The Bookish Life of Nina Hill: The bookish read you need this summer!

by Abbi Waxman

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” said Nina. “We’re just beginning to date.”

  Peter frowned at her. “He introduced himself as your boyfriend. What’s the big whoop?”

  Nina nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know, I just . . .” Tom and the others joined them, and she stopped.

  “Is everything OK?” asked Tom.

  Nina nodded again, unsure of what she was even trying to say, but then Polly ran out of the store, weeping. She came up to them and threw herself on Nina.

  “What are we going to do?” she wailed. “Everything is ruined; it’s all going wrong. I’ll end up destitute and working in community theater, and what will I do for Christmas presents now?” People passing by slowed down; in common with all actresses, Polly was good at projection.

  Nina patted her shoulder awkwardly and looked around at all the surprised faces trying to parse Polly’s sorrow and catch up.

  “It’s all going to be fine,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Honestly.”

  “Well, that sounds pretty serious . . .” Peter began, but Nina interrupted him.

  “No, it’s fine. Polly’s just feeling emotional, aren’t you, Pol?”

  Polly gazed at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Aren’t you upset? Don’t you care?” She stepped back. “You told me once the store was the only place you ever really felt safe.”

  Nina felt herself starting to breathe more shallowly, her vision narrowing. She had said that to Polly lightly, of course, but it was true. Embarrassing to have it broadcast to everyone, but still true. “Of course I care, but it’s not over yet. Liz will think of something. We’ll have a bake sale.” She tried to laugh but was finding it hard to catch her breath. She looked at Archie. “I need to go home,” she said.

  He nodded, seeing from her face what was going on. “No problem. Let’s go,” he said, turning to Eliza. “Can you mind Henry for twenty minutes while I get Nina home in one piece? I’ll be right back.” Eliza nodded and took the toddler, who immediately started crying.

  “I can take Nina,” said Tom. He stepped forward, but Nina shook her head. He stopped and frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “I need to leave right now. I’ll text you later, OK?” She was overwhelmed with nausea, starting to lose feeling in her hands.

  “I can take you home, Nina.” Tom looked almost angrily at Archie.

  “It’s fine,” said Archie, firmly. “We’re family.”

  “Wait . . .” said Nina, her head starting to swim. The bookstore was going to close. She would lose her apartment. Polly was staring at her. Tom was staring at her. There were people all around who needed things from her, who expected things of her, things she almost certainly couldn’t give. She reached out blindly, and it was Tom who stepped forward in time to catch her as she crumpled to the ground.

  Twenty-three

  In which Nina lets herself down.

  Nina sat on the floor of the bathroom and laid her head against the side of the bathtub. The back of her neck was sweaty; her palms slipped on the tile floor. She hadn’t thrown up, but when Tom had carried her through the door, she’d whispered that he should put her in the bathroom. There was nothing she wanted more than to be alone, but he was moving around in the apartment, doing things. She needed him to leave; she needed to pull her apartment around her shoulders like the cloak of invisibility.

  She hated herself. At least today she knew why she was losing her mind; other days her anxiety would suddenly flower inside her, set off by a word. A look. A song on the radio she didn’t even remember hearing before. Her anxiety lurked inside like a parasite that occasionally threatened to kill its host; sometimes she could hear it breathing.

  Of course, being scared of having a panic attack meant she was permanently on edge, which increased the chance she would have one, so she would berate herself for getting anxious . . . and so it goes, as Vonnegut would say.

  She stood and ran cold water on the inside of her wrists, then threw more water on her face and rubbed it with a towel. Time to face the music.

  Tom was sitting in her comfy chair, waiting for her. He’d closed the curtains, turned on the little bedside light, made the bed, and turned it down. A cup of tea sat on her bedside table, still steaming a little. It was everything she would have done for herself, and she was touched. She still needed to be alone, but she was touched.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted tea, but I made it anyway.”

  Nina nodded. She always felt so drained after an episode like this one, so emotionally hungover, every nerve in her body desperate to shut down and reboot later, when hopefully the storm would have passed.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I feel better now.”

  “I can stay,” Tom said.

  “No, I’m OK.”

  “But I’m happy to.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine. Honestly.”

  “Are you sure? You can go to bed; I could read to you.” He stayed in the chair, even though he wanted very badly to go to her, to put his arms around her and hold her until she relaxed. As it was, she was standing in the bathroom doorway slightly crouched, looking wary and pale.

  Nina smiled despite the twist in her gut. He didn’t get it. “That’s nice of you, but I need to sleep.”

  He frowned. “So go to sleep. I won’t wake you up. I just want to make sure you’re OK.”

  Nina took a breath, praying the panic would stay away for a few seconds more. “Please leave, Tom. I need you to go away.”

  It hung in the air, the simple request.

  He was confused. “I really like you, Nina. I care about you.”

  “Tom, this isn’t about you. This is about me. I get anxiety; I told you. When I get overwhelmed like this, I need to be left alone to recover.”

  “I want to help.”

  Nina started to get a little ticked off. “Tom, you’re not listening to me. In order to feel better, I need to be alone. For as long as possible.”

