by ACF Bookens
When we all quieted, Daniel looked at me and said, “But seriously, Harvey—”
I didn’t let him finish. “Please just give me the dignity of bacon and pancakes before I go to the ER, okay?”
“Deal,” he said as he slipped two fluffy cakes onto a plate, doused them with orange sauce, and slid bacon beside them. At my feet, two hound dogs looked doleful, but I averted my eyes and held my plate aloft while I chowed down. Dad and Mom sat at the island behind me, and Daniel perched himself on the kitchen counter. It was a very casual but somehow just perfect Monday morning breakfast . . . well, except for the sneaking suspicion that was growing in my mind and my right leg that I may have something more than a sprain.
After breakfast, I sent Daniel off to work with our two canine charges and the promise that he’d bring them by the shop to meet and greet this afternoon, even if I didn’t make it in. Mondays were busy. Then, I called Marcus, who was already scheduled to open, and let him laugh hysterically about Max’s blundering idiocy before I told him I had to go to the hospital. To his credit, he did as he always did and promised to keep things moving but also to check in if he needed me.
Then, I let Dad help me to the car while Mom gave Aslan a can of tuna in oil and solidified their slightly controlling but ever loveable identity as soul sisters, feline and human together. As we drove, I caught my parents up on the weekend’s wild escapades. They’d been away in Boston for the weekend, an anniversary getaway, and I’d resisted the urge to text them about everything because I wanted them to have fun. But as predicted, my mom was upset I hadn’t let them know and Dad was pleased I hadn’t. They were both more relaxed than I’d seen them in a while, though, so I decided I’d made the right choice.
Mom was already planning how she would coordinate a parallel event for the night with John Green. Mom had made her mark on Baltimore as quite the philanthropic event planner, and I was always glad when she threw her expertise in my direction. Today, her idea was to set up a booth by the bookstore and ask people about the three things they wanted people to remember about them after they died. She’d record their stories, anonymously or not as the guest preferred, and then she’d produce a podcast – something she’d wanted to do for a long time – of the recordings. “I’ve been really wanting to start a podcast, and this is perfect.”
“Yes, dear, but how is that a fundraiser?” Dad asked as I thought the same question but was too chicken to verbalize it.
“Oh, right. Yes, well, I’ll donate all the advertising proceeds to hospice, of course. It may take a while to get those funds rolling in, but hopefully, the income stream would be long-standing if not huge.” She turned to stare out the window, and I knew we’d lost her to her plans.
I leaned forward from the back seat and put my hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Thanks for taking me, Dad.”
“Of course, honey. I just wish we didn’t have to. Why can’t that man just leave you alone?”
“If I knew that, Dad, I would have made it happen a long time ago.” I sat back and watched the flat land of the Eastern Shore whiz by.
* * *
Two hours later, a CT scan showed I didn’t have a concussion, but an X-ray revealed a broken ankle. They’d given me some pain medication – the good stuff – and I was waiting in the ER lobby again for the doctor to come, be sure the bone was set properly, and wrap my leg in a cast up to my knee. I was secretly a little thrilled at the prospect of having my friends sign the cast and then Cate and Henri decorating around the signatures. As a kid, I’d always wanted a broken bone – or rather the attention that came with it – but until this moment, at age forty-five, I had never so much as broken a toe. It was my lucky day, especially now that I had those pain meds in my system.
Mom and Dad had gone to the cafeteria in search of lunch, and I was grateful for a break from all the fussing over me. I liked the attention, of course, but the pestering and controlling about what I was going to do now that I was in a cast, that was wearing me down. I had just picked a copy of Better Homes and Gardens, a magazine that I should just subscribe to but never do because I’m afraid I won’t enjoy waiting room copies as much then, when I heard shouting voices from the hallway.
As I watched, a man in his thirties with olive skin and black hair came around the corner with a curly haired nurse in pink scrubs right behind him. “Mr. Petra, wait. Please,” she said.
“No, I’m done with you people. You let that monster of a human being have unfettered access to my father, and now my father is dead. I am suing. Someone needs to take responsibility.” The man stormed out the emergency room doors, or he would have if there was really a way to make a dramatic exit through doors that open automatically.
I kept my face down toward my magazine, but over the top of it, I watched the nurse sink into a chair. I was the only one in the waiting room – apparently Monday mornings aren’t big emergency moments in our parts – and she seemed to just need to take a break. I eyed the unopened bottle of water beside me and decided it was worth the sacrifice. So I scooped it up and hopped over and sat two chairs from the nurse. “You okay?” I asked.
She looked startled, like she hadn’t noticed me before. But then her face softened. “Yeah,” she reached over and took the water I held out, “Just some things are really hard.”
I nodded and held up my leg that was wrapped up like the mummy’s lost appendage. “Tell me about it.”
She cracked a wry smile then and took a sip of the water.
“I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but I heard what that man said . . . and, well, I was wondering,” there really wasn’t a delicate way to say this, “um, was he talking about Nurse Bixley.”
A crease formed between her eyebrows, and she started to stand.
“Sorry. I just know about the case because he died in my store.”
