The Library of Lost Things

by Laura Taylor Namey

  No. I wanted to sweep my tenth birthday away like Yellow Feather dust. Bury the dead parts in books and say I had to organize them or catalog them or sell them. Anything but feel them again.

  “Go on,” she encouraged. “Our story has a happy ending.”

  “True,” I conceded. One breath. Another. “Marisol and I were in the fourth grade together. Mrs. Wood’s class. We’d played outside a few times, worked on group projects, but nothing more.” I sipped some coffee and turned to Asher. “Did your mom ever bring treats to school on your birthday?”

  He smiled, a hint of longing in his eyes. “She always brought killer fudge brownies.”

  Brownies he couldn’t even eat anymore, thanks to the accident. “You know how big of a deal it is, then,” I said. “Well, my birthday was on a Thursday, and my mom promised to drop off cupcakes for the class. I was so excited and told everyone. The weekend before, we picked out sprinkles and, well, she’s not much of a cook, so she was going to use a boxed mix and store-bought frosting. But I didn’t care.”

  Marisol’s eyes held a watery glaze, cheeks flushed from everything but makeup. She nodded once at me. Keep going.

  “On my birthday, morning recess came. Then lunch. Then afternoon recess. But no cupcakes. No mother.” I clenched my hands, biting off the next words from a storm cloud. “She forgot.”

  Asher’s face dropped. “Wow. Intense.”

  “You remember being ten? Trying to fit in?” He nodded. “I wanted to hide under my desk, and all the kids were asking where the cupcakes were. Our teacher always called birthday kids up front for the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, and she made construction paper crowns with stickers. My crown sat on her desk all day. I knew Mrs. Wood felt bad, trying to wait until the last possible moment.”

  “The moment never came, huh?” he asked softly.

  I shook my head. “But Marisol came through.” I laughed. “Ten minutes before the final bell, my girl here stands up. She announces that we were doing something big that year, because we were both turning ten. Like a surprise. And since her birthday was the next day, her mom was going to bring stuff for both of us. I remember her looking at me, and me looking back right into her eyes, finally smiling.”

  “I couldn’t leave her hanging,” Marisol said.

  “After lunch the next day, Marisol’s mom brought an entire party. Bigger than anything anyone else’s parents did all year.” I smiled at her. “Remember?”

  “Of course! Mama came with balloons and cute plates and juice boxes and popcorn in little striped boxes. And...” Marisol gestured my way.

  I nudged my friend’s shoulder. “She brought the most beautiful cupcakes I’d ever seen. Huge bakery cupcakes with mounds of swirled frosting and confetti sprinkles. And the best part—two of the cupcakes had plastic picks stuck on top. One had a pink heart, the other had a yellow star. Just for the birthday girls.”

  A flash across my mind. The mosaic table. Marisol’s little black Sharpie heart. My tiny star.

  “I still have my plastic heart,” Marisol mused.

  “I kept my pick, too. After school, I thanked her, but we never really talked about it. Never said, ‘Hey, you’re my best friend now.’ From that moment, the two of us just were.”

  “And still are,” Asher noted.

  With the tale done and told, the shop fell silent. I lost the hum of traffic along University, couldn’t detect a strain of Sinatra or muffled jazz horns. Until my friend let out a big, sweeping breath and broke the hush. She glanced at her watch. “Almost time for the twins’ gym class, but first we need a Word of the Day because, well, we just do.” She explained the game to Asher.

  “I’m better with a drill than a dictionary, but I’ll give it a go,” he said.

  I finished the rest of my coffee, thinking. “Okay, I’ve got one. Today’s word is funambulist.”

  “A funambulist is a rare books collector,” Asher said.

  Marisol wrinkled her nose. “Asher, you have no idea what that word means, huh?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Thought so. Neither do I. So, when you don’t know, you’re supposed to make up the most absurd definition you can think of, which always makes Darcy laugh. That’s the whole point.”

