by Sarah Jio
Can you imagine yourself as a housewife, with a maid and a cook and a gaggle of children running about? You’d go mad! No, it isn’t a husband you need, nor a “respectable” job. You must be free to pursue the work you so love doing, work at which you shine, I might add, brilliantly.
Family relationships are the most challenging, aren’t they? I know this well. After weeks of the silent treatment, I showed up on Lucille’s doorstep yesterday. Miraculously, she let me in. We made small talk over tea, but we’re talking. For now. It’s a good step forward. I may never be able to share certain parts of my life with her (my relationship with Anthony, for instance, which she’d disapprove of emphatically), and I’ve come to terms with that. It is not worth upsetting her. And by upsetting her, I would, in turn, only upset myself. We feel our families’ judgments more keenly. Even if we disagree with their declarations. It is because we love them, or in the most general terms, because we come from them, that we wonder if their words, even the most inflammatory of them, might be true. We question ourselves. We may even forsake ourselves to prove them right.
I will do anything in my power to see that my sister and I don’t become strangers. Because I fear that would be a failure I could never recover from or forgive myself for.
Now, back to this nonsense about you ceasing to write. Think of all the children of the world who might stop reading, children one, five, ten, twenty years from now who are destined to hold a copy of one of your future works in their hands and be dazzled by those stories. If you stop writing, they lose that chance.
I’m sure that if you wait, your characters will start whispering again. They’re still there; they’re just a little frightened. Give them room to come out again, and give yourself the quiet space to hear them.
Every life, every story, has peaks and valleys. You are walking through a low spot now. Perhaps it’s foggy in the valley. And maybe you can’t see the path anymore. But it’s there. Keep walking on it. You’ll find your way. And when you come through the thicket, with little rabbits hopping about, there will be a clearing, and the sun will be shining down on you with rays that will warm you and inspire you again.
What if Einstein had stopped inventing? What if Bach had stopped composing? What if Edison had given up on the lightbulb? What I’m trying to say is that what you do is beautiful and worthy to children of the world (young and old), and you must carry on. Please, promise me that you’ll press on, keep trying?
And, I have a bit of lunar inspiration to share with you: I was reading a passage in a collection of folklore. Of course, in our culture, we refer to “the man in the moon,” but according to Chinese legend, it is a rabbit that lives on the moon. I was looking out my window last night, and, Brownie, I saw it! There is a little rabbit with floppy white ears leaning over a mortar and pestle. I shall never look at the moon in the same way again.
Keep your chin up, and when you’ve lost your way, look at the moon and think of me, for I believe in you.
Yours,
Ruby
Chapter 7
The next morning, after a long gnocchi-induced sleep, I kneel down along the south wall and reshelve the picture books neatly, the way Ruby would have liked. And then I shake my head. What am I doing? If I’m going to sell the shop, I need to take the books off the shelves, not put them back. I sigh and stand up, right before I hear Ruby’s jingle bells at the door.
“Did you like the gnocchi?” Gavin asks, poking his head inside the store. I smile, and try not to worry what Adrianna will think of his being here.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Yes, thank you. I loved it. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so heavenly.”
Gavin takes a few steps toward me. “Comfort food at its finest,” he says. He rubs his forehead. “Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
I play dumb. “What do you mean?”
He scratches his head in an adorable way. “The way Adrianna acted,” he says. “I hope it didn’t make you feel . . . uncomfortable.”
“No,” I lie. And then I think of Ruby, and the confidence in her letters gives me the strength to face my feelings head-on. “Actually, it did make me uncomfortable,” I say. “Because I . . .”
He takes a step closer to me. The bookstore is quiet, and I can hear the dripping sink upstairs. “Because you like me?”
At first I feel annoyed, but his smile defuses me.
He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, and my neck explodes in goose bumps. “Well, I like you,” he says. There’s a moment of pause, and my stomach flutters.
