But I do mind, and I believe there must be a way to save our library.
Every Tuesday is Teen Night at the library, although most of the kids who attend are of middle school age. It doesn’t matter to me. Teenagers are mean, while pre-teens can still be curious and kind. Clementine Ryder is one of our regulars. Tonight’s activity includes a book discussion of The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury followed by the production of homemade Halloween costumes. Kids are encouraged to bring materials or use some of the things we’ve collected over the year through a recycling bin we leave in the community center. Old newspaper. Scraps of yarn. Used but clean T-shirts. I like to say we are repurposing.
Clem arrives without a trace of her father. I know because I peeked through the windows in hopes of seeing him. I quickly ignore the sting in my heart when I don’t see him. Instead, I consider how he wasn’t present on Sunday at the town hall meeting and wonder once again, how do I think I can save a library, when I can’t even seem to save myself. I’ve fallen hard for him and he’s left me dangling once again.
I lead Clem to a table where we play a guessing game of who she wants to be for Halloween until she runs out of hints.
“Professor Trelawney,” she announces. “She reminds me of you.”
I shake my head, a little stunned. I hope I don’t look as scattered as the character portrayed by my idol, Emma Thompson, in the Harry Potter films. However, Clem has read the books and I’m honored she envisions me as a fictional character I adore. I suppose I do seem rather eccentric like the Divination professor, and I know Clem means the comparison with respect.
“If only I were a Seer,” I mumble. Then I could have predicted the future and anticipated the broken heart I feel once again from Nathan Ryder. Mustering some enthusiasm, I say, “Let’s make you a Seer instead.”
I give Clem an old scarf of mine to tie around her head to hold her wild fuzzy hair back from her face. I’ve worn something similar, wrapped high on my forehead to tame my reckless waves. “This is perfect for you.”
Securing it in place and straightening her glasses, she instantly looks like a younger version of the professor she wishes to imitate.
“You’ll need some kind of blouse, loose and full, and a skirt, too. Do you have something like that?”
“I’ll check my closet.”
I’d offer to make her something, repurposing some of my old things, but I don’t want to overstep my boundaries. Making a costume seems like something a mother should do.
“Now, you need a prophecy ball.”
Clem’s eyes widen as I pull out a clear glass globe left over from last winter’s ornament making class.
“I have blue, red, or yellow paint. We’ll paint the inside of the ball and add some glitter for effect. We can use a piece of wood for a base, and then hot glue the globe to the wood. After that, all you’ll need is a prophecy,” I cheerfully suggest.
“A prediction, right?”
“Yes.” I nod finding myself growing in excitement as her cheeks glow with the emotion. “For good purposes, though. Not evil,” I warn. I’m very particular that any wishes into the world should be positive or helpful, and not negative or for harm. Clem has told me about kids bullying her at school. She’s teased for her magnified glasses, her wild hair, and her overall knowledge. She makes a pouty face but begins to work while I circle the table aiding others.
Two hours later I’ve helped design a yarn-hair wig for a Rainbow Bright costume and an aluminum-foil sword for a knight. When the others leave, Clem continues to stare at her prophecy ball. Her concentration remains intense as her arms cross on the table and her chin rests on her hands.
“Whatcha thinking, Clem?”
“Miss Naomi, why aren’t you married?”
Oh my. “Well, Professor Snape could never get over Lily.” Some of the kids like to believe I went to a school for witchcraft and wizardry. I don’t mind playing along. I’ll admit to having a crush on the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and always felt he’s a little misunderstood and a lot sad from his broken heart. Sounds familiar.
She giggles and rolls her eyes. “I’m serious.”
“You know, it’s not really polite to ask such a thing,” I gently admonish, raising a brow, and hoping to avoid answering.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, lowering her voice and her eyes, and my chest pinches. It won’t hurt to answer her honestly with a small dash of mistruth.
“I just never fell in love and no one fell in love with me.” It sounds pathetic, although a little romantic, even if it isn’t all true. I’m in love with Nathan which totally baffles me. I can’t seem to get him out of my system.