  He looked at her. “Like . . .”

  Nina decided to risk leaving the bathroom doorway. She sat on the edge of her bed and picked up her tea. It was good, sweet and hot.

  “Thank you for all this, for bringing me home and making the tea and everything.”

  Tom crossed his legs. “You’re not answering my question.”

  Nina was exhausted. “Which was?”

  “How long do you need to be alone?”

  Nina couldn’t sit anymore; she lay down and pulled the quilt over herself and closed her eyes. “Can I call you in a week or so? It’s all too much; the family, and now work is terrible . . . I need a few days to think and sort it all out.”

  His voice was clear. “You’re not sure if I fit into your life right now?”

  Nina shook her head, unable to find the right words.

  She must have drifted off, because when she opened her eyes again, he was gone and Phil was sitting in the chair instead.

  “Rough day?” asked the cat.

  “Terrible,” she replied.

  “I can catch you a mouse if you like,” he offered. “Protein is good for you.”

  “I’m good,” she said, closing her eyes again.

  The cat watched her face and yawned.

  “Liar,” he said.

  Much later, Nina woke again and lay there in the dark for a while, trying to sort out the inside of her own head. She reached for her phone and dialed a familiar number.

  “Hey, Lou.”

  Her nanny’s sleepy voice answered, “Hey, you.” Their traditional greeting, a rhyming couplet that always made Nina feel loved.

  Louise murmured, “It’s late, baby. What’s going on?”

  Nina looked at the time. “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You all right?”

  “Not really.”

  Nina heard a sigh, then a rustle of sheets. “Hold on, let me wake up properly, get myself some tea, and call you back. Gimme five.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nina sat up and r
ubbed her face. She piled her pillow behind her head and scratched the sheet until Phil stretched and made his way up to her side. He curled around her hand and kicked her with his bunny back feet. The phone rang.

  Louise’s voice was much clearer. Nina could imagine her soft gray hair, her lined but still lovely face. Her yellow mug of tea. “OK, baby, let me have it.”

  Nina took a deep breath. “Well, the first piece of news is that I have a dad.”

  Louise said nothing for a moment. Then, “Well, I never reckoned your mom was the Virgin Mary type, so that makes sense.”

  “She never said anything about him to you?”

  “She never said. I never asked.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s dead.”

  Louise laughed. “Easy come, easy go. You found this out when?”

  “A month ago, maybe. Something like that. I have a brother and three sisters and nieces and nephews and cousins.”

  “Well, shoot,” said Louise. “That might have been nice to know. Just think of all the birthday presents you could have got.” Nina smiled. Louise continued, “But you must be freaking out. All those people.”

  “Yeah, though they’re mostly really nice.”

  “Great.” Louise waited. “So . . . ?”

  “There’s something else. I met this guy.”

  A low laugh. “I knew there was a guy in here somewhere.”

  Nina started babbling. “And I really like him but it’s too much. There’s problems at work, then there’s all these new people I need to get used to, so I sort of broke up with the guy, I mean, not really broke up, but kind of, and that’s fine, but he was really wonderful so maybe I should have . . .” Her voice faltered. “I don’t know. It used to work to close it all off, but it’s not working so well anymore.”

  Louise sighed, and Nina heard her take a long sip of tea. She waited.

  “Well, honey, you can’t expect the same tricks to work your whole life. When you were little and things got to be too much, you’d put your hands over your ears and sing, but if you do that now you’d get some funny looks, plus you’d know that when you dropped your hands the problem would still be there. Magical thinking only works for children. And politicians, maybe.”

  Nina’s voice was small. “So what do I do?”

  “I don’t know, baby. The first thing you should always do is . . .” Louise waited.

  “Nothing. The first thing you should always do is nothing.” Nina supplied the answer Louise had often provided over the years.

  “That’s right. Wait a day or two and see what happens. Life needs space, just like you. Give it room.” The older woman paused. “How’s your anxiety?”

  Nina shrugged, not that Louise could see her. “Bad.”

  “It’s only doing its job, poor, overenthusiastic thing. I still remember what that therapist said: Anxiety is what kept us alive, back in the day. It helps us know when things are wrong, when situations are dangerous or people mean us harm. It’s just sometimes it gets ahead of itself, right?”

  Nina nodded. “I know.”

  “So, do nothing, let yourself calm down, take some deep breaths, and wait. Your anxiety will pass; things will get clearer. If this guy is meant to happen, he’ll happen.”

  “What if he can’t handle my anxiety?”

  Louise sounded firm. “His loss.”

  “He doesn’t make me feel anxious. He makes me feel good, actually.”

  Louise laughed. “Then don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow, baby. Don’t worry about how it might go wrong; just let yourself be happy.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Most things are.”

  “Does everyone else feel like this?”

  “Like what? Worried? Uncertain? Hopeful and cynical at the same time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure they do, baby. That’s how it feels to be alive.”

  “It’s not a good feeling.”

  “Well, who knows what a fish feels; it might be even worse.”

  “And definitely wetter.”

  “Right.” Louise’s voice was soft. “Get some sleep now, and call me tomorrow. You like being on your own, Nina, but you’ve never been alone. You know that, right?”