“But Adrianna,” I say. “I don’t want to interfere if—”
“You’re not interfering with anything,” he assures me, pointing to the chairs by the fire. “Want to sit down? I’ll tell you the whole story.”
I stare at the flames as he speaks. I’m afraid to look at him, for fear of what he’ll say. Their past could dictate our future. Future. I turn the word over in my mind and let it whisper, taunt. “We were engaged,” he begins. I gulp, taking in his words. Engaged. “I met her in culinary school. She was studying to be a pastry chef. We hit it off right away. She’s from a big Italian family. And I didn’t know anyone out here. They welcomed me instantly. We spent all our time together and after two years, getting engaged just seemed like the natural progression of things. So I proposed.” He sighs. “It’s funny, when I asked her to marry me, I remember having this sort of out-of-body experience. It was like I was seeing the whole thing play out like a movie, not like it was actually happening to me. I watched this guy get down on one knee and ask this girl to marry him.”
He shakes his head. “But I didn’t feel what I was supposed to feel. I kept waiting to, expecting those feelings to develop. I told myself I’d wake up one morning and it would all feel right. And then we opened the restaurant, and our futures were even more cemented. We would be married and we would be business partners.” He stares ahead solemnly. “But six months ago, I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I had a dream of being married, being happy. I looked over at Adrianna asleep beside me, and I knew I had to tell her. She’s a wonderful person. But she isn’t the person for me.”
“Wow,” I say, suddenly feeling a surge of sorrow for this woman who was so cold to me just yesterday. After all, I know what it feels like to love someone who can never truly return your love.
“So we called off the engagement,” Gavin continues. “Because we had the restaurant together, we had to figure out a way to make things work. At first Adrianna took it really hard. I mean, I know it’s still hard for her. But she’s accepted it.”
“You don’t think she’s just waiting and hoping that you’ll change your mind?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“It has to be so difficult on her to work with you every day, hoping that you’ll decide that you made a big mistake.”
“Honestly, I just try not to think about that,” he says. “I actually thought she was over everything until I saw the look on her face when she walked into the kitchen yesterday.”
“It can’t be very healthy to work together,” I say. “Considering your past.”
Gavin nods. “I worry about that every day. But we both love the restaurant. We love our work. I keep thinking that we can rise above it all.”
“But it’s not that easy,” I say, thinking of Amy. The wound is still raw, even five years later. “When you go through something as painful as what Adrianna has experienced, you don’t just bounce back. She can’t just flip a switch and see you as a friend after loving you for so long. A woman’s heart doesn’t work like that.”
He nods again, solemnly. “I’ve been patient. I haven’t seen anyone else. I knew it would be too hard on her. But we’d had a great month. She told me she met someone at Joe’s and they were going on a bike ride around the lake. I thought she had healed. And when I met you,” he says, se
arching my face, “I can’t explain it. . . . I was drawn to you.”
I smile and open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” he says quickly. “I’m not asking you to make any big decisions. I’m just asking if I can . . . get to know you better. Can I?”
I nod. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
“Good,” he says, grinning. “Listen, we’re having a big night tonight at the restaurant. The first Friday of every month, we have a jazz band in, and we do a new pasta dish. Why don’t you come, be my guest? I mean, if you want to.” He stands up and eyes the door. “Tonight, then.”
I return his smile. “Tonight.”
The door closes, and I wish Ruby were here now. I want to run to her and let out a girlish scream and share the type of innermost thoughts that she shared with Margaret Wise Brown. It’s true; I’ve had few strong female friendships in my life, but I always had Ruby. I wonder if she’s here listening. I wonder if she’s watching me, cheering for me. And then I remember the last pair of letters, the mention of Runaway Bunny. I begin my search with anticipation, and then I locate a first edition high on a shelf across the room. The dust jacket is brittle and cracked. I open the spine, and there they are, two letters waiting for me.