  Asher eyed me carefully, his gaze perching on the edge of my face before finally sinking deep. As my stomach jolted, his smile bent, revealing just a hint of teeth. “All right. I can do that.”

  “’Kay,” I thought I said. I was still pinned under his stare, and that alone made me not want to laugh. It made me want to duck behind my cashier counter and read.

  “Watch and learn, Ash.” Marisol held up a finger. “Funambulist. Someone who writes entirely in bulleted lists. Their lives are documented in fragments after little black dots.”

  Asher’s chin trembled before he broke into a reluctant laugh. I had to follow. This time, we shared an easy look topped with headshakes and eye rolls.

  “Okay, Asher, you’re up,” I said.

  He crossed his arms. “Funambulists are obsessed with rescue vehicles. They can’t get anything done because they follow them around town, taking pictures of them. Selfies with paramedics are the gold standard. And they make siren noises all day for fun.”

  “That is just wrong,” Marisol told the ceiling.

  Asher shrugged. “But you’re laughing, right?”

  She was. We all were. It felt good and true, and for a few seconds, even better than reading.

  “Worthy and creative efforts,” I said. “But a funambulist is a tightrope walker.”

  * * *

  As twilight fell, friends and others who still didn’t fit into any definable who I am to Darcy category had long gone. Customers spent enough money to make Mr. Winston not grumpy. My boss flipped the lights off and locked the door to Yellow Feather, sending me down University Avenue. That was when I saw her and the silver Mercedes parked behind my Honda.

  Grandma Wells straightened the lapels of her black blazer. “Hello, dear. I thought about meeting you at the bookstore, but traffic was awful, and I pulled up right at closing.”

  The words what on earth are you doing here sounded too rude in my head, so I kept them there. “This is a surprise.” I shifted my school bag to my other shoulder.

  “I have important news.” She looked at her gray ballet flats for a beat. “I felt you might not be ready to come for dinner again after our last conversation. Actually, about that...” She shook her head. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Is there a café nearby? You must have homework, but—”

  “Finished it at work.” I shrugged. “Starbucks is down the block.”

  “I suppose that will do. Although I’ve never understood the appeal of all those fancy, sugary drinks.”

  “They do have regular coffee, Grandma.”

  A short walk later, we entered the half-empty coffee shop. Grandma Wells ordered her simple decaf while I stared blankly at the menu board. Since Marisol had already brought me the iced latte, I was happily full of both sugar and caffeine.

  The barista leaned in. “And for you?”

  “Just a large chamomile tea,” slipped out before I could catch up to it.

  Grandma Wells sat across from me at the nearest two-top. “How long have you been a chamomile drinker? Your mother could never stand the stuff.”

  “Not long, Grandma.”

  She plucked a blue envelope from her purse, pinching it with tense fingers. “I won’t patronize you with small talk.” She exhaled roughly. “I received this in the mail a few days ago.” She spied our drinks on the bar and went to fetch them, while I stared at the mysterious rectangle. The contents had been enough to drag my grandma out of La Jolla during rush hour traffic.

  I accepted the chamomile tea from her, shaping my hands around the cup the way I usually did with novels. The little paper tag hung like a charm.

  “Darcy, the letter is from Thailand. From your father.”

  Thirteen

  Paper Dad

  “‘I
t is only make-believe, isn’t it, that I am their her father.’”

  —J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, and Darcy Jane Wells

  The weird part was, I didn’t—couldn’t—even cry. Not back at Starbucks, when Grandma Wells had unfolded the pale blue stationery paper. Not now, while I reread the same letter, over and over, on my living room couch. My mother was working, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to hide in the clean comfort of my room with my favorite books. I was tangled, and it only seemed right to sit in the most chaotic place I knew.

  I trailed fingertips over the blue-inked stationery, one of the few things in my possession my father had also touched. Foolish, yeah, but I still lifted the paper to my nose, trying to smell the faraway land it came from. I followed his slanted scrawl, noting that he formed the letter L just like I did. What else did I have of him?

