“Is this Callie Randall?” a woman asks.
“It is.”
“My name is Liberty—” She hesitates as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to tell me her last name. “A bookseller from Boise called and said that you found some sort of list in one of my parents’ books.”
My heart pumps harder as the chatter and laughter around me seem to dull. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My mom and dad have both been gone for several years, but my brother and I have had a hard time parting with their things.”
“I understand.” Not because of my own parents, but one day Charlotte will be gone and I can’t imagine selling anything of hers to strangers.
“We don’t have enough room between us to keep everything, but still it’s tough....”
“Did your parents collect a lot of books?” I ask, hoping Annika was her mother.
“My father was the collector, though most of his books were scientific in nature.”
“Was he a doctor?”
“A veterinarian,” she says. “He was much more fond of animals than people.”
“What were your parents’ names?” Perhaps the question is too personal, especially since she still hasn’t told me her last name, but I can’t think of a more tactful way to ask about Annika.
“Why don’t you tell me first what you found in his book?” She sounds nice enough, just suspicious.
I tell her about the list embedded in the pages. “The name Annika Knopf was inside the cover along withSchloss Schwanseeand a photograph of a young man.”
She doesn’t respond, so I ask, “Have you heard of Annika?”
“My father talked often about the castle, but not about the people.”
My heart begins to speed up again. “What did he tell you?”
“My father—” She stops. “I need to speak to my brother before I say anything else.”
“Of course.”
I give her my cell phone number so she can contact me after she talks to him. If she’d known what was in this book, perhaps she wouldn’t have let it go. These special books, I think, should be cherished like the treasures they are.
Then again, what if I was opening something that her parents deliberately closed? It could be that Annika didn’t want her children to know about her past. Who was I to step into their family and rearrange their secrets—if her parents were trying to keep secrets?
Someone tugs on my shirt, and I look down to see Ella. She doesn’t say anything, simply nods toward a small group of children who have assembled in the back corner.
“Pick out a book for us to read,” I say.
Ella scans the shelf and pulls out a book as I take my place in front of the audience.
Where the Wild Things Are. Another old story about a naughty child on an adventure, a book that a lot of parents didn’t want their children to read when it was published. Perhaps some parents stilldon’t want their children to travel where the wild things reside, though I like the journey of this boy named Max, who realizes that home is an awfully good place to be.
I glance over at Peter and Lottie, but they don’t seem the least bit concerned about the selection. So I begin to read about Max meeting all sorts of fierce creatures along the way.
Several years ago, I researched the author, Maurice Sendak, for a blog post. Sendak based the wild things in his book on childhood memories of his relatives—the ultimate writer payback, Isuppose. Max is grounded in the memories and imagination of Sendak’s childhood, and the kids in front of me seem as mesmerized by Max’s rumpus as generations before them, trailing this boy through an adventure of epic proportions.
I continue reading about his voyage, how he confronts his fears and, in a sense, tames the monsters who wanted to eat him. They play for a season until he’s ready to go home. “‘And Max—’” Ilower my voice so the children lean in—“‘the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.’”
When I glance up, Ella is grinning at me. Who in the room, young or old, doesn’t want to be with someone who loves them? Nothing wipes away loneliness like genuine love, the promise of it overcoming the thrill of the greatest adventure. Making an adventure a joy, not an escape.
As our hero begins his voyage home, my mind wanders to the adventure of little Fritz in the magic balloon book, another boy who travels around the world until he ultimately reunites with his parents. Perhaps one of the best parts of a grand journey is knowing you have someone to come home to when you’re done.