The nurse lowered herself back into her seat and said, “Oh, that bookstore on Main. I need to stop in.”
“Please do. But please also know that I’m not just trying to be nosy. I really just want to be sure that whoever did this is caught.”
She nodded and then looked down at her hands. Her voice grew very quiet. “Javier’s father, Ramone, was a regular patient here. He had cancer – I really shouldn’t be telling you this, you know?”
“I do know, and I don’t need any medical details of course. And really, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” I was being honest, but I also really, really hoped she’d tell me.”
“It will probably help me to talk about it. Everything here is so hush hush because everyone is afraid of a lawsuit.” She met my eyes for the first time, and I could see she looked like she might cry.
I put my hand on her arm. “Yeah.” I really didn’t want to pressure her, but I felt like whatever she had to say was probably important.
She took a deep breath and said. “Every few months, Ramone would be back in, his white count too high, his pain excruciating, and each time, we’d get him a transfusion and some good rest with pain medication. It was only a matter of time, of course, but the doctors figured he had another few months at least.” The nurse shoved her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and stretched the fabric against her fists. “One night, though, when we were a bit short-handed, Ramone coded, and we couldn’t bring him back.”
“But since you all knew he still wasn’t that sick, it worried you?” I didn’t want to press too hard, but there was something here.
“Exactly. Javier pushed for an autopsy, said his father’s death was suspicious, but his sister Esme was managing their father’s affairs and decided against it.” She stood then and looked like she was about to leave. “I might not think Javier was right, you know, if this wasn’t the third time I personally saw this happen.” She gave me a wan smile and turned to go.
“Wait, the third time what happened?”
She looked around the room then, suddenly aware of where we were, it seemed. But then she leaned over and said quietly in my ear, “Th
e third time someone died when we were short-handed on a shift.” Then, she turned and walked away.
I started to call after her, to tell her my name, to ask hers, but I stopped short. It seemed wiser to not know who she was, more deniability for her since she probably broke a bunch of rules of medical ethics there . . . and I needed to call Tuck.
7
The sheriff didn’t waste any time in coming to hear what I had to say. Before the doctor finished the last wrap of plaster on my cast, my friend was sitting beside me, waiting. When the doctor left to mix the epoxy he was going to put on my leg to make it “sea-worthy,” I said, “I absolutely cannot tell you what I know here. Definitely not. You’ll have to wait.”
“No problem,” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket. “I just got a new Sudoku app, and I brought the cruiser today. So I can give you and your bum leg a ride home.”
I smiled and took out my own phone. This jigsaw puzzle wasn’t going to finish itself.
By the time the indigo blue epoxy was dry enough for me to risk rubbing it against a passerby and not adhering to them permanently, I was on to a new puzzle, this one an absurdly hard one of bookshelves full of books that did not have any titles. It was going to take me forever, which was just fine since I was going to be largely chair-bound for the next four to six weeks until I could get my walking cast. Looked like I was going to be on crutches for Christmas. Oh joy!
Tuck helped me get settled onto the instruments apparently designed to torture my armpits, and then he carried my messenger bag while I made my way slowly, oh so slowly, down the hallway to his waiting car. He opened the back door for me, and I thought he was joking. Then, I saw that his passenger seat was full of a laptop contraption thingy. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough that I broke my ankle trying to get away from the skeezy dude who had a crush on me, now I was going to ride to my place of business in the back of a squad car. I was seriously in need of an infusion of the holiday spirit ASAP.
On the short drive, I filled Tuck in on what the nurse told me – through the perforated plexiglass – and was again grateful that I hadn’t asked her name when he asked me for it. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”
Tuck squinted at me in the rearview mirror and said, “Is this one of those ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ things?”
“Precisely,” I quipped, “but without the rampant homophobia and prejudice.”
When Tuck pulled up to the bookstore, there was a small greeting committee. Walter and Stephen were leading the way with, oh glory, a wheelchair, and Rocky was on hand with a mug, a steaming mug, and all I could think was, “Dear God, please let that be a peppermint mocha.”
Mom helped me out of the car. The errands that she and Dad had left to do when they’d dropped me at the hospital apparently involved me and the nursing care they felt I needed. Mom steered me toward Stephen, who was ready and very eager to drive my wheelchair when, just in time, Elle Heron rolled up on a knee scooter, and I literally cheered.
I’d seen people in casts use these in the store – they look just like a child’s scooter but with a knee-high cushion meant for you to rest your calf on while you used your fully functional leg to propel yourself around. I was almost excited about having a broken ankle when I saw it, and once I hopped my way over to Elle – Mom refused to give me back my crutches as if that would get me to sit in the wheelchair festooned in streamers and complete with a lap blanket – I hugged her and took off down the sidewalk with a whoop.
No one needed to know the whoop was also one of pain because, well, it hurt like crap to put any weight on my broken leg. I was still going to enjoy this baby, just maybe a little later.
