You and Other Natural Disasters

1 The Letter

1

The Letter

Books are like life, and just like life, they hold secrets. They’re like an ark full of treasures and hidden secrets, waiting for someone to open them up and air their mysteries.

I’ve always thought books are tiny confessionals where authors hide their most private thoughts. A way of telling the world what brightens or darkens their souls. The way they free themselves of all those burdens a person can accumulate over time. Tales of love, guilt, desire, and many other feelings twist together through the pages, expressing an urge to tell a story that couldn’t be told any other way. Footnotes visible only to those who know how to look with their eyes closed.

This belief means I’ve always read with a slight excess of curiosity, making conjectures, with my feelings whispering to me that this or that passage may conceal a higher truth, may represent an act of atonement both real and impossible at the same time.

Books have a strange power, but not everyone knows how to appreciate it. For a time, we live in them, and after that, they live in us. It’s a perfect symbiosis between reader and written word that makes both live more vibrantly than they could otherwise.

Books are little portions of happiness. Even when they’re sad or frightening, they bring you memories that put a smile on your face. Books are winter evenings sitting in front of the fireplace, spring mornings in the park, summer vacations on the beach, autumn walks crunching leaves underfoot.

They even smell good. I mean, isn’t that the best smell there is? I can’t understand why the famous perfume houses haven’t thought of putting it on the market. What lover of reading wouldn’t like a fabric softener that smells like a new book? A lotion that smells like ink and recycled paper. An air freshener that smells like a used book shop. Essence of first edition. Library-scented deodorant…

Imagine having those aromas around you all the time.

Books have always been my refuge when everything is going wrong. Taking one down from the shelf, opening the cover, glancing at the first page, is as bracing as a gust of fresh air after an eternity being unable to breathe. Books are the antidote to sorrow, worry, fear, even to a broken heart. I’d be willing to say they cure everything, as long as you can find the right one.

But not even that first page could give me the air my lungs needed when I was lying to myself, telling myself it would be easy to make a decision. And the page I was looking at wasn’t just any first page; it was in a book by Alice Hoffman, one of my favorite writers. Even she couldn’t save me from the confusing and hurtful thoughts that had been assailing me for days.

I put the novel back on the new release table and dragged my feet to the armchair in the corner of the YA section. I sighed and flopped down in it under the faint orange glow of a lead-crystal floor lamp. That was my favorite place in the bookstore, my favorite place in the whole world. I used to sit there when I was a girl and my feet didn’t even touch the floor. I had practically grown up there.

My grandmother had bought the bookstore forty years before, when her husband, my grandfather, had abandoned her to go to the Yukon and look for gold. She never heard from him again.

She had a small inheritance she invested in a musty ground-floor space that was falling apart, but that soon became the most magical place on Montreal’s Plateau. It wasn’t easy at first, especially with a little girl to take care of—my mother, I mean, not me—but she managed to get ahead and built a future for them in those walls full of stories, novels, and manuals.

She called it Shining Waters—le Lac-aux-Miroirs. Like the famous lake that appears in L.M. Montgomery’s books about Anne Shirley. Anne of Green Gables was always her favorite book, and my mother’s, and mine, too. It was the first book my mother taught me to read, and its pages gave me the most wonderful gift anyone ever could: a passion for reading and a secret desire to write one day if I was ever brave enough to try.

I miss my grandmother.

I miss both of them.

“You can read it a thousand times, and the words aren’t going to change.”

I looked up and saw Frances staring back at me from the counter. She was surrounded by invoices and account books. She pointed and my eyes wandered down to the letter that had come out of my pocket and was once again in my hands. I had no idea how it had gotten there.

“I know, but I just can’t understand why she did it. She knows better than anyone that my life is in Toronto. Coming back here isn’t an option.” I sighed and sank deeper into the chair. “It’s not fair, what she’s asking of me.”

“She’s not asking, Harper. She left you the most valuable thing she had, and she gave you the option of what to do with it.”

“Why me, though? Why didn’t she leave it to you? That would have made more sense.”

“Because Sophia knew me, and she knew she was the only thing that kept me tied to this city. We talked it over many times, Harper, especially during the last months. If she went first, I’d go back to Winnipeg. My sister and my nephews live there. They’re all the family I have left.”

I rubbed the rough surface of the paper with my fingers.

“I thought I was your family,” I said softly.

