grand scheme of things, is all right. My attachment to them is pretty small.
But when I find his favorite sci-fi trilogy at the bottom of the next box, with water damage on all the corners, my throat tightens with sadness. “I’m sorry, Gramps,” I whisper, setting them aside.
In the next box, I find history books that I never actually saw him read, and in the fourth box I discover a latched blue metal tin that appears to be fine. But time slows when I see what’s at the bottom of the final box—his collector’s editions ofJurassic Park,The Count of Monte Cristo, andThe Hobbit.
“Oh no,” I gasp, pulling them out.
Stepping over sopping towels, I carry the waterlogged books to the living room and lay them out on the couch, kneeling to examine them. My vision blurs. The corners are soft, the pages swollen and stuck together.
Six of his favorites, damaged because of my screwup.
He loved all of them, but it’s the sight ofThe Hobbitthat makes tears finally fall past my lashes. This is the book—the one that started my love of reading. This exact copy, which he would read aloud to me, with characters’ voices and sound effects. I’d been struggling to read for years, always feeling like my eyes were bouncing three words ahead.
“Let’s fall in love withstoriesfirst,” he’d said, opening to the first page. He always had something for me to do—a puzzle, colored pencils and a notebook, small wooden animals he’d whittled—anything to keep my hands busy while his calming voice transported me to faraway places.
PullingThe Hobbitinto my lap, I lean back against the couch. Carefully, I peel the pages apart to the middle of the book. The printed words look okay, but Gramps’s handwritten notes are blurring on the edges. He loved to keep commentary as he read, sometimes on pieces of paper, and sometimes right in the margins. He’d mark spots where we laughed or scenes that were so enthralling that I wouldn’t let him stop reading.
I quickly swipe away a tear with the back of my hand. It’s been a long time since I read a paperback—two years, to be exact.I shoved all of mine into boxes after Gramps died. Everything from the feel of the paper under my fingertips to the weight in my hands to the nostalgic smell of the pages... it’s all so full of Gramps’s memory that I can’t touch them. Now, all my books are sitting alone in Mom and Dad’s attic, waiting.
Something feels like it’s fracturing in my chest as I stare at the wet pages, and I don’t know how to prevent it. Ilift my watery gaze to the room around me. This place is falling apart—the pipes, steps, railing, even the siding is peeling, and I feel helpless to stop it. If I could keep this place going, keep this cabin alive, keep his books safe... then the memory of him would be safe too.
But everything I touch ends up in failure.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. Knocks curls himself up at my ankles, apparently willing to take a break from mischief to comfort me. After a momentary pause, the vibrating starts again.
I let out a sharp breath and wipe my tears away before pulling out the phone. Millie’s name illuminates the screen, and my shoulders loosen. If it was our oldest sister, Tessa, I’d probably let it go to voicemail, because she’ll sniff out any difference in my voice and start questioning me. But Millie is more likely to let me take my time with telling her things, and as I sit here, surrounded by sadness, I think borrowing a little of her warmth—even through the phone—might be nice. Might help me feel less alone in this heartache.
“Hey, Mills.” I try to keep my tone steady.
“I knew it,” Tessa squeals. Ipull the phone away to check the name, but it still says Millie. “You ignore my calls, but answer Millie’s? What the hell?”
“She was probably busy,” Millie replies, a smile in her voice.
Great.Both of them on the line. Idon’t stand a chance.
“Five seconds beforeyoucalled?” Tessa grumbles. “I’m not buying it.”
“Aaaanyway,” Millie says. “Hi, Fabes. Mom said your phone was dead yesterday—”