I scooted my way back to Dad, who had done me the courtesy of undecorating the wheelchair, and let him wheel me into the store. Apparently, my grand return to work was not going to be limited to the massive public spectacle on the sidewalk. Nope, inside Marcus had already drawn up my favorite wingback chair and set up the cash register with a special café table counter so that I could greet customers, ring up sales, and look up special orders, all without having to stand. If it wasn’t all so darn embarrassing, I might have thanked him. But instead, I tried to look grateful as Woody, Henri and Bear, Cate and Lucas, and even Daniel cheered – with actual claps and shouts – when I stood, turned, and dropped into my new throne. It might have been unbearable, but I didn’t see a scepter or a tiara in sight. So really, it was just humiliating.
I had to admit, to myself at least, though that I was grateful for the chair. The ordeal of the weekend, the injuries of last night, which still included a pounding headache, combined with what I’d just learned at the hospital, had left me knackered, to use one of Mart’s favorite expressions. But I put on a brave face, let my friends and parents fuss over me a bit, and then sent them on their way so that I could, “Run my store.” I said it with gusto, but really, I just wanted to be with my books and my sales figures so I could rest.
Everyone took the not-so-subtle hint and started to head out, but my mother, of course, darted back to hang a makeshift bouquet of bows she’d salvaged from the wheelchair on the scooter that Elle had parked next to my throne. I felt like one of those women who save the bows from their wedding shower and use them as a makeshift bouquet at their wedding rehearsal, but without any reason to have such a bouquet . . . well beyond my mother’s clear desire to force me to look silly. Still, I kissed her cheek and thanked her when she left . . . and then as soon as she was out the door, I nailed a three-pointer in the trashcan behind the actual cash register.
* * *
The afternoon went by swimmingly, and I only had to endure the throbbing pain in my leg once, when bathroom requirements necessitated I get scooting. Otherwise, I sat in my throne and recommended books to accompany the ones people brought up to purchase while Marcus staffed the floor, offering tips and reading commiseration as always.
My favorite customer of the day was buying a complete set of the original Nancy Drew series, and for a fleeting moment, I wished Mom was here to see it. She had read all Keene’s books when she was a little girl, and I still had her original copies – less a few that went missing over the years – in my own library. The woman buying them looked to be about my mother’s age, but I knew better than to presume, so I asked, “Buying these for yourself?”
“Oh no. I have my originals at home. These are for my grandsons. They love mysteries, and if you love mysteries, you must meet Nancy.”
She spoke with such affection that I almost missed that she said “grandsons,” but when I pointed out that many a person of her generation might presume Nancy was only for girls.
“Pish. Gender is a construct anyway. And we need men who appreciate what a woman can do, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and then asked her about the new Nancy Drew TV series and her thoughts. She, like me, thought it was good television, a strong contemporary nod to the original books, but a little too scary for our taste.
I watched her and her tweed cape as she left the store and felt better than I had all day, and not just because we had sold fifty-six books to one customer.
By the time seven o’clock came, both Marcus and I were beyond ready to close up shop. He had stayed, out of kindness, because, well, I needed him to stay. He was always going way beyond the call of duty (and the expectations of his salary), and as he turned off the neon sign and tidied the café with Rocky, I realized two things: he needed a raise, and we needed another bookseller.
I immediately thought of Tiffany, a runner friend of Mart who had mentioned when we’d had drinks last week that she was looking for some extra work to help cover holiday expenses. She was reliable, well-read, and fun. She’d be a blast to have in the store, and I knew the customers would love her. Moreover, I needed someone to be my legs while I was ensconced in my throne of bookish delight. I picked up my phone and texted, “Interested in being my new bookseller for December?”
“When do you need me? I can start
tomorrow.”
She and I made plans for her to come in at nine the next morning, when I could train her, and then she’d work my shifts with me for the rest of the month. If the number of emojis in her messages were any indicator, she was excited, and I was, too. I liked Tiffany, and it would be good to have help if our banner day of sales was any indication. Plus, Santa would be back this weekend, and I expected we’d have some massive lines to contend with. My only worry was overhead, but I would have to figure that out later.
The next morning, Tiffany was early, mega early, so early that I had barely sipped my latte when she knocked robustly on the front door Someone was clearly still excited.
I unlocked the door and quickly stepped back as she barreled in with her arms full of tote bags. She dropped them in the nearest chair and spun toward me with a smile. “I’m here, boss,” she said with more enthusiasm than I mustered on even my best day.
“I can see that, and I’m glad.” I risked burning my tongue to get an extra jolt of caffeine before I said, “You don’t have to come early, you know?”
“Oh, okay. Just wanted to make a good first impression.” A flash of pink spread across the bridge of her nose.
I chuckled. “You already have the job, my friend. No worries there.” I walked toward the café. “Latte? It’s my morning tradition.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind, Rocky,” Tiffany said.
“Not at all. Oat milk and stevia, right?” Rocky took pride in remembering everyone’s drink choices after only one visit
“You got it!” Tiffany was pretty much beaming, and I suspected that she may have already done the unthinkable this morning: gone for a run.
Rocky looked at me and said, “Clearly, Tiffany will do the morning shifts?” She winked at Tiffany as she handed her the far-too-healthy latte with a mistletoe made in the foam.
“Clearly,” I said with an exaggerated drawl. “Heck, I might have her open every morning if she’s this, um, bouncy.”