Frances came out from behind the counter and approached me. I couldn’t look at her until I felt her hand on mine, calming my frantic fidgeting. She smiled gently, a slight tremble in her lips. I remembered I wasn’t the only one who had suffered.

She had shared every second of her life with my grandmother for the last three decades. They had met when they were girls and had been inseparable ever since. They grew up together and remained side by side, supporting each other in everything. One day, that friendship turned to love. And she was still there when my grandmother left her.

Or maybe they had always loved each other and just weren’t brave enough to admit it.

“Of course you’re my family. I love you, Harper, but my place isn’t here. There are too many memories.”

I bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears. A week had passed since the funeral. Three days since the reading of the will, when Frances had given me the letter. I still couldn’t believe I’d never see my grandmother again.

I felt sad and angry with her. For months, she had hidden from me the lymphoma that would take her away. She had hidden it from everyone. I could understand why, but her silence was still an open wound.

She didn’t give me the chance to say goodbye. Or to tell her once again how much I loved her and how thankful I was for all she had done for me. She was the only one who helped me preserve my mother’s memory, helped me get to know her in a way, because I was so young when she had to leave us. She was the only one who didn’t forget her and who didn’t forget me.

I squeezed Frances’s hand and smiled back at her. Her brown eyes gazed into my blue ones, and I could see her broken heart. I couldn’t break down in front of her, though.

“She loved you, Frances.”

“I know. I loved her, too.”

“When are you going to leave?”

“In a few weeks. Three, maybe. However long it takes me to get the accounts up to date, pay suppliers, get our orders straight. Sophia was a disaster when it came to practicalities.” She touched my knee. “I’ll leave everything organized so you won’t have any headaches.”

“I don’t know if I’m going to stay.”

She stood and returned behind the counter with its piles of papers.

“I talked to Mr. Norris, your grandmother’s lawyer. He’ll help you if you decide to sell.”

Sell. That word made my mouth dry out and my spine stiffen. Getting rid of a place you consider your home goes against nature. But what else could I do? Stay , a voice in my head told me. I ignored it. I folded the letter and set it down.

My cell phone rang. It was probably my sister, reminding me again we were supposed to see each other that night. Hayley was a perfectionist, a control freak, and very punctual. Everything I wasn’t. We creative minds are unorganized by nature. Or that’s what I like to tell myself instead of admitting I’m a total disaster.

I reached into the back pocket of my pants and looked at the phone screen. My hair stood on end, and my entire body stiffened. My hand quivered as the phone rang and rang, almost as if I were being shocked.

“Aren’t you going to pick up?” Frances asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s Dad.”

She waited, observing my horrified expression.

“Don’t you want to know why he’s calling?”

I stood up and put the phone back in my pocket. We all have our complexities, our weaknesses, and our eccentricities. Not answering my dad’s calls was one of mine.

“I know why he’s calling. The same reason as last night and yesterday morning. And the day before yesterday.” I walked over to the wooden counter and leaned on my elbows in front of the cash register. It was a fossil, just like everything else there, and that’s why I loved it. “He wants me to sell the house and bookstore and leave my life in Toronto. He wants me to quit school and my internship and take a job at his firm. He wants me on a short leash. And I don’t understand why, honestly, since he can’t even stand me and never has been able to.”

Frances stuffed a pile of receipts in a box and wrote a note on the top.

“Did you ever ask him why?”

“Why what?”

“Why he can’t stand you?”

“No,” I replied meekly.

I had tried to, I really had, but at the last minute, the words always froze in my throat. I was scared he might answer. And that the answer might justify him always being so cold, so cruel with me. And just with me.

When I was little, I thought maybe I had broken or lost some prized possession of his. I always tried to imagine what it was. At home, I’d look all over trying to find traces of the mistake I’d made so I could repair it. Eventually I came to the conclusion that the fault lay with my wavy blond hair. His was black and straight, the same as my brother and sister’s. I thought he probably didn’t like people who were different, so I cut it with garden shears and darkened it with shoe polish. He got so mad he wanted to send me to a girls’ boarding school in Ottawa. Luckily, my grandmother stopped him. When I grew up, I assumed the problem was me: I wasn’t smart enough, or pretty enough, or refined, or strong… I didn’t know how to do anything right.

Frances took a deep breath.

“Honey, you’re a grown woman. You’re twenty-two years old, and you’ve been on your own since you were eighteen. You need to stop being so scared of him.”

