Amelia Unabridged

by Ashley Schumacher

  “Turn around. Turn around, when possible.”

  I’m trying not to take the squawking GPS that came with my airport rental car as a bad omen, but it’s difficult when, no matter which way I turn, it tells me I’m going the wrong way.

  Jenna is probably laughing at me, or watching me with her patented look of aggravation.

  Somehow, I keep missing the elusive turn for Lochbrook from the main highway. It reminds me a little of Orman, actually, of how Emmeline and Ainsley have to walk past the entrance to the forest a certain number of times, the trees spreading apart to let them through only after the required number of passes have been made.

  I must be right—or this navigation system is faulty—because as I take an exit I tried ten minutes ago, the voice happily chirps, “In twenty miles, your destination will be on your left.”

  Maybe this is all part of the balance thing, paying the piper for the ease with which I got through the airport and onto my plane. They make it remarkably easy to know where to go—there are signs everywhere—though you wouldn’t have known this from Mark’s level of worrying.

  When he and Trisha dropped me off, he told me at least five times to call if I had any trouble finding the gate, and Trisha said, “Amelia and Jenna went to California by themselves, Mark,” and he said, “Yes, but Jenna isn’t here,” and then we all stood there looking at our shoes while Mark cried and Trisha pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Trisha had kissed me on the cheek, holding me against her tall frame much longer than usual, when they finally left me at security.

  “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said in my ear.

  I would have asked what she thinks I’m looking for, but I bet she doesn’t think it’s a secret message left by her daughter.

  Lost in thought, I don’t notice when the road dwindles to a small, winding street, mingling in and out of clumps of cottage-like houses and quaint storefronts that are closing for the evening. It’s a world dotted with the same trees that line the road. The sky is turning a brilliant pink, and though Lake Michigan has patiently been waiting for me to acknowledge her splendor, I am only now seeing her unobstructed.

  It’s achingly beautiful, a scene from a van Gogh.

  I’m struck with wonder, drawn to the waves rolling onto the tiny shore just below the sloping road. How funny that it is only a lake and not the sea. There are no promises of dolphins or stingrays anywhere in its depths, but from here it looks the same.

  I allow myself to imagine them, the sea creatures, and to dwell on the idea that no matter what happens to me, somewhere in the world there are whales swimming hundreds of miles a day. Whether I find the mysterious sender of the book or not, whether I read another book or not, the whales don’t care; they swim on.

  “You have arrived at your destination.”

  The parking lot for the bookstore is small and rectangular and I take the last available space. It takes me a moment to find the store itself in the grove of trees, because it looks more like a mansion than a storefront, a house made of gray stone with a dark red roof. All three stories have lines of windows lit up from within, some shrouded with gauzy curtains and others with chips of embedded stained glass.

  Even the front door is idyllic, burgundy red and massive, with a bell that tinkles when I pull it open by the iron handle.

  It’s not what I was expecting.

  Bathed in a yellow light I thought was only real in movies, I want to believe in stories again. I want to believe everything has a purpose, no matter how terrible. That the fairy tales were right, the stories are true, and at the end of all the muck and despair, light can be found.

  It’s the most enchanting bookstore I’ve ever laid eyes on. A chaotic, music-swirling, cinnamon roll–smelling, warm, inviting bookstore.

  Somewhere the whales are singing a deafening chorus.

  Every wall of the first floor is lined with bookcases stretching from the hardwood floor to the vaulted ceiling, and working ladders glide along the shelves.

  My blood is humming with the familiarity and newness of this place, my throat closing with something caught between hunger and reverence. I haven’t managed to read a single book since Jenna died, but my whole body leans in to this discovery as an insistent gust of wind blows from behind and disappears into the store, ruffling the pages of a book propped open on a small table display.

  Jenna brought me here. I can feel it.