  Dear Darcy,

  If you’ve gotten this far, maybe you’ll have the grace, and if not that, possibly the curiosity to read the rest. There hasn’t been a day in all these years that I wish I hadn’t made different choices. I knew better, but still kept making them. I stayed in Thailand for selfish reasons, which I justified because you were safe, loved, and provided for. At the time, I feared that coming back would have made life worse for you. It was a comfortable lie I told myself. But recent news from your grandmother tells me you’re a brilliant young woman, and I often find myself regretting that I haven’t been there to see you grow up.

  I’ve started this letter a thousand times and left it unfinished a thousand more. I don’t deserve to be your father, and you never deserved the kind of father I was and still am. But it’s been long enough, and I am done with cowardly choices. Even though I don’t have the right, I’m going to ask anyway. I’m finally traveling back to California next year, and I would love to meet you. I have too many years’ worth of apologies stored up, and I would like to say them in person. The choice is yours. And if you decide that it’s too much, too painful, or even too late, then I will accept your decision. But after too many years, I had to ask the question.

  Your father,

  David Elliot

  I folded the letter, weighing the words one by one, trying to make the sum of them add up to a real person. But I couldn’t. And I also couldn’t begin to make the choice he was asking. Right then, father was the one word beyond even my forever vocabulary.

  Two hours ago, Grandma Wells pushed this envelope across the Starbucks table and said I should take it home to ponder, alone. But when had I done anything my grandmother suggested lately?

  She’d watched as I read; my eyes stayed as dry as deserts, my expression cool and considering. Finally, Grandma sighed deeply. “When I saw it was addressed to you, I almost fainted.”

  “I’ll bet,” I whispered.

  “Truthfully, I’ve been waiting for this moment, even though you were convinced he would never reach out.” She ran one finger along the paper. “Even if he hadn’t sent this, it’s time you knew a few things. You’re ready.”

  I couldn’t help the glare. I guessed in her view, if I was ready to pay my own bills, I was ready for tough words.

  “Darcy, don’t forget about my guest room. This new revelation will likely make things extremely difficult and confusing, and you’ll need someone stable to help you through it.”

  “I found a solution for the money. Your guest room is perfect, but I don’t know what would happen to Mom if I left. Right now, she can’t lose me, too. And my father showing up is...” I shook my head. “All I do is deal with family members who make bad choices. What’s one more?”

  Her mouth flinched like her coffee was too hot, but she wasn’t drinking. “I see.” She fiddled absently with one pearl earring. “Dear, there’s something about your father even your mother doesn’t know. Something I’ve kept to myself all these years, thinking it was the best thing for her.”

  My eyes popped open over my next sip of chamomile.

  “You must understand—your mother’s relationship with David was unusually intense,” she explained. “Even uncomfortably passionate, right from the beginning.”

  I winced. This was getting way too close to the TMI zone.

  “It was also volatile.” Grandma dashed slim fingers across the space between us. “Your grandfather and I thought David was certainly a smart enough boy, but we always hoped things would fizzle out between them. They fought constantly. Many times, we heard them yelling in the driveway, doors slamming. They had trust and jealousy issues, constantly pushing and pulling at each other. Your mother often cried herself to sleep. I’ve always felt she lost a lot of herself after she met David.”

  “How?”

  “Before he came along, she was always a strong girl. Studious and focused, with so much promise. A lot like you.”

  Was I strong and focused? Maybe. But none of that seemed to matter here, with her, with the six-by-eight-inch piece of paper sitting next to my tea.

  Grandma drank, then said, “She’d had other boyfriends, but David was another situation entirely. He became part of her identity, like an addiction. She was no longer living like a freethinking, capable young woman. As she spent more time with him, she began to ignore her friends, until most of them gave up. Eventually she saw herself as just one part of a duo.”

  “And then he left.”