  Nina nodded, holding the phone tightly. “I know. I love you.”

  “I love you more. Kiss Phil for me. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Bye, Lou.”

  “Bye, you.”

  Twenty-four

  In which Nina becomes an object of pity.

  It’s hard to keep a secret in Larchmont. After Polly’s outburst at the Festival, it took approximately three hours for every single person in a ten-block radius to know that Knight’s was in danger of shutting down. Someone started crowdfunding. Someone else posted on social media that the forces of evil were triumphing and that the existence of literacy was under attack. Someone else made soup for Liz, and on Monday morning brought it to the store.

  Liz was disgusted by this outpouring of support.

  “It’s just a bookstore,” she said, having spent twenty minutes calming down the soup-giver, who’d been coming to the store for a decade and considered it central to her children’s middle-class experience. “I mean, it’s adorable, and I’m always glad to take free food, but all we need is more people to buy more books.”

  Nina looked at her. “I think we need more than that, don’t we? We need to pay six months of back rent, un-triple-mortgage your house, and buy back the kidney Polly already sold on Craigslist.”

  Liz made a face. “She only sold the promise of a kidney. I think she may have discovered a new financial vehicle, actually. If I had early-stage kidney disease, I might be open to taking out a rent-to-buy option on someone else’s organ.”

  “Organ sale is illegal in the United States, although it is legal in Iran.”

  Liz snorted. “Of course you know that.”

  Nina shrugged. “I’m shocked you don’t.”

  Polly had called earlier to say she was going on a job hunt in the Valley, which Nina and Liz took to mean scouting for a porn job. They talked her out of that, and she appeared a little before lunch, dressed head to toe in black.

  “Did someone die, or are you auditioning for a role as an elderly Italian grandmother?” asked Liz.

  “I’m in mourning for the store,” said Polly, bowing her head, although probably just to show off the elaborate French braid she had going on. She had incorporated black ribbon, and Nina was reminded of the horses that pull hearses at state funerals. This may not have been what Polly was going for, but that’s the law of unintended consequences for you.

  Liz snorted. “Get to work, you two. Make the books look pretty. Smile, but look pitiful. When people ask if we’re closing, shake your head softly and suggest they buy a boxed set.”

  “You want us to prey upon the pity of our customers?”

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  Liz disappeared into her office and reappeared a moment later shrugging on a jacket.

  “Where are you going?”

  Liz headed for the door. “I’m going to go home and change into something a little more ragged.”

  Over the next few days, business did pick up quite a lot, particularly as several local celebrities posted on social media and people showed up hoping to see them in the store. Failing that, they bought books and took selfies. Nina didn’t think it would be enough, but it was nice to be busy. It helped distract her from the deafening silence from Tom.

  She had texted him a day or two after the Festival, just to say hi, she hoped he was OK, she was feeling better, and had he seen that the final for the Quiz Bowl had been scheduled . . . ? Bupkes. Sound of crickets. She couldn’t blame him; she’d been pretty specific that she wanted to be left alone, and she could hardly complain he was taking her at her word. But she missed him.

  Polly had calmed down and was accenting her black with the occasional pop of color. She’d also been auditioning a ton and was waiting to hear back from a national c
ommercial for flea prevention (for once, she wasn’t up for either the part of the cat or the flea, so this was progress) and a web series about a young woman taken over by the spirit of an old Jewish guy called Morty (the series was called Mortyfied, and probably shouldn’t have made it past the stoner joke it had clearly once been). Liz had been uncharacteristically quiet and spent most of her time in the back room, clearing out papers.

  On the Saturday morning after the Festival, Nina did something she rarely did: She headed west. There was so little traffic in the early morning that she was in Malibu before ten, and as she rounded a corner and saw the ocean for the first time, even she could feel her spirits lift.

  Eliza and Millie lived in one of those houses that didn’t seem all that impressive from the front but that kept going once you were inside. Rooms opened up, hallways turned corners, and eventually Millie led Nina to her room at the top of the house.

  “Nice view,” said Nina, somewhat unnecessarily. The bedroom had one glass wall, and the floor-to-ceiling view was of the Pacific Ocean across a canyon dotted with olive trees and native California oaks.

  “Yeah,” said Millie, clearly over it. “It’s pretty.”

  Then Nina turned from the view and realized the entire back wall of the room was filled with shelves. It was like walking into a smaller version of her apartment; the same organization, the same careful lining up of spines. In many cases, the same books, just less heavily read.

  “That’s an even better view,” she said, walking over and tilting her head to read titles. “Le Guin, excellent; Susan Cooper, yes; Ruth Plumly Thompson, nice . . .”

  “I’ve read all of them,” said Millie. “The ones I haven’t read yet are by the bed.” She looked rueful. “Mom made a rule that I can only have six ‘to be read’ books at one time, otherwise she says it gets out of hand.”

  “Six is a good number. And presumably once you’ve read one you can get another?”

  Millie nodded. “Is that how you do it? Six at a time?”

  “Basically.” Nina nodded back, although she meant shelves, rather than individual books. “Do you read books in order?”