  My eyes are eager, frantically dancing around the room. To my left, beyond a patchwork assortment of welcome mats, is what looks like a beloved family living room. There are mismatched couches and plush armchairs. A stone fireplace sits unassumingly in the middle of the room, with framed pictures on the mantel. A low chaotic din fills the air, a buzz from the patrons draped in various levels of comfort across the homey furniture. They’re all holding the same book, some gesturing with wineglasses and others flipping idly through their copies. A book club. They are sirens lounging along the rocky seascapes of Orman. As I watch, an old man in a dubious plaid tank top says something that causes the entire group to break into laughter. The sight is storybook warm and makes my insides feel like Christmas and hot tea.

  I can practically feel my camera back in the car, like a forgotten extension of my body, framing the photo in my mind as clearly as if it were already a print. Home Sweet Bookstore. It would be slightly cheesy and nostalgic and perfect.

  The ping of a cash register draws my eyes to a woman behind the long wooden counter on my right. Her bright copper hair and white skin glow beneath the light of a rustic chandelier, giving her an ethereal look. She seems neither particularly young nor particularly old. She talks animatedly to a little boy who stands on tiptoe to pay for his small stack of books with a jar full of bills. Feeling my gaze, she stops midsentence and our eyes meet.

  “Are you going to keep that door open all evening? We’re not here to cool all of Michigan, you know.” Her voice is both regal and exasperated, one of those people who make complete strangers feel like they belong. Someone like Jenna.

  Sheepishly, I turn to close the door behind me, but before I can, the sound of clicking toenails rushes up behind me and a solid furry mass runs full force into my knees, pushing me forward. I manage to catch myself in a less-than-graceful scramble before my face hits the ground, but my palms and dignity are scratched, and my knees will most definitely bruise from hitting the lip of the door frame.

  “Wally!” a male voice booms. “That’s a bad dog! For shame!”

  A great, brutish dog towers over me, the wiry fur of his muzzle tickling the back of my neck as he sniffs and then licks my right ear.

  I don’t bother trying to imagine how I would frame this massive beast in a lens. He’s much too big. Except … he looks almost exactly like one of those hounds of old that one would find reclining in front of a massive fireplace after a long day of hunting with his royal master.

  I lie frozen as he licks my other ear and lets out a low woof of excitement.

  “I am so very sorry.” Hands carefully pull me by the elbows, up from where I’m sprawled on the floor. “He is insufferable and particularly rambunctious when he’s hungry. But he’s completely harmless, except for the small matter of believing he is less than half his size. Are you okay?”

  The whirl of activity slows enough that I finally get a look at my rescuer’s face, and I choke back a gasp. I recognize him instantly as the boy from the festival, the one I tumbled into at the top of the stairs. The last time I saw him, I had been running toward Jenna.

  But evidently he doesn’t recognize me, because he’s looking at me with large eyes and a patient expression, so I mutter, “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  “You’re sure? He’s heavy,” the boy says, his voice stern as he glares down at the dog, who looks up with a tongue-lolling, unabashed grin.

  Something about his voice sounds familiar, too. When it clicks, I dig through my head in search of the name of the boy who helped me on the phone. “Are you A
lex?” I ask.

  His smile falls a little, bemused, and he tilts his head. “Yes. Have we met?”

  I look past him, pulled from our conversation by the sound of claws scratching. The beast is jumping up to sprawl his front paws onto the counter next to the woman at the register, a long string of saliva dangling from his tongue and toward a stack of papers.

  “Not now, Wally,” she says. The woman doesn’t even look at him as she roughly pulls him down by the collar, and his splayed front legs knock over a jar full of bookmarks. The dog busies himself with picking one of the laminated papers off the floor, biting at the flat surface.

  This is the boy who said there was no record of Jenna here. It’s like a daydream come to life.

  “I’m Amelia,” I say, sticking out my hand.

  He reaches forward to shake it, but still looks confused.

  “Amelia?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Amelia Griffin. I called about the limited edition of The Forest Between the Sea and the Sky?”