  She sighed. “Darcy, your father was young and obviously immature and flighty. But when he left, and spent some time away from your mother, he began to see how unfit they were for one another. How toxic. He realized he never wanted to see Andrea again, for his own well-being. That’s what he’s referring to in his note—the selfish reasons.” She laid one coffee-warmed hand briefly on my forearm. “But when he learned about you, he was very conflicted and torn. He contacted your grandpa and me, right away, asking what he could do.”

  I stared in disbelief.

  “He was determined to stay in Thailand. That point wasn’t negotiable. He’d found true happiness and peace there, and he was somewhat estranged from his own family. Bangkok was a new start. But he was also determined to support you financially. He assumed we’d fight him for that, anyway.”

  “Wait. You didn’t?”

  “We did not. We made other arrangements. Grandpa told David we would take care of your mother and you, and that his paternal support wasn’t needed. As a result, you were given our last name, not Elliot. However, we agreed to send periodic updates about you. Pictures a few times a year. He’s aware of your gift with literature, too.”

  The news tussled around my body like a tornado. Pieces of everything I’d believed my whole life, netted into the spin. “Mom thinks my father completely peaced out from our lives this whole time. No contact or...care for me at all. So you’re saying that’s not true?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Honey, this is going to sound all wrong, but at the time we thought we were doing the right thing. We did tell your mother about his offer of financial support, but she refused to accept that David was never coming back.” Grandma inched her hand forward again, but didn’t touch me this time. “We decided to hold back the fact that your father had requested updates, and that I’ve been sending them faithfully. Back then, your grandpa and I believed the separation would eventually affect her in the same way it had David. That she would realize what a terrible match they were, and move on with a fresh start, with her child. We felt if she knew he’d requested updates, it would make moving on that much harder. We feared she’d obsess about it and want to control the interactions. That it would only hurt her more in the long run. In our minds, we were giving her a better chance to rise up.”

  “That turned out well.” Mom never rose; there were no ups. Instead, she sank, buried under a hoard. She’d obsessed anyway.

  “Grandpa and I never predicted your mother would spiral into that level of grief and denial. Many people eventually learn to thrive after adversity. You
r mother declined, and we misjudged her. We should have done more for her during that time.” Grandma’s head dipped. Her breathing turned ragged, and her forehead gleamed with a sweaty sheen. “For that, for...so much more, I’ve always been terribly guilty, Darcy. I’m guilty of keeping this from you, too. It was out of fear. How could you, as a child, handle information your own mother couldn’t support you through? In hindsight, that was wrong, and we should have found a way. We inadvertently lumped you and your mother together when we should have trusted you to be strong.”

  Was this how it was always going to be? My mother’s issues, my issues? My mother’s weakness, my weakness? Her hoard, my hoard?

  But I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

  * * *

  Later, on my couch, I pressed my mental stop button on the Starbucks replay. Pieces of Grandma Wells’s revelation clanged and cluttered around me, along with frying pans and clothes no one here fit into. So loud—deafening—like the information was waiting for me to act against it. To do something, to feel something. But I had no idea what that something was. Or even what it should be.

  My phone dinged.

  Marisol: Hey, I left my red jacket at Tops

  Me: Tops?

  Marisol: I stopped after bookstore. Saw some new fringe scarves in the window... Tess showed me a lime green one

  Me: Which you bought

  Marisol: Duh? But it clashed with the red so I took the jacket off when I tried on the scarf. Idiot me left it

  Me: Tess will keep it safe but you know she tried it on

  Marisol: Of course she did

  Me: I’ll fetch it next shift

  Marisol: Thanks, D. Anything new?

  Anything new? God. I opened the letter again and found a man I didn’t know how to know. A father who made the letter L like I did, but had never made his way into my life. A prickly chill rooted in my feet, winding through my limbs.

  Saying it makes it real.

  And so I, Darcy Jane Wells, texted five words to the girl I’d always, always told every single thing to for eight years.