I’m stuck on you.
“What if someone fell in love with you now or you fell in love with him?”
I smile weakly. “I don’t know, Clem.” And I don’t. If I’m in love with Nathan, and he doesn’t reciprocate, it leaves me right where I am. Alone.
“But you’d say yes to it, right? If someone wanted to marry you?” Clem’s eyes sparkle behind her glasses as she presses up on her hands.
Oh, to be young and dreamy about all things happily ever after.
There’s a pinch in my chest, and I absentmindedly rub at it. How do I explain to a child that love is complicated? “I suppose I might,” I reply although I don’t believe marriage and I are meant to be bedfellows. I’m almost forty and there really isn’t a prospect in sight. There was Nathan, but … “But I don’t believe marriage defines a woman.” I think of my sisters, both with broken marriages and hearts. “A woman can be her own best person.”
“But you’d say yes?” Clem questions, not appreciating my deeper emphasis on independent women and the institution of marriage. Girl power. Silent fist pump in the air. Cue dying party horns. I sigh.
“Definitely,” I say, because I can’t deny I’d answer favorably if I was ever asked.
Clem nods, satisfied with my answer, and lowers her head, returning her concentration to the prophecy ball.
“You’re staring awfully hard at that thing,” I tease, hoping to redirect our conversation. Who’s coming to pick her up? It’s getting late and the library closes soon. My heart skips a fruitless beat with hope her father will be the one.
“I want to pick a good prophecy. Something I know will come true.” If only it were that easy to make a prediction. I predict Nathan will walk in that door and tell me what happened, a deep masculine voice rumbles through my head. Then I scoff at myself.
“Well, whatever you decide, don’t share it. It’s like a birthday wish. You can’t spill the secret, or it won’t happen.”
“No, a prophecy can be shared, like a warning or encouragement,” Clementine corrects me in a voice as if she’s all-knowing.
“Like fortune telling?” A female voice mocks from behind me, and I spin in my seat to see a beautiful teenager with dirty blonde hair, streaked with highlights. She’s wearing a bit too much make-up for a Tuesday evening, but I recognize her instantly.
“Dahlia.” I exhale after her name, and peer around her in hopes of seeing her father.
Wishful thinking be damned. It’s been three days.
The booklover bug hasn’t bitten Dahlia like it did Clementine. She isn’t a fan of the library as much as her younger sister. She uses the library as more of a social gathering place than a study center and Mrs. MacIntyre has asked her to remain quiet or leave on more than one occasion.
“You’re filling her head with nonsense.” Dahlia snaps at me while she reaches for her sister’s backpack hooked over a chair. “Let’s go. You were so supposed to be waiting outside for me.”
“It’s cold and dark out there,” Clem whines and I don’t care for Dahlia’s rough tone. I turn once more to the front windows to notice the night is black and the trees dance in a swift breeze. Winter is coming.
“Darkness doesn’t hurt anybody, right, Miss Naomi?” Mockery fills her voice as she sing-songs my name. The hint of my witchery doesn’t go unnote
d by me, but I falsely grin in response.
“I was formulating a prophecy,” Clem tells her sister, cutting the tension between her teenage sister and myself. Lifting her homemade prophecy ball with reverence, she holds it by the base with both hands to show her sister. “It’s important to get it right.”
“Whatever,” Dahlia mutters, hitching her sister’s backpack over her shoulder and ignoring the ball. “We need to get going. Dad’s at home waiting on us. I think he’s going out tonight.”
My heart skips a beat as Dahlia’s eyes meet mine. Is he coming to see me? Foolishly, my mind races through scenarios of him coming to explain himself. Explain why he hasn’t called me.
Dahlia’s eyes lower to take in my attire. My denim skirt is a shorter one. My tights are black to match my turtleneck. I’ve found myself shifting my clothing selection, feeling more confident wearing something outside of my loose-fitting, body-hiding attire.