“I’m not…” Her look was so penetrating that I gave up my pathetic attempt to lie to her. “It’s just easier when I’m far away and don’t have to see him.”

“Yeah, but you’re here, and tomorrow you’ll have to see him, no matter what. Not answering his calls may not be the smartest thing for you, let alone the most mature.”

I rested my head on the counter. Then I looked over at her and smiled naively.

“I don’t have to see him if I pretend I’m sick.”

Naturally, Frances shouted back, “Your sister’s getting married tomorrow! You can’t do something like that to Hayley!”

“I know, I know, I know… It’s a dumb idea,” I rushed to say, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t seriously considered it.

She looked at me skeptically, but a second later, I could see the compassion on her face.

“Your father can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Harper.”

“Nolan Weston never takes no for an answer, and he always finds a way to get what he wants. Sooner or later.”

“Maybe not this time.”

I smiled. I wanted to believe her, but a barrier of anxiety and intimidation warded off all logical thought, and my insecurities overtook every part of me as soon as I thought about seeing him the next day. Three days in one week, a record. We hadn’t seen each other that many times all year. In fact, we hadn’t seen each other at all.

Some customers came in, and Frances hurried to take care of them. I went back to my armchair, where I had left the letter from my grandmother. I grabbed it, meaning to put it back in its envelope, but I wound up lost in its words, even though I knew them by heart.

Harper:

If you’re reading this, you know about my will.

You must feel confused right now, and angry, too, but you have to understand: I couldn’t tell you. You would have left everything to come be with me, and I couldn’t allow you to make that sacrifice.

I love you too much to let you watch this old woman fade away.

I also think a person has a right to decide how she wants to spend her last days, and that’s what I’m doing, living them without regrets. This is how I want to go, free, not being a burden. It might seem selfish, but it’s actually the most selfless thing I’ve ever done.

One day, you’ll understand, and I know you’ll forgive me.

You must have a lot of questions. Why did I leave everything to you? Why not to the others? The answer’s simple. They’re different. They’ve always been more practical, and if something doesn’t make money for them…

My home and my bookstore are all I have. They’re worthless, but they contain a whole life’s worth of moments and memories and dreams.

I know you’ve struggled to make it where you are. I also know you think you’ve got the life you’ve always wanted. But when I look at you, I still see that little girl who would rather put books in order on a bookshelf than go play with other kids. The one who enjoyed making recommendations and dreamed of writing her own stories one day. I still recognize her in you and I still see the flickers of that old wish in your eyes. And that’s why I want to give you the chance to get that hope back.

Keep the bookstore. Your dream of writing lives on in it.

Why work publishing other people’s books when you can show the world your stories? You’ve got talent. You always did. You shouldn’t be scared of your dreams, because without them, much of what we are loses its meaning.

But if I’m wrong, and you go back to Toronto and to your life there, I’ll understand. And if you do that, you won’t be able to hang onto the bookstore. If that happens, find someone who will truly appreciate it, please.

I’m sorry if this old woman has made your life complicated with her last wishes. I could use my age as an excuse, or all those awful anxiety pills I have to take, but I’d be lying.

I’d like to think I’m not burdening you, that I’m liberating you.

Harper, I’m so proud of you and the woman you’ve become, and it makes me feel calm as I go to meet your mother.

We’ll always take care of you.

Now you take care of yourself. You’re perfect just the way you are.

I grimaced, with a sharp pain in my chest that I thought would never end.

I felt Frances’s hand on my back and her caramel scent enveloped me. The weight of recent days came down on me all at once, and I started crying.

“Get it out, there’s nothing wrong with showing you’re hurting.”

Her voice was so sweet, so absolutely hers, that I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. I hiccupped and looked up at her.

“It’s just…Mom left me, and now Grandma’s gone, and you’re going to Winnipeg.” I knew that was mean, but I couldn’t help snapping.

She dried my tears, ran her hands over my hair, combing it with her fingers from the roots to the tips so gently that I started sobbing again.

“You’ll be all right, Harper. You’re stronger than you know. And this isn’t a goodbye.” She smiled at me, and I tried to smile back. “I’ll always come running if you need me.”

She hugged me, and I tried not to drown in the knowledge of how much I would miss her. She had always been there for me, her smile as warm and comforting as hot chocolate on a cold day.

I let her baby me until the door flew open and the store filled with the soft jingling of the bells hanging from the doorframe.