  My voice sounds overly bright, desperate. We both know I’m hoping he will tell me something different than he did before. His grip tightens on my hand as he shakes it in earnest, and he smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Yes, I remember.” He sounds careful, like a field mouse trying not to draw a hawk’s attention. “Sorry I couldn’t help you. Did you come all the way from … wherever you came from … to check out the store?”

  “Dallas,” I say. “Yeah, something like that. I don’t suppose you know anything else about the edition, do you?”

  He shrugs. “Sorry. Wish I could help.”

  I sigh. “Me, too.”

  We stand awkwardly—him probably thinking I’m some kind of stalker, me wondering if I came all this way for nothing. Maybe the clever wind is the court jester of magical weather individuals. My certainty that coming to this bookstore is an act of Jenna’s delayed will is slipping the longer our silence stretches on.

  “Well, since you’re here to look, you might as well enjoy yourself.” Alex brightens somewhat and points to the woman behind the register. “That’s Valerie, my mother and the owner of this fine dog-riddled establishment. She’ll help you if you have any questions.”

  “We should have invested in a cat, like all of those sane bookstores,” Valerie calls to me. She still hasn’t come out from behind the counter, so our conversation has turned into some sort of odd oblong triangle. “Though I don’t suppose we had much choice in the matter.”

  Alex shoots her a look I can’t quite read as Wally trots to my side, two slobbery plastic bookmarks held between gleaming teeth. When I don’t take them, he drops them on my foot and plops dramatically to the ground, sighing at my lack of interest.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to working the café.” Alex sounds relieved to be done with me. “It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your stay in Lochbrook.”

  Part of me thinks I should be more forceful, demanding answers, but a quieter part—a Jenna part?—warns me to wait.

  A dormant piece of my soul is stirring at the thought of exploring this bookstore, though, so I make my own magical wind and let it propel me forward to investigate.

  * * *

  The store is not only a bookstore; it’s a community hub. The first floor has a corner devoted exclusively to studying students and writers, though I can’t imagine how anyone could get anything done in the constant wild rumpus that serves as the store’s soundtrack. There are some low shelves by a piano tucked beneath the staircase, populated by customer favorites taken from the rest of the store. Bits of colored index cards and spare paper jut out from the shelf, informing passersby “READ THIS BOOK OR ELSE” or “I skipped gym class to finish this. (Sorry, Coach G.)” or “Valerie made me read this and I’m so glad she did.”

  To get to the stairs and the floor above, I have to walk around the piano, where a teary student is being taught by a stern Valerie, who has left her post to loom over the keyboard.

  The café is on the second floor, adjacent to a separate kitchen space that is used for weekly cooking classes. According to Alex, Valerie pays cookbook authors to come and be the “cook in residence” sometimes. Alex, who is behind the counter wearing a dark green apron, tells me the chefs teach classes or make tons of food they can sell in the café along with their books. He tells me all of this when I come to the café to get a sandwich.

  He seems happy enough to talk about anything other than the mysterious 101st edition, but I feel like he’s watching me closely, and I’m not sure why.

  The second floor is filled with books, loosely organized into seven distinct rooms off of a long hallway. Each room is decorated to reflect the genre it holds. A mystery room with curious elongated shadows painted on the walls. A Victorian room filled to the brim with romances, historical fiction, and a potbelly stove. A children’s room with a ceiling completely covered in papier-mâché balloons. An adventure and science fiction room that looks like it might double as Indiana Jones’s study if his office were in space. A travel room full of guidebooks, but with some beloved classics shelved next to their respective countries. A nonfiction room with walls as diversely decorated as the books themselves—everything from printed articles on deep-sea fishing techniques to signed photos of comedic actresses tacked to any space not occupied by shelves. The last room, at the end of the hall, is so clogged with people that I don’t bother fighting the throng to enter.

  Even with the crazy-tall shelves downstairs, the bulk of the books are in these rooms, loosely organized by the whims of Valerie and her employees.