“I think he has a date.” She pauses a beat. Thoughts about my clothing crash within me. “You know he might have been more attracted to you if you dressed differently.”
Out of the mouths of babes, or malicious teenagers without a filter.
“Dahlia,” Clem shrieks, but too late. There’s spite in Dahlia’s gaze, and I read the meaning in her insult. She knows I went out with her father and she didn’t like it.
Does she also know he hasn’t called me in days?
“It’s okay.” I wave at Clem, offering her a forced smile. “Remember, only words,” I remind her, as I’ve told her on several occasions how to handle what others say about her appearance or her books. Only words. People say mean things when they don’t understand someone different from themselves, or they are afraid of that difference. If they feel threatened by it, or uncomfortable with their own reaction, they lash out. They scorn the unexplained, and some kids don’t understand Clem’s advanced vocabulary or her love of fantasy. Heck, some adults don’t understand me, and do the same thing.
“Maybe one day you can give me tips.” I don’t know why I suggest it or even why I address the pettiness of a seventeen-year-old. Perhaps it’s who she is, or who she belongs to, or maybe a teeny-tiny-part of me wonders if she’s right. Nathan and I don’t match.
Then again, if Nathan Ryder doesn’t like me because of what I wear, that’s too bad for him.
Maybe he should see you naked again, my thoughts whisper, but there’s no chance of that ever happening again.
“We should go shopping. A girl’s day,” Clem says, her excitement pinkens her cheeks as her hands press into the table to help her stand.
“Don’t count on it,” Dahlia mutters holding out Clem’s jacket to her. I take it from Dahlia and help Clem into her coat as she doesn’t appear willing to set down the prophecy ball.
“I predict you’ll take us shopping,” she says to the false crystal in her hand but mocking her sister.
“I predict, I’ll kick your butt if you don’t get walking to the car.”
“Excuse me,” I say, addressing Dahlia and her tone. “There’s no need for that kind of talk.”
Clem looks from me to her sister and back again. I remind her: “Just stop, right, Clementine?”
She nods and looks up at her sister as she speaks. “You don’t have to be so mean.”
Dahlia’s eyes narrow on me. “Don’t be putting a spell on her like you did my dad.”
What?
“I already made her and Daddy my prophecy,” Clem interjects, holding up the false crystal ball.
Oh no.
“Clem, it doesn’t work—”
“You’ll be at the Halloween party, right?” she reminds me I promised to attend.
“Oh, I don’t—”
“You have to come. I want you to see my costume, and my dad will be there.”
“Clem, I don’t think—”
“Please.”
Sweet Goddess, how does Nathan resist her? I glance up at Dahlia who smirks at me. She senses the superpower of her little sister—a pout and excessive blinking behind those magnified glasses—and I’m putty.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I predict you’ll be there,” she says, holding the prophecy ball before her as she walks around her sister, heading for the front doors of the library.
“I predict, you won’t,” Dahlia sneers under her breath, as if suddenly she’s the seer.
“What’s wrong with you?” Beverly asks as I stare out the window of Daisy’s Nut House the next morning.
“It’s nothing,” I lie, dismissively waving a hand and drawing my eyes back from the parking spot where Nathan first kissed me, and I didn’t kiss him back.
I think he has a date. Dahlia’s words ring through my head for the millionth time in twelve hours. I guess that could explain why he hasn’t called, but I don’t like that answer. Either way, I deserve an explanation for his silence.
I’ll call you. His hollowed voice ripples through my thoughts.
“Here you go,” Daisy says setting down two mugs, a small chrome kettle of hot water and packets of tea in a dish along with a vanilla Long John for Beverly and a cake doughnut with Halloween sprinkles on it for me. “Haven’t seen you in here lately with Nathan,” Daisy comments. Beverly raises a brow at me.
“Oh, yeah, that was just … one night.” I don’t know why I stutter, but I choke on the final words. One-night. That’s what we’d been at first. Maybe that’s all it was ever meant to be.