April 26, 1946
Dear Ruby,
You are not only a bookseller but a healer. That hangover of mother love (if you could call it that) I told you about turned into the flu, but reading your pages was like medicine, for body and soul.
Thanks to your encouragement, I’m back to writing, and I must say, this idea of the rabbit in the moon is an intriguing one. You’ve stirred up all sorts of inspiration. I’m envisioning a little bunny child in a nursery. And on each page, there will be the moon. It’s not so much a concept as it is a feeling right now, but it is growing on me. It may come to nothing, but I will be patient and listen to the characters, and when they start whispering, I shall be ready to write their words down. If it ever becomes a book, I would like to dedicate it to you, my friend.
As I suspected, the flowers worked. Tulips, to be exact. I ask you this: Can anyone continue holding a grudge in the face of yellow tulips? I think not. Roberta received them and phoned me straightaway. She apologized for being so overly sensitive (and if I may add, critical) at our last meeting, and while relations between us are tense at best, at least we’re speaking again. In time, I hope she’ll grow to accept me as I am. It’s all I can hope for. After all, in both of us are the wonderful memories of childhood that we created together, always arm in arm. Gazing at the stars, skipping through the forested acres beside our home, dreaming of life beyond the picket fence. Adulthood has suppressed those memories for her, I believe, but I think I can resurrect them in time. I think I can make her remember. And in turn, I think I can make her remember that beneath these adult bodies with their adult habits and preoccupations, we are still those same little girls.
You briefly mentioned Anthony in your last letter. I must admit, I’d hoped you’d write more. I have been worried about this relationship of yours. I know you are wildly in love with this man, but I must admit that I fear he will break your heart. It seems odd for me, someone so uncustomary, a rule breaker, to give such practical advice. But friends must be practical for each other, especially when we won’t be practical for ourselves. So, I hope you will write me more about this man. In the end, if you trust him, I will too. But I do fear that going down the path of this love affair will only leave you with an irreparably broken heart. (And I’ve been down that path so many times, I’d be negligent for not mentioning it.) Promise me that you will protect yourself from such heartbreak?
I suppose my mood may be tinged with my own personal concerns. My doctor found a tumor in my left breast. I will need to undergo surgery next week, and then, well, I don’t know what. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. At least I’m writing again. And dreaming. And smiling, most of the time. That’s all that really matters.
To lighten my spirits, the members of the Bird Brain Society hosted a Mad Hatter party last week. We all wore the most outrageous hats and had tea and crumpets and laughed until we hadn’t an ounce of laughter left in any of us. That was nice.
Sometimes I fear we take ourselves too seriously. I looked at myself in the mirror the other day, and I saw my mother staring back. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was eleven years old in pigtails? I’m still her, of course—the girl in pigtails. I just have to remind myself that she’s still living in this aging body of mine. I’ll be damned if I lose touch with my inner child. It is my deepest fear, you know—that and being deemed utterly unlovable.
I shall be looking to the mailbox daily for your next letter, so write soon, my dear friend.
With lots of love from New York City,
Brownie
P.S. Today I received a telegram from one of my publishers addressed to “Miss Margaret Wise Brows.” I’m thinking that this is a much better name for a children’s book author.
April 29, 1946
Dear Margaret “Wise Brows,”
(Ha!) That is quite a typo. Tell me truly, how are you feeling? I cannot bear to think of you ill. I pray that this letter finds you resting and recovering from your surgery. Does the doctor worry that it’s serious? Has the tumor spread? Oh, what you must be enduring at this moment.
I wish I could be there to nurse you back to health, but your muse has not forsaken you. You are writing again! Stories are the air you breathe, and that air is laden with sustenance and spirit.
And such a brilliant strategy to send tulips. I concur, they are the happiest of flowers. It is truly impossible to hold a grudge in their presence. I think I shall try this with Lucille. Wish me luck. And on that note, what you wrote about sharing childhood memories with your sister made me think of my own, specifically the time Lucille and I packed up our knapsacks and “ran away” for the day. We made it a few miles down a dusty road and spent our last coins on chewing gum before our father found us climbing a tree in someone’s yard and brought us home. You know I saved the chewing gum wrapper from that expedition? I still have it in my jewelry box after all these years. It symbolizes my first adventure in the world, and I shared that with Lucille. I wonder if she even remembers?