  I overhear one girl telling a friend, “They battle it out all the time, whether The Princess Bride belongs in the romance-y Victorian room or the adventure room.”

  “How does anyone find anything in a place like this?” her friend asks, skeptical.

  “You don’t come to Val’s to find something specific. You come to Val’s because you hope something finds you.”

  Her words make my heart pound a little harder in my chest, but then the girl’s friend makes an exaggerated gagging sound and they both burst into laughter. It reminds me of Jenna, and my heart constricts painfully, so I hurry on.

  It’s almost too easy to let myself lapse into what I once was: an avid reader with little care beyond what I might read next. Once or twice I pick up a book and fight the impulse to carry it to the register. Reading is no longer an option, and there is no point in buying something I won’t use. Old habits die hard, though. I find myself running my hands along the spines before I remind myself to turn away, remembering the piles of shredded books back home.

  Jenna and I used to guess at the personalities of people by watching how they browsed bookstores. Endlessly practical Jenna argued that there were only two types: the Amblers and the Directs. And I could almost side with her, if not for the hybrids, the people that are neither purposeful nor wanderers, the ones who stray from shelf to shelf, half checking their lists of books to read but allowing themselves room to be taken in by a beautiful cover or title.

  “Three, then,” Jenna said, when we first argued about the categorization.

  I agreed for the sake of simplicity, but really I think there are too many types to count.

  There must be, because I need there to be a category for an ex-reader with a hole the size of Texas in her chest wandering around a bookstore that seems determined to turn everyone into Amblers. Surrounded by the smell of coffee and books, I’m suddenly grossly aware of Jenna’s absence beside me, a black hole sucking all the air from the room and my lungs.

  I’m in the travel room, about to panic from lack of oxygen, when the lights dim briefly before returning to full brightness, like a theater indicating the end of an intermission.

  I breathe in harshly, taking stock of who and what and where I am. I am Amelia Griffin. I am in Michigan on a mission to uncover my dead best friend’s reason for sending me an impossible book. And I will find out why she sent it—with or without air.

&nb
sp; Filled with a sense of purpose and the strange relief that comes from having ridden out a particularly large wave of grief, an emotion I’m already uncomfortably familiar with, I promise to return tomorrow to more thoroughly investigate. Starting with Alex.

  “All right, you lot, glasses and mugs back to the café please, and it’s the last call for books if you insist on purchasing them tonight.” Valerie is shouting from the first floor. Wally joins in with a chorus of barking. “Round up the upstairs stragglers, won’t you, Alexander? And for the love of all, Walter, you are in enough trouble today without causing that racket!”

  I make my way downstairs, letting one or two patrons on my heels step around me. When I reach the first floor, Valerie is arguing with the remaining book club members.

  “Aww, come on, Val,” the plaid man is saying. “We’ve only just started our discussion.” He says “discussion” like dees-cussion, with phony importance that I think is meant to mock Valerie’s imperial air.

  “John, this group has been reading the same book for two months because you can’t get past the wine to talk about the plot. Out!”

  As the group moves toward the back of the store with much good-natured grumbling, Valerie turns to me and opens her mouth to speak, but Alex interrupts her as he steps off the stairs.

  “You’re still here?” He’s a breath shy of polite, and there’s something buried in his tone that I can’t decipher.

  “Alexander! Where are your manners?”

  Without the counter or piano blocking her, I can see Valerie is dressed in a long skirt and a frilly shirt that glimmers with layers of draped necklaces. Her ears glitter with two very large diamonds that match the sizable wedding ring on her left hand. She looks like she might be off to a gala or a movie premiere. She reeks of sophistication and grace, and I immediately feel underdressed and overwhelmed in my shirt and jeans.

  “Mom, she—”

  “I don’t care if she’s the White Witch or Moriarty. You do not speak to guests that way, Alexander, do you hear me?”

  “But—”