“Well, that must have been some night,” Daisy teases, winking down at me. “He had quite the smile for you that evening.” My face heats although Daisy has no idea what that one night was like, all those years ago.
I nod, unsure how to respond.
“Enjoy your tea and doughnuts, ladies.” She pats my shoulder and returns to the counter when Jethro Winston and his small crew of children walk in.
“Hmm … is this Nathan the reason your mind has been a million miles away today?” She lifts her mug to her lips and blows on the steamy tea before sipping.
“Bev, do you think you’ll ever love again?” My sister sputters. A brown spray of liquid showers the table. She continues to cough, choking on my question.
“Would I what?” She doesn’t look at me as she swipes a paper napkin over her white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Once again, I notice her clothing and wonder where she gets such items. Pulling a handful of napkins from the dispenser on the table, I dab at the mess on the surface, as she admonishes me. “You made me ruin my shirt.”
“That shirt needs to be ruined,” I bite. The style makes my sister look like a hundred-year-old bitty instead of forty-five. Not to mention, it looks like something she might have worn when she was thirteen. She could also use a haircut and maybe a little color to either darken the grays or give into the lightning streaks in her hair. I don’t know why I think of these things, but my sister needs a makeover in both her appearance and attitude. Strangely, I feel like I do, too.
“What makes you say such a thing?”
“That blouse isn’t flattering on you.”
Beverly’s dark eyes open wide as she stares back at me. “I meant, why would you ask me about love?”
I shrug and look out the window once again. After a moment of silence, I glance back at my sister who scrutinizes me like Nathan did the first night we sat here.
“Did something happen? Did you meet someone?” My sister’s brows rise, forcing her forehead to wrinkle. Her surprised voice softens when she asks a second question. “Who is he?”
Meet someone? Not exactly. “Remember, the night Jebediah died.” My voice lowers as I sit up straighter and my hands clasp together on the table. My sister’s eyes narrow on me. She hates how I’ve beat myself up over the years. She understands the mind games my parents played and she’s the first to remind me it wasn’t my fault.
It was an accident, Nae-Nae. Jebediah shouldn’t have been riding in the first place.
Beverly’s gaze remains on me, waiting.
“Do you remember Nathan Ryder?” I don’t think I need to remind my sister who he is. Back then, I told her in one sentence—I slept with a stranger at a bar. “I’ve recently seen him.”
“What?” Beverly chokes again, this time minus hot tea on her tongue. I go on to tell my sister everything. How I saw him at the Piggly Wiggly. How he checked out books. How we kissed and the arrangement for three dates.
“Then I told him about Jebediah and how he died after we were together.”
Beverly doesn’t need me to spell out my shame. She knows I’ve lived with it for years and she sighs with exasperation. “You know it wasn’t your fault. You’ve given too much power to Mother and Daddy’s words. What they said wasn’t true. It wasn’t you and you aren’t going to hell.” Her words remind me of what I tell Clem about the bullies in her life. Only words.
My sister’s right. At my core, I know I’m not to blame for Jebediah’s crash, any more than it was my fault he drank too much that evening, but it’s been difficult to accept all these years, living with the guilt placed on me. Even with a new religion and acceptance of my womanliness, I haven’t released the shame I felt, at least not in its entirety.
I called my brother for help and he died trying to get to me.
“Did you sleep with him again?” Beverly’s voice waffles between judgment and jealousy. Sex wasn’t an open conversation between us as teenagers, but as we’ve grown older, the fence around off-limit subjects has crumbled. She has admitted to missing her estranged husband despite his stepping out on her. Not because he was a great man, but because she’d given herself to him, and only him, in her lifetime. She missed the intimacy, she once told me. Unfortunately, he was sharing his intimacy with several others, so I don’t know how precious the moments as man and wife could have been.
“No,” I whisper, as if ashamed that I hadn’t, or am I ashamed because I wish I had? Beverly waits for more details. “I just … I like him, but then I told him about Jebediah—”
Love in Due Time Page 20