I have some big news to share with you, and I must admit, I’ve been holding out on telling you. I know you’re concerned about Anthony, as any good friend must be, and despite all the warning signs you see, and despite my better judgment, I have fallen head over heels.
And, I almost don’t know how to tell you this. I’m giddy with excitement. You know how I’ve always dreamed of owning my own bookstore, a children’s bookstore, specifically? Well, Anthony offered to buy me one of my very own. This turn of events is most unexpected, and I must admit, I’m still getting used to the idea, but it is true. He found space in a terrific brick building near Green Lake, with a darling apartment on the second floor. He wants to outfit it with furniture and books (my first order shall be to Doubleday, for a box of your latest release, The Little Island!). And guess what? I accepted.
I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you, Anthony’s intentions are only to make me happy. He is the kindest man I know. He told me he loved me, and that this was his way of showing it. He said there are no strings attached and that if I decide to end our relationship, I may go on running the store (my name is on the deed).
I’m going to call the place Bluebird Books. What do you think? Oh Brownie, I can’t wait for you to see it! It has a fireplace on the first floor (and radiator heating, of course, but the fireplace is a nice touch), high ceilings for lots of bookshelves (Anthony’s bringing in a carpenter to install ladders on wheels so I can reach books on the top shelves), and big cheerful windows. Oh, and the upper-floor apartment is lovely. I’ll need to learn to cook so I can make Anthony dinner.
Can you feel my happiness beaming off the page?
; I’ll write more soon and will think constantly of you and your health.
With love from Seattle,
Ruby
I smile when I think of Ruby keeping that gum wrapper all those years, and I instinctively open the little wooden box on the nightstand in search of it. I sift through a heap of jewelry—rings, bracelets, and necklaces with their chains snarled together—and then I see a bit of wax paper toward the back. I pull it out and press it to my nose. The scent of bubblegum has long since worn off, but its spirit has not. The memory of Ruby and Lucille’s great adventure lives on. I can almost hear their girlhood voices giggling as they run along the dusty road swinging their arms gleefully as they go.
I laugh to myself, remembering the time Amy and I pulled the cases off our pillows and tied them to sticks (something we saw in an episode of The Smurfs), then packed them with all the essentials—stuffed animals, Amy’s beloved blanket, a few picture books—and set out to the sidewalk, where we planned to run away. And we did. We roamed the neighborhood until after dark, when we were both so hungry, we considered climbing a tree to pick apples (my idea). In the end, we just went home. Nobody came looking for us like in the TV shows. And isn’t that why kids run away, anyway? So their parents will come searching for them with open arms and a never-ending stream of I-love-yous? Yes, but Amy and I just walked in the door to a dark house, with sad hearts and empty bellies.
The memory of Amy haunts me. And maybe it always will. Maybe I’ll just have to be OK with that.
There’s something else haunting me too: the mysterious man in my aunt’s past. I pull out my laptop and plop down on Ruby’s bed. I key the name Anthony Magnuson into Google, and thousands of results come back. A Seattle Times obituary dated December 9, 1974, is the first link I click on:
ANTHONY MAGNUSON REMEMBERED
FOR HIS CHARITABLE LIFE
Seattle mourns the loss of Anthony Magnuson. He died Tuesday at Swedish Hospital from injuries he sustained in an ice skating accident at Green Lake. He was 62. Magnuson is remembered for his work for the Magnuson Charitable Foundation, which his father founded a century ago. He is survived by his wife, Victoria, and his daughter, May. Magnuson’s will stated that he did not want a funeral. Remembrances may be sent to the Magnuson Charitable Foundation.
